"So, can you come tonight? I mean, it's just that it's quite a big game, and we really need everyone there..."
"Yeah, I should be able to make it. Can you give me a lift?"
"Sorry, John; I would, but I'm already taking four others up there. Could Sherlock drive you?" Lestrade glared back at Anderson as he passed and gave him a disapproving look which clearly said, 'why-are-you-discussing-rugby-on-MY-crime-scene?' John scratched his head and scrunched up his mouth and nose, glancing at Sherlock. He was squatting next to the body of a young woman with her head smashed in (there was no technical term for it), carefully inspecting her fingernails and knuckles. The train station around them was bustling with members of Scotland Yard who, to be perfectly honest, weren't doing anything at all. John returned to the conversation, noticing as he turned back to Lestrade that Sherlock's head was cocked in his direction as he worked. He cleared his throat.
"Probably. I really should learn to drive, though, he does my head in sometimes." Sherlock stiffened visibly at his comment, but immediately calmed and turned his head away, either angered, sheepish or embarrassed. John raised his eyebrows, but otherwise kept his expression blank.
"As long as he gets you to where you need to be, I suppose. Like a personal taxi, really," Lestrade joked, raising his voice and leaning towards Sherlock. John chuckled good-heartedly, but knew that all the teasing wouldn't help him get a lift later.
Sherlock rose gracefully, took one long, hard look at both him and Lestrade in turn, then uttered simply, "I'm sure you've figured out by now that it was the French businessman who left the same train at the same stop, carrying in his briefcase a rather heavy load of rocks. Funny the jobs some people manage to find themselves in the middle of London, hmm? Lucky he was a retired boxer, really, that must have helped to ease the load."
"Was? Why the past tense?" Sherlock didn't even bother turning to look at Anderson, but instead spoke at (not to) Lestrade, obviously restraining himself from turning around and smashing Anderson's head in with a similar approach to the murderer.
"Well, Anderson, seeing as you obviously have more in common with a plank of wood than I thought physically possible without you actually being one, I'll explain; as long as your grainy little head can take it. Please, do tell me if I'm going too fast for you." Anderson's already surly expression turned sour, and he turned on his heel and slunk off with an air of irritableness. Sherlock's posture seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and he began talking to Lestrade rather than at him in place of Anderson.
"Not here anymore, is he, Lestrade? But if you've got time to chat with the doctor about a sport which, quite frankly, I would prefer to watch Anderson over, then you must have plenty of man hours left to go and search for our killer, hmm? Have fun; I would so love to come, but you know – things to do, people to see."
"What people do you have to see other than us? Sherlock, if this is about – "
"Laters!" Grabbing John by the wrist, Sherlock pulled him away from Lestrade and out of the station, hailing a taxi in one swift motion. "221B Baker Street, if you would be so kind," he murmured, not noticing John's exasperated glance.
"Sher – "
"John." Sherlock didn't look up from the phone which had appeared in his hand and was now being typed on. Sighing loudly and pointedly, John rested his head on his hand and stared out of the window, watching the streets go by.
Sherlock was going to be an absolute nightmare later.