perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

Forty One • Healing in Golden Hour

"What do you mean, funny? Funny peculiar, or funny ha-ha?"
-Ian Hay, 1876-1952

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Through the paint-peeling black door of 221B, up the creaky staircases, through the narrow, patterned hallway and a mahogany door, Ophelia and Fedora were promptly knocked out.

Gone. Asleep. Lost far beyond the realms of consciousness and sensibility.

Except Sherlock, he had just cried.

Not because he was overwhelmed by a case, did something wrong or was grieving, but because since they left the hospital, to feed Fedora whilst Ophelia was asleep, was the first time he felt like he had properly held her. And he couldn't help but cry.

There he was, holding his daughter.

Sherlock couldn't fathom the fact that absolutely anyone at all had been willing to share a part of themselves with him to create life.

And she was perfect, he thought as he tilted the milk bottle up. Dark tufts of wavy hair, such soft features that he struggled to pinpoint which were going to grow into his.

It hadn't even been a week yet and the couple had taken their sleep deprivation in everything they did - from doubling the shots of espresso in their coffee to taking extra cold showers to wake themselves up. And in those few days, where Ophelia's medication varied and her symptoms fluctuated, it seemed to cause her mental health to decline as well. Sherlock tried his best to help her get through it; making sure she got enough sleep, taking care of Fedora during the day whilst she tried to better herself.

But no matter what either of them did, Ophelia still felt like she had lost something. Felt empty.

Once he finished feeding the baby, he carefully lay her down on the bed next to Ophelia, placing a large pillow on the edge to stop her from falling. He put his hands on his hips, proudly admiring his hard work.

With that, Ophelia began to stir. She woke up and her eyes fell upon him with a smile. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied gently. "Better?"

She sat up and took a deep breath, feeling the cold, crisp air completely fill her lungs. She nodded. Then, glanced at the empty milk bottle in his hand. She groaned. "You should have woken me up, I could have fed her–"

"It's fine. She's fine, see? I'm brilliant at it." He pointed to Fedora.

That's when Ophelia felt her chest go heavy. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"No, I know, but.." she whispered. "I just.. I don't know what's happening to me. What's wrong with me."

It didn't help that the baby had seemed to overtake the couple's moment of grief for Rose. Any thought for their old friend wouldn't go uninterrupted by a loud, high-pitched cry or a needy gurgle. They struggled to help themselves - completely overwhelmed by the sudden responsibilities and feelings.

Sherlock pursed his lips and gazed down at her.

Ophelia took in a deep breath. She hastily wiped her eyes and leaned forward. He took her into his arms, feeling his warmth become hers.

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They called it their 'golden hour'.

Sometimes they'd get two of them a day, if lucky. It'd come with no warning.

Fedora would be asleep for an entire hour. No crying, no needing to be fed. And on that particular day, the golden hour fell upon the moment Ophelia woke up.