perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Forty Two • Branching Out

"Get rid of all preconceived ideas. Stop thinking in ready-made terms."

-Georges Perec, 1936-1982

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Surprisingly, it was Ophelia who convinced John to accompany both Sherlock and Lestrade in the investigation of yet another murder scene. And although he was beginning to lift his hopes up once more, she deeply regretted pushing him to explore that specific case.

It was a child.

'A kid!', exclaimed Lestrade once they drove back to Baker Street.

Even Sherlock seemed slightly thrown-off, she noticed.

But what bugged Ophelia the most was that the little boy was reported to have had blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Just like someone else she knew.

"So this is the Black..." she took a deep breath and cautiously glanced at John. "The same person, then?"

"People," corrected Sherlock.

"People," she repeated anxiously, too nervous to roll her eyes over something as frivolous as the intricacies of linguistics.

John added to the conversation every now and then - only to comment on the behaviour of the young boy's family and the interrogation. He wanted to say he was certain that they were innocent. But the words wouldn't leave him. They couldn't.

But the consulting detective managed to voice his friend's thoughts. "The family's in the clear. It was night when the boy was murdered, the killer slipped in through his bedroom window and left the same way in less than five minutes. Somehow did it in complete silence."

Ophelia turned to him. "They only found out the next morning?"

He nodded.

She felt sick - her gut twisting, heart beating fast. She couldn't imagine the pain of walking into her child's room in the morning to find nothing but blood. It suddenly made her want to check in on Fedora, wake her up from the bedroom, to pick her up and never let her go.

Lestrade nodded, glancing out of the window with crossed arms, as if watching out for anything that could harm them. Paranoid. "So the person behind this.." he cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Why'd they order someone to kill a kid, Sherlock, aye? Why? It's not like he had black hair, green eyes. I mean, what am I supposed to tell the press?"

Ophelia and Sherlock's eyes reluctantly met. He stood up straight. "I believe it's a warning. For both ourselves and Elio," finished quietly.

John tore his eyes away from the stray, colourful toys on the carpet. "Jesus."

"You've got to be kidding me," Lestrade deadpanned. "No. No, seriously?"

She ignored him. "Why would they go out of their way to kill the little boy?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ophelia–"

"No, I know they're serial killings," she gritted her teeth. "But this is the first time where the victim has had an entire family to be questioned, the first time that someone was murdered at a place where they could easily have been witnesses. Every other time, the victims were killed alone."

"He's stopped making a point, now it's just confidence. He's boasting about what he can do."

"But it's not his talent, is it," Lestrade snided. "It's other people he controls."

"It is," replied Sherlock. "We haven't had serial killings last this long, someone with this much power. Talent indeed, Lestrade."

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