Disclaimer: don't own (thank God, they would bring down the house!)
Filled
Lestrade didn't like Tuesdays. Never had, never would. Especially the grey and rainy ones, like today. They reminded him of days best not remembered, best forgotten. Every now and then, memories of those days came too close, crawling under his skin, whirling behind his eyes, making him worry others would notice just by looking into those eyes.
Those days were not the best days.
What he needed, he told himself, walking the cloudy streets of London, was a shower. A long hot shower, a cup of coffee, and some peace and quiet at his flat.
And a cigarette, oh, God, he needed a smoke.
Gritting his teeth he shook his head to himself. Bad day, bad day… He could almost hear a little voice in his head (sounding suspiciously like Sherlock-insufferable-know-it-all-Holmes) telling him to stick to the nicotine patches.
His fingers twitched. Damn the patches.
He turned the corner of Baker Street, the stack of folders clutched to his side, when thick raindrops started falling. He swore loudly, ignoring the looks passers-by seemed to send him. Just what he needed to make this day even more bloody brilliant, getting soaked in the rain while playing case-file-delivery-boy for that sociopathic genius of his.
He groaned in frustration as he fumbled for his key outside 221B.
A single long and tenuous note drifted from the open window above, getting more shrill and more urgent as Lestrade finally located the key (the bloody thing!).
His head snapped up when the now penetrating note suddenly cut itself off, launching into slow, lazy lines of low tones, a melody he almost recognized, but not quite.
He didn't open the door. Breathed the music in, let it echo in his ears, wrap itself around his mind and fill the now empty space behind his eyes until there was room for nothing other than the haunting yet soothing melody of another lost soul, wailing above him.
How long had he been standing here? And when had the music changed to major key? He hadn't noticed. Notes, tumbling over one another, dancing in his chest and tiptoeing in his fingers, had started to float down the street.
He could almost swear he could feel the cold and wet street beneath his feet shudder at the last dramatic chords drawn from the violin.
Or maybe was that just him.
He let out a breath he surely hadn't been holding.
He breathed in, and allowed his mind to slowly get out of the vegetable mode it had been lured into by the music.
Lestrade dropped the file on the doormat (not wanting to know what caused the blue stain covering half of its 'welcome') and walked home, soaked to the bone and inexplicably at peace with the world.
I'm amazed by all the reviews and comments I get for this story, they make my day :)
And thanks to my brilliant betareaders!