Bearing Witness (джен)

'We had a complaint about noise. Fighting. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?' Greg scanned the area with his torch, noting the delicate turn of the wrists at the jumper's cuffs. Skeletal. No meat on him at all. An addict, then, if Greg had to guess. He had that sallow, thin-skinned look as well, the one that came when the next hit meant more than the next meal. A bad state to be in. 'You got a name?'
The hesitation was just long enough for him to realise he wasn't getting the truth. 'William.'
Or: Five times Greg met a man called William, and one he found a friend called Sherlock.