Just A Part of the Network (A Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 1

"SHERLOCK!"
"hmm" he acknowledges me, eyes closed , lying down on the couch with his fingers pressed to his lips.
"You need to stop putting severed heads in the refrigerator!" I move over the jar containing the head to get the jug of milk behind it. The head seems to belong to a 60-65 year old man. He has silvery hair with a bald spot on the back and one of his deep blue eyes was missing from the socket.
"Where else am I going to put them!" he stands up and sends me a look; that look he does when something is so "obvious" and you don't seem to realize it.
"Fine," I say, "but can you at least put it behind the milk?"
"Fine," he mocks me. He looks around and takes a deep breath, he inhales and looks at me, puzzled. "I said over easy," he gestures to the plate on the table.
"You should be grateful that I'm making you a proper breakfast, John told me that Ms.Hudson refused to cook for you and as an effect of that you have been eating leftover Chinese food for over a week."
"At least they didn't mess up my order," he walks over to the table and sits down. He examines his plate and looks up at me, "Other then that you passed my admittedly low expectations."
"Thank you," I roll my eyes, "so, uh, so who's head is that?"
"Henry Wilcox," he takes a bite of his improperly cooked egg, "He came into contact with our serial killer."
"Oh," I shudder, "Speaking of that here is the PIN to his voicemail." I pull a small pink scrap of paper from my pocket, it's warm from being pressed against my leg all night. I unfold it delicately and slide it to Sherlock.
"6-4-8-2" he stares at it, "Where's the last number?"
"It's Faded," I point to a scribble on the paper "Seven." He stares at it, studying the pattern. Abruptly, the front door swung open and John storms in to the flat.
"It's not yours?" Sherlock doesn't look up and acts as if nothing has happened
"It's not mine!" John throws his arm up to emphasize on his frustration. He pounds his fist on the table. The bloody child is not mine!"
"I called it."
"Sherlock!" I give him a nasty look.
"My apologies," he continues to eat.
John aggressively pulls out his chair and sits down next to me. He puts his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands.
"It's not, it's not mine," he cries.