"I hope this rain clears up in time for the Olympics." John says, staring out and resting his hand against the window.
"What does the weather here matter?" Sherlock looks up, his expression so genuinely puzzled that John has to pause.
"Sherlock, the Olympics are here this summer. In London. Surely that can't have escaped your observations?"
He shrugs expansively. "Didn't seem important. I must have deleted it. I mean, really. Professional sports?" He spits out sports the same way most people would talk about doing housework - a combination of boredom and displeasure. "Although, it does explain why my brother's been even easier to irritate than usual, the logistics must be a nightmare for the government."
John chuckles, imagining Mycroft drowning in paperwork and Sherlock badgering him via texts. "You seriously have no interest at all in the Olympics?"
"Why should I care whether or not someone from here beats someone from over there in the fine art of running around a track or hopping over something? It's got nothing to do with me, unless they find out one of the events was rigged, in which case I assume someone will bring it to my attention."
John's brow furrows as he tries to explain. "It's a matter of national pride, I guess. The knowledge that our athletes are the best."