Empathy from Shadows.
Empathy, that's what he said, that I needed to show more empathy for clients. He wouldn't hear my complaints; apparently I should control my excitement and think about other people for a change.
Hypocrite.
The harsh words practically floated out of my Marrakesh pen, even the nib carved with ornate patterns. I had the intense urge to throw the lot across my room and watch it bounce off the wall.
It was his idea anyway 'writing a journal', it would be, he is the writer after all. It wasn't helping, it felt like the words would much rather be scrawled out in a 20 pence Biro than £100's of Diplomat Stainless steel and chrome and I can still feel the simmer of emotion, if anything more so than before.
Why would I want to feel empathy anyone? I questioned mentally tapping my foot across the hard mattress. I wouldn't, it's all so messy; how could anyone imagine entirely what it is like for another person? It must be a physically impossibility, surely between the differences in reactions in the frontal lobe, individual reaction to stimuli and of course our predisposition to lying that a true understanding of another person and there situation might be formed.
John was so irate over it; maybe it was supposed to be one of his subtle hints that are just unbearably subtle and invariably meaningless. Regardless I can at least be honest to myself in knowing empathy is something that cannot apply to me.
How could anyone claim to empathise with me when they can frankly do little more than tie their own shoe laces in the morning? I suppose Mycroft would love to have his crack and he could tell you dime to a dollar what I thought of everything around me, but empathy wouldn't even dream of coming from the stony grey blue eyes.
My phone bleeped dully interrupting my trail of thought.
What's gotten my favourite consulting detective all piqued and writing in his secret journal? –JM
Where ever the camera was, I would find it and dispose of it tomorrow I vowed silently before typing away my response.
Wouldn't you just love to know James? –SH
Pressing send I felt entirely sure it was going to be a night where I exist for little more than the entertainment of one James Moriarty. Well I didn't mind at least he wasn't judgemental company.
Don't be obvious, I wouldn't ask if I didn't. Was it something Johnny Boy said again? -JM
What makes you draw those conclusions pray tell? –SH
There had always been a certain vitality to Moriarty, a spark that even talking to him from a distance would ignite that smouldering fire of excitement or fear depending on where you sit because with him, everything was a game no matter how serious or beautiful.
You only get that angry at two people, and I've not done anything fun today dear. So stop changing the subject. –JM
How did he always know? Probably because he was always watching, just so he could prove on the off chance that he knows.
I felt like breaking the rules, doing something wrong and dangerous purely because it felt like it; doing something angry and reckless and fun.
I'd love to tell you all about it, how about you send a car so I don't have to type it? -SH
Reckless. Fun.
Oh Sherlock, darling really that bad? I've sent the car and I'm pouring you something strong. –JM
This is what I needed, a game, something different, less domestic, and that was him the man with all the games and danger I could ever need. Quickly I found my coat and pocketing my mobile stepped out into the hall. He was still sat there, apparently less angry now.
"Where are you going?" He asked, the look on his face read something like. I'm sorry, new case? I'd like to help.
"Out." I stepped past him and the telly heading for the stairs, all I could hear in the background was "SHERLOCK!" I didn't much care; I was too intent on getting where I needed to be.
It was cold out, making me dearly thankful I thought to grab my coat before walking out, I wasn't stood outside for long though before my phone went off again.
Poor Johnny boy I suppose he deserved it. Cars arrived. –JM
That camera really had to go.