perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Fifty • A Beam of Light

"Put out the light."

-Theodore Roosevelt, 1858-1919

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She was asleep for what felt like days.

And it was unusual, because before that, she had never slept through the night - always nervous, scared. Always needing Sherlock's comfort to lull her back to sleep.

The doctor must have given Fedora some sort of medicine, he thought, to help her sleep better. And Sherlock never wanted his daughter to wake up crying for him more than now.

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But when the prescription ended, high-pitched cries rang through his ears every night as he dragged his head away from the pillow to tend to his daughter. And every time he woke up, he wished he'd hear that familiar voice telling him it was alright, that he could go back to sleep because Fedora would be cared for. But he didn't.

Sherlock sat up and glanced at the crying toddler next to him on the bed, standing up and lifting her into his arms.

The doctor at the hospital also told him that it would be normal for him to not get any sleep, to feel restless. But she was wrong; it was the opposite. He got too much sleep, too many nightmares, not enough dreams.

No matter how much he rocked her, shushed her, stroked her, Fedora kept crying.

Sherlock took her down the hall and to the living room, where an open window blew cool wind and poured soft moonlight into the space. He carefully tried not to trip over the abundance of junk on the floor as he tread to the window in nothing but an old pair of bottoms. Still rocking her against his bare chest. Still crying.

There was a shuffle by the door and John wiped his eyes tiredly, awoken by the cries, trying to wince through the dark room. "Is she okay?"

He didn't respond.

"Sherlock.." he carried on feebly. "She can feel your distress—"

"Then you take her," he raised his voice.

John had gotten used to the harsh tone, the absent presence. "Alright, just.. Give her to me." He pursed his lips and trudged forward, taking Fedora into his arms and trying to calm her down.

Apart from the exhausted cries coming from Fedora, it was silent.

"You need rest," John started quietly.

"No, I.." Sherlock curled his hands into fists as he paced into the gloomy kitchen and turned his back from his friend. He leaned both his hands on the edge of the counter and dipped his head.

He felt his eyes sting, the loudness of his daughter's tears overwhelming him, echoing in his ears.

But just as the noise began to deafen him, the nerves in his mind about to set alight, Mrs Hudson shuffled into the room with a bottle of warm milk in her hand. "Let me take her down with me," she whispered to John. "You go back to sleep."

Sherlock didn't glance back to see what happened after that, but Fedora had stopped crying almost immediately and Mrs Hudson had left the living room.

But John balanced his weight from one foot to the next as the silence overwhelmed him. Sherlock was still in the same position; head bowed, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he tried to breathe in calmly.

John cautiously tread towards his friend. "Sherlock..." he lifted a hand into the air to place it on his bare back as some means of comfort, but pulled away instead. "Mrs Hudson's got her for the night, okay? So just.. Sleep." He sighed and turned around, pausing to blink away the tears filling his eyes before leaving the room.