Jeremy offers no argument to the economic realities of being a street performer. It is definitely not something done for the money. Sadly for Sherlock, Jeremy doesn't offer any glimpse of recognition at the name Sherlock Holmes. It's just another slightly unusual name, fitting in with 'Metody' and others.

"Sherlock Holmes," he echoes, eyes dancing with genial amusement. "Alright, Homes."

The question is-- unexpected, off-as-everything-else is, like-- who doesn't know that? Jeremy doesn't answer right away, the amusement fading from his face to give Sherlock a long look that isn't confused so much as trying-to-ascertain-why, trying to make the puzzle of everything since he got here make sense. So far, he's not yet found an explanation that makes everything work.

(A sane explanation, that is. Yeah, he read the little file. He knows what it says. It's not even a very good joke/hoax thing, if you want aliens, have green guys in flying saucers, not dudes with violins.)

"Yeah, he wins," he says after several seconds. Jeremy lifts a hand to scratch at his jaw, squinting at Sherlock, who, well, aside from the guy having his mind-reader shtick, registers less on his scale of something-is-mildly-off than Metody had.

"--so-- so is this all some giant performance art installation or what?"