Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Sherlock. I'm just borrowing their characters.
California was completely miserable, Sherlock decided. Hot and crowded with idiots. The only plus: it offered plenty of work for the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock stepped outside the Sunnydale airport, John behind him carrying the bags. Sunny, light cloud cover, eighty-five to ninety degrees. Fahrenheit, obviously, because Americans were stubborn about the metric system. Sherlock could feel his pores opening.
He raised his arm to hail a taxi, but there were already several lined up and waiting. Annoying. The nearest driver jumped out of his taxi and started taking the bags from John.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome to Sunnydale!" the driver said. "Where are you headed today?"
Must he be so friendly? "Kings Street, downtown," Sherlock said, striding to the car. "There's fifty more quid in it for you if you'll take our bags on to the hotel."
"Quid?"
Honestly. "Dollars. Fifty dollars if you'll take our bags to the Sundown Inn after you drop us at Kings Street."
"Ah, Sherlock," John said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice. His breath smelled like peppermint and honey. "Don't you think maybe we could start tomorrow? Give us a chance to recover a bit?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Recover from what?"
"Oh, nothing. I suppose a twelve-hour flight is nothing to recover from. Why don't we just get straight to work?"
"Yes, John, that's what I was saying," Sherlock said. He shrugged out of his great coat – the heat was truly ungodly – and got into the cab. John followed him. "How's your throat?"
"My what?"
The cab pulled away from the airport. "Your throat. How does it feel? Are you getting sick?"
"Well, my throat was a bit scratchy when I woke from my nap on the plane. Should I even I ask how you know that?"
"You probably shouldn't, but I know you want to, so I'll answer: your breath. Mint tea and honey. Not your usual."
The driver looked at them in the rear view mirror.
"I suppose it isn't," John said. "I quite liked it, though."
Sherlock liked it, too. The smell. It was pleasant, that was all.
"You're going the wrong way," he said to the driver.
"Sorry, what?"
"You should've gotten off at the freeway and you didn't. Please take the next exit."
"Oh, are you two familiar with Sunnydale?" the taxi driver asked.
"No," Sherlock said flatly.
John looked from him to the driver. "We're just here on business, thanks," he said. "Not that we need to be…"
"Don't start this again," Sherlock said.
"You know it's true. We had plenty of work in London. There was no need to come halfway across the world for a case that's probably a hoax in the first place."
"Come now, John. Haven't you ever wanted to meet a vampire?"
The sun was setting as the cab parked in front of a nightclub called The Bronze. The taxi driver seemed glad to see them go – or he was eager to pick up the prostitute on the corner who was giving him the eye. Could be either one, Sherlock thought.
The door was manned by a skinny teenager slouching on a stool. Acne scars, shaking hands, aversion to eye contact. Meth addict; withdrawal symptoms. They passed without him looking up.
"I don't understand what we're doing here," John said. "We don't even know what we're looking for."
"We're looking for a Senator's daughter, John. She was kidnapped. That's why we're here."
"Not America," John said, rubbing his eyes. "I know why we're in this country. I meant the nightclub. What are we doing in this nightclub?"
It wasn't the nicest nightclub, Sherlock was willing to admit. Thin metal chairs and irritatingly small tables. Young people with bad hair and too-tight clothes everywhere, flirting and filling the air with their sweat and pheromones.
"We're observing," Sherlock said.
He had done his research. This particular nightclub had been noted as the location on many police reports. 127 in the last three years, actually. Everything from petty theft and sexual assault to murder. Half of them were boring, but the other half… Well. They were interesting.
Sunnydale was interesting. Different. New.
That was why Sherlock had to come here. Not for the Senator's daughter, who he was already fairly certain had eloped with a boyfriend, but for Sunnydale. The criminals here were creative; the vigilantes even more so.
John got them a table that could barely fit their drinks. Sherlock sat with his back to the wall and John took the seat across from him. The club was getting busier.
"Untuck your shirt," Sherlock said.
"Sorry?"
"You look like a chaperone. Untuck your shirt, John."
"A chaperone?" John said, frowning a little. He stood and pulled at his shirt until it came loose. "I do not. I'm not that old, you know, and neither are you. Harry said I don't look a day over thirty."
"She lied," Sherlock said.
"Are you going to untuck your shirt?"
"No."
John sulked, staring at the wall, and Sherlock sipped out of a glass he wasn't completely sure was clean. Seltzer water, no lemon or lime. Just something for him to hold so he wouldn't seem conspicuous.
A band onstage was playing a song Sherlock vaguely placed as being released in the late 1990's, but he couldn't be bothered to name it. The crowd writhed to the music. They danced with their heads thrown back, arms in the air, screaming and laughing. He wished they would stop. They were making it difficult for him to see.
Sherlock gave up on watching the dance pit and turned his attention to the catwalk. There, a face caught his attention. Pale with red hair and dark lipstick.
"Well hello," Sherlock said.
John raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
"I believe I've found our Senator's daughter, John," he said. "And she is not where she's supposed to be."
"Well, isn't that the point?" John said, craning his neck to look up at the catwalk. "She hasn't been where she's supposed to be in weeks. But now that we've found her, we can go back home to Baker Street. Spectacular. I wonder if Sunnydale has a red-eye flight to London…"
Sherlock wasn't listening. He got up and found the staircase. Took them two at a time, mind racing. The daughter, Georgia was her name, had run away from home. Unhappy family life, Sherlock knew from talking to the father. So why would she stay in town? Money wasn't an issue, obviously. Why not take the first bus out of Sunnydale?
The catwalk was packed, but the music was quieter up here, and no one had their arms raised. Sherlock picked his way through the crowd, hands on the lapels of his jacket, searching for that head of red hair. The floor of the platform was meshed metal. Very thin. The muscles of Sherlock's legs wouldn't relax completely.
He made it to the other end of the catwalk without seeing her, but there was another stairwell. Sherlock pushed the door open and hurried down the stairs, listening for voices. It was quiet except for the sound of his shoes against concrete.
Back on the main floor. John was at their table, nursing a new drink. Looked like Bourbon. Idiot. He could've seen where Georgia had gone, if he'd been paying attention. Sherlock crossed the room. "Let's go."
"Go?" John said. "Why? I thought we might stay a little longer. I kind of like the band."
"The band is wretched," Sherlock said, turning to leave. They were wasting time. The girl couldn't have gotten far. He strode to the exit, John muttering behind him, and pushed the door open. Night had fallen, but it offered no relief from the heat. Sherlock thought the alleyway behind The Bronze was deserted for approximately four seconds. Until he heard her voice.
"Thought you'd never leave."
A woman, blonde and petite, stepped around the corner of the club. In her right hand, she held a sharpened wooden stake.
Interesting.
"Welcome to Sunnydale," she said.
And then she ran at them.
