The world was drab, colourless. Shadows abounded all around. The colors had bled away and left behind a perpetual state of grey interspersed with nightmares in red. All life and purpose drained away and left an aching wound in his chest. Left him yearning for the life of excitement and danger that had been so swiftly and cruelly ripped away by that small shard of death that left it's mark on his shoulder.

His life was taken from him, and he was left no compass, no map with which to forge a new path for himself. The brothers he had made in blood, sweat, and sand were with him no more. Do they still remember me? Best not dwell on that; it was no more.

His listless attitude annoyed his therapist, but what did it matter? there was nothing interesting or worthwhile to do. He lost all willpower and understanding. All anyone ever saw in him was failure. He had Failed to save his brethren, to recuperate when he did not die when he should have, was supposed to die. He failed to overcome a stupid limp; even a tremour in his hand gave him problems. What kind of soldier was he now? All his therapist ever gave him was pity. What good does pity do? It does not return his brothers to life, does not bring back purpose, can't even fix his leg.

The day was dull, same as every other for the past months. Every action the same; every thought was an echo of previous thoughts. The very picture of walking brain death. His session had been more tense than normal. He didn't need any pity, didn't want it, didn't deserve it. But that was all his therapist gave him. He needed to go somewhere new. Someplace not part of his routine.

He was walking down Russell Square Park when old memories resurfaced in the face of a previous acquaintance. Mike Stamford. His boisterous personality did not seem to have dulled with time. His presence provided a startling flash of colour to the permeating grey of the world. Now there seemed to be flashes of yellow, bringing slight hope with it.

"Who would want me for a flatmate?"
"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Now there was orange as well. Curiosity.

Barts did not look like it had changed much. Sure the tech was newer, but the overall feel was the same. The familiarity softened the harsh edges of his surroundings. Memories flitted in the corners of his consciousness, a little bit of the veil that had settled over his life dispersed, bringing muted colors reminiscent of a sepia film.

They both entered a lab.
"Bit different from my day."
A well dressed, black-haired man was sitting at a microscope.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"
The man's voice rolled through the air in dark blue ripples.
"Here, use mine."
In the wake of his movements there was colour. Bright, living. His touch brings a rush of warmth and a sense of purpose which threw him for a loop, that he almost missed the question carelessly thrown at him.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The flash or red and pain startled him back into the grey reality, the colours, though they had been faint, were completely and utterly gone.

An unwarranted fury rose up in his chest, but he stamped it down. Apparently that was not enough as a litte bit bled through in the conversation, but the other man did not seem to mind, if his attitude was anything to go by. This man must be a genius to pick upon Afghanistan and his "brother", or a complete psychopath judging by his comment of "I need to pick up my riding crop in the mortuary."

Still, this did not help the fact that this man had returned is world to grayscale. John felt the hope that had slowly grown stagnate, and a small, cold ball of fury settled in his gut, yet strangely, the man, Sherlock Holmes, seemed enticing.

The next day, for lack of anything better to do, he arrived at Baker Street at the appropriate time. The area, much nicer than he had been expecting, was in a busy section of town. Right as he was about to ring the bell, Sherlock Holmes arrived in a flurry of his long black coat. John could have been mistaken, but he swore he saw a faint tinge of blue amongst the black.

The flat was nice, could be nice as it was filled with the scattered belongings of Holmes that seemed to be a sad parody of John's own life.

"Would you like to see some more?"
"Oh god yes."

His life had become a hectic chase. It left him no time to contemplate what drastic changes had happened over the several months since returning from combat. There was usually something happening, if not a case, then an experiment.

He had just typed up the case he titled "The Blind Banker". As he sat back in his chair, he thought over what had happened to his life. Suddenly he noticed the colours. They had come back! He was like a blind man who saw for the first time. The rush of colours almost overwhelmed him as he realized that he was no longer the broken, blind soldier. He was healed by non other than Sherlock Holmes himself. And John Hamish Watson made a vow to stay with said Sherlock Holmes through thick and thin. To be the calming brown to his boisterous and hectic hurricane of blue.

"John, we're out of milk again."
Well, calming, no. More like the dam that held the hurricane at bay from destroying all of London.
"Again! I thought I just bought some?!"

So, opinions? There is the possibility of a sequel, but its not cooperating at this moment, so it might take a while. Still, hope you enjoyed it!