[ So.

It had taken him approximately ten seconds to access John's e-mail account and even less to read over James Sholto's message. He'd spent the night at 221B, building a small home for the frog and trying to decide whether to leave John to his little adventure (though, knowing him it wouldn't amount to much of anything with regards to Sholto's little mystery, obviously not a case of paranoia) or to... Well.

Do this, apparently.

He's been here for three days, working undercover as a gardener, having read up upon the subject enough on the train to talk himself into a temporary position. Currently, he's wearing a blond wig beneath a cap as well as a fake nose to change up his profile. He's had several talks with the maid (who is, apparently, single and looking) and the chef as well as the housekeeper, an elderly man who'd had no misgivings whatsoever about hiring him. This far out in the countryside, people aren't too afraid, it seems. Even though someone's clearly tried to do in the master of the house, several times over.

As he trims the (large, very large, not unlike his mother's) rose bushes near the terrace, he keeps his breathing quiet and his body language unremarkable. John's right there after all and he's just heard the beginnings of a conversation that might very well be about him. John hasn't mentioned him, huh? Well, why would he. It's obvious they have enough other things to talk about, him and Sholto. He cuts a rose too far up the stem and the head tumbles off, onto the ground. Taking a deep breath, he picks it up and puts it in the bucket. Moves on, slowly, forcing himself to concentrate. ]