[A Train Carriage – In the Route Stockton, 10:15 A.M.]
The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the rails filled the carriage with a soothing monotony. Morning light filtered through the windows, pale and uncommitted, cutting across the clouds of steam still clinging to the countryside.
Dr. John Watson sat with his legs crossed and a folded newspaper trembling lightly in his hands with every jolt of the train. Across from him, Sherlock Holmes reclined in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the window frame, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the foggy horizon.
Watson cleared his throat — the universal sound of a man about to make conversation.
“Holmes,” he began, adjusting his spectacles, “have you read this? Says here a farmer in Surrey swears his cow’s been abducted by Martians.”
Holmes did not blink.
“Mm.”
Watson continued undeterred.
“Apparently, there were strange lights in the sky. His wife insists it was the spirits of their ancestors returning to—”
“—collect unpaid debts, no doubt,” Holmes muttered, still staring out the window. Watson frowned, folding the paper with a rustle.
“You might at least pretend to take an interest in the world around you, Holmes. Not every mystery is written in blood and deceit.”
At that, Holmes finally turned his head — eyes glinting with amusement.
“My dear Watson, the world is composed of dull facts and duller men. Until we arrive, I see little reason to engage with either.”
He shifted slightly, producing a small notebook from his coat pocket.
“However, if the newspaper prints a case involving a cow committing arson or forgery, kindly alert me at once.”
Watson sighed, though a smile betrayed him.
“You know, for a man who thrives on human nature, you do your utmost to avoid it.”
Holmes smirked faintly The train lurched, and the countryside blurred past — endless fields giving way to forests, forests to mist. Watson turned another page of his paper, pretending to read, while Holmes’s mind wandered through possibilities unseen, chasing puzzles not yet given shape.