perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Forty Six • The Black Dahlia

"Develop an attitude of gratitude, and give thanks for everything that happens to you, knowing that every step forward is a step toward achieving something bigger and better than your current situation."
-Brian Tracy, 1944-

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The sun melted into the room, lacing its warmth into Ophelia and Sherlock's entanglement of limbs as they slept. The room was quiet, the open window rolling in soft plumes of cool air, the curtains fluttering in the wind. The fluffy duvet pooled around them as she sighed into Sherlock's chest, feeling his grip around her waist loosen when she turned around.

She peeled open her eyes, the soreness forcing her to sit up and rub her face. She didn't even have time to adjust to the light before she felt it, the sharp crinkle in her right hand. Ophelia looked down into her hand - a black origami Dahlia flower.

She curled her fists and quickly slipped out of the bed, rushing out of the room and into Fedora's. She was sleeping soundly - perfectly swaddled and calm. Ophelia breathed out in relief, her heart thudding, ignoring the shake in her hands. "Mrs Hudson.." she whispered feebly.

Ophelia clambered down the stairs with panicked breaths, immediately knocking on her landlady's door. There was no answer. "Mrs Hudson? Mrs Huds.." her voice cracked. She twisted the door knob, banged it with her fists, still, no response.

It took her a matter of seconds to hurry out of the flat - barefoot, in her loose pyjamas, hair afly and on the verge of tears.

She stood awkwardly in front of the cafe, glaring through the thick pane of glass to find Mrs Hudson calmly wiping down a table. She stood there, her mind racing as her landlady happily waved at her, the wind blowing in her face and the sun glaring down on her.

Sherlock came down the stairs with a groggy frown on his face. He walked up to the front door, tugging on his robe. "Ophelia, what are you–"

She pushed past him and rushed back inside with heavy, panicked breaths. "I don't know, I don't... What's.."

He turned around to face her, opening his mouth to speak.

Ophelia shoved her scrunched up fist into his face. "What's this?!" she asked. "I woke up. With this. In my hand."

"I.."

She clambered back up the stairs and Sherlock carefully followed. "It's alright. It's–"

"No, it's not," her eyes were wide, filled with tears as they entered the living room, trying not to let out a sob as she spoke. "I don't know who did this.. I don't even know h-how they.."

He watched her hands shake and grip onto the flower as she cried, eyes flitting around the room in paranoia. "Ophelia," he said calmly, trying to ignore the thudding in his chest. He stepped forward and peeled the flower away from her hand, letting her fall into his chest. "It's okay. You're going to be alright. Breathe."

"I thought.. I thought something happened to Fedora," she cried, her voice muffled as she leaned into the thin material of his T-shirt.

Sherlock carefully stroked her hair. He didn't know what to say.

▪︎▪︎▪︎

The paper flower was taken into the station as evidence. Evidence for what? Ophelia couldn't even keep up.

Sherlock had called John to join them at the station. They feebly stood around the plastic wallet in Lestrade's office. "So..." Greg started. "What's this about?"