perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Twenty Four • Chloroquine Antics

"There's no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment."

-Hunter Thompson, 1937-2005

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"Tea, Ophelia?"

The kettle bubbled and hummed as John poured the water into two mugs. He looked down at his hands as they mixed the tea with a spoon and imagined a ring on his fourth finger. He smiled.

Ophelia thanked him kindly as he brought her the mug. She wore Sherlock's camel-shade gown. She felt comfortable in it because it covered her bruises.

Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with her elbow with a smile. It seemed more like she just pushed it open. "Yoo-hoo," she walked in with a tray of food. "I got you breakfast."

"Oh, thanks," said John taking the plate.

"Oh, not you, silly," she slapped his hand away. "For Ophelia."

"Alright," he cradled his hand.

Ophelia smiled. Their antics had been keeping her going for the two weeks she was staying. She was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, her feet tucked beneath her body and her arms protectively crossed over her chest. Apart from the blossoms of colour fading away, her skin had gained back its colour. Her eyes, however, didn't. They said it all. They were swollen and didn't have the usual hazel treasures in her eyes whenever someone looked. They would only see a dull green.

Sherlock skipped down the stairs and swung on his jacket.

"Where are you going?" asked John, catching him on the staircase and voicing Ophelia's thoughts.

He stopped and turned around. "Her apartment."

John frowned. "Again? I'm pretty sure you went last week."

"Well, I'm going again," he raised his brows sarcastically.

Sherlock meant it. He walked out of the flat and across the street to Ophelia's apartment. But this time it wasn't to pick up her items. He had another intention.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, eyes trailing the banister. He climbed until he found it. Sherlock scraped off a splodge of wet paint and placed it on a small dish. He left the flat and took a cab.

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"Feeling better today?"

She nodded, a smile tugging at her lips.

John sat down. "How have your meds been treating you?"

"They've been doing something," smiled Ophelia. They've been keeping her awake.

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He pushed open the lab door. "Molly I might need to use a few things," he walked past her and took off his coat, laying the dish down.

"Have you found it?" she asked, walking up to him and placing another dish down.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tilted his head. He gazed between the two.

She looked between both samples. "Well they look the same,"

"I'm afraid that's not enough..." he said quietly, beginning to work.

Molly turned on the microscope and left him with the instruments he needed. She wanted justice for her friend too.

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