AN: Yay! So here we are with the Third Installment in the Colour of Light series. I just want to say how much I appreciate how many favs and follows I've gotten on this little 'verse. You guys are fantastic, and as always I love your feedback. Thanks again! xx Honey

Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters and events belong to Moff, Gat, and the BBC.

PS Un-beta ed


Blindness and Bad Luck

Red.

Dark red pooling on the sand as she lay there in the desert face down. It was the last thing she saw before she woke up burning with fever in a tent somewhere in Kubal and the world was Grey.

Red.

Dark red pooling on the floor of the classroom, eerily familiar. She had shot the cabbie in almost the same place where the bullet hit her. The irony wasn't lost on her, even in her nightmares.

Maybe that's why when she woke up after that night she lost all of the colours again as if they were bleeding out onto the floor.

Well, almost all of the colours. For some reason, the colour Blue remained. She didn't know what to make of it, but at least it was some sort of comfort that she hadn't lost them all. The part of her brain that almost always remained lucid during her night terrors reminded her that even if the colours were all off, it was better than seeing the crimson of blood as it arced and spattered over her head and the pain in Bill's green eyes as the bullet passed through him and into her, again and again and again…

Jane surges upright in her bed gasping, and for a moment she panics because the sheets have twisted themselves around her legs. She fights the unnamed foe — the desert landscape of Afghanistan still burning behind her eyes — by kicking her legs wildly as she tries to tear herself free. She manages to knock into the bedside table, and in a flailing mess she ends up on the floor with a loud thud.

As her racing heart slows she registers that she's safe in her room back at Baker Street. She blows out a long breath, and thunks her forehead against the wood floor.

"Marvellous," she groans.

"Jane?" Sherlock's voice comes from the other side of the door, and her head snaps up.

"Yeah?"

"All right?" he asks.

"Yep, er, yes," she says scrambling to an upright position. "Fine!"

"I heard a rather loud crash." Oh he must be a detective or something! she thinks wryly.

"Nope. Everything's fine," she says again and curses as she bangs her knee on the dresser. She hears a muffled snigger. "Did you need something, Sherlock?" she asks with mild irritation.

"We're out of milk," he says from behind the door, and she hears him turn and make his way back down the stairs. She represses a sigh of the long suffering, and looks at herself in the mirror. A sharp piercing wail of a violin rings out downstairs, making her grimace.

"They warned you," Jane chides her reflection. "They all bloody well warned you, but no you thought it would be a good idea to move in with an eccentric genius." She runs her fingers through her blonde hair trying to comb through some of the worst snarls, and snatching her robe, makes her way to the bathroom for a scalding hot shower.

Or it would have been a scalding hot shower had Sherlock not used up all of the bloody hot water.

She hisses as the icy water hits her skin and prays to whatever deity is listening for patience. Today was going to be one of those days. One of those 'Murphy's Law' conundrums. If her Grand-merè were here she would have given her the rabbits foot she kept for such occasions to carry around with her all day. Jane shirks at the memory. Then almost slips on a bar of Sherlock's poncy soap. She vows to be more careful the rest of the day. The rest of the week if she's being honest.

She comes out of the bathroom hair still wet and shivering lightly, making a bee-line for the kettle. Tea would surely be the thing to warm her up. She opens the fridge just as Sherlock's bored voice comes from the sitting room.

"We're out of milk," he says from his armchair, turning a page in the book he was reading.

"Yes, so you've said," Jane grumbles. And closes the fridge.

"Oh you did hear me," Sherlock says and looks up. She tilts her head, and he rolls his eyes. "Well are you going to do something about it?"

She glares. "Are your legs broken, then? Is that the reason you couldn't get your own bloody milk in the twenty minutes I've been in the shower?"

"Don't be so obtuse, Jane. Of course I'm capable of getting milk. But I can't just now."

"If you wanted me to do you a favour you need only say please. Do you have a client or something?" Jane asks, some of the edge fading from her voice. She pops the last two slices of bread into the toaster and makes a mental note to pick up more when she goes out, because apparently, she is.

"Mm. Something like that. The Jaria Diamond. It's gone missing…" he trails off and glances down at his phone. He jumps up from his seat at the same moment the toast pings, and Jane goes to grab it when she's suddenly being manhandled into her coat and pushed towards the door by her mad flatmate.

"Hey what —?"

"You really ought to be going now Jane. Beat the traffic. The morning London crowd is the worst."

"I was planning on walking!" Jane says as she's steered down the stairs.

"Oh. Well. I need the milk for an experiment, then." He opens the front door and ushers her out. She manages to shrug him off.

"All right, all right!" She tugs her rumpled jacket back into place, fuming. "You're especially bossy this morning," she remarks and starts to pull her hair back when she realises she doesn't have a hair tie. Before she can even think about going back for one, Sherlock holds one up to her with a smirk. She snatches it from him and snaps the elastic into place. "So do you need —?"

"Just milk!" Sherlock says and slams the front door in her face.

"Prat," she huffs and makes her way to Tesco.

-oOo-

Sherlock thought Jane would never leave. He was cutting it short as it was, and playing it casual was a lot harder than he thought. He admitted in the end he was perhaps a bit hasty, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he rushes back up the stairs to the flat.

His mobile chimes again, and he opens the text:

Your assassin is en route. Expect him in under ten minutes. Are you sure you don't need intervention? He seems to have an affinity for swords.
M

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and types out:

Yes. Quite sure. Mind your own business, Mycroft.
SH

Then, with anticipation thick in his blood, he takes a seat in his chair and proceeds to wait. (The Game is on.)

-oOo-

An hour and a half later Jane bursts into the flat, her hair in a disarray and positively filled with blood lust for certain automated check out stands, because really, who the fuck thought they were saving anyone any time with those infernal machines anyway? After painstakingly leaving the queue four times to go back and get something that Sherlock decided he needed after all (We're out of rubber gloves, Jane. SH - Used up the hydrogen peroxide. SH - Would be prudent to pick up more washing up liquid. SH - and finally Hobnobs. Please. SH) she had then proceeded to lose her temper with the cheery sounding machine much to the chagrin of the other customers behind her. And then, ohthen, the cheeky thing wouldn't accept her card after she finally managed to get everything to bloody scan.

So, really, she couldn't be blamed for being a bit tetchy when she walked in and found her flatmate right where she left him, having barely moved at all. The infuriating wanker.

Jane stands in the door expectantly fighting the strong urge to stamp her foot like a child. Sherlock doesn't even deign to look up.

"You took your time," he says flipping a page. "Did you get the milk?"

"No, I didn't get your ruddy milk," she says and goes in to the kitchen to see if her toast from earlier was still around. Cold toast was better than no toast after all. But of course the only evidence of her breakfast was found in the crumbs on the counter and the neglected jam. Jane puts the lid back on with more force than necessary and puts the jar back in the fridge. (Honestly, how hard is that?) She tries to summon her last shred of patience.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock asks from behind her making her jump.

"Because. I had a row, in the shop, with the chip-and-PIN machine!" she says her voice rising to a shout by the end.

Sherlock takes a brief step back, and arches a sarcastic eyebrow. "You got in a fight with a machine?"

"Well…more like shouted abuse at it until I was forced to leave," she says raising her chin.

"Jane Watson," he admonishes. "Did you actually get evicted from a public place of business? I am a bad influence on you. If you're not careful you could wind up with an ASBO."

"They didn't throw me out, you clot. Card wouldn't work. Do you have cash?"

Sherlock smirks and grabs his wallet off the kitchen table. "Take my card." He holds it up to her, and she snatches it.

"Y'know. You could do the shopping yourself for a change. You've barely moved since I've left. And what about the missing diamond case? Did the client come by?"

"Not interested," Sherlock says and makes his way out into the sitting room. He picks up a saber that was sitting on Jane's chair and admires it. Jane eyes it suspiciously, but decides not to comment.

"Not interested? How can that not be interesting? You know, spies, 'Diamonds Are Forever' that sort of thing," she says.

"Diamonds are forever? That sounds familiar, where have I heard it?" Sherlock says and thumps the saber down at his feet with his hands folded over the hilt. With a cap and an eye patch he could pass as a pirate. The thought makes her smirk.

"James Bond." He blinks at her in bewilderment. "Oh my god. You've never seen a James Bond movie have you?"

"Jane, of the wealth of information I have stored in my MindPalace, pop culture is most definitely in the dungeon being tortured mercilessly." He smiles good-naturedly. "You really should be going. There is still a deplorable lack of milk in the flat." He flicks her pony tail off of her shoulder so it swings behind her. She huffs.

"All right. But you are going to sit through a Bond film with me if it's the last thing I do. You never know it might come in handy one day."

"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffs and slides the saber into the stand with the fireplace poker. He flops down in his armchair and tents his fingers, and Jane knows that it would be pointless to get anything else out of him. And because the shopping still needs to get done she heads back out for the second time.

-oOo-

"Bored," Sherlock moans to no one in particular. It took him a moment to realise that he was alone in the flat. (How long does it take to do the shopping anyway?) If Jane were here she would complain and tell him that she wasn't there for his entertainment and then proceed to entertain him anyway by asking him about his latest experiment or reading aloud to him an interesting fact from one of her medical journals.

At first he found these things annoying, never having had anyone like her around. But then the line between annoying and expected began to blur, and if he were ever honest with himself, he was secretly pleased when she prodded and pestered. She took it upon herself to take care of him when too many days went by and he forgot to eat. Or when his frantic mind spiraled out of control and kept him awake for hours and hours she would come downstairs and listen to him play his violin until she fell asleep in the arm chair that she quickly adopted as hers. He didn't know if she knew this, but lulling her to sleep was sometimes the only thing that eased the tempest in his mind. It was…nice having her around.

But also strange. For example, the bathroom smelled nicer than it ever had before which for all of Sherlock's deductive prowess couldn't explain. It wasn't as if she had an over abundance of lotions or hair products that women were typically wont to have. Jane had no need for anything other than the practical. (Unlike his last female flatmate. Seriously who needed that many brands of hand soap?) Sherlock just figured it was a constant for girls to just smell nice all the time.

He sighs and unfolds himself from his chair and walks into the bathroom. Sure enough it smells like mint from the toothpaste they both share, and a vague scent of…apples. He spins around and picks up Jane's bottle of shampoo and inspects it. It's the same brand she always uses, and he knows it smells like lemon and roses. He flicks open the cap anyway and sniffs. He can't help but smirk. This was becoming a game of sorts, and he clicks the bottle closed and continues his search for the mysterious aroma.

The medicine cabinet held nothing new, and neither did the drawers. He leaves the bathroom and follows the smell of apples — no apple blossom — up the stairs to Jane's room. There on the small dressing table, he spots the culprit: a small bottle of hand crème.

"Aha. Getting a bit frivolous aren't we, Jane?" he says and twists off the cap. He inhales deeply, the airy scent filling his nostrils. That didn't last very long, but at least it distracted him from the boredom for a short time. He puts his hands on his hips and stands in the middle of the room and huffs out an annoyed breath.

That's when he notices.

Jane's bed, usually fastidiously made down to the very last hospital corner, was a disaster. The sheets were tangled and dipping to the floor, and the duvet was crumpled unceremoniously in a ball at the foot. He gets closer and sees that the nightstand is in disarray, the lamp shade crooked and an old glass of water tipped over. He rights the glass, his mind working. (Ah yes. Nightmare. Of course.)

Wait. Jane was having nightmares?

Oh.

Sometimes he forgets these things about Jane, forgets that her very nature is contradictory. The healer, and the warrior. The saviour and the avenger. SoldierDoctor. DoctorSoldier.

He sits on the side of her bed, bouncing a bit, and stretches out on his back with his hands clasped over his stomach. He tries to picture what goes through her head during her nightmares, and his eyes trace the crack in her ceiling.

Sherlock knows he used to dream before...before his experimentation with recreational substances burnt it out of him. He doesn't remember when the dreams stopped, only that he became aware of the blackness after he had gotten sober. The fact never bothered him before, but this new data about Jane fascinates him. He wonders if she would be amenable to telling him about them in the future. Or…there was always the scientific approach. (An interesting possibility which requires further examination to be sure.)

He heaves himself up and looks around the room once more. He smiles when he spies her red laptop.

"Let's see if you managed to stump me this time," he chuckles and makes his way downstairs, computer tucked under his arm.

Sherlock flicks through his emails when a name he hasn't heard in years catches his eye: Sebastian Wilkes. He frowns, unsure whether or not to open it, and his eyes flick to the skull on the mantle. The subject line reads, A Proposition, and his nose wrinkles in distaste before his clicks it.

"Don't worry about me!" Jane's voice rings out from the hall. "I can manage!" She bangs into the kitchen, her arms laden with bright yellow shopping bags.

"Well if you're sure," Sherlock grunts, and opens a separate window.

"Sarcasm, Sherlock," Jane huffs, and piles the groceries onto the counter. "Here's your bloody milk by the way. The price of it's gone up again so try to make it last," she frets and crams it into the fridge. She comes out into the sitting room and blows a breath out through her mouth that makes her fringe fly up. Sherlock glances at her, and her eyes narrow. "Is that my computer?"

"Of course," he says and starts to type.

"What? Why are you using mine? Again."

"Yours was more convenient."

"Mine was upstairs," she says and strides over to slam it shut. "Prat. It is password protected."

"Come on, Jane. 'GoawaySherlock' is hardly Fort Knox."

She grumbles and makes her way over to her chair, when she backtracks suddenly and inspects the dagger embedded in the mantle piece. "Sherlock are these the bills?"

"Mm?" he says not really paying attention. He folds his hands and rests his chin on top.

"Some of these are alarmingly close to being past due!" she says as she releases them from where they were pinned. She sighs heavily and sinks down into her chair. "Need to get a job."

Her resigned tone snaps Sherlock out of his reverie. "Why would you do something like that?" he asks.

"Bills, Sherlock! I don't know about you, but I am rather fond of our electricity and occasionally eating food from time to time."

"Eating. Dull."

"Well maybe for you, but not for me," she sighs and bites her bottom lip like she does when she's worried or nervous. Suddenly his mind is made up. He knows Sebastian is in investments, and the email did mention an incentive. Not like such things mattered to him, but they obviously mattered to Jane. If only to get her to stop fretting (which was annoying by the way) he figured it wouldn't hurt to…take a look around.

"The bank," he states getting to his feet.

"Sorry?" Jane says pausing with a bill in each hand, her brow furrowed.

"I need to go to the bank," he says and hauls her out of the flat by her wrist.


AN: I just have to say I've had guys roommates before and they've admitted to going through my smelly things simply because they couldn't understand why I had to smell so good all the time. Boys are weird. This is how I picture Sherlock being hah.

And like before I will be updating underlined words to chapters in my Afters collection, so stay tuned!