"Mmm. My pleasure." Sherlock gives a wave of his own wand, toys with the intonation of the words, with the emphasis. Not quite, not quite, too wobbly; his sprays everywhere too, and he presses his lips thin in amused annoyance as droplets of it splatter his shirt.

"Nevermind, looks as though I can handle the gardening myself. Knew I should've gone with botany. Never be a detective but at least I can maintain some wealthy prat's shrubbery." Dry, so very dry, which means he's enjoying this. Enjoying it enough to be joking, which he hardly ever does in quite this way, though John isn't likely to know that. He seems to bring it out in Sherlock with unusual ease.