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There’s snow dotting his hair when he pulls open the door, gently melting and dripping onto his collar in the warmth of the room. It’s crowded tonight, people milling about and talking like they haven’t got a care in the world, and it’s obvious he prefers it that way. He’s well-known here, but no one calls a greeting as he walks towards the bar - the look on his face does not invite casual pleasantries.
There are several groups already seated, but only one person sat alone, and it’s to her that he directs his steps, signalling to the bartender before he’s halfway across the room - his drink poured and already gathering moisture when he slides onto a stool. She doesn’t look at him, instead taking a long pull of her own drink, something sharp and golden that matches her eyes. He downs his own drink in one go, immediately ordering another with a mere gesture, and this second he contemplates, tilting his head like it has the answers he wants.
Four minutes later she rolls her shoulders and the movement brings his eyes up, far enough to see her hands, one splayed on the counter, the other resting on her right leg. His expression changes, a minute grimace that brings a smirk to her eyes and a relaxation to her posture. He’s got his third drink before him, the ice already starting to melt when he rests his own right hand on the counter, a change that brings her own hand up to join the other. They sit that way for ten minutes, frozen, with the world moving around them, before the front door swings open again and a voice shouts a name with enough force to carry over conversation. He moves at the noise, a fluid jerk of his head that brings a response from her.
By the time the rest of the force makes it to the counter the pair are gone and the bartender swears he doesn’t know where and he doesn’t care - “this isn’t the Dorchester gentleman” - and all of Scotland Yard is left scratching their collective head. As far as Detective John Smith and the Bad Wolf are concerned, no one hears of them again - at least not in England.