That was probably the only response Jim hadn't been prepared for. He blinked at him for a beat, before letting his most recent alias take over, the usual time-buying tactic in the extremely rare event that he was completely nonplussed. It was a little rude, wasn't it, to forget the man who'd just wasted a whole evening threatening to kill you?
"I'm - I'm Jim," he said, shifting easily into that accent, that posture, although the smile was still a bit perplexed. "From Bart's? You know. We, um ..." He reached up to scratch at the back of his head. If Watson didn't remember him, and judging by that expression on his face he was drawing a real blank, he might as well make the best of it. "We had a pint the other night? You were there all day with that friend of yours, and ... you know. Jim. I work upstairs. In IT? I - what's the matter with your leg?" That much he was actually curious about. He'd thought the man was off the cane. Had he been shot? Again? It wasn't hard to imagine how, of course ... Oops.