"Yes, I do believe that this is the perfect car for you." Sherlock tapped the Camry with a pen. "Complete neglect of fashion sensibilities, in need of a new coat of paint, and run down by overuse. Really, Mr. Carlton, I don't know why you would look any farther." Sherlock smiled at his reflection in the car window, ignoring the anger coming from the wizened mouth beside him. "Oh, look, you two have matching coffee-stains." He pointed a long finger inside the car, squinting. "Isn't it remarkable?"
From three spaces over, John Watson heard the conversation. He wasn't surprised when Mr. Carlton vanished in a haze of exhaust. He stared at Sherlock, who had yet to stop smiling.
"Having fun yet?"
"Starting to." Sherlock rubbed his hands together.
"Try to keep it down a little, maybe stop the smiling. The manager, remember? He'll think you're losing customers on purpose." John looked down at the paperwork on his clipboard, his brown eyes darting around, making sure no one could hear their conversation.
"So what if I lose them? I find them the perfect car. Them buying it is just a detail."
"Well, it's a bloody important one, so let's try and work on selling these cars, okay? Great." Pretending they had agreed, John spied his next appointment waiting under the overhang. It was a young woman with curly dark hair and wide eyes. He smiled.
"Hey."
Meanwhile a mechanic appeared. Bouncing over to Sherlock, he pointed a finger at him. Sherlock was leaning against an car, fiddling with the rearview mirror.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"It's an experiment."
"Well you're gonna have to stop because, that there is my car. I called it. I fixed those brakes so good it will run another thousand kilos at least." Sherlock grimaced.
"Well."
"Well what?"
"You fixed the brakes well." He rolled his eyes as the mechanic clenched his fists.
"You trying to make me sound stupid or something? You think you're so special in that big old coat? Do you?"
"When I see people like you, yes, I believe I do." Sherlock dodged a fist, and began running across the parking lot.
John had his back turned to the chaos behind him. As Sherlock jumped in front of moving cars, somersaulting over their hoods, continually glancing over his shoulder, John's eyes and ears remained fixed on his client.
"Do you ever get any free time?" He said. Behind him, Sherlock slammed into a headlight, shattering the casing. The mechanic charged after him.
"Yeah, I could walk your dogs for you. I love dogs. I would own one, but then I'd never have any free time because I'd always be walking dogs. Fish? Oh yeah, they're beautiful. Wonderful creatures, absolutely fascinating-oh, you meant sushi? Well sushi's great too. I know a lovely place, right up by Baker St-"
John found himself on the floor, a livid mechanic on top of him. Sherlock was standing inside the office smiling out at them. The manager poked his head out as John punched the mechanic in the face.
"John Watson, you're fired. No wonder your resume was so pathetic. You're going to have to go on sharing that flat forever."
John looked up, but the girl was gone. Steaming, he jabbed a finger at the mechanic.
"It wasn't my fault. This idiot and that one in your office are the ones who started it."
"Then you're all fired. I'll be suing you for the damage too, you hear?"
They spent the rest of the day sitting at the bus stop. John had to act as a buffer between Sherlock and the mechanic.
"I was thinking, maybe we're going about this the wrong way." John said, trying to ignore the elbow piercing his side. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"What do you suggest?"
"Well, I might not have mentioned it before but I'm a pretty fair rapper. Want to hear?"
"Do I?"
"Yes, yes you do. Ta." John stood up, straightening his green jacket.
"The name's John Watson I used to be a doctor,
but now I'm just fired and it would really rock to
Get hired once more, get myself off the floor.
I've never been so incredibly poor.
It might be 'cause of my homie Holmes.
who gets kicked out of restaurants and homes.
So now its my shot its my chance to show'm,
That Watson can rap and these games here are over." John stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well?"
"No. No, the grammar is atrocious." Sherlock waved his hand. John plopped down. The mechanic stared.
"Well I'd like to see you try, Sherlock. Let's see if you can rap."
"Of course I can rap."
"Prove it." John folded his hands and smiled.
"Alright." Sherlock stood up. Swinging his arms, he said.
"I can identify 243 types of tobacco ash.
I really need some cash." He sat down again. The mechanic guffawed.
When they arrived at Baker St., it was back to the drawing board.