"Tricks don't generally work on me. I notice everything," Sherlock replies flatly. He's not lying. The chip in his head so lovingly provided to him has only made things worse. He could be sleeping, couldn't he? It's been cold, he's been exhausted, his nerves frayed to the point of nearly breaking, but that's not how he works, that's never how he's worked. So he's walking toward the police box with one hand outstretched. Sherlock's never liked not being able to touch things to verify their reality. This is no exception.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," that's a lie on his part, and he attempts to place his hand against the door, turning his head to look inside.

Wait.

"I never told you my name," he hisses, eyes narrowing. He's annoyed now. Another thing he hates. Other people knowing more than they should. "Who are you?"