Sometimes Sherlock likes to think in colours.
In the confusing world of human character and emotion, colours provide an effective organising system free of the ambiguity of simple labels. Happy, sad, angry… the words change and the meanings differ, but people are always true to their colours.
There's Greg Lestrade, a faithful combination of gun-metal grey backed solidly by a deep, constant blue.
Mrs. Hudson is the sticky sweet caramel of baked goods and lukewarm tea, matched somewhat dubiously with a splotchy plum purple.
And then there is Sally Donovan, coloured in a swampy green which underpins her every action, shifting seamlessly between jealousy, disgust and hatred.
Molly Hooper - naive, doe-eyed Molly - is presented as a relatively average set of pale tans, pinks and yellows. Occasionally a flash of sun will shine through, accompanied by a streak of red; a rouge blush staining her nature. Sherlock muses that perhaps Molly's colours would be considered pretty ones, both harmonious and calming - at least, that is, to someone who took the time to care.
And then there is John Watson.
John is red - passionate, fiery and warm. John is the soft basking of firelight; a constant, comfortable presence, warming those near and pushing away encroaching shadow. John is a red-hot temper and fiery words, spitting and scorching before fizzling into the dull red glow of disappointment.
And John is the red of blood - the blood of patients, the blood of victims, and the red of the blood which runs through Sherlock's veins. Something he hopelessly relies upon; a support system so central to his very being that he takes it for granted.
So it's no wonder, Sherlock concedes, that in the face of such vibrant, consuming colour, all else would fade. Not fade in actuality, of course, but rather... fade in comparison. For what use is a putrid green or weak yellow in the face of such a complex, multi-faceted shade?
And as for the detective himself - Sherlock considers that he is colourless. He lacks even the greys and blacks of normality, and instead inhabits a world painted by others - the facts, the work, the people. He is a void, a blank slate, a mere phantom as he slips between the gaps in colour. Observing, learning and manipulating, but always separate from those halos of predictability. Because people are always true to their colours and the colours are his to see, but never own.
There was no doubt then in Sherlock's calculating mind that his bright flame, his guider of light, his very flesh and blood wasn't always going to be around. It was inevitable that John Watson was going to pack up and leave, lending his rich reds and warm tones to the life of another, and abandoning Sherlock to his fading and monotone existence.
Because people are always true to their colours, and Sherlock knows that the flame cannot flourish in the void.
A prologue of sorts - definitely more on the way.
Reviews are appreciated, helpful feedback worshipped.
Note - trigger warning for later chapters.
