Psychlock

Obviously...

"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.