Hummingbird (OPEN/casual)

Lestrade rarely took walks. He had when he was in California, where it was always warm, but here it was different. The masses of people and the cold winds turned Lestrade against the appeal of taking a leisurely stroll outdoors. But today he was bored. For the first time in ages he had a day off, and despite his always being busy while at work, he had finished his uncharteristically small amount of papers already today (he rather suspected that a few of his collegues had let him of easy). He’d called his brother this morning, had a short chat, and suddenly he wasn’t sure what to do with himself (there was no point in phoning his daughter at this hour, for she would be in school). He hadn’t had a full day off in at least a few weeks, and even those times, he’d been called in before a full twenty-four hours. Lestrade half expected some criminal to pop up at any moment, because this peace of mind? It was almost frusterating.

So he went for a walk. Bundling himself into the one coat he owned (living in California does that to a person) he stepped outside of the flat which he currently roomed in and set to walking around the city. It was uncomfortable, being around so many people at once; all the crowds and individuals and noise. It was overwhelming, how each person had an individual story, some very predictable, similar, some not. But how could there be so many different lives? There was always the horrifying, lingering question of, ‘Is this real? If I die, what will happen?’ Lestrade tried not to think about death too often – though being a man who’s job mainly revolved around investigating murders, that was rather hard – and even less often, his on death.

He had been walking for about ten minutes, getting a bit chilly and starting to wonder if he should head back and just spend the day watching crap telly like a normale person, when he heard a noise. Well, not a noise, rather than a song. It was a nice tune, and Lestrade found himself walking towards the source. He soon found himself standing in front of a young man, sitting on a short, stone wall that surrounded a fountain.

The boy was playing guitar, quite nicely, and humming along. Lestrade stood there, listening to the music, before reaching into his pocket and taking out the meager amount that he found there. Three dollars and thirty-five cents. Good enough. He threw the notes into the guitar case lying nearby, along with the quarter and dime, wich made loud clinking noises against the case, though muffled.

“That’s good music,” he said simply, and though he would’ve walked on, he decided to stand and listen for minute more. No harm done in listening, was there?