perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Seven • Reels Through the Years

"Suicide... is about life, being in fact the sincerest form of criticism life gets."
-Wilfred Sheed, 1930-

《▪︎▪︎▪︎》

The statue of Three Wise Men flew past Ophelia's eyes, and she felt her lips tug gently.

The three were finally in Birmingham. "So.." John read over Lawrence Gray Smith's file for what was the fifth time over their car ride. "He killed himself, but you don't think he did."

"I know he didn't."

"Yeah.." he frowned, trying to pull a 'sherlock' and bust out with a deduction. But he couldn't.

Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he were trying to gain their attention as he turned left. "Her dad was a famous musician. He would have indubitably been in touch with people of the high class; More or less where events take place, hammering out a deal.."

"Of course," Ophelia replied. She thought back to when she used to come back home, call out for her father, but there would be no reply. By the last few years before he died, she had gotten used to seeing him come back home late at night.

"So for all one knows, he might have made a deal and didn't concede to the terms."

It was quiet. Sherlock glanced at John before heaving a sigh. "You've got a question."

"Yeah, how'd you get this car? Did you rent it?"

Sherlock blinked quickly at the odd change of topic. He was about to answer truthfully, but glanced at Ophelia in the rearview mirror. "Family member owes me."

He didn't lie. Technically it was the truth.

▪︎▪︎▪︎

The Victorian red-brick building of Hotel du Vin & Bistro stood tall on Church street, a tourist attraction as guests walked in and out.

"We used to come here most of our stays," Ophelia smiled, making John chuckle. "Feels like home."

"Was he busy then?"

"Oh, all the time."

They laughed, walking through the entrance. The wind blew into her face and Ophelia watched Sherlock walk ahead of them and straight to a security guard who stood by the receptionist.

John however, found himself incapable of ignoring the decor that strung around. The ceiling was coated in shades of aurous gold, chandeliers dripping down in exaggerated motion and single white roses rested in vases on each table. He gaped in awe. Ophelia couldn't help but laugh.

Members of staff scuttled around in waistcoats and gave a nod of greeting towards their way. Oddly enough, if she could admit, Ophelia was used to the first class ways of life before she moved to London.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the security guard to stop them from rolling.

"Not much about him these days,"

"He's dead, what do you mean these days? The death of a celebrity lasts- Well, it's not as if he were a celebrity-"

"Look mate, what are you? Some type of fan freak over a musician?"

"I'm working with the police." The guard went quiet, and Sherlock heaved an arduous sigh. "Just tell me what you know about him."

"Dunno," he shrugged.

"You're unable to recount anything about a famous musician who has stayed at this very hotel over seven times during his life? Nothing?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, flickering over his face. "Very concerning." he quipped quietly.