![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedA sad/bittersweet one.
In memory of mountain music master Dr. Ralph Stanley, 1927-2016
Title: I'll Fly Away, Oh Glory
Rating: G
Warnings: Character Death, Funerals, Songfic
Summary: The secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go. Not always so easy for those left behind - but music helps. Someone beloved finally flies away.
“I know you don’t believe. I know you don’t feel that. I know what you’re feelin’ really hurts, though,” John said. For just a moment he let his hand rest on the small of Sherlock’s back, stole a glance at those keen green-grey eyes dimmed with unshed tears. Still stunning. Enhanced not diminished by the lines around them and the salt-and-pepper of his brows. “But I think it’ll help to play for her one more time. She never got tired of hearing us.”
Sherlock allowed himself a quiet shiver, and then his mask arose and his spine straightened. Though his heart was breaking, he had a task to see through.
The church was packed, standing room only, but Sherlock and John truly saw only a few people. Martha Hudson herself, asleep in her bed of flowers, and her caretaker Violet Lestrade standing by the casket. Violet’s mother Molly (née Hooper) hugged her and glanced at her husband who waited on the bandstand.
Out of their little band it was John who’d turned out to have the high-lonesome tenor that could wail like winds through tombs. But they kept her favorite old hymn joyous, as she would have wanted: John’s guitar strolling, Sherlock’s fiddle soaring, and Lestrade’s still-nimble fingers leading the charge to heaven on his banjo.
You need this:
In memory of mountain music master Dr. Ralph Stanley, 1927-2016
Title: I'll Fly Away, Oh Glory
Rating: G
Warnings: Character Death, Funerals, Songfic
Summary: The secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go. Not always so easy for those left behind - but music helps. Someone beloved finally flies away.
“I know you don’t believe. I know you don’t feel that. I know what you’re feelin’ really hurts, though,” John said. For just a moment he let his hand rest on the small of Sherlock’s back, stole a glance at those keen green-grey eyes dimmed with unshed tears. Still stunning. Enhanced not diminished by the lines around them and the salt-and-pepper of his brows. “But I think it’ll help to play for her one more time. She never got tired of hearing us.”
Sherlock allowed himself a quiet shiver, and then his mask arose and his spine straightened. Though his heart was breaking, he had a task to see through.
The church was packed, standing room only, but Sherlock and John truly saw only a few people. Martha Hudson herself, asleep in her bed of flowers, and her caretaker Violet Lestrade standing by the casket. Violet’s mother Molly (née Hooper) hugged her and glanced at her husband who waited on the bandstand.
Out of their little band it was John who’d turned out to have the high-lonesome tenor that could wail like winds through tombs. But they kept her favorite old hymn joyous, as she would have wanted: John’s guitar strolling, Sherlock’s fiddle soaring, and Lestrade’s still-nimble fingers leading the charge to heaven on his banjo.
You need this:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-06-26 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-27 06:26 am (UTC)