perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Twenty Three • The Queen's Request

"There is no sadder sight than a young pessimist."

-Mark Twain, 1835-1910

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A/N: There is a trigger warning for this entire chapter, indirectly and briefly regarding sexual harassment that one of the characters experiences.

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"What's the last thing you remember?"

"I don't,"

"Nothing you remember?"

"Repeating the question isn't going to make me answer it. I don't know."

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Sherlock chased the figure up the stairs, pulling him back by the arm. He stared at the man with a frown, out of breath, disfigured and confused. He punched Sherlock in the jaw, sending him backwards and cradling his chin.

"Sherlock!"

He ignored Lestrade's voice and ran towards the man who was heading towards an open window. Sherlock ran towards him, tripping on a large tin and falling. He got up and went to the window. "No!" he shouted, slamming his hands down onto the window sill. It was bubbling up inside of him. Right in front of our eyes. Again.

We are fixing your negligence.

He turned around in frustration and kicked the tin. It fell to the floor and white paint began to seep out and into the dirty beige carpet. He narrowed his eyes.

"Sherlock! Forget it," Lestrade came up to him, noticing the paint on the floor. "We've found her. Just don't be too alarmed..."

He stepped over the puddle and followed the DI down the stairs, a hand hovering over his jaw.

They walked into a room to find three officers and medics crowding Ophelia. She was sitting up, one officer trying to unlock the handcuff attached to her hand, a medic looking at her bruises and the other writing it down beside her. They were all talking quietly. The room was cramped and small, contained only the bed. John was sitting on the other side of her, a comforting hand on her back.

He saw Sherlock and stood up, walking towards them. "She's okay," he said gingerly. He knew his friend was taking it heavily. John was just as fumed.

But Sherlock didn't need John's approval of comfort. He saw what he needed to see. He saw what he couldn't help but see. He saw what happened to her. What happened to her while she was unresponsive and unconscious. He could always read her when he didn't want to; When he didn't want to accept it. He stood quietly, watching the cuffs fall from her wrist with a straight, glaring face.

He walked towards her, pulling off his jacket and gently handing it to her. His eyes were facing the ground. Sherlock couldn't look at her. The closer he got, the more the saw- The more her body told him about what happened. He couldn't afford to see it.

John and Lestrade stood back with glum faces.

But when she took the jacket from his grasp, Sherlock couldn't help but look up. A black, silk gown. Wrapped around her body. It made his throat bubble up with fury. He held out his hand quietly and took hold of her. He balanced out her body as she stood up, feeling her grip his hand tightly. Her face was blank. It was like she was still unresponsive, still hazy and unaware of what was happening. Her skin was pale and ill, her body felt fragile and weak. Ophelia felt like she was a doll. Used.