Sherlock doesn't touch his coat, he just sits there, his shoulders slightly slumped. He's still not looking at John.

"You have a talent for stating the obvious," he murmurs. His hands tap absently at his legs once, twice, but other than that, he just seems tired. And nursing a headache.

"I'd rather not talk about it." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was embarrassing enough as it was. Though it was probably a sign of things getting worse if he didn't work it out. Alcohol was not his usual way of Dealing With Things.