perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Eighteen • Her First Intended

"She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light."

-Hartley Coleridge, 1796-1849

《▪︎▪︎▪︎》

The humid summer heat slowly faded out into a mist after two months. Summer had finally died. And in death came another form of life, the weather morphing into the famous season of blackberries and pears, where the rain was always heavy, the wind cold and caused stiff joints to the people of London who wrapped up warm in boots and cardigans. Where people had gone from drinking a light cooling tea to full-bodied red wines; Autumn had arrived, strong and wired. 221B was a hazy street filled with orange lights and musky cloud-filled dusks. The sun was long gone down into the horizon, and night was crawling into the sky.

She was playing fervently, rapid moves across the fingerboard with her bow as she sat by the window.

He watched her through the window with his violin, copying each streak she made with his bow as if he could hear the melodious tunes she created. Although a street and panes of glass separated them, buildings away; they were completely in sync. Mrs Hudson walked in quietly, admiring the view. John was sitting in his armchair with a glass of brandy in his hand. The living room was tinted with a warm orange that flickered from the light of the fire. But outside of the building, the wind was blowing harshly in every direction, 221B providing a safe heated bubble from the chilly world.

She walked over and placed a loving hand over John's shoulder. He glanced up at her with a smile. "He can see her," he said faintly, swirling the last of his drink before swallowing it down.

"They've been doing it for a while now," she whispered, nodding her head. "I think it calms him."

John nodded slowly, gazing at his friend.

《▪︎▪︎▪︎》

Ophelia opened the door and put her bag and lab coat on the couch. She slipped off her shoes and closed the curtains. Dark evenings were arriving quicker than usual, the wind pushing the sun away and pulling the clouds over the sky, like a blanket of domination. She turned on the radio and listened to the buzz as it connected and began to play an orchestral composition. She recognised it immediately. A piece composed by Lawrence Smith. A piece she could listen to until the day she died. She walked into the shower.

After twenty minutes, Ophelia came out and twisted the knob on the radio that turned up the volume and poured out a drink from a big glass bottle.

Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her bag.

Stephen Walkers was a secretary.

She smiled.

For who? It might mean something.

OS

She tucked her feet to her chest as he waited for his reply.

I have something to show you. There has been an update on the case.

Ophelia watched the screen for a while before standing up and slipping her shoes back on. She picked up her keys and pulled the curtain back. The rain had picked up, smashing against the windows and pavement. She wondered if Sherlock only ever needed her when it was raining just to badger her. She laughed.