Amateur ventriloquists, Jim knew, couldn't say bottle of beer. Someone in his class had tried learning and Jim saw him practice the phrase, trying desperately to get it right. It always came out wrong. He'd chant it with closed lips, face growing ever frustrated. The image never left Jim's mind, nor did the words.
Years later, he was thirty-one and a consulting criminal. He'd only been in the business for a short period; Bart's wasn't as much of a cover up as Sherlock thought. There was, of course, Carl Powers, but Jim didn't count him because then it wasn't a job and the thought that he was good at killing hadn't occurred to his nine-year-old mind.
Exactly three months after he started consulting he heard of Sherlock Holmes. The same day a cabbie came in, asking help on a few murders. He had his method worked out, but he didn't have the resources. Jim gladly helped, and told him to try and catch the detective's eye. It worked.
Another three months. He had Johnny-boy strapped to a bomb, making him be a little puppet and showing Sherlock he could make anyone dance, even the soldier boy with nerves of steal. A thought popped into his head.
"Gottle o' gear."
All because an amateur ventriloquist couldn't pronounce bottle of beer.