'You haven't been sleeping,' Sherlock noted absently, glancing up from where he lay on the sofa.

'No, I haven't,' John responded wearily, sitting down in the armchair and opening his laptop on his knees.

'You've been anxious,' Sherlock continued. 'Something's on your mind, judging by the fact that your cuticles have been bitten down almost to the point of bleeding and your hands were trembling so much this morning there are several cuts on your chin, so many cuts that you eventually gave up shaving as a bad job seeing as the stubble at your jawline remains intact –'

'Please, can we skip the psychoanalysis this morning?' said John, with exasperation. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'You never are, but that's not the point. What's the matter?'

John looked up in surprise to see Sherlock eyeing him beadily.

'When have you ever cared about how I'm feeling?' asked John, not thinking about his blunt choice of words.

'I have always cared about you, John,' Sherlock reprimanded mildly. 'Is it so uncharacteristic of me to ask what it is that's bothering you?'

'Er – yes, as a matter of fact, it is.'

'Let's mix things up a bit then, shall we? Though, you're not going to tell me anyway, that much is obvious by the reserved bearing of your shoulders and that poignant reluctance in your eyes. My God, John, your face is like an open book.'

'Okay, that's my cue to leave,' said John irately, and he made to get up from the chair.

'No, no, please sit, I'll stop.'

Sherlock rested his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes until he sunk into quiet thought. He had lain like that for only a moment when a low buzz announced an incoming call from where his mobile phone lay vibrating slowly across the tabletop. John's gaze lifted from the laptop screen to watch its progress before glancing over at where Sherlock lay.

'Silence that thing for me, John,' he requested wearily.

John obeyed mutely, taking in the name Lestrade before answering the call.

'Hello? No, it's Doctor Watson. Yes. Oh – okay, yep, yes I can tell him. Okay, we'll be there in twenty.'

'Please tell me this will be worth the interruption of my musings,' sighed Sherlock, opening his eyes to peer inquiringly at John.

'Suicide under strange circumstances, as it appears: gunman shot dead in a dark room full of people – Lestrade didn't give any details.'

'Typical,' tutted Sherlock petulantly. 'He wants to make me interested in the mystery.'

John frowned.

'Well, aren't you?'

'Not yet.' Sherlock sat up suddenly and put his book down. 'But I suppose we shall have to see if I will be. Come along, then, this room is getting progressively duller by the hour.'

'Anyone would have thought this was your idea,' John muttered, though Sherlock pretended not to hear as they donned their coats to face the bitter morning.