( The withering stare he affixes to Sherlock is entirely at odds with the slight smirk quirking at the edge of his lips. Offending the man, getting under his skin, had been partially the goal; it seems it worked. But then, on the other hand, he was actively focused on the clock. Old workman's habit, those maddening sounds. It's why he normally carried with him a pocket-sized toolkit to fix these tiny problems. But, naturally, the one time he was without them, he needed them the most. )

Of course it's rude. That's half the fun.

( He moves from the fireplace to a nearby desk, setting the clock down upon it with great care, as if he were handling delicate glassware. Sylar removes his jacket and sets that on the back of a chair full of... old case files? Mixed in with books about tea leaves? He's sure there's a connection somewhere, but for now, those too get moved - neatly! - to a spot on the floor nearby. He's actually careful to keep the piles as he found them, talking as he works. )

The dead person's problems aren't getting any worse or better. Your clock is five minutes too fast, gaining a half second every hour. That's one ability I'm showing off. If you'd like another...

( Sylar steps closer to the desk, back to the clock, moving a finger along its outer edge. It's almost a lover's caress, and his eyes close. He reaches out with his mind, seeking memories, emotions, everything that might've been placed upon the item. )

This was in two homes before yours. Neglected in an attic, found by a relative, donated. Picked up by someone who thought they could sell it for profit. So they dusted it off, put it into their shop window and that...

( Sylar opens his eyes, and looks over at him. )

...is where John found it and bought it for you.