A/N: Going on vacation. I'll post the next chapter as soon as I get back (around 16-17th)

"How could he? How could he compare me and my intellect to that- that girl!" Sherlock paced the living room angrily, venting to his skull that now perched atop the back of his chair, watching him. "An American! Likely from some small ranch in Texas, judging by her accent. It was luck. Pure luck that she was following that creature and knew his M.O. enough to tell the difference! I would have figured it out, eventually!" He stopped pacing and turned sharply to glare at the skull, "How dare you? I am not jealous."

He resumed his pacing, "It was a theory. I had a theory! One of many theories, mind you! It was just a matter of time before I sorted it all out. I could have done it! .. Oh! Now you're doubting me too?"

"What's his name?" The detective jumped and quickly spun around to see John's friend leaning against the door frame. How had she snuck up on him again?

She nodded toward the skull, "What's his name?"

"Billy." He's fidgeting. Why was he fidgeting? He always vented to Billy and never cared if anyone saw or heard.

She hummed thoughtfully before making her way across the room and picking up the skull. "You're really close friends. I can tell. He's been well taken care of." She rolled the skull around in her hands for a moment, taking in every detail in the surface of the old bones. "Someone's used some harsh chemicals on him, though. Likely Mrs. Hudson trying to help out and clean him a bit."

He watched her small hands carefully work over the skull. Small, daft movements. Tracing every hairline fracture, making note of every nick and scratch. She knew what she was looking at. Knew what she was looking for.

"Likely an Irish farmer from the mid 1700's. Early to mid thirties when he passed away." Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. Her voice picked up just a bit as she set the skull back on the chair, "Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Billy.. Oh.. Really? Well, isn't that interesting?"

Sherlock gave her a strange look as she 'listened' to what Billy 'said'.

"He says you need to chill out and get laid." She quickly raised a hand to stop Sherlock from yelling, "Joking! Joking! He said you're really not as bad as most people think you are. That you're the kind of person that needs to be given quite a bit of time and an open mind before anyone can pass any kind of accurate judgement on you or your personality."

He stumbled for a moment, trying to think of something witty to say. "The skull told you that? He's dead. He can't talk."

"No, he can't. But the way you treat him can. You talk to him like one would another living person. You take care of him as though he's all you have. The only one you can trust. The only thing that matters." She had to look up quite a ways to look the detective in the eye, and when she did, he felt as though she were looking straight through him.

"I've read John's blog and he's always talking about you in his emails.. He's wrong. You're not a sociopath. You have feelings and a conscience, you just push them away. Force yourself not to feel. Emotions can cloud one's judgment and they can be scary at times."

He scoffed at her, "I'm not afraid. What do I have to fear?"

She shook her head, smiling warmly as she made her way out and toward the stairs, "Sometimes we don't put up walls to keep people out. They're to see who cares enough to tear them down."

He watched in shock and confusion as she made her way down the stairs, glancing to the skull as he heard the front door close. Off to try and track down Mercer again.

As he lay down to try and get some rest, all Sherlock could think about was a confusing red-headed American and he fell asleep with her words echoing through his mind.

"Some people put walls up, not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down." - Socrates