Sentiment {Sherlock BBC}

15. "Baskerville."

"How... how do you know?" Henry asked.

"I didn't know; I noticed," Sherlock responded. John and I both threw our heads back knowing what was next. "You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted." Sherlock rambled. Henry looked at me, and I motioned to John's chair. Henry sat back down and reached into his pocket.

"How on earth did you notice all that?!" Henry asked.

"It's not important..." John began, but Sherlock was already explaining as he motioned to the two small white pieces of paper stuck on Henry's coat.

"Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked..."

"Sherlock-," I interrupted.

"Not now, Sherlock," John added.

"Oh please. I've been cooped up in here for ages." Sherlock sighed.

"You're just showing off," John stated.

"Of course. I am a show-off. That's what we do." Sherlock said, and I couldn't help but admire him. He looked back to Henry and the napkin he still held.

"The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich." Sherlock began, and Henry pouted,

"How did you know it was disappointing?"

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs." Sherlock pointed out; then his gaze got intense. "No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here." Sherlock looked down at his watch before continuing. "It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Henry said in amazement. Sherlock smiled, and I looked at Henry.

"You're right. You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

"It's my job." Sherlock smiled then sat forward. "Now shut up and smoke."

"Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?" John asked going through the notes he had taken. As Henry took a drag, Sherlock leaned toward Henry.

"I know. That... my..." Henry began but stopped as Sherlock took a deep breath of the smoke Henry released. After Sherlock practically inhaled all the smoke, he sat back in his seat.

"That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this..." John began trying to talk to Henry through Sherlock's nosy inhaling. "... to account for it?" John added. Henry looked away from Sherlock and over to John.