The colour of the sky on the day she died was pink, streaked with yellow. As usual, he barged into her room with a cup of strong coffee; as usual, she grumbled about being woken at such an early hour, but took the offered cup. She dressed in the clothes he laid out for her (he really did have impeccable taste), and went down for breakfast.
The colour of the sky on the day she died was bright blue. Bell had called Sherlock to say he was needed at a crime scene, so they went. They walked in companionable silence, their shoulders bumping ever so slightly. It really was quite hard to resist the urge to hold hands. But they never did.
The colour of the sky on the day she died was dark grey. Thankfully, the case had only taken nine hours to solve, and as they walked back to the brownstone, rain started to fall. With a laugh, they darted under a shelter to wait for the rain to subside. Sherlock looked down at her, and once again, marveled at her beauty. He reached up and gently wiped a rain drop from her face, giving her a goofy smile as he did so. She laughed, and in retrospect, he suspected she would have kissed him. But the shelter grew crowded from more people seeking refuge from the downpour, and she would have never done such a thing in public. But they did, for once, give into the urge to hold hands. Just this once.
The colour of the sky on the day she died was dark blue. The rain had stopped and as it was close to dinner time, they decided to go out to eat, as opposed to getting their usual takeout. Kind of like a celebration for solving the case, but both knew that it was because they didn't want to be alone. Not just yet. They changed out of their wet clothes into more formal attire, and as Sherlock opened the cab door for her, he felt like the luckiest guy in the world.
The colour of the sky on the day she died was black. Just like the car. That stupid, stupid car. They had finished their dinner (she getting steak and he requesting a hamburger, even though it wasn't on the menu), and had even danced afterwards. It was Joan's idea, of course. Sherlock would have never thought of such a thing. But as they twirled on the dance floor, he knew he was the luckiest guy in the world. The dance ended, but they stayed in their positions, staring into each others eyes, surprised at the new person they had found. Sherlock woke himself back to reality first, and suggested they call a cab, as it was getting late. She agreed and went outside to wait as he paid for the meal. He took the receipt, and heard her scream. He'll never forget that scream. Looking back, he wasn't quite sure how he got outside, and the next thing he remembered was holding her head in his lap and yelling for someone to call an ambulance. She opened her eyes, and he told her over and over again that it was going to be alright (which was also for his benefit). She shushed him, and even though there was a crowd around them, he kissed her, not caring about the public's eyes this time. Someone yelled that the ambulance was on its way, and that they had got the number of the car that hit her. But it was too late. She was already gone.
The colour of the sky on the day of her funeral was bright blue. Sherlock sat solemnly in the front row beside her hysterical mother. The service finally ended, and he escorted her coffin out the door and into the waiting car, never leaving her for a second. It was placed on the fresh dirt beside the deep hole in the ground, and Sherlock placed a hand where he thought her face would be. He thought back to when he had wiped the rain drop off her cheek, and choked back a sob.
"Goodbye, Joanie." He whispered.
