Note: written for the supernatural contest on fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic dot tumblr dot com, which is just about the greatest blog in the world. Seriously, if you're not following it, you're missing out on some great recommendations.

Oh, and thanks to Xistential Angst, kali_asleep, and heretherebefandom for their incredible beta work!

...

We Bleed into the Grey

...

It wasn't until Sherlock was five years old that he realised he was different.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. His entrance into primary school had made it glaringly apparent that he was light years ahead of his peers—and quite a few of the faculty members—in terms of intelligence. In that sense, he already knew he wasn't like the other boys. What he was yet to realise, however, was not everyone saw the world precisely as he did.

Sherlock was with his mother when it happened. They were strolling through the extensive garden in the back of Holmes Manor. Her hand felt hot and uncomfortably moist in his, but he dutifully held it. The light exercise was all Mummy could handle with her failing health. This was the first time in days she hadn't had doctors hovering around her like gnats. Sherlock hated them with all the tiny ferocity a child his age could manage. They always talked in hushed tones when he was around and looked at him with obvious pity. Even at his tender age he understood his mother was already dead to them.

He squeezed Mummy's hand tighter, ignoring the unpleasant combination of the heat and her feverish skin. London was currently enjoying a string of unseasonably sunny days, and Sherlock was more than willing to take advantage of the chance to play outside. The sky was deep blue and dotted with fluffy clouds like dollops of frosting. The breeze carried the sweet perfume of flowering trees. Thick, lush grass rolled out in front of them like a green carpet.

Sherlock spotted their groundskeeper up ahead, standing next to the ivy-covered gazebo that was their destination. He was hunched over an azalea bush, a large pair of pruning shears glinting in his hands. The only other person in sight was a maid with a wicker basket of laundry at her feet. There were white linens hanging on the clothing line in front of her, snapping in the wind.

Sherlock studied them both as they trudged slowly closer. Mummy was panting slightly, though her perfect posture and level chin never wavered. She got tired more and more quickly these days. Sherlock cast about for something he could say to distract her. An idea popped into his head almost immediately.

"The groundskeeper and the maid don't like each other." He smiled excitedly. This was a favourite game of theirs.

Mummy smiled back and asked, as she always did, "Who told you that, Sherlock?"

"No one told me. I saw it." Mummy was usually so pleased when he knew things he wasn't supposed to, and this time was no exception. The lines around her eyes smoothed, and for the first time in days her sallow skin took on a hint of colour.

"And what did you see?"

Normally he would explain about the smudge of ink or telltale food stain that had led him to his conclusion, but in this instance the answer was much simpler. "He's orange and she's blue. Oranges never get along with blues."

Mummy stopped walking abruptly, and Sherlock's hand was wrenched from hers. When he looked up, her lips were pursed in a way that always meant something serious had happened.

"What do you mean by that, Sherlock?"

He blinked, his thick black eyelashes falling like curtains over his eyes. "I mean just what I said. I've never met an orange who got on with a blue, and there are loads of them at school."

He must have said something wrong, because the lines were back on Mummy's face, and now she had one digging between her eyebrows. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Why do you think the groundskeeper is 'orange'?"

Sherlock waved his hand in a frustrated way. "Because he just is. Can't you see it? It's all around him, and the maid has blue around her."

Mummy had grown still, and Sherlock's exasperation was quickly replaced with fear. She was looking at him the way the boys at school did when he told them the things he shouldn't know but did. He tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, but he couldn't help but feel like she was deciding something about him.

"Why haven't you mentioned this before?" she finally asked, her voice quiet. "If you see things around people, why haven't you said so?"

"I didn't know you couldn't see it too. I thought everyone could." He shifted from foot to foot. "Am I in trouble?"

Mummy sighed, deflating slightly like a balloon, and rubbed her temples. When she finally looked at him again, her expression was carefully neutral. Sherlock had learnt to tread with caution when Mummy had that look on her face. It meant she could just as easily be furious as pleased. "No, you're not in trouble. I just wish you'd told me sooner. We'll need to consult an expert about your . . . condition. You have to understand, Sherlock. There are people in this world who can do and see things that others can't. You're one of those people."

Sherlock frowned. He already knew he saw more than most people did, but he had a feeling that wasn't what Mummy meant. "Is that bad?"

"No, it's just—well, different." She saw the look on his face and quickly amended herself, "It's unique, Sherlock. It means you're special."

Mummy started walking again. When she retook his hand the gesture was deliberate, as if she were proving something to herself. She didn't ask him any more questions about the colours, but when they returned to the house, she went immediately into Father's study and shut the door.

The next morning, a new doctor appeared at Holmes Manor. This one, however, was for Sherlock.

…

If Sherlock could change one thing about himself, he'd get rid of his hateful ability.

Abilities were rare as it was. Only about one in a million people had one. They stemmed from a recessive gene that had sprung up about half a century ago, and while everyone else thought they were a godsend, Sherlock could only bemoan what he considered his own personal curse. It'd be a different story if he'd got one of the useful ones, like telekinesis or clairvoyance. But no, fate couldn't be arsed to be as kind as that. He had to end up with the most useless ability imaginable.

Sherlock could see auras.

They were irritating to say the least: obtrusive blobs that seemed designed to be as cumbersome as possible. They hovered mere inches above the skin but were constantly in motion, shifting and sloshing about like water. Sherlock had watched one once that had reminded him of a lava lamp with the way it ballooned into separate globs only to suck them back in a moment later. Most of them were fairly muted in colour, but more often than he'd like Sherlock was assaulted by violent shades of neon encircling people like clouds.

The only interesting thing about them was that no two were ever the same. He'd seen veritable forests of green and every tint of sapphire imaginable, but they were always at least a shade off from one another.

He supposed it made sense, in a way. If every living human could have a unique set of fingerprints, why couldn't this be unique as well? Still, it annoyed him that he even had to waste brain space on it. If he weren't confronted with its existence on a daily basis, he'd delete everything he knew about his ability.

He'd studied the auras eagerly at first. The specialist his mother had called in when he was a child had trained him to see their texture and shape in addition to colour. Everyone had assumed they would eventually discover some grand meaning behind them, some life-altering truth that could be divined about the human condition. His mother had died still thinking that, and Sherlock had wasted years conducting experiments, trying to determine what their purpose was.

Eventually he'd been forced to admit the truth.

The only function the auras served was to indicate what sort of relationship two individuals could have with one another, be it friendship, romantic love, or even hatred. They never changed, as far as he could tell, and he'd never met anyone with a black or white aura.

While some found the study of auras fascinating, Sherlock thought his Sight was no more useful than a mood ring. He could occasionally amuse himself by telling couples on their first dates that they were destined for failure (his aura was bright red while hers was pastel green—obvious) but otherwise his ability was pointless. The most it ever accomplished was indicating the state of someone's marriage, and he could get that from a single look at their wedding ring.

There was, however, a more personal reason why he held his ability in such contempt.

The people who knew about his Sight—and they were a small group indeed—always asked him the same question: could he see his own aura?

He'd lied to every last one of them, and they'd all thankfully believed him (though he'd wondered on several occasions if Mycroft wasn't simply indulging him.)

The truth was he could see his aura crackling around him every minute of his waking day.

And he had the dullest one he'd ever seen.

It barely even constituted the term "colour". It was a lifeless, muddy grey, like used dishwater, and it mocked him with its plainness. How was it that Sherlock—a genius with a rapier wit and more natural gifts than anyone else he knew—had the most boring aura in the world?

That was the final evidence, in his opinion, that auras served absolutely no practical function. He'd be better off if he could cut out his ability like a tumor. He resolved to pay it as little heed as was humanly possible.

It would be several years before he'd fully appreciate just how wrong he was.

…

"It wouldn't kill you, you know."

Sherlock glanced irritably up from the case file in his hands. All he needed was ten minutes of quiet to go over the details, and even that was apparently asking too much. Lestrade was sat behind his desk, smiling at him in an easy way that he knew was entirely feigned. Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat across from him before wordlessly returning to the file.

Lestrade, however, was not to be deterred. "Come out to the pub with me, Sherlock. I've told some of the lads about you, and they're all eager to meet you. It'll be good for you. You spend too much time alone."

Sherlock bristled slightly but managed to keep it from showing on his face. "What did you tell them about me?"

Lestrade, for once, caught on quickly. He held his palms up in what was supposed to be a soothing gesture. "Not that, no. They don't know about that. I would never—"

"Your wife doesn't love you anymore." Sherlock turned a page calmly, his voice perfectly controlled. "In fact, I'm surprised she ever did." When he looked up, his eyes were icy. He studied the air around Lestrade, knowing the other man knew precisely what he was looking at. Lestrade's aura buzzed softly around him. He had one of the more modest ones: a rich chestnut colour with just a hint of bronze. "You asked me about your aura once but you never inquired after your wife. Is that because you were afraid of what I'd tell you?"

Lestrade was silent, staring down at his desk with a clenched jaw. Sherlock expected him to be angry, but instead he just looked sad.

Sherlock felt a sharp pang in his chest. He knew Lestrade was only trying to help. Sherlock lived alone, had no friends and had never been in a relationship. No wonder people assumed he was lonely.

Sherlock bit back the words that were bubbling up in his throat. He couldn't stand the thought of being pitied.

He closed the file with a snap, rose to his feet and exited the office without another word.

…

In a rare moment of weakness, Sherlock began to doubt himself.

He was lying in bed at night, staring up at a blank white ceiling punctuated by long shadows like spilled ink. No matter how thoroughly he searched it with his eyes, he could see no answers written on its surface.

His aura was there as always, billowing just above him in vine-like tendrils. It was as dingy as ever, darkened to a dull charcoal colour in the dim light.

There were times when he couldn't ignore the niggling voice in the back of his mind that said it meant something more.

There had to be a reason, he thought, why everyone else had such beautiful auras, and yet his looked like ditchwater. His mother had called him special, unique, but in the end all that meant was the first word she'd used: different. The more he learned about other people and their normal, ordinary lives, the more "different" started to sound like "wrong".

He thought about the hurt looks on people's faces when he said horrible things to them, people like Lestrade who wanted nothing but the best for him. He thought about the sick-twisted-thrilling pleasure he got from shoving their secrets in their faces and laughing at their pain. He thought about the friends he didn't have and the relationships he was convinced he didn't want.

Looking up at his aura now, he couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't really a curse as he so often claimed.

Perhaps it was more like a mirror.

…

Even Sherlock was surprised by how radically meeting John Watson changed his life. Beyond the obvious fact that he might be dead if John hadn't shot that cabbie (might, he insisted. They never did find out which pill was the poisonous one), he'd discovered a number of small but noteworthy changes in himself that were most certainly due to his flatmate's influence.

He'd never enjoyed living with others. The constant presence of his own aura was irritating enough, let alone dealing with more than one. When he'd been forced to live in a dorm his first year at university, the influx of a dozen other bubbling, whirring presences had nearly driven him mad. He'd made a point of being particularly nasty to his floormates until they all finally left him alone, taking their annoying auras with them.

Driving them all off had the surprising consequence, however, of introducing him to the concept of loneliness. He'd never had any mates before—had never wanted them either—but he'd at least had the familiarity of home, of sleeping in his own bed at night. Here he was just another nameless student, easily lost in the masses. For the first time in his life, he'd missed the irksome auras for no other reason than they proved he wasn't alone.

John Watson turned out to be the perfect balance between the two extremes.

His aura should have annoyed Sherlock. It was one of the bright ones, though not neon by any standards. It was like the first drops of light from a crowning sun at dawn: golden and undeniably warm. It reached out with gentle fingers to brush against everything in the vicinity. Sherlock had heard it said that some people were capable of lighting up a room when they entered it, but for John that was literally the case. Though he gave off no actual light, Sherlock often felt like he was running through the streets of London with his own miniature sun at his side. It was both a shame and a pleasure that he was the only one who could see it.

John's aura was one of very few that didn't aggravate him. In fact, there were times when he could quietly admit to himself that he thought it was rather beautiful. It was half the reason he'd invited John to 221B Baker Street. Despite his vow to ignore auras as much as possible, there was something inexplicably inviting about John's.

He knew he'd made the right decision when in a moment of impulse, he'd described John's aura to him. They'd only known each other for a few days when it happened. It was the fastest Sherlock had ever trusted someone with his secret. John had looked at him blankly at first, causing a spark of hot fear to ignite in Sherlock's stomach. After a long moment, however, he'd broken into a wide grin and said, "Brilliant" in that way of his that always made Sherlock feel like he'd done something incredible.

And so Sherlock was able to cohabitate peacefully (for him, anyways) with another human being.

He didn't change easily, however. There were still plenty of times where he caught himself on the verge of throwing a tantrum worthy of a sleep-deprived toddler or saying one of the bit-not-good things that always earned him the look from John ("sometimes I think you're not even human"), but he was getting better. He made his own tea sometimes and said thank you when John prompted him. He stopped tormenting Lestrade for the fun of it and even agreed to keep body parts and food separate in their fridge.

Most importantly, however, he stopped noticing his own aura.

It used to be like a grimy haze that he had to peer out of, a constant reminder that the most basic and talentless humans had more beautiful auras than his. Since John, however, he hardly noticed it.

Anathema as he was to sentiment, Sherlock couldn't help but think John's aura was like light slicing through the fog. It dispelled the grey burden that hovered claustrophobically around him and allowed him to see the world clearly.

It also presented a fascinating conundrum. He knew how auras were supposed to work, of course, but John seemed to be the exception to the rule. Their colours weren't similar in the slightest, yet Sherlock felt affection towards John in a way he never had before.

It was an interesting puzzle, though for once he was in no rush to solve it.

…

"You're the sun."

John startled and looked quickly up at him. He had today's paper crumpled in his hand and a half-drunk cup of tea on the table next to him. His armchair cushion had permanently sunk in a bit to accommodate the shape of his body.

"What did you say?"

Sherlock was standing by the window, violin in hand, the bow poised just above the strings. He studied John unabashedly, knowing the man wasn't unsettled by his pale, piercing gaze like most people were.

"You're like the sun, John." He scraped his bow across the strings once before lifting his fingers back up and glancing out the window. The sky was a gaping maw of grey, swallowing the horizon as it spiraled out into infinity. "And I'm like the rain."

For a half second, John frowned at him. Then he chuckled and smoothed out his newspaper. "You say the strangest things when you get into moods like this."

Sherlock didn't respond. He slid his bow over taut violin strings and coaxed out a keening melody to match the white noise in his chest.

…

John's fists were clenched by his side in the way Sherlock knew meant he was contemplating punching him. He thought quickly back on the past fifteen minutes, trying to discern what he'd done to anger his flatmate. Nothing jumped out at him, but then he could seldom pinpoint the moment when he'd gone too far.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice quiet and controlled in a way that made the air feel colder, "go after her and apologise right now."

Sherlock glanced toward the wide-open door to their sitting room. John's date—he couldn't think of her name—had thrown it open moments before in her haste to leave. "Why? I have nothing to apologise for."

John's face reddened and his fingers flexed dangerously at his side. Sherlock shifted a bit, balancing his weight more evenly in case he had to absorb a blow to the face. The possibility was looking increasingly likely.

"You barged in on our date," John said through gritted teeth, "even though I bloody well told you we were going to be watching telly, you insulted both of us and you said absolutely uncalled for things to Marianne."—ah, yes. That was her name—"Stop playing stupid. You know exactly what you did wrong."

John pointed to the door and enunciated his next sentence with repeated jabs of his finger. "Go. Apologise. Now."

"But everything I said was true!" Sherlock whined, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. "I'm just trying to save you time. Her aura is the most nauseating pink colour I've ever seen. While you might be initially attracted to one another, there's no way your interest could result in anything more than a few disappointing dates. And I know you: you'll play the dashing gentleman as always and treat her like royalty even when she's boring you to tears."

He threw his arms up in exasperation, too engrossed in his tirade to check his tongue. "It's completely pathetic. You say you're looking for true love and yet you're so afraid of dying alone, you'll take any shred of affection that comes your way. You're so desperate to be with someone you're trying to force a relationship that's doomed from the start!"

It wasn't John's face or body that told him he'd gone too far.

It was his stillness. Even the air around John froze in anticipation. Time stuttered to a halt at the same time Sherlock's heart began to race.

John's eyes bored into his skull. They were normally the colour of a cloudless sky: deep, fathomless blue. Right now, however, they looked more like a raging sea at midnight.

John didn't say another word to him.

He yanked his coat from the rack with a stiff arm and marched out of the room. The door clicked shut quietly behind him. It sounded mocking in the wake of such roaring emotion.

Sherlock wasn't certain how long he stood there, watching shadows creep across the floor. Something cold was dripping into his veins, something he hadn't felt since he was a boy and his mother had looked at him like he wasn't the child she'd given birth to: fear.

Had Sherlock been paying attention, he might have noticed his aura grow just the slightest shade darker.

…

Mycroft smiled smugly at him. His aura was a slow whirlpool of royal purple circling placidly around him. Sherlock still remembered how pleased his brother had been the day he'd told him what it looked like. The colour of kings, he'd said, straightening his shoulders haughtily.

"You've changed," Mycroft said, his smile just polite enough to pass in high society.

"I haven't," Sherlock responded instantly. His tone was weak, and he knew it.

"I don't require a special form of sight to tell that's not true."

Mycoft folded his hands in front of his face and rested his elbows on the polished surface of his desk. His office smelled like old books and candle wax. The light filtering through the window caught dancing dust motes. They turned lilac when they sifted through Mycroft's aura and were swept up in its lethargic current.

"He's changing you, and you're frightened."

"I'm not afraid of anything." Sherlock stood, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. "People don't change, not their auras and not their natures."

He strode out the door and shut it resolutely behind him. He pretended not to hear Mycroft's muffled reply.

"You really must stop lying to yourself."

…

When Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, John was standing in the sitting room. There was a suitcase open on the sofa. He was staring at it, his fists clenched by his side. He didn't turn to look when Sherlock entered the room. He was so still he could have been a wax model of himself.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and tried to quell the rush of feeling sweeping through him. Guilt, pain and regret were wrestling for dominance in the pit of his stomach, but most of all he felt cold, nauseating numbness as he studied the profile of the man in front of him. John looked exhausted, as if he'd just undergone an incredibly taxing ordeal only to reap no benefit.

"You're leaving," Sherlock said. He didn't bother to make it a question. His stomach lurched, and he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. He'd finally done it. The grey had finally won.

Slowly, John turned his head until he was looking squarely at Sherlock. His face was haggard, the bags under his eyes standing out in sharp relief. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyebrows were knit together, yet he looked strangely expressionless. For a long moment, they both simply stared at each other.

Then John pivoted slowly in place until he was facing Sherlock. "No." He straightened his shoulders. His voice was no louder than a murmur. "I'm not."

Sherlock blinked. It took his brain a full five seconds to comprehend what John had said. Relief surged through him so forcefully he nearly stumbled. "Why?" he managed to stutter. The single syllable echoed with his disbelief.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "you're one of the most impossible human beings I've ever met." John took a step towards him. "You're selfish and cruel, and there are times when you make me so furious I want to hurt you in any way I can." He took another step, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "But you're also the most brilliant person I know. You're incredible and exciting, and you gave me so much when I was balancing on the edge of nothing. You've said things that have hurt me in the past, but what really hurts is looking at you and knowing you think there's something wrong with you."

Sherlock started to interrupt him, but John held up a hand. "Don't try to deny it. I know the real reason why you lash out at everyone around you. You want them to turn on you, don't you? You think you deserve it."

John was right in front of him now, pinning him in place with his impossibly blue eyes. His aura shined on regular days, but right now it was radiant: crackling and sparking like a thousand tiny fireworks. It seemed to swell with the force of the emotion humming in the air. Sherlock wanted to admire it, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from John's face.

John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock felt his whole body grow warm. "There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock. You're precisely who you're supposed to be, and for the record I quite like you. When you're not being an annoying dick, that is." The kindness in his expression was unbearable. "You told me once that you're like the rain. I think that's true. You're stormy and cleansing, and you make everything feel new. I would have been so lost without you."

Sherlock felt something expanding in his chest, filling him up until he thought he would surely burst. It was ache and relief and the healing of so many harms. He felt it sink into his veins and swim in the current of his bloodstream. A weight he never realised he was carrying evaporated, and the only thing keeping him from floating up into the sky was the gentle gravity in John's eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, "What about your date?"

John shrugged noncommittally. "You were right. I really couldn't stand her. I seem to be getting worse and worse at picking these days." He smiled. "Maybe I should just let you choose who I date from now on."

In the years to come, Sherlock would never be able to say what made him do it. One minute he was having a conversation with his flatmate, and the next it was the most natural thing in the world to take John's face in his hands, lean forward and press their lips together.

Sherlock felt the first brush of skin to skin like a jolt of electricity. It shot through him in a hot, tingling rush. Something around him was crackling, roaring in his ears, and his nerve endings sang with the sheer delight of it.

When he finally pulled back, the first thing he noticed was John's face. He looked surprised, but there was no trace of anger in his expression. His aura had returned to its normal state of golden, glistening calm. It brushed almost teasingly against him.

Sherlock glanced at his own aura, prepared for the usual disappointment, and had to grab John's shoulders to keep from collapsing.

There was a halo of the purest, most lustrous silver surrounding him.

Gone was the dismal grey that had haunted him his whole life. In its place was a glowing sheath of diamonds dripping all around him. It radiated from his pale skin like starlight, shimmering and dancing playfully. He stared at it in abject wonder.

"Sherlock?" John asked cautiously. "Are you all right?"

"It's changed," he answered breathlessly. "I've changed. I thought it was impossible."

"What has? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

He blinked and shook his head, a small smile teasing at his mouth. He couldn't even begin to explain. "Nothing." He ducked down and pressed another brief kiss to John's lips. "I just want to say thank you."

John's brow was furrowed but he smiled back. His aura stretched out to touch Sherlock's, and the two moved together in undulating waves: the sun and its star brethren embracing across the cosmos.

"You're welcome." John glanced towards the kitchen. "We have some leftover take-away from that Thai place. Hungry?"

"Starving."

...