Micah Callaghan is (apracticalman) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-12 17:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | greg lestrade, sherlock holmes |
Who: Elias and Micah
What: A first meeting
Where: A Vegas jazz club
When: A recent Thursday
Warnings/Rating: None
The night wasn’t one of his best, and it was evident in every breath he took, the crease between his brows, the way fingers assaulted the ivory keys, wringing every note from the poor piano with force and determination. The patrons that visited the club that night were just as uncomfortable, listening to the dissonant chords, the pain that spoke so clearly in every phrase and passage, and Micah was oblivious to it all. Alcohol sales were up, the patrons were quiet, for even if they wanted to leave, the mastery of the music held them just as captive, as though they needed to hear the end of the story that was being told with each press of the keys.
He played with his eyes closed, his lips pressed in a thin line, sheer determination pushing him through the evening even with the ache in his bones, steady and pulsing with every beat of his heart, thrumming through him and vibrating against his nerves. Music was his escape, his solace, and he wasn’t about to let it be beaten down by ghosts of the past that continued to haunt and torture. Even the voice in the back of his head, sensible and even, didn’t dare to argue or suggest he do anything different. It was a battle, and he recognized it as such, and left the man to fight for the victory only he could achieve.
Hands pressed down on the keys once more, vibrations soaring up his fingers, his arms, through his very person, and only then did Micah open his eyes, looking down at the white keys, the shiny lacquer of the piano’s finish. A breath was released, and he sat still in the deafening silence that followed his piece.
In Elias’ experience, the bars that made money played happy music. Elias was not a musician, and he had no idea what made music sound “happy,” but what he was walking into was definitely not it. The crowd didn’t seem to mind, maybe they were all intense musicians too. Elias felt out of place like he never had in a bar before. The place didn’t have the noise, the smoke, the clamour that Elias was used to, but he hadn’t been out to very many bars and clubs in the last few years, too busy with his work and his showings at home and abroad. Elias, who had dug out a wrinkled black suit jacket to go over his jeans for his “night out,” looked around at the silence in the wake of the chilling, discordant sound. He wondered if he should applaud, but he wouldn’t until everyone else did. Were all jazz clubs like this?
Elias generally did a good job of blending in wherever he went, and nobody gave him a second glance as he chose a winding path through the tables and chairs and took a seat at the bar, which had a nicer set up than he was used to. He turned his head to watch the musician just as he was looking up, his gaze direct and less expectant than all the other patrons around him. He had no idea if this was the same guy on the journals, but he had no plans today and he was prepared to wait around.
Besides, the number of people kept Sherlock busy as he did his best to pry into their private lives without saying a word to them, and if there was one thing Sherlock needed, it was distraction.
The applause that came was scattered and quiet, and it hardly seemed to bother Micah as he stood up, giving a short nod of his head before grasping his cane and making his way off the stage with slow, hobbling steps. Behind him, he could hear the next act taking the stage, something with brass and percussion, and when the music started up, it was much more lively, exciting than Micah had played that night. Shoulders hunched as he weaved through the tables towards the bar, hauling himself up on a seat near the other man sitting there, resting with his elbows on the bar as he gestured for the bartender. A short exchange, a request for his usual, and the bartender hustled off to do just that, leaving Micah to his own devices.
While waiting, he glanced over towards the other man, brows raised for a short moment, head canted to the side. “You don’t look like someone who comes to these places often,” Micah remarked, his accent thick and lilting, voice low and quiet in respect for the musicians currently performing.
“I don’t. Someone recommended it to me.” Elias gave a friendly grin. The bartender had given him a beer the color of new pennies, and it left a slight wet chill on the palm of his hand that he shook off to one side before reaching for the little bowl of pretzels not far away. It was too dark to see the tattoos visible at the wrist just short of the shirtsleeve, dark as Elias was dark in hair and eye, though the lined features were still friendly, and his demeanor was nothing if not easy and unconcerned. Being in his immediate proximity was relaxing, sort of like standing next to a deep, still pool. “You can really play that thing,” Elias said, nodding toward the piano where Micah had left it.
There were several people that Micah had recommended the club to, so it wasn’t safe to assume anyone. The voice, the pace of his words, the way he held himself, none of it was telling to match any of the people he had mentioned the club to in passing. “Dare I ask who? Because they have good taste, if their preference in jazz clubs is anything to go by.” The man’s presence was easy to be around, didn’t leave Micah feeling awkward or out of place in his own environment. His drink came around then, and Micah glanced up, giving him a nod of thanks before taking a sip, the whiskey burning away some of the pain in its wake, but not enough to keep him from rubbing at his thigh to try and find more relief.
The comment about the piano drew Micah’s attention a moment later, and he gave a nod. “I should hope so. I’ve been playing it since before I could read.” He said it fondly, his voice taking on a different tone when he spoke of music, all warmth and nostalgia.
“Yeah, uh, Micah? Is that you, or someone else that’s playing? He said he plays here.” Elias was fully aware how strange it sounded that he could quote someone without knowing what they were playing or what they look like. He also didn’t say the name right, since any name that Elias wasn’t completely familiar with he tended to give a Spanish accent to the vowels, not even close to the Irish. Elias lifted the glass to his mouth and took a healthy drink, not really with the tongue of a connoisseur but with appreciation nonetheless. He observed the man across from him with an artist’s eye, because he liked the character in the lines around his eyes and mouth, though the color in them was too strong to suit his usual palette. He noticed the grimace of pain but didn’t comment on it, imagining an affliction or old injury to be associated with the cane, and not plagued by the kind of curiosity that would force him to ask.
“It’s me,” Micah responded simply, taking another sip of whiskey before he leaned back and let his back rest against the back of the stool, shoulders slouched, making absolutely no effort at holding a proper posture. “I’ve told a few people about this place, but most have already stopped by, so... I’m taking a wild shot in the dark here, so feel free to tell me how wrong I am. Elias?” The name was badly butchered on the Irishman’s tongue, but he did his best to bring some sort of life to it.
Elias smiled and put a hand out toward Micah. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad I got at least a part of your performance.” Elias was desperately hoping that the man wouldn’t ask him any kind of technical question on his opinion. He wouldn’t even have been able to honestly say a casual kind of “good” because he didn’t feel it would be honest. Not that he wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t have very good taste and he wasn’t very good at words, which put him in a bad spot at concerts. The shake was good, solid, and not too long. “It’s Eh-lie-us,” he assisted, grinning. “Help me out with yours.”
Micah waved a hand in the air at that. “You saw more than enough I’m sure. It’s kind of an off night for me, but I’m glad you could make it regardless.” He wasn’t the sort that went searching for compliments on his music; if people had them to give, they would. There was no need to fish for it. He had more than enough people tell him that he had talent to need to look for validation from near-strangers.
Shaking Elias’ hand, Micah gave him a nod, head canted to the side slightly as he took in the pronunciation of the name. Trying it out, it was still butchered, but not so bad as to be unrecognizable. “Sorry,” he apologised a moment later. “My tongue has a hard time wrapping around some names. And mine is My-kah,” he explained, giving a long ‘i’ to the name.
Elias gave Micah’s name a go. He didn’t quite get the Irish vowel, but that was alright. He smiled with the effort and then leaned back for his beer. “Don’t worry about it, nobody’s grading us on our pronunciation.” He took a drink, looked around for an ashtray, and then frowned when he realized that he wasn’t in a casino so there wouldn’t be any around. He really needed to quit smoking. (He thought that every time he needed an ashtray.) “So the shiny new Doors are up and running,” he said, rubbing one eyebrow with a work-roughened finger. “Been through yet?”
“Good. Because I would undoubtedly fail, like I did nearly everything else.” Micah cracked a grin before swallowing back another sip of whiskey, falling into an easy place with his tone and behaviour. Catching the glance around that was rewarded with nothing, Micah could almost assume what the other man was looking for. The world was not a kind one to smokers any longer, it seemed, and while it was a habit Micah had never picked up more than casually, he could sympathize, at least somewhat. And then the conversation turned towards the Doors.
“I went the other day,” Micah said, his brows knitting down where a groove developed between them, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I can’t say I much enjoy it. I don’t like being cast aside when the other takes over. The lack of control...” He gave a fierce shake of his head. “I can handle him talking, but taking over? Something’s not right about that.”
Elias considered that, his eyes vague as he watched the room’s reflection in the long mirrors behind the bar. “Gives you perspective, though,” he said, finally, chewing on a pretzel in an obvious attempt to distract himself from the fact that he didn’t have a cigarette. “On what it’s like for them,” he elaborated. “And I have to admit that his life is way more exciting than mine. Maybe even more important, too. It isn’t as if I’m a spectacle of achievement for humanity.” He tapped another pretzel on his lips, stretched one limber shoulder. “Then again, I don’t know anyone who is.” Now he tapped the pretzel to his temple and smiled at Micah. “Even if he thinks he is.”
There was no helping the smile he cracked at that, swallowing back the rest of his whiskey before easing to rest his forearms against the bar, hands clasped together. “But they’re fictional characters, something we are decidedly not. They ought to be the weaker ones, yes?” But Elias had a good point, something he hadn’t thought of ever since all of this started. Micah let out a long breath, lips pursing together after a moment, clearly giving it some thought.
The mention of ‘he’ had brows rising, and as Micah gestured for another drink, hand dipping into the pretzels to pluck one out, flipping it between pianist’s fingers, he inclined his head towards Elias. “Is this the part where we give up the ones hiding up here?” he asked, for it wasn’t something he had told anyone, though it was an identity he had figured out. Somehow, confessing to it gave it more power, and he wasn’t entirely sure about that.
“No, not if you don’t want to. Mine doesn’t care, but he’s... unique.” Sherlock had no concern and no shame. He had been very careful to conceal himself from Moriarty’s remaining criminal structure, but there was no point of that now. Sherlock wasn’t of the temperament to worry about Elias’ well being, and he knew more than most people that Elias was more than capable of taking care of himself. Elias touched his mouth as if the cigarette was in his hand. “And I don’t think I would describe him as ‘weak,’” It wasn’t defensive, it was just fact, a little lift of Elias’ brows and a faintly apologetic smile.
Micah pressed his lips together for a moment, pondering, weighing his options, and as his next drink arrived, he wound his hands around it, warm palms against cool glass giving some contrast. “Lestrade can’t be described as ‘weak’ either, and he balks when I even consider it.” Saying it, he knew, made everything more real, just like the draw of the Door, the pull, the whispers that he can’t quite deny any longer. “He’s smarter than me. I think he’d rather be with someone more intelligent, but we can’t pick who we’re with anymore than we can pick our parents, I think.” Micah took a long drink of whiskey, grimacing at the burn.
Elias’ eyebrows jumped toward his hairline, and he put down his beer. “Lestrade, really?” His dark eyes held more than interest, a kind of keen attention that was half-concern and half-caution. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, or a different one?” Because Sherlock was abruptly as present as he could be, pressing for details and attention. Elias took a second look at Micah, flicks of gaze from his fingertips to his cane, so that Sherlock could make his little deductions. Elias could hold his tongue and trusted his will to keep Sherlock’s inevitable comments in check.
There was no response for a moment, but eventually, Micah gave a short nod of his head. “The one and only,” he said quietly, glancing towards the bartender to make sure they had their privacy for the moment. “You’re familar with the books, then?” And as soon as he said it, it felt a stupid thing to say. Elias wouldn’t have stated the full title if he wasn’t at least a bit familiar with it all, and Micah gave a shake of his head at his own words. “Sorry. Six months ago, it was something I was only vaguely knowledgeable in. I’m so far removed from him that it’s ridiculous.”
“No,” Elias said, quite seriously. “Never read them. I watched his show, though.” He raised a delicate finger (the only thing delicate about him, really) and tapped his temple. “Sherlock’s show. It’s the new British one, and he’s exceptionally annoying in it.” The dark eyes were deep. He knew that version of Lestrade probably had a lot on his mind when it came to Sherlock. “I don’t know if your familiar?” He gave a little tip of his head, arm folded against the bar and body twisted toward his companion, and for once didn’t reach for beer or pretzel.
Micah did know the show he was speaking of, having watched it back home, but out here, fewer seemed to know it, so the books seemed the better bet. “I watched it back home, yes, while I was laid up after the accident. He seemed to like it, so I’m not one to deny someone something they enjoy.” Blue eyes took in the attention that was given to him now, the way he angled himself towards him, and something within responded to those mannerisms. “Sherlock is rather annoying in it, isn’t he?” Micah said, testing the waters. “A cause of many headaches, hours of frustration, but still something within him that you can’t help but respect and admire, at least a little.”
“Some people can help it just fine,” Elias said, smiling. Sherlock was too full of himself to object to full identification. The timing of the show gave Elias a general idea of when Micah had been injured, but by then Sherlock had identified the nature of the injury, the timing involved, and everything from Micah’s therapy schedule to his attitude about impaired life in general. Elias tried to ignore him. “But yes, that’s him.” Another fluttering gesture at his head, illustrative, and then Elias dropped his fingers once more. “He’s obviously interested in Lestrade, if you know him.” A serious dip of his chin toward Micah.
“And those people ought to get awards for knowing when to keep their space, but some of us aren’t as able.” It was spoken more for Lestrade, than himself, and it felt strange giving voice to those thoughts, but the company was familiar and he didn’t feel like a nutter for saying it. The fluttering fingers caught his attention a moment later, and Micah gave a nod of his head. “He’s not pleased to acknowledge that, but yes, we know.” A pause, brief while he took a drink, and Micah released a long breath, preparing to ask the question that was becoming more and more important every second that passed, the one that Lestrade needed confirmation for.
“He is still alive, yes?” Micah asked, casually as he could. “He keeps saying that it’s impossible, but bugger if I can tell whether he means impossible for him to be gone, or impossible that he survived.”
In the interim before the question, Elias kept mostly silent, consulting with Sherlock in perhaps the most civil manner that either man had managed in the last several weeks. Elias had a deep respect for Lestrade even without knowing him, probably because he equated his own relationship with Sherlock more closely to Lestrade’s than John’s or Mycroft’s. However, the artist had some old uncertainties when it came to the police and similar men of authority, prejudices he had to overcome on an individual basis. Sherlock waved these worries away as baseless, even though Lestrade had proved a tool of Moriarty, just like the system and the city.
“He’s alive now,” was Elias’ answer. There would probably come a time when he refused to assist Sherlock in his cruel but necessary illusion, but now wasn’t that time. “He... wants to know if that means Lestrade is likely to arrest him on sight again.”
It felt odd to be talking like this, discussing these characters as though they were truly real, and deep within, Lestrade made a derisive noise which Micah refused to acknowledge. Meeting Elias’ gaze, Micah took several seconds to formulate the answer, and when he spoke, it was quietly, voice pitched so that the words went no further than he and Elias. “You can’t arrest a dead man,” Micah said before swallowing back the rest of his whiskey, giving a tight grimace as he sat the glass down, pushing it away with the tips of his fingers. “And that’s what he’s holding to.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a small smile, lasting for only a heartbeat before it faded, but the relief was almost palpable about the young man. It had been a worry, that he was truly dead, one Greg did not like to dwell on for longer than absolutely necessary. Knowing that he was alive took several pounds of stress from his shoulders.
Elias smiled. “That’s good. I’d prefer it if he didn’t jump off another building. I hear I inherit the fall.” The smile slid from his face, proving just how little real amusement was there. Elias left the beer half full and then slid off the stool. His cigarette fix was at its limit and of the two addictions he still had, this was the lesser, but he could only fight it so long. Elias’ first impulse was to warn Lestrade about Moriarty’s reappearance, but Sherlock prevented it by talking quickly. Lestrade didn’t believe there was a Moriarty, and it would take too long to convince him. Sherlock didn’t think Lestrade smart enough to take care of himself anyway, so warning him against an illusion would do no good. Reluctantly, Elias let Sherlock handle his own business, and he gave Micah another upnod. “It was nice to meet you, man,” he said, with a hint of LA concrete in the farewell. “I’m around, and Sherlock is, too, every few days. Take care of yourself.”
“Keep the pair of you safe,” Micah said as Elias stood, meeting the man’s gaze for a long moment before he returned the nod. The meeting had given him some things to think on, both of them, and some solitude would do them both well. “I’ll see you ‘round. Stop by again.” And Micah turned away, lips rolling to a thin line before he signalled for another drink, shoulders hunched up as he thought.