for archea2: “Prendi, per me sei libero”
Original Author: archea2
Original Story Title: Una furtiva lagrima
Original Story Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/854761
Original Story Pairings: Lestrade/Sherlock
Original Story Rating: Teen
Original Story Warnings/Content Notes: none
Remix Author: unovis
Remix Story Title: Prendi, per me sei libero
Remix Story Pairings: Lestrade/Sherlock
Remix Story Rating: Teen
Remix Story Warnings/Content Notes: Opera! and all that implies, Reichenbach
Remix Story Beta: Tryfanstone
Remix Story Britpicker: Tryfanstone
Summary: No destiny so bitter that it will not change.
Notes: The title refers to an aria from the opera “L’Elisir d’Amore” (The Elixer of Love). Translated, this first line of the aria is “Take it--because of me, you are free.” The woman being wooed, the one holding the power, buys his enlistment back from the army for the would-be lover and shows him her gift in the aria. But then she says more.
The original story was a response to a challenge to write a story without using the letter “e” and makes reference to the other famous aria from the opera.
Prendi, per me sei libero - sent minutes, evidently, before he fell. (Jumped.) Sherlock preferred texting. Lestrade preferred Sherlock’s voice.
He kept the text private, the phone heartbeat-close. He transferred the saved message when he changed mobiles. He admitted the sentimental inference. They’d been connected, however clandestine, ill-considered, ephemeral, doomed, deluded the attachment. He’d recognized the quote’s source: “L’Elisir d’Amore,” Sherlock’s insistent, one-time treat. He fancied he understood the heartless reference. Sherlock’s insistent self-demolition, obliterating disgrace, negating prosecution.
Take the offering? The crazed fucker, the skewed rationale, left Lestrade, despite the evidence, bitterly unconvinced. No-one sane believed the lies, the roof-ledge “confession.” Unnecessary, Sherlock’s desperate performance; Lestrade’s career survived investigation. Lestrade’s heart, likewise. Eventually.
The week before Sherlock disappeared (died! died, the theatrical shite! He jumped, he fell, he shattered everything) they’d shared one strangely sensual moment, one brief, shadowed event, under the opera’s spell. Under another false elixer’s spell, more likely, their early dinner’s immoderately imbibed Bordeaux. He’d forgotten the impulsive squeeze, the tear’s true cause. Some memory, some buried emotion revived. Sherlock, moved, bent closer, kissed Lestrade’s wet cheek. Lestrade, shocked, exposed, swallowed the intimate caress.
Tasted, seduced, wrecked, then abandoned. Sherlock bolted after the opera, taxied home alone.
Set free, indeed. Egotistical, grandiose nonsense. False, like the tears Sherlock savored. Like Lestrade’s flesh ignited, Lestrade’s desire roused, Lestrade’s offer, long-suppressed, denied.
Years later, the memory rankled, embedded. Sherlock guaranteed.
+++
Insanely, pace Anderson, Sherlock worked the miracle. True believers, nutters, internet scryers, were validated. Lestrade felt twice betrayed.
Resurrected, Sherlock met forgiveness. Lestrade himself, surprised, hugged the reprobate (after he’d been deservedly slugged elsewhere, beaten, even, face bloodied, punched). Accepted, after deception, trickery, lies. After grief, after tears. Game reset. Welcome home.
Relieved, disgusted, Lestrade deleted Sherlock's text.
+++
“You’re annoyed,” accused Sherlock. He sounded aggrieved. “You’ve given me Gregson twice. You’ve ignore...”
“Bother someone else. Dicker’s cases are begging.”
“...ignored me steadily, avoided me since...”
“Leave, then.”
“The wife’s never returning. Open marriages rarely succeed beyond the...”
“Leave me.” He bent over the latest open file. The wife! She’d deserted well before Sherlock’s dive. He’d never liked her, insulted her whenever they met. Like he’d served everyone Lestrade once loved, let inside-Sherlock played games.
“...murder-suicide, imbecilic lovers’ quarrel. You’re woolgathering. Listen!”
“Leave me alone.” Lestrade’s fingers tightened, the knuckles white. Silence. Lengthy silence...Lestrade looked over. Sherlock held Lestrade’s mobile, pickpocketed, checking screens, pressing letters. When Lestrade straightened, Sherlock dropped the phone.
“You’re disappointed.” The grey eyes blazed, the voice rumbled. “Expecting something different, Detective? Promises unfulfilled? Message misconstrued, per...”
“Free me. Sei libero, yes?” Lestrade blurted; accused, asked. Sherlock leaned closer. He felt the heat between them rise. He blinked.
“Sempre scontento e mesto,” Sherlock laughed. “Remember the rest! Remember change, after misery.” Closer. Warmer. “Where everyone loves the ransomed lover.” Lestrade’s eyes closed over dampness, cursed senses, betrayed emotion. He felt... Sherlock kissed shadowed eyelids, flushed cheeks. “There were snipers,” Sherlock whispered. Kissed lower, sweeter, saltier. “You’re welcome, Misery.”
“Resta!” replied Lestrade, the kissed, the claimed, the currently less annoyed. The mobile beeped, the text restored.
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