[ So, he may or may not have arranged for a seat on the same train as John, headed back to London. May have. The case has been solved (he could have done that from the sofa, honestly), James Sholto is once more as safe as he can be, what with so many people despising him for God's knows what reason - in Sherlock's mind, if you go to war, you know what you sign up for, don't you? Shouldn't you be... more or less prepared to die in a fire or some such, for the sake of your country? He wouldn't know - he did try to sign up, back in the day, but for some reason they didn't approve of his cocaine habit.

He's currently looking out of the window when John - wonders of all - happens to seat himself right opposite him, most of the carriages full of people. This part, though, he hasn't arranged; to be frank, he may have hoped he could make it back to London unseen. The past days he's stuck to his job - his real one and his make-believe - gathering enough evidence to have the maid arrested on charges of attempted homicide. All the while, John's words have resonated within him. Sentiment. It's all been a bit distracting.

Keeping his head down and his face slightly turned aside, he could have no doubt made it all the way back without John noticing anything whatsoever but then, his phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out. Frowns at the message before typing in a response:

about? ]