John knows he's staring, just as much as he knows that he couldn't stop if he tried. There is something about this man that simultaneously unnerves and intrigues him, something in the soles of his heavily worn shoes right up to the unkempt tangles of hair on his head.
John looks quickly down at the man's arms – one flung carelessly over the side of the sofa that the man is … relaxingon, the other draped across his stomach, and John grits his teeth, palms the pistol at his belt.
"Uncover your forearms," he orders, and is further irritated when this causes the stranger to glance at him, his eyes steely beneath a veil of disinterest, as if John's presence had only just been noticed. John meets his glare – he's surprised (pleased) to find that there's still some defiance left in the person before him, after having seen it being stripped from so many – and the stranger looks as if he wants to makes a comment but has instead chosen to keep his mouth shut. He undoes his cuffs with pale, steady hands, and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, brandishing his forearms with a petulant roll of his eyes. His right arm is unblemished, give or take a few freckles, but the left forearm is taken up almost entirely by what look like nicotine patches.
John fights the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose (he does, however, count quickly to ten in the back of his head. He's had too many of these recently) and inhales.
"You are aware that obscuring your identification when asked to present it is a punishable offense," he states – doesn't ask – the line sounding bored and monotonous even to him. He's had way too many of these recently, "Name?"
The man's expression does not change, but there is a moment in which John swears he saw something twitch the corners of the man's mouth –amusement? – before the answer comes, slow and baritone.
"Sherlock," he drawls, and John suddenly associates the pinprick freckles with old track marks.
"Classification name." John clarifies, through his teeth. He knows when he is being played with. Sherlock smirks and does not answer, and John feels the last of his patience run dry.