You're the smell before rain, you're the blood in my veins [ENG]

You're the smell before rain, you're the blood in my veins

The rain falls sharply over the busy New York's streets. People walk fast from one street to another, as if nothing is happening around them, only covering their heads with the first thing that comes in handy: a newspaper, a briefcase or just a simple hand. If anybody had listened to the weather forecast, maybe they would've thought about taking and umbrella with them before leaving their house that day, but amongst the frenzy of a city that never sleeps, it's really nothing to be surprised about.

Harry looks at New York's traffic from the large window that has often witnessed hours of his reflections and paranoias, he sighs and closes his eyes for a few seconds. He loves his job more than almost anything in the world, but sometimes he can't help but think that his life would be easier if he didn't; almost every day he has to deal with serial killers and psychopaths who -maybe because of some absurd problem or illness- get the idea in their heads that killing is the right thing to do. This thought often brings him to a conclusion: certain people need a serious cure and not just a few years in prison or a rehabilitation center.

"Harry?" a warm voice pulls him back to reality, forcing him to look at the callers' figure.
"Oh, hi Luke" the blonde and messy haired guy smiles and rests a hand on his back. He has always been nice to him and he is grateful for that, from a certain point of view. Harry has always been able to count on Detective Hemmings and in more than one occasion he has found himself on his couch to talk about his own issues and to complain about all the work that lately has filled their –and anybody else inside the building- days. "Hood wants to see you" Luke says pointing at their boss' office.

"Only me?" Harry looks at him raising an eyebrow and snorting knowing that, when Hood calls for him it can only mean two things: a new case or he has done something wrong and he's going to be yelled at; and he hasn't made a mistake, he's never been late, absolutely nothing, so he simply shakes his head and tries to stay calm. He doesn't dislike working, investigating, and deep thinking just to solve cases, but he would really like to relax or go on vacation, maybe to visit his family or in one of those Caribbean islands that everyone always talks about.

After nodding and thanking his colleague with a smile, he slowly starts to make his way through the long corridor that separates him from the upper floor; he goes up the stairs, arms folded, wondering what could've happened that is so important that requires to call everyone in at this time of the evening. Their last case had just been completed and closed earlier that afternoon, so everyone should be getting a free evening. He snorts and fixes his hair by running his fingers through it, messing it up a bit before lightly knocking on Hood's door, entering without waiting for an answer.

"Styles, we were only waiting for you" says the boss, motioning for him to take a seat on the huge couch on the center of the room, next to Payne, Irwin and Malik.

Harry has always asked himself why was such comfort needed, if after all only two hours were spent within those four walls. He has never said it out loud, and it's none of his business, really, and he gets why his mother always tells him "you are too curious Harold"; and maybe that's what pushed him into studying Criminology years ago; curiosity, his own lively and perceptive being, his need to reach a conclusion before any other and, yes, also his undeniable ability to communicate with people who aren't exactly sane of mind.

Sometimes he thinks about the times he would find himself -at three in the morning- in his living room, trying to get his father away from his mother when he was obviously drunk and intoxicated; the man always tried to get his hands all over the woman who brought Harry to life, he tried to bring her down into all his nastiness, but Harrys' reflexes, agility and the ability of having a way with words and to deceive people, had been his and his family's saviors.

"Well" Hood starts, sitting behind his desk, looking at the sheets on top of it. "Scotland Yard has called us for a case"

"Scotland Yard? Why have they called us?" Detective Payne asks before his boss could continue. It's strange, for sure, and not only for the long distance between both countries but also because, if he is not mistaken, London has a similar team and-