Harry Potter x Sherlock, Stray Part 2. More Handcuffed!Harry!
When John woke he was immediately suspicious by how quiet everything was. His alarm clock hadn't woken him, which was in itself was odd, but he couldn't even hear Sherlock's usual pacing around the flat. John groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at his nightstand. John blinked in confusion, then shot up out of bed. The clock, which usually displayed bright red numbers, was blank.
"He wouldn't…" John said to himself, as his eyes followed to cord from his clock to the outlet it were no longer plugged into. John groaned. "What's he done now?"
Throwing on a bathrobe he sought out his flatmate. "Sherlock! Did you unplug my alarm?" Silence was the only response. "Sherlock?" The kitchen was empty. No one was in the bathroom. Knocking on Sherlock's door got him no answer. Sherlock wasn't in.
And neither, John realized with a jolt, was their guest.
Harry, the homeless man Sherlock had unceremoniously dragged into their flat against his will the day before, was gone.
Before John knew what he was doing he was surveying the flat, looking for anything missing. He hated himself a little when he realized it. Harry hadn't seemed the type to steal. Not that there was anything of any real value in the flat to begin with. And John had thought himself better than to jump to such conclusions.
That was when his phone rang. It was a number he didn't recognize, but considering Sherlock's row with his own mobile last night, he was probably using someone else's.
"Sherlock?"
"No, but you'd better get over here," Sally Donovan's voice came through the speaker. "Your freak's being more freakish than usual."
John bit back a defensive retort, because, honestly his friend's actions probably weren't all that defensible this time. "Where?"
A fifteen minute cab ride later left John standing in front of a crime scene. Sergeant Donovan was waiting for him.
"This way," she said, rushing him past the yellow tape and into the building, an apartment building by the looks of it. Several of the residents were peaking out their windows and door to see what all the commotion was about. "You two live together, yeah? Does he do this sort of thing often? Like a hobby? His version of stamp collecting?"
"No." John didn't ask was she meant by 'this sort of thing'. He had a good idea.
He followed her up the stairs, past several grim-faced officers, and into the murder scene. It was a small apartment, barely large enough to be liveable, with few personal belongings. There was no television, or refrigerator – the owner probably hadn't not wanted to sacrifice the space for either. The largest item was a bookshelf full of old leather-bound books. Sherlock was hunched over the body of a man splayed out on the floor, but it was the living person seated next to him that made John pause.
"Hello again," Harry greeted, raising both hands to wave, an action that looked odd until John noticed the cuffs tethering his wrists together. He suppressed a groan. Harry was still wearing the clothes Sherlock had given him – John's clothes. Handcuffs aside, the man looked to be in good condition. Not dissected… yet.
Lestrade made his way over to John. The Detective Inspector gestured at Sherlock and his prisoner. "What exactly is he doing this time? Should I be arresting him?"
"Probably, but I'd prefer it if you didn't." Lestrade frowned, apparently finding the situation even less amusing than John did. "I'll take care of it."
"John," Sherlock said, standing. "Excellent. Where have you been?"
John huffed, annoyed. "Home. Asleep, because someone unplugged my alarm."
"I thought you needed the rest. Clearly it wasn't enough. You look dreadful."
"Why is Harry here? And why is he in handcuffs again?"
"I don't really mind," Harry said. "I'm just glad they aren't fuzzy." John cringed at that. "Though," he added after a moment of thought, "they are a bit tight. Maybe you could loosen them a bit?"
Sherlock made to comply when John hissed, "Just take them off! Do you want to go to jail?"
Sherlock sighed, but removed the cuffs. Yet, somehow managed to do so in an clearly indulgent manner. When the cuffs were safely tucked away in Sherlock coat, John nodded his approval.
"So what have you found out?" He asked glancing at the body on the floor.
"Frustratingly little. He was orphaned at a young age. Very young. Most-likely one or two-years-old. Childhood caretakers were negligent if not abusive. Not physically abuse, however. Rather, the subtle tensing upon hearing insults would suggest verbal abuse. Also, there's the underlying distrust in the refusal to give a last name–"
"I meant about the dead man," John interrupted. He noticed Harry shift his weight. He looked more than understandably uncomfortable with Sherlock's rundown on his life.
"Ah, yes. That."
"Travis Bennett," Lestrade began. "Age 30. Been living here for the last eight years. Neighbors say he left for work around 5 p.m. yesterday. No one saw him come back. Doors and windows were all locked. No signs anyone forced their way in."
"Does it have to do with that serial killer?"
"No," Lestrade said. Sherlock simultaneously answered, "Yes."
"What do you mean 'yes'? First of all, one murder doesn't make a serial killer. And second," he gestured to the body, "this one is nothing like the other case."
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course it is. You wouldn't have called me in otherwise."
"I didn't call you in! You just showed up! I don't even want to know how you found out about this."
"I have a theory," Sergeant Donovan interjected.
"No-one cares," Sherlock spat, before turning back to Lestrade. "Well you would have. It's obvious! See here," he knelt beside the body and pointed at the wrists. "His hands were tied, just like the other one. Not long enough to leave much of a mark, but there are rope fibers on his jacket."
John and Lestrade leaned in to get a closer look. Sure enough there were small lengths of brown twine hanging off the dead man's jacket.
"They're slightly singed at the ends," Sherlock continued. "Which means he burned them off. There are small specks of blood in his hair near the left ear where he was beaten unconscious, just like the first victim."
John took a look at the blood on the dead man's head. That kind of a blow would have done some severe damage. "There aren't any other wounds. It was probably the blunt force trauma that the killed him."
"Exactly," Sherlock said as his lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Serial killers. They're always tricky, you have to wait for them to make a mistake. But this one," he pointedly shook his finger, "this one is in a rush to be caught, because he's already made one. He let his victim escape."
"'Escape'?" Lestrade repeated, incredulously. "The man's dead."
"Yes. Yes, but he wasn't killed here. He was seen leaving for work yesterday. Sometime later he was knocked unconscious and bound. He managed to burn off his binds… without singeing his clothes…" Sherlock paused to consider this before moving on. "He escaped is captor and returned here, where he died from his injury. How, though? The number of people that live here, you'd think surely one of them would have seen him come back. His keys are still in his pocket. What's the first thing you do when you come home from a long day? You put your keys down. It's automatic. He left his keys in his pocket because he never took them out to begin with. He didn't unlock the door. So… how did he get inside?"
"Maybe he used magic," Harry offered, to which Sherlock all but rolled his eyes.
"Right," Lestrade stepped in now that Sherlock seemed to have deduced all that he could. "I'll have those fibers sent to the lab. Maybe we can get a source."
"Text me the results, will you?" Sherlock said, fixing his coat and scarf.
"You don't want to find out yourself?"
"I have my own lead to follow."
"And that would be…?"
"My Maestro," Sherlock said, clapping a hand down on Harry's shoulder and proceeding to steer the younger man out of the room.
"'Maestro'?" Lestrade questioned with a raised eyebrow. He turned to John, who tried to come up with an explanation that wouldn't land his friend in a cell.
"It's a thing… Don't worry about it."
Lestrade shook his head then walked out to give orders to the other officers on the scene. John was about to follow after him when something caught his eye.
Poking out from under the dresser was… something. Something long, thin, and made of wood. John reached down and picked it up. It was a stick of some kind. Carved with intricate swirls along the length and a slightly thicker handle at the end. There were traces of polish in spots, hinting that it was once something important, but the dents and chippings indicated that it had not been well cared for in some time. It was quite beautiful, even with the damage, but John didn't have a clue what it was.
"Stealing from the dead, John?"
He jumped and spun around to find Harry, having momentarily given Sherlock the slip, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Didn't think you were the type."
"What? No! I just…er." In his embarrassment John nearly missed the spark in Harry's eyes when he saw what John was holding. It vanished in an instant. "I found this. Any idea what it is?" John held the stick out but Harry made no move to take it.
"Good luck charm?" he offered, not sounding very convincing.
John frowned, thinking of the fate that had befallen the poor man. "Not that it did him much good."
Harry nodded his agreement. For the first time since John had known the younger man, his face looked grim. "Everyone's luck runs out eventually."
Thankfully, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that cuffing Harry was no longer needed. The three men made their way through London, looking for the nearest connection to the Homeless Network. With Harry's help, it took hardly any time at all. The person they found was a short, thin, woman with pepper colored hair that Harry greeted with warm familiarity.
"Good afternoon, Rosie," Harry said.
Rosie. John remembered that name. Harry had mentioned her the night before when he fondly recounted the first time he'd met the woman. She'd nearly broke his arm when he'd accidentally startled her.
Rosie blinked at him and was silent for a moment. "Harry? Blimey! When did you get all posh? What the bloody hell happened?"
"I got kidnapped! It's been very exciting."
With those words Rosie's expression turned icy and she glared up at John and Sherlock. John thought she looked not unlike a mother wolf ready to tear into to larger predators in defense of her pup. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
Sherlock bravely, or stupidly, stepped forward. "I need information about a man who was murdered last night. His name was Travis Bennett. He lived two blocks from here. Any information you can get me."
Rosie stared at him with an expectant look.
"Eh-hem," Harry fake coughed.
"Ah, yes. My apologies," Sherlock said, inclining his head to her. "John."
"Wha-?" John sputtered, before catching his meaning. He glowered at his flatmate. "Uh. Right." Grudgingly he pulled out his wallet and handed the woman a bill. Why could Sherlock never pay for his own informants?
"Travis Bennett," Rosie said, committing the name to memory. "I'll ask around."
"You should ask Stan about it," Harry said. "Tell him, he seemed like the kind that wanted to be lost."
John's brow furrowed at the instructions. The way he'd said it sounded like there was more there. Like it had some hidden meaning that only this 'Stan' person would know. When he looked to Sherlock, the Consulting Detective's eyes were narrowed in thought, further cementing in John's mind that Harry had just given Rosie some kind of code.
Rosie nodded.
"Ex-gang member." Sherlock declared suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled over the flat.
John's coffee mug halted it's course to his mouth. He held it awkwardly as he processed Sherlock's odd words. "Sorry, what?" He asked after a moment.
"Harry," Sherlock clarified, or rather seemed to think he clarified. To John it was still pretty darn unclear. It must have been to Harry, too, if the way he cocked his head and said, "Huh?" was anything to go on.
Sherlock jumped to his feet. His eyes locked with Harry's. "At first I had thought police officer in training, but you showed no familiarity with investigative procedure. Still, the sight of a dead body didn't unsettle you. So you've had experience with the dead. Mortician doesn't fit. From what I've been able to deduce about your childhood: orphaned at a young age, raised by hateful people; you were driven to join a gang in your early teens. However, at some point you committed a crime you could not accept and backed out." Sherlock paused, observing Harry. The younger man sat eerily still, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"But no-one just leaves a gang," Sherlock continued. "Fearing for your life so you abandoned your name and took to living on the streets where they would not find you. From there you used the skills developed from a life of crime to run a information network. This of course doubled as an early detection system in case your old friends came looking." Sherlock smiled as he reached his conclusion. "Ex-gang member."
John's eyes went wide. That was quite a story. He looked at Harry, with his messy hair, scared arms, and seen-too-much eyes. John tried to imagine him living through all that. He found he could. Very, very easily.
"Good guess," Harry said, sounding genuinely impressed.
Sherlock's grin widened. "I never guess."
"But it's mostly wrong," Harry continued, ignoring him. His face turned pensive. "In pretty much every way."
John tried not to laugh at Sherlock's crestfallen expression. Unfortunately, he failed rather miserably. He hurriedly took a sip of his coffee to cover it. Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and turned his attention back to figuring out his real case.
It was a strange sort of comfortable quiet. Unusual in that it included a virtual stranger. They'd known Harry for little more than a day and yet, the younger man seemed to fit in just fine. He took everything from Sherlock's quirks to murder investigations all in stride.
Harry had his secrets, of course. Whatever it was that left him without a home. But he seemed a decent person. John couldn't help thinking what a shame it would be for Harry to return to that life. Maybe, just maybe, after Sherlock had his answers and stopped try to poke apart Harry's past, he would stick around.
There was always 221C.
End.
Written in celebration of Sherlock's return from limbo. Welcome back, you brilliant bastard!
