perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Eight • Cigarettes

"Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy."
-Virginia Woolf, 1882-1941

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"He was in debt."

Noted Sherlock as he filed through each paper that weighed in his hands.

"He was? How?" he held out the paper to let John look at it.

John's forehead creased as his eyes skimmed over it. "That's.."

"Hm. Recognise that name?" asked Sherlock. He handed it to Ophelia who took it and read it through.

Her eyebrows furrowed together, blinking hard as she thought it over. "Jake Bratchett, that's.. The case.. I helped you with,"

"Back out now, abort the mission, don't do it," He shrugged, shaking his head. "You don't wanna know why this is happening."

His voice seemed to overrule Sherlock's, making it sound like she was separated by a pane of stained glass. It was muffled, unable to focus on what was real and what wasn't. She tried to blink herself back into the conversation, but she couldn't. It wasn't working. Why? It usually did.

"..Inheritance enough to last nearly her lifespan."

"So.. he wasn't in debt?" Asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. "He can't have been."

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The vibrant sound of early morning hotel guests burbled in the breakfast bar. It was decorated with flowers that seemed to bounce around from one colour to the next. Ophelia could've sworn that the flower in the vase sitting on their table was violet. The next time she looked it was white. There were strings of waiters who were constantly bringing everyone their coffee or requested foods. It was a bubbly morning. Ophelia wished she could say she felt the same way. Her eyes felt gritty. She was almost certain they burned each time she blinked.

"Are you sure you're fine with just the coffee?" asked John through a mouthful of food.

"I'll be okay." she smiled politely.

His forehead creased with a sympathetic smile.

Sherlock, however, felt as though he was bouncing out of his seat. He was sure that nothing could ever equate to the feeling of knowing he was on a good case. Even drugs. Especially when that case connected to other ones. It made it all so much more.. Exhilarating. His curls fell into his face as he looked down at his watch. "We need to make another detour to your house."

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She never knew what suddenly drove her to allow her father's case to float above the surface again. Opened, unsolved. She was so used to watching it drown, learning to ignore it. But now it was bouncing on the water, floating mindlessly. For some reason, the more she found out the more she wanted to drown it. Watch it lose hope in being opened again. Like it should be. It was like denial in the stages of grief when someone dies. Ophelia didn't want to know why her father was in contact with drug dealers. She found it hard to believe, because he was a good man. She was sure.

It was only until the taxi they took slowed down in traffic did Ophelia focus on what she was seeing out the window. There was a car. It was black. She thought she recognised the license plate. But then she remembered how she thought she recognised a connection between Sherlock and herself, but was very wrong about that.

They stepped out of the taxi, allowing John his round of paying for the ride.

The cool wind whistled in Ophelia's ears. She looked around her street and noticed the same black car parked a few houses down the road. There was something about it that didn't feel right.