Chapter Text
Herlock tapped his finger on the glass countertop and watched the young woman wander the store. She flicked through the piles, from Hendrix, to Gaye, to Queen, picking up a record every so often to look at it. She took the vinyl out of its sleeve, inspected it, and, as if she knew what she was looking for, shook her head disapprovingly before putting it back in the pile. Herlock knew her type very well: The Endless Browser.
He huffed, blowing up his hair which curtained over his forehead as he rested his chin on his hand, and ignored the ‘No Smoking’ sign he erected at the storefront window, for too many patrons would get cigarette ash on the record sleeves. Plopping a cigarette between his lips, he scrambled in his pocket for a lighter. The corner shop owner gave him one for free once in a while for his patronage, and Herlock wasn’t one to say no, so his lighters always had some kind of risque illustration on them. Some half-naked lass, usually riding a bike in a swimsuit. They didn’t sell as well as the plain ones, which is why the storeowner had no issue handing them out, Herlock supposed.
As he flicked the lighter, he saw that the one in his pocket happened to have had an illustration of a woman in a bodysuit with a set of bunny ears and tail. Upon closer inspection, however, he realised it was a hybrid in a black latex one-piece. After lighting his cigarette, he narrowed his eyes and threw the lighter in the bin, the cheap plastic making a dull clink as it hit the tin can.
Thankfully, as if the patron read Herlock’s mind and all the insults he had been thinking of to describe her, she silently made her way to the front door and exited the store.
“Have a good evening,” Herlock said, instantly jumping off his seat and rushing to the door before another pain in the arse happened to wander in at this time. When he finally locked it, he leaned on it and took a deep breath. He looked up at the clock, and his lips curled into a deep frown. It was fifteen minutes after he’d promised Iris he’d be home.
Herlock locked the door properly, securing the safety latch, too, before heading out the back to properly store the day’s earnings—a measly £30. He put it in an envelope under his sweater, hiding it as if he were guarding the entirety of the Budget of Her Majesty’s Government. He walked out the back door and locked it too, turned the lights off from the breaker, and then walked up to the front to pull down the roller door of the storefront, ignoring the paint and graffiti on the corrugated steel for yet another night, and locking it with a padlock. Once Herlock had secured everything, he pulled the keys to Shabby—his decrepit Citroen—from his coat pocket and waddled to the car, scruffing his feet along the pavement. He pulled up the radio antenna first before entering the car. It doesn’t unlock at first, but it does at the second turn of the key.
Shabby doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s begging for a new coat of paint where it has peeled off the bumpers, exposing the steel below, the seat fabric is all faded out, the rear windows don’t roll down, and the handbrake is stuffed in the glove box. But it has not yet left Herlock on the side of the road, so he has no complaints. It’s not like he can do much better. He barely makes rent with the way the record store is going. Were it not for Iris, he suspects Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have been as forgiving as she has been.
The engine momentarily sputtered as Herlock turned the key in the ignition, but sure enough, Shabby sprang to life. He flipped on the radio, the white noise turning into audible voices. He turned on the headlights, and groaned into his palms, rubbing them up and down his cheeks upon realising that the left-hand side of the road remained dark still.
Herlock shifted into first gear as he took off into the night. A couple of minutes later, he glanced toward the seatbelt dangling beside him and pouted as he chose to buckle up. It was only a short drive to Baker Street; a seatbelt was more trouble than it was worth, Herlock thought whenever the belt would ride up his chest to his clavicle.
“It’s The World Tonight at 10pm, for the relaxed listene-”
Herlock turned up the volume knob of his radio, clicking his tongue as he accidentally twisted the tuning knob instead, losing the introduction—and the theme tune—of the evening news bulletin as he readjusted the knob back.
“... it has been the third assault from a stray hybrid toward a human this week, and the government…”
Herlock couldn't stand the news on television—or television itself, most of the time. The evening radio bulletin was his only real connection to the events of the world past his microcosm.
“Horror Movie, right there on my TV,” Herlock mumbled as he turned left onto Paddington Street. “Shocking me right out of my brai-”
“... The government calls for new policy enabling the police force to take action against the growing threat, proclaiming that the ‘people’s rage has not fallen on deaf ears’ during this morning’s…”
Herlock’s eyes widened as he slammed on the brake and clutch, but it was too late to avoid the loud bang that followed. The man slid up the car hood, his back meeting the windshield with a loud thud before eventually rolling back onto the asphalt.
“However, the opposition stands directly against such change, proclaiming it would inevitably humanise hybrid populations, opening the floodgates for a myriad of demands from activist groups that have been…”
The scent of burnt rubber overwhelmed Herlock’s senses. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his steering wheel, trying to steady his breathing, foggy against the winter atmosphere. Despite not being in pain, Herlock’s first instinct was to run his hands over his neck and torso. It was a little tender at the crook of his neck, where the seatbelt fabric had been pressed against. Part of him thanked Iris for her incessant bickering every time they were in the car over him not buckling up. Hesitantly, he leaned to look over the windshield, which somehow remained intact, and his eyes widened once he saw that somebody was lying on the street. With a sharp jerk, Herlock shifted to first gear, his hands still trembling as he undid his seatbelt. He turned off the engine and threw his car door open, hopping off his seat and slamming the door shut as he dashed toward the man he just ran into. He knew the injury couldn’t have been that bad; he was barely driving at twenty-five miles then. However, when he heard the man groan in pain, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding upon realising that, at the very least, he was alive.
As the man began to move, Herlock was astounded. Shabby’s headlight reflecting off the fellow’s blazer made for a captivating sight. Stoned and embellished in black, gold, and violet sequins from top to bottom, he shone like a disco ball, the fog like smoke from dancers’ cigarettes at a dingy bar.
Herlock was snapped out of his reverie once he heard the man groan again as he tried to get up.
“Oh my God, I am so, so sorry! Are you alright?” Herlock said, rushing to help the man to his feet.
“Who was the official who issued your driver’s license? I’d like to have a word with him,” the man grunted, dusting his dress trousers.
“Oh, please,” Herlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “You appeared like a ghost, jumped in the middle of the road in pitch-black darkness and fog, in black attire may I add, startled me out of my skin, and now you’re trying to make me out to be the one at fault?” He said, gritting his teeth. However, once the man stood completely upright, any intention he may have had to argue with the man disappeared entirely. He towered over a head taller than him, his chest broad, legs thick and long; a single kick to the shin from him would incapacitate him. One to the balls would end his bloodline.
“There’s a zebra crossing,” the man scoffed. “Right of way and suchlike.”
Herlock’s eyes widened as he looked down at the asphalt and saw the faded crossing.
“You have got to be joking!” Herlock said, throwing his arms up over his head. “Pedestrian crossings aren’t magic! I can’t immobilise the car whenever it strikes your fancy to cross the road! Especially not when the crossing is as faint as that. You can barely see it!”
“Fine. Just quit the hysterics,” he groaned, huffing as he shook his head and pushed Herlock away.
“Misogynistic bastard…” Herlock mumbled to himself. The man adjusted his blazer again as he began to head off on his merry way again. However, after he took a single step…
There was no second step.
The moment he put pressure on his leg, he let out a bestial cry, hissing as he keeled over. Herlock grabbed him by the arm, making sure he didn’t fall over to the road again, and it was at that moment where Herlock felt most stupid because it should have been the very first thing he noticed, and yet it took him this long to observe the large, pointy, hairy ears at the top of the man’s head.
Herlock’s eyes widened. The creature’s ears perked up, and his head tilted inquisitively. Herlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it shut, then opened it again, like a goldfish in a fishbowl.
“A-Are you in pain?” He finally uttered.
“No, I’m auditioning for Antigone. Yes, I am in pain, you pillock!”
“Look at the pot calling the kettle black, you insufferable…” Herlock took a deep breath. “Is it your ankle?”
“The left one…” he mumbled, his ears flattening subtly.
“Let me have a look,” Herlock said and knelt down. He raised the hem of his trousers, rolling down his sock, and to Herlock’s utter shock, his ankle was swollen and bruised, black and blue from top to bottom. Herlock touched it carefully, barely touching his skin as he hissed. Herlock instantly let it go.
“It looks pretty bad,” Herlock sighed. “I’m not sure. It could be anything from twisted to fractured.”
“Shit…”
“Aren’t you on foot?” Herlock tilted his head up.
“Yes,” and that time, his ears folded over entirely, his eyebrows curled up, and his gaze turned to look at the pavement.
“Get in,” Herlock sighed, standing upright as he put his arms on his waist.
“You can’t be right!” He shouted, right into Herlock’s eardrum as it happened. Herlock cried out in pain, grabbing onto his ailing ear.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” the man said, holding the hand Herlock rested on his ear.
“It’s fine,” Herlock shook his other hand about. “In any case, I doubt you’ll get far in this condition.”
“I… I hate to say it, but…” he took a deep breath. “You’re right.”
“So?”
“Fine. I’ll join you for the time being,” he said, utterly dejected.
“Just lean on Shabby for a moment until I open the door for you,” Herlock said as he walked to the car.
“You,” the creature chuckled. “You call your own car ‘Shabby’?”
“Isn’t it?” Herlock shrugged as he opened the car door. He walked him to sit in the passenger seat, then headed to the driver's seat. Herlock took a deep breath as he turned the key in the ignition again.
“Mind if I smoke?” Herlock said, but he had already reached over to the back seat, grabbed his coat, and fumbled in his pockets for his pack of Silk Cuts, placing a cigarette between his lips. The creature shrugged either way. Herlock lit it up with the car lighter, rolling down his window as to not disturb his passenger too much with the smoke. He was desperate for something to take the edge off before getting back on the road and making haste to Baker Street. The pair was quiet for a while until Herlock realised his blunder.
“Sorry, may I ask something?” Herlock said, turning to look at him as he pulled over onto the side of the road yet again.
“What do you want?”
“Sure, I’m tired and overwhelmed enough to head to my flat, but why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, crossing his arms and smugly raising his chin.
“Man, where do you want me to take you?” Herlock shouted, groaning in disbelief.
“Somewhere where it’s not dark and deserted.”
“What, don’t you trust me enough to drive you home?” Herlock raised an eyebrow. “Or do you fear your master will scold you for running off at this time of night?” he asked mockingly. However, his statement wasn’t met with snark cynicism. No, it caused the cabin to be filled with nothing but the soft purring sound of Shabby’s engine.
“You…” He pulled the cigarette from his lips. “You ran away?”
“You aren’t as much of an imbecile as I thought.”
“That’s not the point! You can’t just,” Herlock sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “You can’t just run away!”
“Feel free to drive me wherever you like. But I am not going back.”
Herlock frowned upon hearing the words. Looking at the kind of hybrid he was, he was some kind of big cat. Not of the cute pet catboy category. Pedigree, almost certainly. His attire was something most humans would be envious of, and what would be described as his ‘collar’ was a diamond choker. He was certainly chipped, meaning if Herlock were to take him to a shelter, they’d probably take him back to his owner. Potentially even put him down, depending on how dangerous they deemed him.
Herlock gritted his teeth, gripping the gear stick as he looked at the hybrid in the passenger’s seat. He never understood it. There was a creature sitting there right beside him, arms crossed, holding a conversation—and cussing him out—and they’d put him down.
“We should probably head to a hospital,” Herlock said before grabbing the steering wheel again. At this time of night, Barts should only be a fifteen-minute drive. “You’ve hit your head.”
“Oh,” he perked up his ears as he brought his hand to his forehead, instinctively guided by the pain of his bleeding wound.
“Let’s make sure you don’t have a concu-”
“I’m not going to a hospital.”
“What? Why not?”
“They’d have to contact my registered owner to treat me. It defeats the purpose of all this.”
Herlock sighed. “Right…” He glanced toward the man again and could tell from his expression and the way he had huddled against the car window just how mortified he was. “I…” he groaned. “I do know a guy who runs an emergency clinic.”
“What kind of clinic?” he asks, his expression wary already. Herlock doesn't blame him; he knows the creature understands precisely where this is going.
“So, erm, it’s uh…”
“Don’t tell me it’s a veterinary clini-”
“It’s a veterinary clinic.”
“Are you stupid?” He growls, holding his fist up to his face. “Do I look like a pet cat to you?”
“Do you want an answer?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Listen,” Herlock gritted his teeth, sharply shifting the gear stick. “I’m sorry I can’t hook you up with a cardiovascular surgeon! It’s either that or the hospital. You aren’t spoilt for choice here, my dear fellow!” Herlock took a deep breath. “He was working at Barts for a very long time before he chose to pursue veterinary science. He’s not clueless,” he said, and at that, the hybrid calmed down slightly.
“He’s still a vet.”
“And I could still kick you out of this moving vehicle.”
Defeated, he curled up on the passenger’s seat. “Fine.”
Herlock sighed for what seemed like the fiftieth time these past ten minutes. “What sins did I commit in a past life to deserve this?”