It was a rare thing when Sherlock actually wanted to meet with someone. Not to say he had never experienced the desire. There was more than enough people in the world that had intrigue but they were rarer than the opposite. Nevertheless, he managed to wrap up a case and head off so fast Joan couldn't even catch him. She was, of course, unbearably curious but Sherlock, of course, wouldn't tell her.

He showed up twenty minutes pate looking horribly slapdash. A horrifying Christmas sweater, broken down jeans, just as busted shoes, old coat with that single shilling pin and red scarf. His hair just sort of everywhere. Come to think of it, considering the surrounding customers? Sherlock blended in great. He ordered a coffee, just a coffee, and made his way over. The cup hits the table with a small think and he's smiling a little awkwardly as his hand reached out to shake because for the first time in such a long time Holmes is nervous. Excitedly nervous. A chance to speak with THE Tony Stark? He wouldn't miss it for the world.

"Terribly sorry," comes the accent. "Finishing up a case. Murderers these days. No sense of proper timing. Sherlock Holmes."