Things in America were not getting off to a good start.

Sherlock had been excited - nearly ecstatic, really - for the opportunity to get away from his classmates back home. Their company was at best tedious: to a one, all they were interested in was football and girls. Boring.

At worst, they were sadistic. None of them took kindly to Sherlock's eccentricities. Who could know that an off-hand comment regarding the questionable legitimacy of a certain student's stunningly improved marks would be taken quite so seriously by the staff, resulting in said student being severely reprimanded for plagiarism? Or that one might take offense to one's lunch being confiscated - for science - in order to be used to study the effect of relative muscle mass on the rate of amylase production in the salivary glands? And that the subsequent discovery of evidence of narcotics should then be handled with a tad more discretion than that which Sherlock Holmes was naturally capable? The third or fourth time Sherlock had come home with a bloody nose, or a blackened eye, with his clothes torn or outright missing (some of his peers thought it was amusing to strip him down to his pants and send him home shivering and humiliated, ha, ha) Mummy had come to the decision that sending Sherlock away for a bit might do him some good.

But upon reaching Sunnydale and learning that he would be lodging with a girl who thought Diversity Day meant wearing a leopard print bikini and carrying a stick (what culture, exactly, was she meant to embody?), Sherlock was certain that someone (Mycroft, most likely) had pulled a rather ingenious prank on him. Mycroft, incidentally, was even less fond of Sherlock's experiments than his former classmates were, especially after the incident with Lavinia, Mycroft's lavender albino python (newly hatched). Sherlock had wanted to see if the reptile would know how to adapt if allowed to roam free in one of the greenhouses. He'd provided all the necessary supplies: live rats and mice, a rock and a lamp where Lavinia could sun herself. The snake didn't know how to adapt, as it turned out, but she did have a spectacular knack for hiding. Mummy was rather displeased at the havoc the rodents had wreaked on her orchids, though.

So Sherlock found himself at the Bronze in Sunnydale, California. Harmony had abandoned him as soon as they entered the club. Initially, she had been quite enthusiastic about having him as a house guest. She had been nearly beside herself upon hearing his accent when he introduced himself, then asked him what it was like to live in the city that had inspired The Hunchback of Notre Dame. She'd seemed confused when he - in a very gracious attempt at giving her the benefit of that doubt, Sherlock thought - asked her how long it had been since she'd read the book. He now found himself less and less able to converse with her without wanting to throw small, breakable objects across the room, so he stayed silent. Once deprived of his accent, Harmony had gotten bored and flounced off to bat her lashes at a burly Swede.

The lights cast a warm glow over the club. It was vaguely hazy: an obvious effort to make the Bronze seem mysterious and mature, when most if not all of its clientele were clearly in high school. One of his fellow students was groaning in to the microphone on the small stage while a short, moderately talented guitarist with an unnaturally light shade of hair provided back-up vocals. A long legged brunette in beachwear (honestly, did nobody explain to American teenagers what, exactly, constituted a culture?) was standing at the edge of the stage, somehow managing to appear adoring and simultaneously haughty and unconcerned. The lead singer's girlfriend, then; also clearly the queen bee.

Dull.

The crowds parted, and Sherlock was able to see a girl wrapped in a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood pulled up and tied under her chin. She was wearing gigantic fuzzy gloves and carrying a harpoon. Neat, Sherlock thought. She appeared to be waiting for someone - likely someone important to her, from the way her eyebrows were raised expectantly, and the way she kept biting her lip. She glanced around the room and then back at the door. No one seemed to be paying her any mind (not popular, then.)

Suddenly she froze, her eyes fixed on the door. Sherlock followed her gaze. A poorly dressed gaucho and a very pretty girl in the garb of some kind of Egyptian princess walked into the Bronze. They were holding hands. She was wide-eyed with wonder as she surveyed the Bronze - a club which Sherlock himself thought was rather unremarkable. She would be the exchange student, then., and given the relative corroboration of her costume with that of the boy who was escorting her, she was perhaps from South America.

An Inca princess.

Slightly more inspired than some of the other costumes here, at least. Sherlock made his way through the throng of his dancing, flirting peers to listen to what these two would have to say to the Inuk girl.

"…you look, um…snug," the boy said. The Inuit sighed.

"That's what I was going for." She was hurt. Unrequited love, clearly. Sherlock studied the gaucho caustically. He was practically panting at the Inca princess. The Inuk could do better, he decided.

"Where's Buffy?"

The boy hardly seemed to register his friend's question, following as the Inca princess tugged him in the direction of the stage. There was something strange about her - she seemed almost new, somehow. Sherlock supposed she must have come from a very poor area in Peru - that would explain why she was looking at everything with such open astonishment: the band, the lights, the students in their dismal costumes.

The Inuk girl watched them go wistfully, then looked around the room, bouncing awkwardly on the balls of her feet.

"Hello," Sherlock said.

She had to turn her entire body to face him, and he almost smiled.

"Oh," she said. "I mean, hi."

"Nice harpoon."

She looked around, as if to make sure he was really talking to her, then glanced back up at him curiously. No one else had a harpoon. "Thanks!" She grinned, pleased.

"What's your name?" he prompted.

"Oh! I'm Willow. I guess you're one of the exchange students?"

"Yes. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Funny name."

"Says the girl named Willow."

"True," she conceded, tipping her torso forward in what Sherlock inferred was a nod. "So, what culture are you supposed to be?" she asked, eying his costume. He plucked at his collar, making sure it was raised, and unnecessarily smoothed the ruffles at his throat. His fingertips ran down the thick black velvet of his sleeves and adjusted the lace at his wrists as well.

"Claude Joseph Vernet."

"Oh." Willow looked him over again, somewhat suspiciously this time. "That's…not a culture."

"He was a French painter in the eighteenth century. My family goes back to that time," Sherlock explained. Her eyes widened. "An ancestor," he continued proudly. Willow smiled somewhat twitchily and pulled off a glove.

"Well, hi!" she squeaked, holding out a hand.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, non-plussed. Hesitantly, he shook her hand.

"Ack!" she gasped, letting go and backing up somewhat into the table behind her. "Cold hands!"

"Sorry?"

"Uh…no. It's fine. It's me. An ancestor, huh?" She laughed nervously. Sherlock nodded slowly. Americans were very strange. Suddenly, the gaucho barreled between them.

"Have you seen Ampata?" he demanded. Willow made a non-commital movement that could hardly be seen through all her layers. A shrug.

"What was that?"

"I shrugged…"

"Next time, you should probably say 'shrug,'" the boy said irritably, hurrying off. Willow watched him for a moment.

"Sigh."

She looked back up at Sherlock quickly and then turned in the direction the boy had gone. "Xander!" she called, but even Sherlock, considerably taller than Willow, couldn't find him in the crowd. Willow shifted nervously, and bared her teeth in an awkward smile.

"That was Xander," she said. "He's my friend. My b-best friend. And, um. Well, we came here together and we're gonna walk back together, so he'll be looking for me later. So. You know."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly and turned his head in the direction of the stage, peering at Willow out of the corner of his eye. "Very well."

"Good. Just so…just so we're clear." Willow cleared her throat and tapped the harpoon anxiously on the floor.

"Where's Xander?"

Another American ran over, seemingly out of nowhere, to demand from Willow the whereabouts of a friend. She was short and blond, wearing overalls, a white T-shirt, and a sweatshirt.

"Oh, very good! You're a hillbilly!" Sherlock said suddenly.

The blond looked over at him, frowning briefly, but chose to ignore his statement. "Will?" she asked.

"Oh! He's…he's looking for Ampata," Willow said, puzzled. "Why?"

"We need to find him. Ampata's the mum -" The blond blinked and looked at Sherlock again. "Exchange student?"

"Yep."

"Great. Hi! Welcome to America! You mind if I steal the Eskimo?"

She grabbed Willow by the wrist and hauled her off.

"Ampata's the mummy." Someone else probably wouldn't be able to make out what they were saying, but Sherlock was quite good at reading lips. Even when those lips were speaking in an American accent. He arranged his face into one of polite confusion, and watched quietly from where they had left him.

"Ohhh. Good." Willow, a satisfied expression on her face. Then: "Xander!" Alarmed, now.

"Where'd they go?"

"Back stage, I think…"

"Let's go. And hey - that guy! Quite a dish, nice job, Will," the blond said, as they turned to leave.

"Really? Well, I think he might be a vampire…"

Americans were very strange indeed.