“It was grass and silence; it was a field of stars.”

[eloquy]

Title: “It was grass and silence; it was a field of stars.”
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Word Count: 304
Characters: Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Summary:
Rating: K
Warnings: major character death
Author’s Note: Tiny bit of fic written yesterday, as everybody seemed determined to kill Lestrade. It may well be the first finished fic where I kill a character.
The title comes comes from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I’ve had it in my plot bunny list for a while, but thought it’d be a good time to use it.


It was grass and silence. It was a field of stars.

He has read that somewhere, before. He doesn’t remember where, nor does he know why it comes to his mind this instant.

Maybe because it’s what it is. A field of grass under a field of stars, and he’s lying in the middle of it, not sure where one begins and the other ends. He’s not sure it matters either.

And then, there’s the silence. It has replaced the ringing a few minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Again, his brain fails him.

It’s a real silence, and no sound comes to his ears.
He can feel the wind, but the leaves are not rustling. He can see bird wings, but there is no flapping.

It’s deafening and calming, and he knows he ought to be frightened. Ought to feel alone.
Or lonely.

He’s not lonely, under the stars.
Although there’s one he should be chasing. One he was chasing, a few minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours.

His star.
The one that shone too brightly and died too early.

The one he’s been told has come back, powering through darkness and adversity.
He expected nothing less.
He knows it’s shining brighter than before, even if he hasn’t seen it yet.

He won’t be reaching his star now.
There was something in his way, and he can’t remember what, and maybe it’s just not what he wants to remember now. It only happened a few minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours.

But he wants to remember the years and the months. The mornings and the nights.
He tries to remember, but it all slips away from his thoughts in colourful shreds.
It’s beautiful.

There was something in the way, but he’s not sad.

There are other ways to the stars.