Fermata Means as Long as You Need, Shortarse (2/2)tawabidsMay 14 2011, 15:34:58 UTC
Mrs Hudson came back with two servings in delicate white china and Lestrade took his gratefully. The tea was delicious and the heat swam through him at once.
The landlady gently settled herself into another chair and sipped at her tea. “You’re doing him good,” she said brightly, waving her hand at him. “Coming round here, getting him out of the house.”
“Not good enough,” Lestrade said grimly.
Mrs Hudson nodded with a tender look in her eyes. “It’s not easy,” she said vaguely.
Before he had a chance to ask her what she meant, there came a faint cry through the ceiling. Lestrade looked up sharply, half raising to his feet, but Mrs Hudson insisted he sit down.
“I hear him thrashing about like that every night,” she sighed as there came another pained whimper. “Nightmares, you know. He stopped having them when Sherlock was still here.”
Listening to John moan in his sleep, Lestrade felt as if someone had reached into him and was crushing his windpipe. As he glanced around for a distraction his gaze fell on the guitar case. He asked the landlady if it was empty and she shook her head. “My husband used to play.”
“Do you mind if I borrow it? Not to take it out of the house.”
“I suppose not,” Mrs Hudson frowned. “What are you--?”
“Cancel the taxi, Mrs Hudson,” Letrade drained his tea and clambered to his feet. He hauled the guitar case out, opened it up and ran his hand over the wood of the old Martin acoustic inside. He lifted it by the neck and perched on the edge of the armchair to tune it. It was years since he’d played, but his fingers slid confidently along the frets. The guitar was hideously out of tune, but he twisted the pegs until the pitch sweetened. The wood was well-aged and a mellow hum resonated from its maw. Satisfied, Lestrade saluted Mrs Hudson before hurrying out.
He almost chickened out as he stood on the landing outside John’s dark kitchen. This was technically breaking and entering - well, maybe not breaking - but he was a police officer and if John took this the wrong way it was not going to look good. But he heard John cry out again and his resolve solidified. He hurried up to John’s room and fumbled for the door handle. Despite tripping over his own feet (okay, he wasn’t completely sobered up) and almost dropping the guitar, he managed to get through and close the door in relative silence.
A faint glow through the thin curtains lit his way to John’s bed. The sleeping man lay on his front, one arm curled under his pillow and the other twisted in the sheets behind his back. His face was twisted as if in pain. Lestrade couldn’t believe he was doing this. John kept a gun, didn’t he? Even if he didn’t blow Lestrade’s head off, he’d probably never speak to him again.
He sat himself cross-legged on the carpet beside John’s bed. He positioned the guitar in his lap. “Fermata is one of my favourite words, John,” he breathed to himself, so low he could only hear his voice as a reverberation through his skull. “Because when you hold it, you hold on as long as you need to.”
John gave a soft, muffled cry. Lestrade’s fingers felt for the strings in the dark and he began to play.
So much love for this.morganstuartMay 14 2011, 17:28:34 UTC
This was so perfect in every possible way. I'm de-anoning as the OP to hug you and give you high fives. This is utterly gorgeous. My heart aches for everyone here. You've packed such intensity and such emotion into such a tightly crafted piece.
and his eyes were open graves
“Because when you hold it, you hold on as long as you need to.”
So beautiful. Elegantly done.
I can't thank you enough, and I can't love this any more than I do. Bless wonderful, vulnerable Lestrade for having the courage to go up those stairs with that guitar... *flails*
*blushes* Thank you! And thank you for putting up the prompt in the first place. I've never written Lestrade/John before so it was a lot of fun for me :)
The landlady gently settled herself into another chair and sipped at her tea. “You’re doing him good,” she said brightly, waving her hand at him. “Coming round here, getting him out of the house.”
“Not good enough,” Lestrade said grimly.
Mrs Hudson nodded with a tender look in her eyes. “It’s not easy,” she said vaguely.
Before he had a chance to ask her what she meant, there came a faint cry through the ceiling. Lestrade looked up sharply, half raising to his feet, but Mrs Hudson insisted he sit down.
“I hear him thrashing about like that every night,” she sighed as there came another pained whimper. “Nightmares, you know. He stopped having them when Sherlock was still here.”
Listening to John moan in his sleep, Lestrade felt as if someone had reached into him and was crushing his windpipe. As he glanced around for a distraction his gaze fell on the guitar case. He asked the landlady if it was empty and she shook her head. “My husband used to play.”
“Do you mind if I borrow it? Not to take it out of the house.”
“I suppose not,” Mrs Hudson frowned. “What are you--?”
“Cancel the taxi, Mrs Hudson,” Letrade drained his tea and clambered to his feet. He hauled the guitar case out, opened it up and ran his hand over the wood of the old Martin acoustic inside. He lifted it by the neck and perched on the edge of the armchair to tune it. It was years since he’d played, but his fingers slid confidently along the frets. The guitar was hideously out of tune, but he twisted the pegs until the pitch sweetened. The wood was well-aged and a mellow hum resonated from its maw. Satisfied, Lestrade saluted Mrs Hudson before hurrying out.
He almost chickened out as he stood on the landing outside John’s dark kitchen. This was technically breaking and entering - well, maybe not breaking - but he was a police officer and if John took this the wrong way it was not going to look good. But he heard John cry out again and his resolve solidified. He hurried up to John’s room and fumbled for the door handle. Despite tripping over his own feet (okay, he wasn’t completely sobered up) and almost dropping the guitar, he managed to get through and close the door in relative silence.
A faint glow through the thin curtains lit his way to John’s bed. The sleeping man lay on his front, one arm curled under his pillow and the other twisted in the sheets behind his back. His face was twisted as if in pain. Lestrade couldn’t believe he was doing this. John kept a gun, didn’t he? Even if he didn’t blow Lestrade’s head off, he’d probably never speak to him again.
He sat himself cross-legged on the carpet beside John’s bed. He positioned the guitar in his lap. “Fermata is one of my favourite words, John,” he breathed to himself, so low he could only hear his voice as a reverberation through his skull. “Because when you hold it, you hold on as long as you need to.”
John gave a soft, muffled cry. Lestrade’s fingers felt for the strings in the dark and he began to play.
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and his eyes were open graves
“Because when you hold it, you hold on as long as you need to.”
So beautiful. Elegantly done.
I can't thank you enough, and I can't love this any more than I do. Bless wonderful, vulnerable Lestrade for having the courage to go up those stairs with that guitar... *flails*
YOU WIN.
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followed the trail from Sunday Recday - this is beautifully done.
*applauds*
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That is a goddamn gorgeous line and this is a goddamn gorgeous fic. *hugs them both*
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