The train journey to anywhere is always incredibly boring. But the journey to Dartmoor was even more so. The compartment was empty, par Sherlock and John, and the scenery whizzing past the window was just as bleak as the rest of the cold, grey February evening. The only thing that varied in the carriage was the food cart and it's heavily lipsticked owner. Even then, it was boring. Sherlock didn't want the cold tea that the good doctor had forced him to drink and the lady's story was easy to read and nothing was of any importance to him. He would probably keep her in the part of his mind where seemingly unimportant things were stored. It already contained the solar system, a mental image of Alan Davies and the plot of Ace Ventura.
"Come on Sherlock," John had badgered "I thought that being a werewolf would make you more willing to drink." Sherlock hoped the tea lady hadn't heard the last part. He didn't mind lycanthropy (except for the spasms before changing) but everyone else knowing and being sympathetic, he shuddered at the thought, was something he couldn't bear. He pushed away the polystyrene cup and turned the conversation to John's family, who the detective guessed would be present at the wedding.
"Oh my family are alright. Harry's now sober and Mum and Dad are Ok. You'll like them. They're… eccentric. Like you but much, much milder. The weirdest they got was insisting everything in the house was green for Saint Patrick's Day. Dad's half Irish so…" he left the last sentence to be filled by his best friend's already over active imagination.
"Which side is Henry from?"
"Oh Henry. He's Dad's brother's son. My aunt and uncle will be there. Harry said they're so proud. I've told her about you." Without Sherlock noticing, John had swiftly changed the subject back to him. The surprise must have read on his face because John went instantly back to the previous conversation.
"Never met Lisa. It will be nice. Big place where they're having the do. Baskerville Hall. Remember going there during the summer when I was little. But it wouldn't be the same without Uncle Charlie, Dad's other brother. Heart attack, couple of years ago. I was in Afghanistan. Didn't even go to the funeral. Couldn't. Hey, are you ok." At that point, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. He jumped, startled. His gaze had just began to float out of the window to the moor that John knew didn't captive Sherlock's interest. The detective shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"Yeah I'm fine. Just tired." John was uncertain of his friend's honesty but after being awake for three nights straight with hardly anything to eat or drink, Sherlock did look shattered.
"Ok. It's just… you're quiet."
Sherlock smiled at his flat-mate.
"I'm fine."