Chapter Text
Shawn was yanked to an abrupt stop by Gus’s hand on his arm as he whispered in his ear, “Dude, that is Sherlock Holmes.”
Shawn pulled his arm out of Gus’s grasp and gave him a look of irritated bemusement. “Who?”
“Sherlock Holmes, he invented your job, how do you not know who Sherlock Holmes is?”
Shawn raised his eyebrows, impressed. “He’s a psychic too?”
Gus slapped Shawns arm and snapped, “No, he was the world’s first consulting detective, and you’re not actually a psychic.”
Shawn paused for a moment, considering this, then nodded his head, said “Right,” and continued walking toward the crime scene, only to be stopped again.
“As much as I want to meet that dude, we gotta get out of here. He’s gonna see right through you.”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “Man, no one sees through me.” With that, he strode forward, ducked under the police tape, grinned at the crowd of people and declared, “No more need for worry, I am here!”
***
Lestrade let out an irritated grunt when he heard the sound of something that would probably end up being his problem. His premonition was proved correct when he turned to look at who had shouted and found two casually dressed Americans sauntering toward him.
“Good evening, Inspector Detective!” called Shawn.
“Detective Inspector,” Gus corrected quickly.
Shawn shrugged. “I’ve heard it both ways.” He turned his attention back to Lestrade, and grinned. “Hello! I am Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, and this is my partner, Hubba Bubba McBucksmith, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Psychic detective,” repeated Lestrade, unamused.
“Yes, first question, being an inspector, how many gadgets do you have, and how many of them are attached to your person?”
“Not every inspector is Inspector Gadget, Shawn,” hissed Gus before extending his hand to Lestrade. “I’m sorry for my partner. My name is Burton Guster.”
Lestrade shook his hand tentatively. “Right.” He looked around and scratched his head before turning back to the strange pair. “Look, unless you have a good reason for being here, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“We were hired,” Shawn informed him.
“By who? We’ve already got a consultant,” asked Lestrade incredulously.
“By that lady over there,” he answered, pointing to a woman standing on the edges of the crime scene, wiping her eyes.
Lestrade sighed and strode past them toward the woman, intending to talk some sense into her. He already had enough on his plate without those two idiots poking around.
“Excuse me ma’am,” he waited for her to look at him before continuing. “Did you hire a psychic detective?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Um, why?”
“My sister recommended them. She works in Santa Barbara sometimes, she said they’re the best in the states.”
“Yes, but ma’am, we have Sherlock Holmes on the case.”
“Well another pair of hands couldn’t hurt anything, could it?”
Before Lestrade could could say something about a kitchen and too many cooks, a shout came from a couple of yards away.
“I am having a vision!”
***
The minute Lestrade turned his back, Shawn began surveying the crime scene. The body of a young man was sprawled, face down, in the middle of the parking lot outside a run down restaurant, his head resting in a pool of blood. He wore a yellow striped button down, slacks and black loafers. His hair was red, of medium length, and thoroughly disheveled. Shawn smirked before he snapped one hand to his temple as the other shot straight up into the air.
“I’m having a vision!” he declared, and put on an expression of feigned concentration. His hand that was not on his temple groped the air with exaggerated sweeps of his arm. He stumbled a couple of steps to the right, then forward. After a couple of spins he was standing at the head of the body, his eyes squeezed shut. They popped open, and he looked around at the crowd, looking awe-struck.
“This man...was murdered!”
It was all Shawn could do not to laugh at the stupefied gazes he was receiving.
“And furthermore!” He brought both of his hands to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “This man came here from church, is having trouble with his marriage, looks
suspiciously like Brian from The Breakfast Club, and is lying dead in a pool of someone else’s blood.”
He opened his eyes and looked around, and saw all heads turn toward a tall brunette man in a trenchcoat and scarf.
***
Sherlock watched with a disdainful air as the American did his “psychic reading.”
It took him a couple of moments after he was done to realize everyone was expecting him to give his opinion.
“The only person here besides me who isnt a complete idiot is a complete idiot.”
This was met by a satisfying giggle from John and an expectant silence from everyone else.
“Well, thank you,” said Shawn after a pause.
Sherlock only sighed in response.
“Care to, um, bring us up to speed?” suggested John.
“You all are really frighteningly dull. Its a Sunday afternoon, this man is dressed nicely, the only reason he would come to an establishment like this, dressed like that,
would be if he came directly from church. Theres a tan from where his wedding ring was on his left ring finger, it’s been removed. I have never seen The Breakfast Club, so I cannot attest to that statement, and if the blood had indeed come from the victims head, it would have spread in the opposite direction because of the unevenness of the pavement.”
“You haven’t seen the breakfast club?” came the incredulous reply from the so called ‘psychic.’
“I haven’t got time for this idiocy,” snapped Sherlock, and began striding forward to get a better look at the body, but froze when the American spoke up again.
“Don’t lie, of course you do. It’s not as if the murderer is going anywhere.”
Sherlock squinted his eyes and tilted his head, staring at the strange man.
“Why isn’t the murderer going anywhere? Wouldn’t he run?” inquired Lestrade.
The man smirked and tapped his temple, and Sherlock’s begrudging impressedness was immediately dispersed to make room for annoyance. His stare turned quickly into a glare and he began to take slow, deliberate steps towards the American.
“Please take your frivolous gimmicks and overwhelming arrogance back to America where I will no longer have to suffer through it. In case you haven’t noticed, you are not needed here, I have deduced everything you have, and I do not need to pretend to be a mind reader to impress people.” By the time Sherlock had finished his speech he was practically touching noses with the psychic.
Unfazed, he replied, “You’re one to be calling someone out on their ego. Sherlock Holmes, right? Is Sherly okay? I’m Shawn Spencer and that is my partner Albus Merlin Potter.”
“Burton Guster,” corrected someone from a few feet away, but he was paid no attention.
“Sherly is most definitely not okay,” spat Sherlock.
***
John had been watching from the sidelines, and decided it was high time he stepped in. He strode over to the pair and stuck out his hand to Shawn. “John, Dr. John
Watson.” Shawn immediately turned his attention to the smaller man and shook his hand a bit too enthusiastically.
“You must be his Gus,” said Shawn, nodding his head in Sherlock’s direction.
John wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion, but a dark skinned man came striding quickly forward to explain.
“He means the sane one,” he said with a trying-to-be-charming smile. “Burton Guster, pharmaceutical salesman. I read your blog. I’m a huge fan. My favorite one is The Great Game, you know, it reminded me of the time when Shawn and I took down the Yin Yang serial killer, I’ll have to tell you about it sometime. Card?” he asked, already holding it out in invitation.
“Sure,” replied John a bit cautiously, taking the offered business card. He wasn’t sure he was too pleased with being paralleled with this man.
“Well I think we’re about finished here,” declared Shawn with a decisive clap. He whipped his head sideways to look at his partner. “Fish and chips?”
“You know that’s right,” agreed Gus with a hungry smile.
As they sauntered off John overheard their conversation.
“I wonder what kind of chips they have. Do you think it will be Fritos?”
“Stop talking.”
Sherlock stared after them with a look of disdain on his face. “He doesn’t know what fish and chips are.”
“You didn’t know the earth revolved the sun,” replied John with a smirk.
Sherlock didn’t respond, just exited the crime scene with a dramatic flourish of his trenchcoat.