Grey

Grey, John decides, grey is his favourite colour. It was always a shade he liked, he remembers, and it has been many things to him. Comforting, like the dark granite cashmere scarf given to him by Harry all those years ago, although he's long since given up wearing scarves. They graced Sherlock's neck so much better. Wild, like the sea after a storm. Like the rain itself, sky ravaged and tormented. Hopeful…like the wings of a dove. He may be a soldier, but the yearning ache and dream of peace will always reside in him. Quiet, like the ash-grey of dawn before the sun peeks over the horizon. Those blessed few moments when it is neither night nor day. The colour of stillness. Of thought. And, strangely, of calm.

Grey, like the eyes that meet his now, in the cool half-light which filters through the gauzy curtains, like moth wings. In the soft slate sheets which twine his legs, chaining him to the bed. Yes, John thinks as he reaches out to cup Sherlock's face, grey is his favourite colour.

One week earlier….

Moran, Sherlock? MH

Working on it. Had him in my sights, then he disappeared. I don't know what set him off.

Come home. MH

You know I can't. I have to find Moran.

It's done. Come home. MH

It's done? Not possible. Not yet.

We've taken care of it. He needs you. John needs you. MH

Details?

Once you are on the plane. Anthea will meet you. MH

Is he alive? Mycroft, tell me.

Come home. MH

It wasn't that grey dominated his life. Far from it. Although he had a rather unconventional family, it was no more or less unconventional than any other family in Britain, save the Holmes'. Who could define normal, anyway?

His life had all sorts of colour. The happy yellows of childhood. The uncertain blues of adolescence. The mind-numbing whiteness of University; white hospital, white coats, white bandages, white note-pads. And brown, after that, in all shades. Sand dunes, and rocks, beige fatigues, tawny sky. Red occasionally, but he didn't like to dwell on the friends lost, the blood lost, the lives lost.

Then an un-namable colour, after he met Sherlock. Or maybe all of them at once, swirling together and with each other and through him and around Sherlock, until his life was a kaleidoscope of every imaginable and unimaginable hue and tone. A spattering of colour upon the canvas of his life. A palate of purpose. Of joy.

Finally.

And silver, of all things, when John realized he loved him. The shimmer of the fog, the sizzle in the air on a case. The glint in Sherlock's eyes when something caught his interest. The spoon in his teacup. Even the sound made as it tinkled against the delicate china was silver. The very end-tip of Sherlock's violin bow. And the Christmas lights hung haphazardly across their mantle. All glimmering and glittering and lovely. Like bubbles in a champagne flute. Like stars.

Then, black. When Sherlock was gone. All things gone bleak in the moments it took for him to fall, coat spread out like the great, onyx wings of an albatross. Falling, down, down, dragging all the colours with him until he hit the unforgiving pavement and red burst back into John's life. The last colour he saw before the darkness overtook him was the cold blue of Sherlock's eyes, as the life drained away. No light….no light….

Then, for a short time, it was orange. Not only because Mary's hair was a gorgeous shade of burnished chestnut. No, she also reminded him of ginger, and autumn leaves. The taste of cinnamon and a cup of tea. He had tried, he really had. But Mary, soft, kind, understanding Mary, had seen right through him and ended it so he didn't have to. She'd kept the marmalade-coloured cat they'd adopted together as recompense. Gladstone had liked her better, anyway. But John missed him, the milk-fanged beast. He learned to associate orange with bitterness, and the crunch of leaves, the harbinger of winter. Orange was proof positive of what he had believed for two years on now.

He had buried his feelings when he buried Sherlock. He was certain he could never love anyone again.

John was standing by the window, when it happened. Sherlock's violin in front of him. He'd been still, so still, for such a long time, looking over the sheet music that had been left behind. It was as Greek to him as medical shorthand was to a layperson, but he could hear the music in his head, all the same. Then the spring-night breeze had ruffled the pages, and John in that instant had moved to right them. Nothing out of place, just in case…

The shot missed the target of John's head, Moran not having anticipated for the sudden movement, and instead grazed his shoulder. Mycroft would never find out who had told him Sherlock was still alive, thereby ending Moran's vigilant surveillance over, propelling him into the realm of revenge. By the time he had re-aimed, Mycroft's men were on him and John had taken shelter. Moran never even had the chance to speak.

Mycroft had John moved at once to one of his small estates in the country while things were settled and wounds healed. He'd tried to protest, his shoulder was barely scratched, but the added pleading of Sherlock's mother, so like him, had broken down his resolve. He could never resist the blue of those eyes.

So John's life became green. He was surrounded by hills and trees and glades. He had a little cottage that suited him greatly. He was trying to care for the bees that lived there, although he was certain that Mycroft had someone that would do it for him, if need be. It was a learning process. Gardens walled the estate, and even the pretty little pond took on the tone of the encroaching flora, reflecting it into the sky when the sun set, casting an eerie glow which was instantly picked up by the fireflies. Like strange little fairy lanterns they flitted by him. He mused they were truly the mythical creatures, perhaps he could have his wish granted. One more miracle… But nothing was as magical to John as Sherlock had been. And for all the green his life was still black…

A week and two days in and John was finally settling down. He wasn't as anxious to get back to Baker Street. There was no green there, no flowers, no bees… nothing with which to try to distract himself. Only the blackness of Sherlock's room, silent now, a gaping maw of what had once been. The dark unseeing eyes of the skull staring at him, accusatorily. All the silver had gone, sucked out of the place like the turning off of a lightswitch.

There was no fighting Mycroft in any case. His final words before he'd slid gracefully into the waiting black car (black, again) were, "I promised him I'd look after you, Dr. Watson." But tonight he was uneasy, a feeling like a tightly wound violin string coiled in his mind. If he'd learned anything from Sherlock, it was to trust that voice. He wasn't disappointed. A chime from his mobile signaled the text.

I wanted to assure you that if you do see someone about the grounds, it is only one of my men dropping something off for you. Consider it payment for a long overdue debt. MH

John knew Mycroft's men were nearby, not that he'd seen them. Merely ghosts of a life from long ago that haunted the corners of his mind. Protecting him, though from what, John was uncertain. Occasionally, though, he believed they may be there to protect him from himself. The desire to join Sherlock was sometimes too strong. That darkness was hard to fight.

Eventually, John decided to head back into the cottage. The sunlight was fading, and his curiosity piqued. He had not yet seen or heard a thing, but he knew that by now Mycroft's man had come and gone. He stood, pushing back the aging wrought iron deck chair, its bone-white paint flaking slightly onto the weathered wood. He didn't look up until his feet touched the soil, sighing as he did. One dim light was on, gently illuminating the kitchen. He hadn't left it burning….Mycroft, then. Always the care-taker.

Trudging up the path, he saw the door open, light pouring out and framing the dark silhouette of the figure which stood in it. He was tall and slender, and John felt his heart jump to his throat… but no. He was safe.

"Waiting for a reply, then? Mycroft want to hear how his gift was received?" His attempt at humour failed, slightly. There was an edge of annoyance to it. He was tired of being babysat.

"John", the figure said, and the voice was that out of a dream. Deep and graveled, low in the dying light of dusk. Moving forward, so the light did not hide him, Sherlock took two slow steps toward John. A steel coloured specter come to join the other ghosts.

He would not remember, in the days to come, actually fainting. What he did recall was tinged in purple. The scent of the lilacs along the path, the colour of the twilight that had replaced the day. Even the deep aubergine of Sherlock's scarf, which he found his head resting against as the taller man lifted him bodily and carried him into the light.

The rest of the night passed mostly wordlessly. There would be time for that later. For them, it was only the reconnection that mattered. The declarations. The seeping thread of silver that was worming its way back into his life. John grabbed onto that thread and held on for his life. He could feel that long buried love rising again from the ashes. Like a phoenix. How poetic, he thought. Sherlock would laugh.

It was still silver, that love, but more tempered now. Dulled, in a sense, but no less brilliant. It wasn't that he loved Sherlock any less; they'd simply passed through their trial by fire and the quicksilver shine had been muted as their relationship crystallized, hardened into something stronger. Like a grey diamond. No ghost was ever more beautiful.

Yes, John thinks as Sherlock takes his wrist in hand, kissing the wan skin and the pulse underneath, pale eyes meeting his.

Yes, grey. Grey is his favourite colour.