( By the desk, he remains standing, once he sees Sherlock headed towards him. It's both strangely courteous and serving his own needs: the consulting detective looked like a gazelle in a good suit. He moved as a man comfortable in his surroundings, with an edge of nervous energy. Gangly limbs and scraggly hair, yet those eyes of his, those were alluring all on their own. Multi-colored, reminding him of the Northern Lights above a frozen lake.

Sylar wonders how easily he bruised, how fragile his bones might be under that pale skin. The images of pinning him to a wall, physically and telekinetically, and finding out the answers to those questions danced his mind, here at the forefront and then away. Later, perhaps, much later.

He sits down while Sherlock clears away another chair, donning the magnified eyewear and carefully setting out the tools. Aligned, neat, precise; it was as routine as morning coffee. )

Maybe I just want to prolong my stay. It's not often the lamb invites the wolf into its den.

( He opens the clock and looks over its inner workings. It wouldn't take long to fix, but long enough, perhaps, to cause someone eager for answers to become more impatient. That was part of the fun. He finds the switch within, powering down the timepiece, and begins carefully removing gears one by one. )

You will get your answers soon enough. Is it the mystery that gnaws at the back of your mind? Or is this some overwhelmingly altruistic thing?

( He could guess which one; Sylar just wanted to hear him say it. )