Jeremy laughs, easily. He does see things like the really nice violin-- violin's not an instrument he's ever tried, guitar was as stringy as he ever got, and Jeremy'd be the first to admit his guitar playing is about adequate but nothing that'll ever get a record agent (or anyone else) to sit up. Someone whipping out impromptu violin covers of rock songs? That shit should be on Youtube, if not signed.

But yes. He notices the violin is nice, he notices the clothes are nice, can guess at rich kid education (not like his own was exactly cheap, as Dad's fond of reminding him). Jeremy accepts all that with mild curiosity, but every guy playing on the Strip's got a story, even displaced British rich guys. (Jeremy's favorite is the one-armed SpongeBob Squarepants who hangs out before the Tropicana.)

A slow smile spreads over his face at the demand to beatbox. He raises his hands to do just that, then pauses at the equally-demanding question, staring at Sherlock.

"--yeah," he says after a second. "I mean--"

Okay, are they in Vegas or not? Everyone keeps talking about Taxon, and the only person he mentioned Vegas to was Metody, and... how's he know that?

"What, do I have glitter stuck to my face still? Oh shit, I don't have a fresh tattoo saying Fabulous Las Vegas on my forehead, do I?"

He's joking, but only halfway, because seriously, how's the guy know that?

(Of course, if Jeremy knew the full extent of the things Sherlock has already deduced about him, he'd be even more slack-jawed.)