Tell Me Lies | Mystrade |

Nineteen

A/N - Sorry for being such a shit head and not updating a hell of a lot sooner! I've been going through a lot of shit lately, and I've only just taken up my hand at story-writing again. I've been focusing really on my poetry under the influence of John Keats (no guesses there as to the mood of my poetry then, haha). But yeah, I'm looking at getting a collection of my poems published as well as continuing with this story and other novels. My own form of therapy as well as the paid stuff. Everything's about to heat up here, so I hope you enjoy it! Multiple updates today! Oh, and the video attached to this is the piece I had in mind for the classical piece Sherlock plays. Thank you so much if you're still here reading this, I love you more than you could know. 

-CHxx

John

It was a loud crashing sound that woke me from my sleep on Saturday morning. I don't think anyone liked waking up to loud sounds; it gives you a fright and jumps starts your heart in the morning beyond what it should. It didn't help having come back from Afghanistan either, though. Every time something like that happened I'd wake, momentarily disorientated, back in Afghanistan again. It'd be a grenade going off near the base, or the distinguishable click sound when some unfortunate sod stood on a landmine. It was the gun shot piercing into my shoulder. It was every horror I'd ever seen and heard at war all over again. 

"Brilliant!" 

I couldn't help but smile at the sound of Sherlock's voice. It was reassuring. The sound was all I needed to know that I was home. 

"John!" He called a moment later, impatiently. "I know that woke you up! Today's the day!"

With another small smile I got out of bed, slipping my feet into my sheepskin slippers as I went. I threw my dressing gown on over top of my pajamas and shuffled down to the sitting room. 

Sherlock stood looking out of the window, watching London passing him by below.  "What's happened?" I asked, stifling a yawn. 

"I have Lestrade's phone number," he said, finally turning to look at me. He looked me over once with a small smile before throwing his phone in my direction. I was so caught up on the way he'd looked at me that I was taken back by his phone flying towards me, and I caught it moments before it fell to the ground. "His number's already dialed in, just hit call."

"What am I supposed to say?!" I exclaimed, thinking I was far too tired to be calling serial killers. 

"I've written cue cards. He can't know it's me involved. I'm too prolific, and my voice is too rich and velvety. Too sexy, some may say. It'll have to be a more average voice, one less notable."

"Great," I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes. I hit the call button and put the phone to my ear, listening to it ring. "Thanks for that."

"Let me know when he answers."

After a few rings, there was an answer. "Hello?" 

I nodded at Sherlock, thinking Lestrade's voice was far more softer than I'd remembered it to be. 

Sherlock held up the first card, written in permanent marker. His scrawl was still impeccable. I read the card word for word. "Yes, hello. Is this Gregory Lestrade?" 

"Yes, it is. Who's this?"

I nodded, and Sherlock held up the next card. "My name is Michael Hannigan, we spoke on the phone not too long ago."

"Oh, did we?" 

Suddenly realising something, I pulled the phone away from my ear and hit the 'speaker' button. Sherlock seemed to have (rather unsurprisingly, I suppose) anticipated much of the conversation and had written his cards accordingly, but there was no point in him missing out on the conversation. Not when he had the ability to pick out the tiniest detail. 

Still, he held up the next card. "Yes." I stumbled for a moment, reading what it said. "I believe we made an agreement to meet at Speedy's Cafe on Baker Street today, isn't that correct?" 

"Seems slightly informal, doesn't it? I don't remember that arrangement."

Sherlock gave a look of frustration before he pulled out a pen and scribbled another cue. He thrust it towards me, and I read it out. "Just be there."

Sherlock ripped the phone out of my hand and ended the call before giving me his heartbreaking smile. "Great, thanks."

I rolled my eyes and went into the kitchen. "Cuppa?"

"Please," Sherlock replied before picking up his violin.

I began to make our drinks, cringing as he made a screeching sound against the strings. Quickly, it changed into a mournful tune, one I hadn't heard him play before. I turned around as the kettle boiled and watched him as he stared off into the distance. He didn't look out the window this time, but rather at my chair. He thought no one could see it, and maybe no one else could. Maybe it was just me who could see the sadness that swirled in his eyes, in those greenish blue pools of colour that drowned whoever looked into them. It happened more often than I had liked to hope; I would see it when he shot glances in my direction after an argument, or when he'd walked past me when I was on a date with a woman. I knew he did it intentionally, to try and shake me, but it would always be sadness and pain in his eyes at that moment. 

But right then, as he stared at my chair and I was supposedly making tea, I had never seen him look so pained.

"Sherlock," I began, but my voice was a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's going to happen?"

He finally looked up from my chair, as though he'd forgotten I was there. He pursed his lips for a moment before speaking. "The inevitable, John."