by
Sherlock was bored. He paid little attention to the scenery outside the railway car, sighing every so often while kicking his legs back and forth, thumping his heels against the seat. To pass the time he’d made some notes in his journal, did some reading, and scanned a newspaper he’d picked up.
But as the train rumbled on, he’d grown restless. Twice he had walked back and forth through the swaying carriages, observing, and making casual deductions about the other passengers—where they had come from, where they were going, what they had had to eat recently, whether they’d had a haircut in the past day or so—but after an hour or so the game grew tiresome. He returned to his parents’ compartment, there to plop down on the horsehair cushion across from his mother and father and sulk. He c
