Once the shopkeep was gone, Sherlock's whole body tensed. He forced it to relax around natives to keep up a casual show, but in privacy his nerves were always on edge. It was just one of the reasons to take up smoking again. He leaned against the table in the middle of the room, shaking his head. If Mitch knew him, he had to know he wasn't a bloody idiot.

"For God's sake, My--"

Sherlock practically gagged on whatever word that was. Christ. He almost called him Mycroft. Luckily the slip didn't really sound like a name, but he still pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Sometimes, he feared that his mind was taking more of a beating from all these years than he realized. Still, the similarities between Mitch and his brother were disturbingly numerous. The dedication to whatever his secret plans were, and deciding that the rest be damned stuck out in both of them like a sore thumb. After nearly a decade, it still left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. Maybe that's why he was trying to get through to Mitch; a misplaced sense of filial piety. What an awful thought.

"You know perfectly well who I am, and that I know who you are. You honestly didn't expect to come back here in person and have no one recognize you?" Well, with that good of a disguise, no one else might have, but Sherlock didn't want to compliment him. He drifted over to a minifridge against the wall and took out two beers, setting one on the table.

"I'm not asking you to trust me. That would, frankly, be idiotic of either of us. But you can drop the act now. It's not necessary."

He didn't offer Mitch the other beer. It was left on the table as his to take or leave, just as he could with this entire encounter.