"I'm not trying to--" he sighed, stopping mid-sentence. He looked at Sherlock, running a hand through his hair to pull back more of his black hair. It wasn't out of place, but it was a nervous habit he'd picked up over the years.

Particularly when agitated.

"I can't, Sherlock. I can't accept fucking help. Not from the import community, at the very least. Do you know how much that can fuck me over? I can't take it. I'd love to, but I can't."

And then he sighed, holding his fingers on either side of the bridge of his nose, looking all the politician he used to be, even if he pretended he wasn't Mitchell.

"Look. I can't accept help publicly. When the time comes, I'm sure the campaign could use every hand we'll get, but I can't-- I cannot know about it."