(Sorry guys, been sick, full class load and still getting over this break up. But I'm really excited that people are actually reading this. Thanks for the feedback. Hopefully my next update will be quicker.)
Carousel
Sherlock had only the pinky of his left hand extended as he poked the edge of a music box. His other hand was kept close to his body and John thought he looked awfully like he expected something, anything, to jump out at him at any moment. But there was nothing in the house but ghosts, and these ghosts were not the kind to spook guests.
John watched as Sherlock brought is pinky up and stared at it. Rubbed it against his other fingers then clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat and looked at the good doctor. "John, why did you bring me here?"
John crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "To show you."
"To show me what? The room of a woman still obsessed with childhood?"
"To show you her humanity."
"I have no doubt of her humanity, John, the woman's dead, isn't she?"
"Yes, exactly, the woman is dead."
The pair stood in the middle of a one bedroom flat belonging to a Miss Rose Blake, twenty-four years old, who worked as a bartender in a rather classy pub and who's murder Sherlock solved last week.
Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed. "Normally, I am several steps ahead of everyone, but I honestly don't know where you are going with this, John."
The doctor crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I wanted you to see her as a person."
"I've been here before, John, I stood right here and looked over her body. I am completely aware of who she is."
"I know, I was there."
"You want me to tell you about her? John, I know everything about her from this room. Chip in this carousel horse on her bedside table, it's old, probably something she inherited. That music box is full of tickets to plays, musicals and movies. The most recent one is dated two years ago. Which means her boyfriend left her but he probably died and she never got over it and no longer goes out. She got a job as a bartender so she'd work nights to have an excuse for not going out anymore. She really wanted to be a nurse, but lost all her self esteem and assumed she couldn't actually take care of anyone, since she couldn't take care of her boyfriend. Am I missing something?"
"Feelings," John snapped back.
Sherlock straightened his back. "I've already made it clear to you that empathy only prevents deduction and I am not going to waste space in my hard drive for things that just slow me down."
"Well, that's fine. Apparently, am a fool and, I suppose, nothing more than a shag to you," John said and opened the door.
"John, it's not like that," Sherlock said, but the door was closed before he even got the sentence all the way out.