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Sherlock leapt down the stairs two at a time with a sort of mesmerizing grace. I moved at a more slow cautious speed, careful not to trip over my own feet, as that would make for a very embarrassing fall flat on the face.
"Do hurry Watson, I'd rather not be late to the crime scene. Those fools at Scotland Yard don't know how to handle a body properly," Sherlock called back up at me from the bottom step. His mood seemed to have improved since his small nap. He tamed his dark locks, changed out of his house robe, and even let out a half smile when Mrs Hudson brought us up our tea. The wall was littered with fresh bullet holes. Taking boredom out on inanimate objects seemed to be one of his his more vocalized hobbies. When he didn't want to-or couldn't relay his emotions out loud, the wall took a pounding much to our landlady's disappointment. His eyes had lit up immediately when he received the phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade, informing us that another body was found. It was suspected to have a link to our current case.

The Balinkey Family murders.

Mr Balinkey was a wealthy young man. Coming from a long line of successful bankers, he was about to inherit the family business from his dying father, when tragedy struck. He was in a carriage with his children riding home to their manor and Mrs Balinkey, when a gunshot was heard nearby, and the frantic horses at the head reared and slipped down into a snowy ravine. The bodies were found in the splintery wreckage, tattered yet still identifiable.
The strange thing was, two weeks after the funeral Mr Balinkey was found dead the second time with no sign of his wife or children. It was quite the complicated case, having lots of dead ends, and Sherlock was getting restless. He typically could take one glance at the corpse and tell us all about it. But not this time. It confused him. I could tell. He was beginning to doubt himself and his abilities as a genius. A groan startled me out of my thoughts, and knocked me back into reality. Sherlock stood holding open the door of a carriage he must of hailed while I was thinking. he looked incredibly annoyed. ''I told you to hurry. Not slow down.''

Ignoring his remark, I climb into the carriage and he sits across from me. The horses began to move, their shoes clacking against the dark cobblestone of the street. We sat in silence for a moment, both of us looking out the windows at the passerby and small shops lining the road. I opened my mouth to speak and make it perhaps less uncomfortable, but Sherlock beat me to it.

''You don't have to make conversation Watson. I-I... enjoy your...presence as is.''

I sat stunned. Sherlock seemed surprised at his own behavior as well, for he looked down at his gloved hands, flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was showing sentiment. Perhaps he was human, as Mycroft had said before, and perhaps he did consider me his very best friend in his own way. I hoped my blush wasn't visible, but then again it was broad daylight, and I was sitting directly in front of Sherlock Holmes. I pushed myself back a bit, sitting up straight, but while doing so, my knees brushed against his and I felt a jolt of electricity shoot up from my stomach to my heart, which was pounding in my chest, struggling to burst out.

Oh no.

Please no.

Not him. Not now.

I am not a homosexual. I am not. I had a relationship with a woman named Mary, but I went off to war, and during that time she began having an affair with my supposed buddy Philip Anderson. Homosexuals are frowned upon. They are not allowed to show their relationship out in the open, and must have it behind closed doors. I found it odd that a man would be with another man, but I was not against it, nor was I for it. But I was not a homosexual. Nor was he. I don't think. Thankfully, the carriage stopped a few minutes later at our destination. It took all the sanity I had not to scramble out of there. The tension hung thick in the air, suffocating me. My heart still beat heavily like a drum. We exited the vehicle, and entered an old abandoned workhouse. It appeared they used to bag meats and other goods there to sell to the tradesmen and townspeople. A man lay dead hung by his ankles from what appeared to be a column they used to hang and dry the meats. I grimaced at the scene, but Sherlock got to work right away, sniffing and studying and muttering, all while darting around the room. He looked quite ridiculous, and I tried desperately to stifle a laugh. My attempt failed and I let out a snort from the back of my throat. His head snapped up towards me, and he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes and gave me a dangerous sort of look. Shivers traveled down my spine and I turned away.
After a few more moments of studying, Sherlock stood, gave the surrounding group a brief, disappearing smile, and stalked off towards the doors. His shout echoed through the building.

''I'll have solved it by the end of the night.''