Five men sat around a table. Not one of them spoke.

They ate the food that was placed in front of them with the air of one who didn't really care what he was eating, so long as he was eating something.

They didn't bother discussing the day. Every one of them knew it had been a disaster from the start. They didn't need to discuss it to offer each other sympathy and understanding and the sense that none of them were alone in this.

Some days they didn't need to say a word.

No one laughed when Hopkins nearly fell asleep in his dinner, and nobody reacted when Gregson's arm started bleeding again and Lestrade had to bind it back up. Nobody flinched at the swearing that came from the former when it happened either, though it was strong enough language to shock the group of old sailors at the next table.

Nobody needed to ask why Jones was methodically shredding a newspaper, nor did they need to ask why Bradstreet was steadily consuming vast amounts of alcohol.

And just as they didn't need to discuss the day, they didn't have to speak aloud words of sympathy, or encouragement, or understanding. They all knew, and they all understood.

They had all been through it today.

And on days like this, the knowledge that they weren't alone was enough.


Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.