I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Outside 221B, the day is bright and sunny. Children wear floppy hats, their parents tying the strings beneath their chins to protect fair hair and freckled faces from the sun. Teenagers lounge lazily in groups, a rainbow of T-shirts glorifying various bands arrayed upon them as the groups mix and mingle, old friendships turning to new relationships and new rivalries. Lovers wrap themselves around one another, wanting nothing more than to kiss in the golden light before it fades to evening and the city becomes a clash of old lamplight and new neon, buzzing with motors and music and the heady heartbeat of a London night.
Inside 221B, the blinds are drawn. The sunlight barely filters in around the edges, just enough for John to make out the dim outlines of a flask here, a retort stand there, a… no, he doesn't even want to know what horrible thing Sherlock has stashed in the corner this time. The half-dark helps him not to have to know. The apartment is quiet, not even a breath of air to stir the thin layer of dust that lies over everything that does not currently hold Sherlock's interest. The dust, the darkness, everything contributes to the grey-brown gloom that fills the flat.
But John doesn't see it this way.
To him, outside 221B, the world is humdrum. Yes, there are bright colours, cars, clouds, other people. It is a perfect holiday Sunday, some might say. But to John, it is all the same colours, the same patterns, over and over again. Another child with a sunburnt nose. Another teenager distraught over a boy she barely knew two days ago. Another lover unaware of his partner's indiscretions. It's all the same and John has seen it all before. The sunlight is too bright, and everything washes away in it. All John can see is white.
But inside 221B, John finds colour. The flash of electricity in Sherlock's grey eyes when his experiments are going particularly well. The crimson of the scarf he never wears, because John once said the blue one brings out his eyes. The green of… no, not that, John doesn't want to know what's in that beaker, and he especially doesn't want to know why it seems to be bubbling out of the beaker and onto the dining table, in John's favourite spot, naturally.
"Sherlock!"
And his detective comes flying down the stairs, for no reason other than that Sherlock is incapable of doing anything without dramatics, and John sees all the colours there at once, fire and ice and life, and the rest of the world pales in comparison, fades away to nothingness.
It doesn't matter what's outside 221B Baker Street. John knows that all that is best and brightest in his world is right here, right in front of him. And if John opens up the blinds to let a little of the sunlight in, it is only so that he can see more clearly, because he doesn't want to miss a single detail.