“Tsk, that sentimental doctor.”

Sherlock Holmes muttered beneath his breath, the faint irritation in his voice nearly drowned out by the rhythmic hum of the train. His gloved hand patted his coat pocket in vain—no lighter. Typical. He was certain he had left it with Watson, and the thought made his jaw tighten. He knew, deep down, that he had been unfair—raising his voice before their departure—but pride was a stubborn companion, and Holmes had long made peace with its company.

The train swayed gently as it departed London, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the rails filling the cabin.

He leaned back against the velvet upholstery, newspaper in hand, but his eyes barely skimmed the print. His mind—ever restless, ever calculating—was already wandering toward the case awaiting him in some far-flung English village. The puzzle beckoned, promising that rush of clarity he so desperately craved.

When the attendant passed by and politely inquired if the gentleman desired anything, Sherlock waved him off with a languid motion. The young man bowed quickly and moved on; first-class passengers of Holmes’s caliber were best left undisturbed.

It wasn’t unusual for him to leave London behind, to plunge headlong into England’s quieter corners in pursuit of a mystery. He thrived where puzzles lingered and reason alone could illuminate the dark. Yet, today—after that exchange with Watson—something felt slightly off-kilter. Not that he’d ever admit as much. The doctor was on the same train, after all. Reconciliation could wait.

Leaning back against the plush velvet seat, Holmes unfolded the day’s paper. His eyes skimmed the lines without truly reading them. His mind, ever restless, wandered ahead to the case that awaited him—its shadows and its promises. Outside the window, the restless sprawl of London gave way to undulating hills and scattered villages, as though the city’s pulse had finally exhaled.

“Good afternoon, sir. Would you mind if I joined you?”

The voice, calm and carefully measured, sliced cleanly through his thoughts. Sherlock’s gaze lifted at once, sharp and unwelcoming. Before him stood a foreign figure. A flicker of annoyance passed through Holmes, it could be one of those insufferable admires, or perhaps a talkative commoner or noble who had stumbled into first class through sheer luck.

His lips curved into the faintest shadow of a frown. The compartment was full; refusing the man would only draw attention. How inconvenient.

“Sit, if you must,” Holmes said curtly, lowering his gaze once more to the paper with clear disinterest. But not before his mind—ever the silent observer—took note of every detail.