[Sherlock looks at him, his expression dry. "Freudean" is a new one, but the context gets the general meaning across.]

I cannot say it occupies much of my attention.

[With brisk carelessness:]

But neither did stories of ghosts or monsters -- except as an opportunity to prove they did not exist. To dispel -- [here Sherlock slows down,] baseless fears, and -- [yeah, this is bringing up some memories for him, if the way his expression falls, and his eyes drift to the side, is anything to go by] -- on occasion, reveal a charlatan.

[Rochester had not been a charlatan. Had he? It had all been real. Hadn't it? Sherlock had not seen the creature with his own eyes. His own eyes cannot be trusted. If they cannot, where does that leave him? Here, apparently, unable to distinguish reality from delusion.

For a moment, Sherlock is clearly a million miles away, caught in whatever saying that reminded him of --

-- and then he's back, attention snapping back to Norton like a rubber band, eyes focused once more, as though nothing had happened.]