Thank you all so much for the kind words and feedback!
I've sort of changed the concept a bit, opting to rather focus on one case (one not in the show) and all of the colors/moods John can deduce as it plays out. I've gone back and sort of tweaked the end of the intro to fit this premise. This is supposed to read like John is telling the story to the reader, while adding his own thoughts. The tenses got a bit confusing for me, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know and I shall fix it!

For now I'm thinking that this will be broken into 2-3 parts, this one being the first. I'm trying to make them sort of shorter, however i'd like to know if you think they should be longer.

Once again, thank you all so much, and please continue to give me your feedback!

When I first started this little experiment, I'd been working with Sherlock for a few weeks.

There is one case in particular that always comes to mind when I think of cases that have brought the most out of Sherlock. It wasn't too long after I finished writing about "The Study In Pink" (I still think it's a bloody clever title, Sherlock's snide remarks be damned).

It wasn't a particularly special case.
In fact, the case itself is in no way the focus of this story (or, as I like to think of it, case-study). It is merely being told so that you can better understand him.
I may not completely have Sherlock Holmes pegged, but I do know what others supposedly think about him. That he's this cold, unfeeling, self-righteous, superhuman creature that has no regard for anyone but himself.

Yeah, he may be a narcissistic bastard most of the time, and no, he isn't the best at conveying interest or emotion when it's called for. However, after living with him, I have been able to make my own deductions about his character. And my conclusion is that Sherlock Holmes is more capable of more human emotion than most of the people I've met. And I've met a lot of people.

He may seem hardened, closed-off, sociopathic, and full of shit to the average lay-person.
He is Sherlock.

But he is, beyond any doubt in my mind, completely and utterly human. I would even go so far as to say that he is the most human, and the most brilliant man I've ever met. You can always see it if you look hard enough.

Pardon my rambling- I've discovered that I tend to get a bit defensive when it comes to Sherlock. I swear, one day he is going to drive me mad. Although let's face it, most believe he already has. And I don't blame them.

But they all know where my loyalty lies.

So, on that note, let's cut to the chase- or rather, let's cut to the case.

On my blog, I believe I entitled the case, "A Knight's Tale".

The victim, a 29-year-old male- an accountant who went by the name of Royston Pyle- "Roy" for short- was discovered (dead of course) by the night watchman in a rarely used storage basement of one of the older BMW production plants on the outskirts of London.

Roy Pyle was a very pale, dumpy sort of fellow- short, and quite large around the middle. His curly, dull blond hair was in desperate need of a trim. He was wearing a dull gray business suit paired with a rather outrageous purple tie (Sherlock actually has a shirt of the same shade). A small, almost unnoticeable trace of some sort of clear, hardened gel was found underneath the man's collar.

However, the biggest puzzle (which was also the reason Sherlock agreed to take the case in the first place) was the way he was killed.

The poor bloke had been thoroughly impaled with what appeared to be a very old, authentic-looking lance (you know, like the kind Knights used to cart around in the middle ages).

Roy Pyle's bloated corpse was lying on its side, the lance running straight through to the hilt in from his pudgy back.

I ended up having an oddly pleasant little chat with the night watchman, a rather small, mousy fellow by the name of Oliver Weslen, while Sherlock studied the scene. I wasn't paying much attention. He was going on about his wife and son like he wasn't standing 2 meters away from a corpse, and then of course there was Sherlock, who's head was almost flat on the floor, bum in the air, blowing air into the man's nostrils. It was a bit distracting (he later explained that the man's nose hair had accumulated a lot of dust, he needed to get a clear view of his nasal cavity).

Naturally, Sherlock deduced straight away where, when, and how the murder had actually taken place

"Basement. Approximately 12:30 A.M. Cause of death is obviously blood loss after a medieval lance, approximately 4 meters in length, made of ash with an iron tip, entering the lower lumbar region. The culprit obviously threw the lance from a distance of about 4.8 meters at him from the rear while the victim was busy-"

Sherlock paused for a brief moment, touching his fingers to his lips contemplatively as he gave the metallic room one last sweeping glance to make sure that his deductions were correct.

"-Doing something that required him to be facing away from the entrance

I distinctly remember rolling my eyes before, for the sake of tradition (and yes, I'll admit I was, as I always am, in awe- the man was brilliant), I chipped in with a compliment and the expected inquiries about how he came to deduce this miraculous information.

He narrowed his eyes at me incredulously, took a sweeping step towards me, and spat out the usual "oh please, John, isn't it obvious?"

Now that he was closer and I could see his face more clearly in the musty, dim light of the basement, I was able to catalogue the color that indicates Sherlock is exasperated with the intelligence of those around him. This also usually means he is waiting for someone to ask him to elaborate (and usually, that person is me)

His eyes were gray. Not the run-of-the-mill, generic, halfway-point-between-black-and-white gray. No. They were more of a cool gray- one that was on the verge of being either light green or pale blue- teetering dangerously on the edge of having a distinct hue, but not quite tipping over.

I quirked a brow in response.
A warning. He could be quite rude, and I'd discovered he needed a little reminding.

His face softened apologetically, the indistinct gray finally tipping over into a softer, yet still cold and almost imperceptible, cerulean mist.

This color is the closest to a sincere apology I will ever receive from Sherlock after one of his impulsive insults. It's how I can tell if he is actually sorry.

It's what kept me from flat out smacking him in front of Scotland Yard's finest (and Mr. Weslen, of course).

I almost didn't catch the twitch of a grateful smirk before he delved into his explanation.

While he was wrapping up with his usual Sherlockian-gusto, however, he did something rather odd. He crouched over Roy's body once more, his brow cinched in curious concentration, and he delicately ran his fingers over the fabric of Roy Pyle's tattered, dusty gray suit jacket. When he stood back up, his eyes were darker, like transluscent slate, more distant.

If I hadn't known any better, I would have said that it looked almost sentimental. Sad. Maybe even a bit afraid.
At the time, I just chalked it up to the bad lighting.

However, a few weeks later, as I was rummaging through my closet for something remotely nice that I could wear on one of my dates with Sarah, I discovered that I did in fact own- but had rarely worn around Sherlock- the exact same suit jacket, brand and everything, as the one that Roy Pyle had been wearing at the time of his demise.

After I ran my fingers along the soft, grainy fabric, not unlike I had seen Sherlock do that night, something burrowed deep within my head seemed to click. Something that I in no way can even begin to identify or comprehend. I only know that it resulted in this twisted, almost painful warmth that overwhelmed me for a moment.
It was something that I chose to ignore.

I chose one of my jumpers instead.

So, I had the same jacket. It wasn't a very rare brand, and I can only remember wearing it one or two times around Sherlock.

I told myself he wouldn't remember one lousy old suit jacket. But then I actually chuckled aloud, because he is Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, and he most certainly would remember one lousy old suit jacket. But then, if he did remember me wearing one like it at the crime scene, what made him make that face? What made the color in his eyes change? Did he see the coat and imagine that it was me lying on a basement floor with a lance through my back? That seems to be the most reasonable explanation, although Sherlock is usually better at compartmentalizing his emotions, especially when working on a case.

The fact that I still can't quite pinpoint what those colors meant drives me mad sometimes. I'm supposed to be able to figure this stuff out.

However, I really must continue, so I'll just leave the deductions up to you.

There were no fingerprints, and no other evidence other than the lance and the paste-like substance. After swiping dust samples from various parts of the lance, (Lestrade had to threaten him with arrest to stop him from carting the whole thing with us to St. Bart's) Sherlock wordlessly took off towards the lab (well, first the cab, and then the lab), the handle of a carton containing the evidence jars in his left hand, and my wrist clamped firmly in the right, tugging me behind him like a toddler.

Thinking about it now, the image of that scene makes me genuinely smile.

There is always The Work, and there is always me.
And there will always be Sherlock, dragging us along though the chaos of his life whether we like it or not.

That selfish, brilliant prat.

After replaying them over and over again in my mind, after dissecting them and analyzing every adrenaline-fueled, gut-wrenching moment, I have decided that I can describe the events that I am about to lay out for you, along with the colors and feelings that I am about to describe that followed the cab ride to St. Bart's as being one word:

Electric.

Thanks for reading!