There are some days when Sherlock decides that if he doesn't have a case, then there's no point in getting out of bed. John complains and insists on him getting up, but sometimes the day ahead is looking particularly bleak and the way he sees it, there's honestly no reason to suffer through it. If he's going to be bored by being awake, then he may as well just sleep until there's something interesting to find. (These days are generally regarded as much better than the ones where he has too much energy to spend his time sulking and becomes absolutely manic with boredom. Much better.)

But usually, on such occasions, someone will dig up a case, an experiment, anything of mild interest to try and drag him out of his bed. Today is no different. Today, Lestrade arrives and spends the first minute of his time at 221B trying to convince Sherlock to get out of bed. He's acting like a child, they say. He doesn't see much reason to prove them otherwise.

"Is it a case that you genuinely need my assistance for," he says; he refuses to roll over and face either Lestrade or John (or— the scent of perfume seeps into the room, Mrs Hudson) and if they want to think of him as a child, then so be it. "Or is it that John called you here and you're just offering the first unsolved case that you found in some misguided attempt to help? I'm sleeping, not dying. If it's dull, I don't want to do it. John can do better than that."

"He didn't call me here," says Lestrade.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and glances over his shoulder at Lestrade (it's an unseasonably warm day but he's wearing his jacket even when there's no one in here to impress, he's covering a stain; crumbs on the right leg of his pants; card in his jacket pocket, hard to see all the numbers, 601, female's handwriting, phone number, kept but in bad condition, unsure about the offer but he and the wife are in a bad state again; powder on his shoes, too, John and Lestrade had lunch together at the café downstairs, honestly, do they think he's an idiot?) and he scowls. "Yes, he did."

"Alright, he did," admits Lestrade, and Sherlock drops his head back onto the pillow to bask in his own smugness. "Will you take the case anyway? I swear, we're stumped, you know I wouldn't call you in otherwise. My reputation takes a beating enough as it is because of you."

That's true. He'd heard John on the phone earlier, too, so he knows that Lestrade doesn't owe them any favours. If it's good enough for Scotland Yard's reputation to bear it, then it might be good enough to solve. He's been at the crime scene for approximately ten seconds when he decides that yes, it is good enough.

"We need to find out where he was going," he announces to no one in particular; he says we, but he doesn't expect assistance. He rarely ever does. Someone in the background speaks up, Anderson, where he was—? but he waves his hand and cuts off the noise, and he crouches down to look. "Yes, where he was going, this man was on a train, but he never made it to his destination; there are still stains on the shirt, he wouldn't go anywhere in that state, probably had a hotel room to stop off at first, maybe a public bathroom. He was carrying a duffel bag, not a suitcase, which means it wasn't a formal business meeting, he didn't want it to stand out as one but he's wearing a suit, he wanted to look nice; marks from a wedding ring on his left hand but he's not wearing one, he's having an affair, he would've taken it off when he left home, so he was going to meet up with the woman, but he never quite made it, he got taken off the train, so we need to find out where he was ultimately—"

"Sherlock," says John urgently, and he stops. Sherlock realises belatedly that John has been saying that throughout his whole explanation, which is strange because all he usually gets is silence and rapt attention. Or disbelief, but hardly from John any more. "D'you think you could not do this while the man's family is standing right there?"

Sherlock looks over at the woman and her two children, all staring at him pale-faced and wide-eyed, and he frowns. "Why?"

"Because it might be showing some actual basic human decency," hisses John. "No, don't tell me that you don't care about that, or that it's not important. Save it. Just keep your brilliant thoughts to yourself until his whole grieving family isn't within hearing distance."

It doesn't make sense to him - it does in theory, of course, it's simple enough to understand the idea or the reasoning, it's just that in practice it's so unimportant and so impractical - but he keeps quiet anyway. Which is fine, because it gives him time to finish wrapping up this tedious part of the case while they're all nattering about. He opens the suit jacket and lifts one side - aha. Good. Well, he's taking this case somewhere fast, then. By the time John comes and taps him on the shoulder, he's finished and he's plotted out his next five moves from here, too.

Sherlock holds up the hotel card and the train ticket that he found in the jacket pocket, and he shows them to Anderson's stupid condescending face. "I believe we have a train to catch."

Now the fun can begin.