Mitch never took the beer. He'd been painfully paranoid, perhaps too much so, but the fact of the matter was that if this guy even suspected that he wasn't Adrian Maskin, he had reason to worry. He had a desperate need to keep his eyes open, and to keep himself save.

"I see. So you think I'm an import?" he hedged cautiously. Too cautiously, maybe. After a moment, years of keeping himself in line seemed to melt away. He'd only been himself around a handful of people over the years, Katurian, Edward, that was it. It was a sad state of affairs when you'd even gone out of your way to deceive your own bodyguard for as long as you could, if just to keep himself safe.

"Alright, Sherlock. What the fuck do you want?"

The implication of the swear said enough. It wasn't that Adrian Maskin didn't swear, but instead that he wasn't Mitchell Hundred when it came to them. They didn't have to worry and hover over the dump button just in case he lost his temper, or just had enough.

He crossed his arms, staring Sherlock down. He didn't think he'd call him here just to make sure he knew that he knew who he was. That was too contorted. If Sherlock wanted to do that, he could've done it a million times differently. As it was, there was something he wanted, Mitchell knew it.