[ Ever the business man, Chilton is too quick to sell himself and in the process, he sells himself short. There's something to be said for easing your way into a conversation, using the subtle art of manipulation to steer the subject matter a certain direction - they could have danced, could have been witty, but Chilton shattered the illusion by lacking the necessary finery to hold up his end of the bargain.
He might talk the talk, but he can't walk the walk (and that's always disappointing).
Practically a sheep in wolves clothing, over worrying and overcompensating. ]
Oh, I dare say that a session from all of them would benefit you.
[ Sherlock takes the offered business card, but he barely spares it a glance, fingers busily tucking it away into one of his coat pockets.
After all, why look at the cheat sheet when he's already aced the exam? ]
Hm, Chilton. Let me see if I have my business card.
[ That smile, though. The one that's all pointed edges and blank stares; Sherlock mirrors it and then he perfects it gradually until it's flawless (oh it took him so long to perfect that; hours in front of the mirror, arduous and painful as he repeatedly grinned at himself, trying to force it to reflect it in his eyes, to look genuine. It was worth the effort, though). He fumbles around in his pockets for several moments, drawing the pantomimed search out for as long as possible; there's time to kill, and he's not above wasting someone's time when they have so clearly tried to waste his.
When he comes up empty handed (because he never carries business cards, who carries business cards?), he goes for the next best thing: a used toothpick.
He doesn't just hand it over, no. He waits until Chilton's hands are ready to receive Sherlock's 'business card', dropping the toothpick unceremoniously into his hands. ]
Sorry, I really must get more printed.
[ The toothpick is such a wonderful little thing. It can symbolise so much, for being something so small.
The phrase chewed up and spat out springs to mind. ]
tbh the best joke
He might talk the talk, but he can't walk the walk (and that's always disappointing).
Practically a sheep in wolves clothing, over worrying and overcompensating. ]
Oh, I dare say that a session from all of them would benefit you.
[ Sherlock takes the offered business card, but he barely spares it a glance, fingers busily tucking it away into one of his coat pockets.
After all, why look at the cheat sheet when he's already aced the exam? ]
Hm, Chilton. Let me see if I have my business card.
[ That smile, though. The one that's all pointed edges and blank stares; Sherlock mirrors it and then he perfects it gradually until it's flawless (oh it took him so long to perfect that; hours in front of the mirror, arduous and painful as he repeatedly grinned at himself, trying to force it to reflect it in his eyes, to look genuine. It was worth the effort, though). He fumbles around in his pockets for several moments, drawing the pantomimed search out for as long as possible; there's time to kill, and he's not above wasting someone's time when they have so clearly tried to waste his.
When he comes up empty handed (because he never carries business cards, who carries business cards?), he goes for the next best thing: a used toothpick.
He doesn't just hand it over, no. He waits until Chilton's hands are ready to receive Sherlock's 'business card', dropping the toothpick unceremoniously into his hands. ]
Sorry, I really must get more printed.
[ The toothpick is such a wonderful little thing. It can symbolise so much, for being something so small.
The phrase chewed up and spat out springs to mind. ]