"Sherlock, were almost here..." Elbowing his friend, who was in the middle of deducting the life of a soda can, John gazed down into the bright, sunny terrain below them.

John had only been to the U.S. once, but it had been when he was tracking his wife Mary down. All he'd really seen were oddly dressed men and freakishly cloudless skies. But as the slight turbulence shook his sleepy eyes awake, all he could see were not his usual rolling hills, but mountains. Lusciously green mountains that surrounded the city of Santa Barbra.

Sherlock scoffed, "How positively wonderful." He drawled sarcastically, "John, were you aware that this unopened soda can has been returned to the flight attendant seven times? I'd like to take it home to test it for poisoning."

"What the heck are you-put that away-" John fought the soda can out of Sherlock's hand and stuffed it in his pocket, "Listen, I know you don't want to be here, but remember Greg offered us double salary if we went? Sherlock, I want a pet otter and the only way I can get it is if we get more money."

"Why? Their foul, deceptive creatures with no regard for any individual's life! Personally, I'd prefer purchasing a hedgehog. And I think you mean Geoff, not Greg."

John's eyes narrowed, "No, I mean Greg. Honestly, after all these years you're really starting to offend that poor man!"

"I doubt he remembers my name," Sherlock argued, hiding under his trademark hat as he noticed several people staring at him. As if recognizing his face from the news, "have you noticed how often he looks at his right hand? Likely he wrote it down to avoid any awkwardness."

John knew that Sherlock knew he was talking nonsense, but he went along with it anyway, "Well maybe you should learn something from him, eh? Now were supposed to meet someone at the airport, so I want you to behave, alright?Greg said we should have full access to the crime scene."

"Wrong. He obviously thinks that, but considering the tone of his voice as he spoke with the officer suggested that the officer was boastful, yet secretly self conscious of himself. When Geo-Greg hung up he kept rubbing his neck-the chief of the officer was possibly a past love interest. Gathering the knowledge that George-"

"Greg!" John interrupted.

Sherlock shrugged, he never stopped when it came to his rather annoying deductions. "Whatever the man's name is! Anyway, he's known to date more of the feisty, independent selection of women. The chief was probably top of her class and has a very authoritative, yet sentimental way of working. She's slow to trust, therefore she's probably going to limit our accessibility to the crime scene."

John glared, "You know, you could have just said that."

"I know." Sherlock said with a grin, before diving in to try and steal the soda can out of John's pocket.

...

Sherlock hated flying. He hated having to sit in a small room full of strangers for hours where the only way to escape was quite literately jumping out of the situation. As if being required to socialize wasn't enough, but he also was cursed with knowing many unwanted details about the passengers surrounding him. For example, the American bald man sitting two seats in front of him was a former cook who'd been suspended for kidnapping lobsters. Americans were such strange people...

He waited with John for twenty minutes or so after the plane landed to exit the plane- Sherlock suspected it had something to do with total lack of experience from the flight attendant. He could tell she'd only started a few weeks ago.

After retrieving his bags, he elbowed his way through the crowd, and Sherlock was embarrassed with the fact that he was following John like a lost puppy. Sherlock was always the one to take lead, but he was in uncharted territories, not his London. Plus, he was distracted by flipping off all the people flipping him off. Idiots.

It smelt like sweat, fast food, and cigarettes. It wasn't much unlike London, quite similar, but there were no subways or mind the gap signs. He'd been given strict instructions from Mycroft to avoid any attention to himself-which was why Sherlock had worn his most neon pink socks he had-but it was hard to look invisible with John's hideous skin colored sweater. He tried so hard to act like he appreciated the wretched fabric.

"Okay, so apparently were working with some sort of detectives, and it says there a bit...odd. I don't know, Sherlock, these look like real weirdos." John muttered, mostly to himself as he inspected the strange men, who were posing with a pineapple.

Sherlock scoffed, "John, there's no such thing as odd. Odd is simply a term idiots use to describe people they don't understand. Unless...unless they are...pretend psychics who have an unhealthy addiction to pineapple..."

"Wow...okay. That's rather specific, don't you think?" John noticed Sherlock's puzzled look and followed his gaze to two men walking towards them.

The first man-who's chocolatey brown hair was styled bizarrely- was fighting with a slightly taller man over what appeared to be a churro. The taller man-whose dark skin stood in contrast to the other mans pale skin-slapped the shorter man's hand.

"Gus, stop being the I in team."

"There is no I in team."

"Oh really? Because I seem to remember one hiding behind the A. It's a shy little I, but there's definitely an I."

Sherlock slipped his phone back in his pocket, "Yeah, this was a mistake. Come on, John. Maybe if we place my hat on that vending machine they won't notice and we can leave before they see us."

"Shut it," John whispered as the two men walked up them and waved in a strange salute sort of fashion.

"Greetings, my British bros. My name is Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner Floaty Potato. Not to be confused with Sinky Potato."

As Sherlock muttered something that made John elbow him harshly, John cleared his throat, "Are you the...psychics?"

"He's the psychic, I'm the conversationalist, Gus." Gus said kindly, holding out a hand to shake.

John shook the man's hand hesitantly, as Shawn whistled at Sherlock, "Wow, Lassie wasn't lying about your cheekbones, how many oranges can you cut with those?"

"Sixteen, I make orange juice every morning." Sherlock drawled sarcastically, beginning to text.

Instead of acting offended, the two men gave each other awed looks, "Wow, can you make some for us?" Gus asked, looking genuinely curious.

John's phone buzzed, and as Shawn left to go look for oranges, he checked his text.

These people are complete idiots. Lets get out while we can. -SH

John shot Sherlock a glare, Be nice, Sherlock. I want that otter.

Ask them, I can deduce that they would be fully willing to steal one for you. -SH

"So," John slipped his phone away, looking at Gus, who was being swatted by Sherlock for trying to touch his cheekbones, "How long have you been working with...Shawn?"

"We've been friends since we were kids," Gus explained, "What about you?"

"Few years." John tried to ignore all the texts coming in from Sherlock.

"Yo!" Shawn jogged up to them, glancing behind him. "So apparently they don't sell oranges at Orange Julius. We'll just have to stop by the grocery store on the way back. Anyways...we should get out of here pretty quickly because-"

Gus groaned, "Shawn, what did you do?"

"It's not what I did!" Shawn protested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You chose a fight with an old lady to steal an orange from her, but was caught by security."

"Wow, are you psychic too?" Shawn asked.

"He's not." John interrupted Sherlock mid-insult.

"TO THE BLUEBERRY!" Shawn and Gus took off running, motioning for Sherlock and John to follow.

"Did he just say...?" John glanced at Sherlock.

"John, I require a building to jump off of."

"That's not funny, Sherlock."

Ta da! Hope you liked this chapter! If it didn't make sense, I apologize, but I just want to say this is probably one of my favorite thing's I've written. Hee hee, anyway, I'm glad you read this, and I'll update as soon as I can! Later, my dudes.