11. Memory

Sherlock's eyes are shut tight as he feels the ropes that are around his wrists, painful almost. The man in front of him is speaking something in Russian and he can't respond because he can't reach his mind. Can't find the lock to the front door. He only sees John, in his stupid plaid shirts, and with his stupid cane, John as he saved his life, plastered with Semtex, John as he licks his lips at Angelo's that first night. John, running next to him, hand in his. John making tea, John being jealous, John, John, John. And with John inside his mind -no, not his mind.. his heart- the pain almost seems bearable.

12. Insanity

"BORED!" Sherlock Holmes bellows for the god knows what time today. "Sherlock, dear, tune yourself down a bit, will you?" Mrs. Hudson yells softly from the landing. She's just been shopping for him again and opens the door. "Mrs. Hudson. How can you live?" His face screams boredom but there is something else too, something she had never really noticed before. "Well.. I eat, I sleep, I watch telly and I phone my friends every once in a while. I really should phone Charlotte sometimes.." she adds in an afterthought. "That's not what I meant! How do you live waiting for something to happen! It is horrible!" The man grabs his phone, checking for something apparently. "What do you mean, dear?" "A text message! What do you do if you're waiting for one!?" "You're acting insane. I'll make you some tea.." "I don't want any tea, Mrs. Hudson! I just want to do something so I stop checking my phone!" She makes her way into the kitchen and puts the kettle on despite Sherlock's whining. "Is it about that man you met yesterday? He seems quite nice, doesn't he?" She can't help the smile slipping onto her face. All Sherlock does in response is groan as he lets his head fall back against the armrest of the sofa. "You could just phone him yourself, dear." "Ugh, I already sent him a text and he doesn't respond. Besides, why should I phone him if I have nothing important to say?! I don't even know why I want to speak to him so badly? It's weird, isn't it? This isn't normal!" Sherlock sits up, irritated, looking at his landlady for an explanation. "No, no, Sherlock. It's absolutely normal. He really does seem like a nice guy." Her eyes lit up a bit. "You can't tell me you haven't seen how handsome he is, too. Quite the chap." She smirks as she turns around for the kettle and prepares a tea egg. When she turns back to Sherlock, he is again with his head on the armrest looking as if the world had fallen. "Oh, put yourself together, dear. It can't be that bad? You just like him. What's so bad about that?" "I'm going insane.." Sherlock mumbles as he closes his eyes and rubs his temples, his phone twirling between his long fingers.

13. Misfortune

To John Watson, whom I have had the wonderful misfortune of meeting.

"I wish you were here. Or that I was there. I wish that there was some chance of talking like this after tonight, or seeing each other. Like, really seeing each other. Of being alone, together."

- Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor & Park

But there isn't, John, and there never could be. I will always stand in the shadows as long as you stand in the light because I can't allow myself to feel. I can't allow you to ask me to stay, so I will already be gone once you read this.

Yours, always,

Sherlock Holmes, whom you have had the terrible misfortune of meeting.

14. Smile

"John. Stop smiling." The laughter wrinkles next to John's eyes only increased. "Why?" His smile got bigger. "You know why." Sherlock could feel the blush creeping up from under his scarf. Dammit. John eyebrows turned up a little bit, not in a confused way but in that horrible knowing way that only meant danger. "Oh, because you like it, don't you?" And he had the nerve to lick his lips! "You can't stop looking." "John. Shut. Up." Sherlock averted his eyes. "Now." "I think I won't," John responded, trying to hide his smile but the edges were still tugging upwards in a sort of wonderful grin. And damn Sherlock for thinking it was wonderful. "Oh for god's sake," Sherlock sighed in exasperation, before giving in and tugging John towards him.

15. Silence

They are standing opposite of each other. Neither one speaking but both not quiet. A frown from John. What are you doing? Sherlock swallowing. I have no idea. John licking his lips, moving his feet a bit before looking down. I wouldn't mind. It's all fine. I mean.. That's.. Sherlock standing up a bit straighter, glancing at John's hands, then looking back to his eyes. Are we okay, is this okay? John reaching for Sherlock's hand. Yes, oh god yes. Sherlock tensing, relaxing and intertwining fingers. Are we really doing this? A step forward. Their bodies almost touching. I think we are. Another step, nobody knows from whom and, finally, connection. Error: not found

16. Questioning

"We would like to know what you're planning," Mycroft Holmes spoke in a way most would address a child. The man in front of him was smiling but the way his head was turned a little to the side and a few aspects of his clothing, told the eldest Holmes brother that this was not a man to mess around with. The man kept silent. "What are your connections to miss Adler?" As the man opened his mouth, a singsong voice, nothing like the cold tone in his eyes, arose from it. "Adler? Nooo.. She's boring..! It's your brother I want, sir. Just want to play with him." Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Consulting criminal. Consulting detective.. what a lovely coincidence. But it wasn't. Not a coincidence, not lovely. Definitely not lovely. Mycroft could keep the worry off his face. Years of practice had paid off. "You won't be able to. You're locked up in here, no chance of escaping. Either you give us information and remain a little self-respect or you don't and-" Mycroft leaned over the table, one hand on the desk, his face stern, "-you won't be happy with the consequences." The man shifted, his face still not quite readable. "Oh, would I? We both know, mister Holmes, there's one thing I want, and I will get it. Oh, you know I will." His eyes seemed to get darker on the last word. "You will give it to me, and then maybe we can talk." Mycroft didn't answer. "You might want to re-evaluate who is in here for questioning."

17. Blood

John's mind is spinning. He feels heavy and floating all at the same time and he doesn't understand. This can't be happening. That is not Sherlock Holmes on the edge of that rooftop. That is not Sherlock Holmes saying goodbye to him on the other end of the phone. That is not Sherlock Holmes reaching out to him one last time. It's not Sherlock Holmes spreading his arms and falling. Falling without stopping. But it is John, falling. It is John reaching out for Sherlock. It is John, who's world is collapsing on the exact same moment Sherlock collapses on the ground. It is John running, begging, crying, that this is not true. It can't be true! It is John trying not to say goodbye, trying to believe that this isn't what it looks like. But he can't stop the tears, can't stop the feeling of nothingness as he sees Sherlock's blood seep over the pavement. Red. Why does blood have to be red? It's one of those colours you just can't ignore, one of those colours that always seem to grasp your attention whether you want it or not. And now, all John can do is look as the red spreads out, as Sherlock's life drips out, clinging to the pavement, just as John is clinging onto him. He knows but he doesn't want to know. He feels but he doesn't want to feel. But he sees the blood and that is what makes it permanent.

18. Rainbow

"John, what is it with rainbows these days? Everyone seems so obsessed with them, like 'Oh! Look a pretty little rainbow let's make a picture and put it all around the internet!'" Sherlock moves his arms in too happy motions for his normal behaviour and John can't help but grin a bit. "Or all those songs about rainbows! I mean it's just refraction, nothing special. Why the big deal?" John takes a moment to just look at Sherlock with an amused smile. "You really don't know, do you? It's quite funny how you do have a whole part in that mind palace dedicated to gay underwear but you have no idea why rainbows are trending." "What the hell has gay underwear to do with rainbows?" The frown on Sherlock's face is hilarious. "You are so adorable, sometimes." It leaves John's mouth without thinking and John bites his lip before grasping his laptop and searching for rainbows. "Okay, to get to the point," he says a bit awkwardly. "Rainbows are kind of the 'sign' of the gay community. Just like the flags we saw outside that bar a few days ago." He hears Sherlock voice a tiny 'oh' and he continues. "They have another flag, with purples and pinks and all that stuff, but most people recognise the rainbow quicker." "So.." Sherlock starts, his face still frowning. "Rainbows are gay. Still, why the hype?" "Are you actually totally oblivious to the outside world or is this just a façade?" John laughs, because Sherlock is adorable. When Sherlock doesn't answer John continues. "Have you ever heard of the term 'shipping'?" "The physical process of transportingcommodities and merchandise goods and cargo, of course, yes." John stares a little, blinks, and laughs again. "No, no, not that kind of shipping. Relation'shipping'." He quotes the word with his fingers. "Like when you have characters from a movie or book that you want in a relationship, you ship them. It's quite ridiculous actually. I think Mrs. Hudson is doing the same with us." He laughs again, until he sees the sudden expression of horror on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock?" He asks tentatively. "You okay?" Sherlock is quiet for some time, still staring at nothing, avoiding John's eyes. "So, Mrs. Hudson thinks we are romantically involved?" Though it could be just a fragment of John's imagination, Sherlock's voice sounds interested, much more than anything else. Oh god. He closes his eyes for a second and pushes down the feeling in his stomach. When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is looking directly at him. "She thinks we're more than flatmates?" John begs himself to say something, anything, just to stop himself from breaking down. "Yeah, almost everyone does. I bet Greg has a pool going on about when we're coming out to everyone." Oh god, oh god, what the hell? Idiot. John hits himself inwardly. "..Interesting.." Sherlock mutters softly. No he didn't just say that, right? John imagined it, he couldn't have said that! "What?" "It's interesting, I mean, you obviously feel that there's something between us. I feel it too, but I never actually considered to do something with it." John just stares. What the actual fuck. Suddenly Sherlock is standing next to him, hand leaning on the desk, looming over John and John can't find the ability to swallow. "You?" Sherlock's voice is lower than usual. John blinks. What was he asking? Oh shit, god dammit. "I what?" It was an unintelligent mumble and John knows it will bother Sherlock to the extreme but he can't help it. "You did, didn't you?" A smirk forms around Sherlock's beautiful lips. "You considered." It wasn't a question, but John knows that the answer is showing on his face like a neon sign. "I.. uh.." He forces out. His throat is dry and he tries to clear it. "I might have, yes." If John still had the ability to lift his arm he might have scratched the back of his head. He takes a deep breath, or tries to because it gets stuck halfway through. "Would you like to do more than just consider?" Sherlock asks, his face showing signs of insecurity, fear, maybe. John wants to answer, he really does, but sound is something that stopped existing in the few seconds it took Sherlock to make his proposition. It was only warmth and vision and warmth and heat. John nods, because that he could manage, grabs hold of the lapels of Sherlock's coat -why the hell is he still wearing his coat?!- and tugs him down.

Sherlock licks his lips after they break apart again. "Okay, maybe I do get the appeal of rainbows," the detective smirks down at him in a way that makes John's stomach churn and long for more.

19. Gray

"John, did you know there's a difference between gray and grey?" John looks up at him, confused, of course. That sentence was as weird as any you heard on a daily basis at 221B. Sherlock decides to collaborate. "Gray with an 'a' and grey with an 'e'. It's not the same." John sips his tea. "No, I didn't. Does it matter?" "Probably not." Sherlock answers too quickly. He knows John notices it, because everything he said matters, whether for a case or for science or whatever. "Okay, come on. Tell me the difference." John smiles, looking over his cup of tea, actual interest in his eyes. "Gray, that 'a'-version is the hue you find exactly in between white and black on a color scale. The 'e'-version of grey is the color people associate with silver. Without the sparkles." Sherlock knows he's too happy about this seemingly useless fact. He knows John still doesn't understand why it is so important. And he knows he wants John to understand. "Gray, the lifeless, flat kind of gray. That was my life. Before I met you. But then you came along and everything seemed to shine and-" Sherlock is for a moment too overwhelmed by the sudden feelings washing through him. "What I'm trying to say.. You shifted my world from gray to grey." Sherlock hopes that John hears the difference, because he doesn't want to explain again. "You manage to make the boring and dull times seem worthwhile because you're just there to add the sparkle." He looks at John as sees him on the brink of bursting out with laughter. He doesn't though and Sherlock is so happy about that, he can't even put it to words. He just smiles. In a nice way, a silvery grey way that feels like home and nothing else.

20. Fortitude

This is how he sees him, how he has always seen him right from the beginning. John Watson, always sure what to do when, how to do it and actually believing in the choices he makes. There are very few people who do that and manage to not be complete dickheads. He loves that about John. He doesn't even know it yet, but he does. He's about to figure it out. Just a few minutes away from it, actually. As he steps inside the pool he doesn't know it yet. As he sees John Watson standing there, he doesn't know it yet either. But when the man tells him to run for it, with his arms around the throat of the consulting criminal, he knows. Not immediately, but as soon as he connects the actions of the first night they were on a case and now, it hits. As harsh as a bullet. John is prepared to kill for him as much as he is prepared to be killed for him. And it's not guilt or pride or personal gain or any other emotion that's making that decision for him. It's fortitude and kindness and just John in general. And that is what makes Sherlock love him. Because that is who he is.