Sherlock Holmes likes red.
Red is the colour of blood, of crimson splashes on cold concrete floors.
Red is the colour of viscera, of the most intimate part of a body, the part only visible after a particularly gruesome and violent death.
Red can tell a story, from the bruise patterns on the victim's wrists, to the russet stains along the windowsill, to the trickle of scarlet in the corner of the corpse's mouth.
Red is the colour his beloved violin turns in the firelight. The flickering gold darkens the polished wood, making it shine with reflected flames.
Red brings the instrument alight and alive and inspires him to coax out warm notes and gentle melodies.
Later, when the street outside is asleep and the streetlamps burn dully yellow, the coals glow red and he might doze in the warmth and safety of home.
Red is the colour of danger, of fighting and adrenaline and winning.
Red is the colour of a mysterious gunshot wound, of theatre curtains and Chinatown.
Red is the stab of fear and betrayal, of bombs and madmen and sniper laser sights.
Her lipstick was red.
Red is a nightmare beast, eyes glowing with evil and malice through the fog.
Red is the Crown Jewels from the Tower, the velvet of a throne, the stripes on a baseball cap.
Red was blood spilled over the pavement, from his head, from his heart.
Red was fear and risks and fighting and fighting and adrenaline and hiding and winning.
But red was also hope, and anticipation, and more than a little apprehension.
Red was the courage it took to open the door, and walk into the room, and announce to the world that you were, in fact, not as dead as it thought you were.
Red was a flare of anger and a fist to your jaw.
Red was tears.
Red was apologies.
Red was a revelation.
Red was fervent kisses, with teeth and tongues and swollen, bitten lips.
Red was passion, which had been sown long ago but was only blooming now.
Red was a low moan, and the rough drag of ill-fitting jeans over sensitive skin.
Red was a delicate flush over their skin, was the marks left by short nails on pale flesh, and was a purpling bruise on a slender neck.
Red was gasps and whimpers and the slick slide of skin on skin.
Red was oh, and more, and oh god, and yes yes yes, and please, and JOHN!
Red was a whispered promise in the dark, and a silent (but no less understood) promise returned.
Most people, if asked, would say that Sherlock would be a cold colour, icy like his eyes, or unfeeling like the marble of his skin.
But there are a select few, very few, who know much better.
Sherlock would be the colour of adventure, of passion and mystery and brilliance.
Red.