The bar was a burst of activity despite the midweek night, littered with wanton skirts and unbuttoned men with slick liquor snarls. Not Watson's typical scene, but when in America…
Sherlock plucked at the collar of his pale blue plaid button up, trying without avail to pop up the cotton fabric collar. John sighed, kicking Sherlock's calf.
"Don't fidget."
Sherlock scoffed.
"I don't 'fidget'."
"We need to blend in."
"Our clothing is an impeccable representation of current southern-American male fashion." Sherlock's fingers raked down his jeans in an attempt to keep them from riding up into his crotch. "Plaid button up, dark T-shirt, jeans…" John could taste Sherlock's loathing. "and these insufferable clogs." He scraped his steel toed boots down John's shin with a childish huff.
John grimaced and tucked his leg under his chair.
"I thought you liked disguises?"
Sherlock glossed over the statement with a wave of his hand. The air in the small bar was stuffy at best and the light filtering though the incandescent bulbs colored John's water pale eyes a dingy amber.
"I believe Mycroft purposely sent us to in to America's arm pit out of childhood resentment."
"Come off it," Watson looked at his shoes, "Mycroft was never a child."
Sherlock huffed; "There was a promising murder in a small tourist city off of Lake Michigan. Sun, grass, boats… Have you ever been sailing, John?"
Sherlock produced a manila folder from the folds of his jacket and pushed it delicately across the bar to John. Taking a sip of his water, John flipped open the cover and read over the material quickly. The folder contained a newspaper clipping, toxicology reports and various crime scene photographs.
"Does Mycroft know you have this?"
"I lifted it from Lestrade."
John rolled his eyes and examined the images of three bodies arranged neatly in a triangle. Each had a perfectly circular hole where their hearts had been located.
"Couldn't find the hearts?"
"Eaten most likely."
"Could have been an ordinary werewolf."
"Elements of ritual, the eyes of the victims were moved post mortem to focus on a specific location."
"It says here they all had high levels of cocaine in their systems." John glanced up at Sherlock's greedy, gray eyes and pale thin lips. He closed the folder with a dismissive snap. "Best to leave it to the locals."
"The local police are calling it a drug trip gone wrong."
"The local Hunters." John clarified. "Mycroft says American Hunters are more competent then our British Cryptozoologists."
"Hunters are trigger happy. Mycroft should despise them for taking away specimens."
John coughed and downed the remainder of his water. "Yes, he prefers the Men of Letters. 'Always professional and prompt.'"
"Never mind the fact that our 'Man of the Letter' was supposed to meet us half an hour ago."
"A representative." John clarified. "But yes, late non the less." John resisted the urge to squirm on his chair. "I'm having trouble not feeling miffed."
"Well, strap it up and smile, looks like our man just arrived." Sherlock didn't point.
John Winchester's smile, while genuine, did little to spark light into his pupils. He was halfway across the bar when Sherlock's power of deductions kicked in.
"Homophobic…" Sherlock coughed into his palm.
John Watson's typical, sunny, nice to-meet-you smile was shocked frozen as he watched the Winchester make his way through the crowd towards them.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"…Internalized, nurtured by a life spent with a pistol tucked into his pants. Hyper-masculine, drinks until he blacks out, if he sleeps, he sleeps with a knife under the pillow, the wife and he have scheduled sex on the first of every month-"
"Ok, no…no. Done. Are you done?"
"-two grown sons and no daughters, doesn't like dogs, obsessive to a fault, former military but doesn't talk about it." Sherlock directed a thin smile at the incoming Winchester, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "You and he should get along, seeing as you're not technically gay."
"Wait, what do you mean 'not technically'?"
Sherlock offered his hand as the American crested into earshot.
"Lead with your 'Captain Watson' voice. You need to make a good impression."
John sucked in a nervous pre-introduction breath before immediately deflating when the Winchester spoke first.
"Follow me; you look like a pair of granola crunchers." Without so much as a pause in the rhythm of his step, John Winchester brushed past the amateur detective and shouldered his way through the backdoor. Sherlock quickly tucked his ignored hand deep into the pockets of his jeans and glowered at the Winchester's retreating back.
"Bit of a dick, isn't he."
"Enormous dick."
John sighed through pursed lips. "Captain Watson it is then." he settled his shoulders back and marched after the American.