"Which department?" Greg asked, barely looking up from his paperwork. Stood just behind his shoulder was Sherlock, monitoring the room as usual, and in the corner, Watson, monitoring Sherlock.
The pretty boys in front of him were American, mid-thirties and looked like they gave up a modelling career to become policemen with high cheekbones, pouty lips and eyelashes that would make a drag queen jealous.
The shorter of the pair confidently flipped open a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge and with a brighter than white smile, said "FEDs." It wasn't really the answer he was after, but before Lestrade could comment, Sherlock barked a laugh.
"I knew there was something off about you boys!" He exclaimed, walking into the centre of the room, "I mean besides the model quality. Where is he?"
Sighing, Greg put his head in his hands. The men looked at each other, confused. Stuttering, the taller one said "Excuse me? We're here on official business from the head office, Mr Lestrade, is there somewhere more private.."
"Oh shut up." Sherlock muttered, pulling the Feds badge from the officer's hand.
"Hey!-"
"Sherlock." John quickly reprimanded from the corner.
"I'm really sorry gentlemen, he's... he's not..." Greg tried to apologise.
Sherlock turned to face John shaking the badge, gesturing towards the officers. "They're lying through their teeth, surely you could tell Watson. Look at the tan, the shoes- the hands." John just nodded, keeping his opinions to himself.
Greg looked at the FEDs more closely; so they had a tan? They probably get paid enough for fantastic hot holidays. Their shoes were standard dress shoes and both men had their hands behind their back. He trusted Sherlock, even considered him a friend, but God was he annoying. "Listen Holmes you can't just go around accusing Feds of lying! That's not okay." Greg shouted, standing, hands against the desk.
Sherlock hung his head, exasperated, before swinging it up dramatically towards Greg. "The man on the right here is somewhat passable as an agent to the ordinary veiw; sharp pressed suit, intellegent eye, and quick response. However his haircut is far from regulation," The taller man nervously tucked his hair behind his ears, "-and the muscles bulging from underneath that jacket were not forged in a gym. On the left here we have a man in a suit that has been in the boot of an old car for some miles and has traces of oil on his neck." The man on the left smiled awkwardly and reached up to his neck as the taller man looked at him with bewiderment. "Both men have the complexion of one with an outdoor job, their shoes are years old, polished multiple times to look new and most compellingly," Sherlock paused for a moment, relishing the attention before lifting the shorter man's hand, palm towards Lestrade and John. "Scars covering the skin, prominently from the meat of the thumb to the wrist. Typical of satanic rituals and such."
"Jesus." Greg gasped as his eyebrows hit his hairline.
The fake Fed snatched his hand back, laughing nervously, "You aren't really going to listen to this guy, right? I mean what-"
Turning his back to Greg, Sherlock's face hardened. "Shut. Up." Nobody questioned him this time. "Where is he? Where did you get this paper?" He asked, looking up at the smaller man who was still considerably taller than Sherlock.
He flushed red "At the academy. .?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Fine. A blonde chick, British. She's the one who told us to check out this case, said that paper thing is like a free pass." He admitted, his accent becoming more sloppy.
"Must be his latest companion.. he has a thing for 'chicks'." He said to himself, "and this 'paper thing' is psychic paper. Luckily one of us was given basic psychic training." Bragging, as usual.
"That explains a lot." Greg mumbled, but Sherlock didn't hear him. Or more likely, ignored him.
"Excuse me, who are you talking about?" John asked, more than a little confused.
Sherlock spun to face John, gripping his shoulders. "Its him." Sherlock grinned, "The Doctor is back."
And he ran out of the room, all but clicking his heels as John stumbled after him. "Who?!" John yelled down the hall, but the only answer to be heard from Lestrades office was Sherlock's roaring laughter.
"So.." The short American said after a moment of silence, "Dean and Sam Winchester," he smiled sheepishly, pointing a thumb at himself and the taller man. "No hard feelings?"
Lestrades sank down into his chair and let his head hit the desk.