childish wonder, case one, irish tourists:

AKA. Rosalie finds a dead body, again
'or better yet, trip over a knife'

Rosalie Brook had a thing for appearing in places where she shouldn't. Her foster parents were beyond careless, barely raising a brow when she'd disappear for days on end. Her foster parents were in it for the money and she wasn't blind to such information. Just because they were lovely some days, did not mean they loved her.

And on this lucky day, Rosalie was greeted with the sight of a dead woman. How delightful!

She knew how she was supposed to react —in a mess of tears and fear— but the girl just sighed. This wasn't her first encounter with death, she was starting to believe Death haunted her, screwing with her.

The girl walked out of the abandoned house, finding anyone and borrowed their phone to call for help.

Like any innocent person, Rosalie sat outside the house, waiting for the police — or whoever feels like dealing with this situation, and hoped it would be her dear favourite Lestrade.

She put on a few tears, huddling her body close. For a secenteen-year-old, she was pretty good at acting like she cared.

An orange blanket had been forced around her shoulders, much to her disappointment. Orange was not her favourite colour — she hated that colour. But their backs were turned and her lighter was out. So the child did the only acceptable thing, she set the corner on fire.

Realising she couldn't control her quickly growing fire the girl dropped the blanket to the damp floor and stomped on it as much as possible. It went out.

She was rather bored — to say the least. People were so boring, so ignorant and she just had to deal with it. The thing was, Rosalie Brook wasn't one for boredom, she often grew impatient and prone to temptation.

So, to distract her mind the young girl plucked at the burnt and damp orange blanket, waiting for attention. Any attention.

Surely she was a suspect. She could easily prove she wasn't, but she found the body and here she was showing no emotion and seemingly bored out of her mind — as if dead bodies were just nothing to worry about. They weren't anything special, everything and everyone died.

Rosalie didn't fear death. What was she to loose? Her life? Boohoo. But she did fear having an ordinary life, an unhappy marriage, having children, divorce, a lack of happiness — nice happiness not her intense happiness. Rosalie wasn't a happy-go-lucky kind of girl, but she wasn't completely detached, she still yearned for happiness and comfort, she just couldn't find it and didn't want to be another unfortunate soul tied to a man she couldn't even try to love.

She looked up as a man stood in the doorway watching a curly-haired bloke and his blond —Pet? 'Friend'? — the two men were stood talking to a curly-haired lady. Rosalie could never work out Sherlock and John. Even if John did have a lovely finance, Rosalie had never been completely sure the two men were platonic.

"Do you always hover?" She asked, staring blankly in front of her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you always hover, Anderson?" She asked, flicking a lighter on and off. She liked to watch the small flame dance. "I mean no offence — well actually, maybe I do? It's rather annoying. Maybe you should get a hobby, I hear being faithful to your partner is an excellent hobby? Just because your poor wife is away, doesn't mean you should still be a pig." Rosalie said, she turned to look at the man. "And am I right to assume it's with her, Sally, still?"

"Wh— who? What?"

Rosalie let out an obnoxious sigh. "Maybe you should talk to your wife, or better yet trip over a knife, hm?"

"You are one mean girl, Rosalie."

"Yes. Yes, you tell me every day, that's nothing new. It's assumed I picked it up from my father, well at least that's what my mother use to say, I guess we'll never know, she's dead now." She shrugged.  "Where is Lestrade? I specifically asked for him on the phone. You are boring and, well I have no nice ways to say this, you are stupid, honestly do the world a favour and become an internet freak with silly theories about the lizard people and the Queen. I miss your theories about Sherlock and Moriarty, they were funny. Mum used to say if I had nothing nice to say not to say it, but she's not here to hear, so. Fuck that, right? You should go away, now." She shrugged. She relit the flame on her lighter as the man reached to confiscate it.

He snapped his hand away, before she burnt it — again!

She turned her body to him completely as she pocketed her lighter. "Back off or I'll burn you." She told him, her voice empty and off-putting.

The man moved from where he stood behind the girl and over to the gate. She had been previously told to move away, but she had said how moving would only make her feel worse. An excellent lie followed with her biting the man that had tried to move her. They ended up leaving her alone.

She watched curiously as the man she burned had moved to interact with the no longer dead, Sherlock Holmes. Rosalie had met him quite a few times, before Enola travelled to Dublin to go to college, the two girls had been friends forcing the Holme brothers to suffer with Rosalie and poor Sherlock was stuck with the girl when Greg had needed extra assistance and knew his associates wouldn't accept the word of a child.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

She always did hate him. Him as his stupid boring face, and all his boring theories — even if she missed hearing them when she'd sit in Lestrade's office.

The only man on the team she liked was Lestrade and that was only because he seemed to actually care. And the poor man had investigated her mother's death, which had came up a dead end. A tie in her story that even Sherlock couldn't unwrap.

Anderson tried to make his body seem larger, pushing dominance, it caused the seventeen-year-old to snicker. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated." He said snidely. "Are we clear on that?"

She looked between him and the two other men. "I already touched it."

"Rosalie!"

"I didn't know she was dead!"

Anderson wanted to pull at his own hair. The child had always been a rather big pain. It was a nightmare that she has grown so attached to Lestrade. "No other contamination."

"Quite clear." The curly-haired one said. "And is your wife away for long."

A bright grin spread on the child's face as she tilted her head and leaned forward.

"Don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

Rosalie stood up, her lips pulled into a wide fake grin. She stepped close towards Anderson — much to his dismay. The seventeen year old bounced on her feet. She shoved her lighter back in her hands. "You always act surprised." She hummed, head tilted, she reached over and poked a lipstick stain on his collar. "But this time it's basic observation. No one even needs to notice that your shoes aren't tied evenly, your lips are swollen, your fingers have marks from twisting your ring off. That's a nice shade of lipstick you don't wear."

Sherlock had witnessed many of her 'deductions' — and he had to note whilst her evidence a good few of the times was strange, she still got pretty close with details. But, maybe it was because she's was less socially inept, she seemed to have such widely differed evidence, but the same outcome?

"I believe I don't want to know the exact details as to why you'd have to take it off. She knows of your wife, so I can only assume it was very, very uh, very hand usage. Yeah? No! Hands... very hands-on, if you will. Is that the saying? Actually, don't answer that, I don't care." She stared down at her hands as they moved with each word.

"Then there's the change in breath, acceleration of a heartbeat can say a lot about a person, their feelings or their health, maybe your dying? Improbable, but never impossible. Rather yours gave the feeling of l... not love. The other one." Her head tilted for a second, clicking one of her fingers. "Lust! You still lust over her. I mean, she's pretty but you're married. You know, unfaithful men are more likely to die at the hands of their lover than someone who isn't a prick?" She smiled brightly at the man, her fingers moving to fidget with the necklace she wore daily.

"Let's also not forget the flush of pink that came upon your face, not from the cold but from seeing her. Also, you know, if you're going to cheat switch up your scent, leaves for less evidence, silly."

"You're making that up."

"Please, I'm simply a genius." Rosalie shrugged. She tilted her head, blowing away some of her hair. Rosalie didn't stick around for long as she turned, and began to walk back towards the house.

The seventeen-year-old walked straight into the house, slipping the lighter in her pocket and going off to find Lestrade.

"Rosalie, I've told you before—"

"Right. Yet, I'm still going to go up there. Already seen and touched it."She pointed out. "And I will not put on one of those hideous things, I found the body, I have already seen it, I am unbothered, Lestrade, so by all means it makes no sense why I shouldn't go in there. I'll be good, I promise."

"You are seventeen years old, Rosalie, we aren't having this argument today." Lestrade cut her off. The child muttered something under her breath as she continued to stand there, arms crossed as she glared at him. "The agreement was that I'd let you come to the station during the day after college as long as you stayed off crime scenes. You're a kid, Rosalie, whilst you might not think it will affect you, it will."

Still stubborn, the girl stood pouting at him before moving to sit on the table, her legs swinging back and forth. "Right. Yeah, I'm sorry." She blinked, tilting her head in wonder. "Is that the word I'm looking for?"

"Rosalie, it's fine. Just try and be careful, you're still a child."

The teenager hummed, kicking her legs back and forth as she stared at the man in curiosity. "Will you take me home on the way back to the station? I'd walk but the football was on tonight so men are rowdier and I walk down alleyways."

"Go wait in the car, and give me your lighter please, you need to stop smoking."

"I'm not going to stop." Rosalie smirked at the man, handing him her metal lighter before hopping off the table and making her way out and into one of the police cars.

Rosalie had known Greg Lestrade since she was around twelve years old. He was most definitely her favourite person and someone she relied on more than she'd like to admit.