This one took longer than anticipated because of finals and everything, but it's finally done. It's the longest one so far. I'd like to thank 1billsookie on Ao3 for the suggestion of using color. I decided to just use the rainbow or I'd write about every color I could possibly think about. We'd be here for a while trying to get over "tickle-me-pink." Hope you like it and thanks again for reading!

His Colors

Red

Blood.

Hate.

Anger.

Apples.

Those were only a few of the things that are red, figuratively or physically.

Sherlock had seen enough blood in his life time. Blood was the fluid of life, it's what keeps people alive and moving. Blue in the body and red when oxygenated, blood was in everything that interested the consulting detective. He had seen blood splattered from a young—cheating—wife that had been beaten to death by her husband's sister. He had seen a lawyer that appeared to have been poisoned, then aerated, and left to bleed out in his tub, effectively drowning in his own blood. He'd seen it drip and seep from his own body after hanging in alleys for a lead. And Sherlock had seen the pea-sized drops of blood from after he pulled the needle back from his vein. Blood wasn't new, but he saw just a bit less of it now. With John, there was only blood at the crime scenes. And every once in a while he'd leak a bit. It was red.

Hate was red. Hate was so vivid and tied to the darkness of anger, leaving a person blind by emotion. Oh, emotions. Those useless, little, pin-pricks stabbing at the heart and causing insanity in the human mind. Sherlock hates. He hates what Moriarty did. He hates himself for not being clever enough to fool the bastard. But most of all, he hates that he hurt John. He hates that Moriarty stole John from right under his nose. He hates that he let him. He hates that he was so obsessed in one person that it took endangering the only person to ever show him love for him to realize where his true interest laid. An anger so thick, so heavy, so absolute takes over. It was red.

Apples are red. They're also delicious, crisp with sweet juice. John would buy a dozen at the peak of the fruit's season. There was nothing better than when John sliced them thin, and sprinkled them in brown sugar, sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon. He'd then spoon them into a small puff pastry, weave strips of the same dough over the top, pinch the edges, and put them in the oven. Returning home to the warmth of cinnamon and apples baking was like nothing he'd ever experienced. His mother didn't bake. She left that to the nanny and the chef. That's what they were paid for. There is a difference between a stranger and a loved one making an apple tart. It was sweeter, but he'd never actually admit that. It was all sentiment. They weren't actually sweeter in comparison to the John's or his nanny's apple tarts. He knew that, and for some reason he didn't have a problem with that.

John brought home a bag full of fruit yesterday. They were red.

But there was nothing as red as what he found out John had in his drawer. All the way in the back, underneath a few older shirts, there was something bright red. He'd found it while indexing John's socks. The fabric was worn, not by constant wear but age. He tugged them out and unfolded them. White elastic around the hips. White cotton stitched down to form the y-front and hug his thighs. Red fabric that would stretch over his rounded back side and cup his front. With a smirk, he pulled the elastic out tight. Sherlock allowed it to snap back to his finger.

John had red pants.

Red was officially his favorite color of pants. Especially now that he had convinced John to wear them again.

And it definitely had nothing to do with him buying enough for John to wear a different pair every day of the month.

And they were red.

Orange

There weren't many things in his life that were orange. Orange was a vibrant, exciting color and his life was anything but. He rarely even ate the fruit with its namesake Sure, Sherlock would snack on an orange when Mrs. Hudson chanced a visit and happened to bring one by. They were sweet, but not overly so. Refreshing. John bought them home every now and then as well, but the good doctor preferred grape fruit, as did Sherlock.

He didn't wear orange. Ever. He didn't own anything that was orange. End of story.

But John did. He didn't flaunt the color, but he had an old shirt or two in different shades of orange. John had no qualms with the color. Neither did Sherlock, but that didn't mean he wanted his flat blinding him with such an obnoxious color. Apparently, John noticed his lack of color.

On his birthday, there was a small, neatly wrapped box on the counter next to his microscope. John had left early for the clinic. He figured that must have been when he placed it there. Sherlock dropped himself in his stool and dragged the box over to him. He avoided picking it up in order to keep the object a surprise. It was small enough to just fit in the palm of his large hand. The wrapping was a rough brown paper, nothing gaudy or exactly celebratory. It was perfectly taped and tucked so he was able to remove the box's top without having to tear the paper. On the lid was a hand-twirled, green and gold ribbon. The raven pulled off the bow and tied it around the base of his microscope. He then pulled off the top, set it aside, and peeked in. White tissue paper hid the object inside. Cocking his head, he pushed it all aside and almost laughed.

It was an orange mug. Sherlock plucked out the mug and set it on the table, staring down at the manufacturer's even paint job and the perfect finishing gloss. It was nice, just another mug. John was always simple with holiday gifts, always something practical and useful. Not nearly as exciting as when he would bring home blood samples or tissue chunks for him. With a smile, he stood and brought the mug along with him. Standing over the sink, he looked at the five white mugs hanging from the small hooks. Sherlock took down the middle mug and replaced it with his new, bright mug. When John came home, he made tea and offered some to Sherlock. Out of habit, John prepared his tea in a white mug and brought it to Sherlock on a matching saucer. Seeing the mug, the consulting detective frowned and watched John sit in his armchair, sipping his own tea.

Sherlock snatched up his mug and went back into the kitchen. Seconds later, he was sitting back in his chair with a new mug of the same tea. It was his orange mug.

He pretended not to notice John's smile hidden behind his own mug. From that day on, John always served Sherlock tea and coffee in his orange mug. Each time, John tried not to giggle.

Orange isn't such a bad color.

Yellow

Sherlock returned home, slipped off his shoes, threw his coat and scarf over his chair, and then went to flop down on his bed. Well, their bed since Sherlock had taken it upon himself to move all of John things into his room and inform the blond that they would be sharing a bed from then on. He eyes were closed before he even hit the mattress.

Four day without sleep had left him running on empty and he had promised John he'd go to sleep. Rolling to his back, he let out a deep breath, feeling the motion through his entire body. Where did John get off telling him to sleep? The other man had been up for the past two days as well, working the clinic and running the streets of London with him.

'John must be tired.' Sherlock thought, turning over to his side. He stretched out his right arm to flop over John's side of the bed. His foot snaked under the quilt. He pulled the quilt up his body and spread it over himself. Lifting himself, he snuggled under the blanket, still fully clothed. The strong aroma of detergent and old linen crept up his nose. Did John put a new cover on the bed? Cracking open an eye, Sherlock shot up from the sheets.

Pooled around him was a soft, hand-stitched quilt. Sherlock ran his fingers over the even white stitches holding the cloth squares together. The squares were a variety of soft yellows, ranging from banana to lemon ice yellow. They had been put together with not much thought, but was still pleasant on the eyes. He gripped the quilt in his fists and then let it drop. It was old, roughly twenty, maybe twenty-five, years at least. Sherlock pulled the quilt back around him and settled into its warmth.

When John finally returned home after his shift at the clinic, Sherlock was lying across the sofa with the quilt covering him from his shoulders to the back of his calves. John dropped his coat on his chair and slipped off his shoes. Making his way over to his lover, he pulled the quilt back off of Sherlock's legs and sat in the gap. He then stretched his legs out and bent them at the knees so that his feet were flat on either side of Sherlock's hips. He let the quilt drop back down to cover him.

"I like this quilt." Sherlock finally said, using his feet to pull John forward and lock his ankles behind John's back. John chuckled under his breath, digging his toes into Sherlock's sides.

"I can see that." John replied. Sherlock made a humming sound in return.

"Who made it?" The consulting detective sensed the hesitation on John's part.

"My mother. She had made me a quilt to take with me to uni. I used it so much, it was as thin as a rag when I finally returned home. She made me this one when I was deployed. I took it with me over seas, kept it on my cot in the medic's tent the entire time." John admitted. Sherlock felt John's hands smooth over the skin on his ankles. Calloused fingers softly rubbed over the bone. He had seen a picture of John's mother, quite a lovely woman she was. John had her warm eyes, sharing not only the color but the way they crinkled when she smiled. It was a small wallet photo John kept in an equal sized frame on the mantel.

"She's passed, hasn't she?" John's hands tightened on his ankles for a short moment.

"Yes, three years after I was deployed. She had breast cancer and went into remission. She couldn't fight it a second time." Sherlock didn't respond, but slipped his hands down to his sides to grip his lover's ankles.

"Her birthday is tomorrow. I just wanted to have a piece of her close to me." Sentiment. Sherlock slowly unlocked his ankles from behind John's waist and moved so that he could sit up. He laid his head on John's stomach and stretched back out, pulling the quilt over the both of them. John let his legs fall flat and moved his arms to rest on Sherlock's back. Sherlock twined his own arms around John's waist and settled himself. Sherlock dug around in his head for something...sentimental...to say.

"Let's bake her a cake." He offered nonchalantly. Sherlock felt John look down at him.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I usually just take out her quilt. I miss her is all. We don't have to—," John tried to explain, carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls now.

"I insist we bake a cake. I actually understand how it feels to miss someone who is vital to you. We'll go down to Tesco tomorrow. We need milk." John chuckled again, the warm sound vibrating through Sherlock's ears. He couldn't help the small smile that spread over his lips. Sherlock never got the milk.

"I'll even volunteer to get the milk." At this, John gave a full out laugh.

"No, you won't." Sherlock didn't bothering trying to stop his own laugh.

"No, I won't." Sherlock pulled the quilt tightly around the two of them.

Yellow became comforting.

Green

It's a monster they say. Green so deep, yet so vivid. Almost indescribable. He thought they were joking. They had to be. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster? Such petty emotions: anger and envy. Pointless, absolutely pointless.

Apparently they weren't.

And Sherlock knew that now.

It had been a simple trip to the store, right after a case. They were in the cab when John mentioned they were out of milk. Of course, Sherlock didn't care. John could leg it to Tesco after they had gotten home. It was a nice walk, if a bit long. But John had taken a fall during the case. After cornering the suspect in his home, the man bolted out of his front window and took off down the street. For in invalidated soldier, his lover was still fit. John was quick to predict his actions and went back outside. The minute the man came around the corner, John took him down. It was a rough spill out on the tarmac, cracking John's knee cap to the hard surface. Surely he was in pain. Biting back any snark, Sherlock asked the driver to drop them at the Tesco around the corner.

Sherlock lurked behind John as he picked up a few things they needed and dropped them in his basket. They finally moved to the back of the store for the refrigerated items. John grabbed a carton of milk and then turned to Sherlock.

"What would you like for dinner, love?" The raven shrugged, glancing around.

"Fine. You go pick something you want me to make then. Something I won't have to fight for you to eat. I'll wait up at the check out." Sherlock rolled his lips into a sneer and wandered back to the bakery. Maybe a nice soap bowl, like broccoli and cheddar in a nice sourdough bowl. The consulting detective grinned to himself, moving around the bread displays to find two decently sized bread loaves. He went back to John and dropped the bread in the basket. The blond smirked, leaning back against the wall as he waited. Sherlock darted over to the produce and grabbed a fresh bunch of broccoli, then grabbed a block of cheddar from from the dairy section. When he returned to his lover, Sherlock wasn't pleased in the least.

A woman, between 35 and 37 from the look of her crow's feet, was chatting with John. She was 5'6 with just enough curve to make her floral dress cling in all the right places. As conservative as it was in length, lacked around the breasts. The deep plunged of the neckline ended right in the middle of her breast bone, exposing a fair amount of cleavage. She would flick back her heat-curled hair and laugh in an annoyingly high pitch that made Sherlock wince. John would laugh as well though. He wasn't bothered with the tightness of the dress or the superfluous exposure of her chest. In fact, the expression on his face seemed as if he enjoyed it, relished in the attention of the attractive woman.

A sudden tightness in his chest made him flinch. His heart felt heavy, sinking to his stomach as John continued to talk with the woman. No, this was John, ever loyal and trustworthy John. There wasn't any sort of doubt in their relationship...

The woman's hand suddenly found John's arm. When John didn't do anything to remove it, Sherlock straightened his back and stormed over. He dropped the items in the basket and rolled his lips at the short woman.

"Oh, hello! You didn't tell me he was so attractive!" She immediately turned her attention to Sherlock, eying him up and down. The raven haired man shifted his weight to his right foot and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He introduced himself sharply. She didn't waver at his cold tone.

"Consulting detective, I haven't heard of one of those before. What do you do?" Sherlock didn't even try to hide his amusement.

"It's much easier to show you." He replied.

"Sherlock, don't—," John tried, placing his hand on Sherlock elbow. His lover shook it off and circled the woman.

"Stay at home mother of a three year old girl. You regularly removed your ring because your marriage is going south, but without a new husband or lover, you don't bother worrying about a divorce because you need him to take care of you. When you were a child, you split open your chin. You applied a heavier amount of foundation to your chin as if to hide something, most likely a scar. Your fashion, hair, and make up confirm that you are current on fashion fads and appearance is a priority to you. You've lived in money all your life though. The way you casually flaunt yourself suggests higher breeding. You've also had plastic surgery on your neck, nose, and breasts. The oldest being your nose, roughly ten years ago. The skin around your nose is tighter than that of your cheeks. Want me to move on?" The woman stood with her mouth gaping, the muscles around it moving but not being enough to close. A sudden smile stretched over her face, laughter bubbling from her lips. Sherlock was taken back. He glanced to John, but he was only shaking his head as he greeted the cashier.

"That was good, but you missed one thing." She admitted, holding up a slender digit. Sherlock brought himself up to full height.

"I'm a lesbian." Sherlock held tight to his stoic expression. Lesbian? But how...how the hell did he miss that? The way she held her body, the touch, the flicking of her hair...the rough, worn canvas flats strangely matching with her countryside floral sundress. She's not even from town. She was dressed up for the town. How did he miss that?

"You're such a genius. I always thought not even petty jealousy would cloud your mind." With that she turned away and waggled her fingers to John. He stood at the counter and flashed Sherlock a smirk, cocking his head in a gesture for them to leave. Sherlock pursed his lips, but followed.

He wasn't jealous.

No.

But the Green-eyed Monster was.

Blue

John can sing.

Not like angel or a sophisticated opera singer.

It was rough, but calm. It was soothing to hear his voice squeeze words into streams of melody. He didn't sing rock, or pop, or country. No, there was a gravelly edge when he would sing. And the emotion behind the sound was like water spilling down a mountain side.

John can sing the blues.

He could pack so much emotion into a chunk of words. It was impressive and wonderful and...he would only sing in the shower. Or when he knew Sherlock wasn't home.

Sherlock could understand why John could sing the blues. His mother passed from a long-term illness when he was young, leaving him, his sister, and father alone. He lost touch with his father after he threw his sister out for being a lesbian. From her father's rejection, Harry turned to hard alcohol. Sherlock couldn't count the number of times John had told him of times during his stay at uni that he had to go pick up his sister from a bar or get her from lock up for public intoxication. John then joined the army after he earned his doctorate only to be invalidated when he took a bullet to the shoulder while trying to save a young lieutenant's life, which he did even with blood draining from his shoulder. When he came back to London, he met Sherlock and became fast friends only to lose the consulting detective for three years. John had struggled in his life. He could draw emotion from those tough times.

There were times when Sherlock would return early from case work and hear the ending lyrics. Those last few powerful words that had probably made the entire song. It would literally stop him in his tracks at the door, making him lean against its frame and listen to those last few seconds. John would of course stop short after he heard the door close.

And there were times when John would still be half asleep in the morning and let a ballad or two out as he readied himself in the morning. Sherlock would lie still as possible on the couch as he listened, feigning sleep just to hear his lover sing. Or those moments when Sherlock would sneak about the house when John thought he was sleeping and went to the shower. He would sit right outside of the door and listen.

John's voice wasn't perfect by technical standards, but to the untrained ear it was far from bad. It was wonderful really. Sherlock could hear the missed notes and fallen sharps, but that didn't matter to him. It was the emotion behind the tune, it was the raw feeling John was sharing vocally. Sherlock couldn't do that.

Of course, Sherlock could sing. He was classically trained after all. Mummy would never allow for her children to lack in any area. He knew how to belt out a good, simple tune to match his violin, but nothing more. It was all...boring really. He enjoyed the music to its full extent, don't get him wrong, but he's heard it all. His voice was smooth, deep, and monotone. John could hit all types of notes, especially those growling deep ones that just maybe caused Sherlock's blood to pump a little faster, but he'd never admit to that.

Blue was an exciting little secret.

Purple

"I can't believe you said that to her." John said as he stepped into their flat. He toed off his shoes and wandered to the kitchen for tea. Sherlock scowled at the smaller man's back, rolling his eyes as he walked away.

"It was the truth. I don't see why I shouldn't have told her. I would like to think someone would tell me if you were cheating on me rather than finding it out later down the road, which would actually be quite improbable if not impossible seeing as any attempt of you hiding an affair from me wouldn't be successful." John came back into the room with two mugs, his own white and Sherlock's orange. The consulting detective dropped into his chair was a sigh.

"Sherlock, you'd never have to worry about that to begin with because I'm not going to cheat on you. You could have at least been more polite than saying it to her in such a public place. Here, drink this. I'll get you some ice for that." John said as he left the mugs on the table and turned back to the kitchen. Sherlock's fingers prodded at the tender over his cheekbone. She was a wealthy woman with many rings, who just so happened to take a few martial arts classes in her time. He simply didn't expect her to punch him in public. She had an image to retain. By attacking him in public, she would no doubt be on the paper's headline tomorrow and have a large amount of the public opinion turned against her for being violent. He flinched at the touch, but pushed himself to stand when John entered the room once more.

"Thank you, John, but I think I'll take a shower first." The good doctor shrugged his shoulders and tossed the small baggie of ice into the sink. Sherlock grabbed a towel from the linen closet before heading into the bathroom. He stripped himself of his shirt before looking in the mirror. There was a small scratch from the woman's ring, but the skin around it was beginning to bruise. He leaned in over the sink to get a closer look. It was a shade of purple fading into red, the edges barely pink. It was small, no larger than a coin. With a sigh, he stood back from the mirror. A similar looking mark caught his eye.

It was larger than the mark on his cheek and more red due to age. It stretched across the highest point of his left collar bone. His fingers traced the circular mark, admiring the way it was shaped A small smirk crossed his face. John had caused that mark. When it was new, it was a deep red that had turned into a darker purple bruise. John left it a few days back while the had been lying on the sofa, blissfully and leisurely kissing. John moved down from his mouth to the opened collar of his shirt. His teeth scraped over the edge of his bone and dug into the flesh there. Sherlock groaned at the burst of pain, feeling his back arch slightly as John sucked at the mark. When he pulled away, Sherlock didn't catch a second to see it. John's lips were latched to his once more and he was preoccupied with something else for the rest of the night. The next morning, there was a vibrant purple mark.

He turned slightly to the right, taking in the sight on the large purple mark in the middle of his shoulder. Sherlock couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face at that one. His fingers traced over the dark mark, tips grazing over the indents. They were small, about the size of nail tips moving in an oval shape. Almost like two capitol letter Us facing one another.

John bit him.

Right in the middle of his shoulder, a place easily concealed, John had left a large bruise from his teeth. Sherlock recalled the moment of climax, his back arching as John's fingers clutched his hips tightly. There had been a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he hadn't the time to look or even care. It was magnificent. The way the pain shook through that amount of pleasure bursting inside of him. It was John grounding him, keeping him level, giving him the peace to keep his wits about him. It was a blessing really. In a moment of truth, Sherlock had admitted his fear of intercourse. The way a person could allow their emotional highs to control their body, inhibiting any logical thought as all common sense fell flat and the only thing on their mind was pleasure. John had been understanding. He simply nodded and asked if they could try. Sherlock, being the daring man he is, agreed only if John would stop if it became too much. The good doctor stood, pulling his jumper over his head before leaning down and claiming the consulting detective's lips aggressively.

"I won't let you fall."

John had said, moving to quickly help Sherlock out of his clothing. Things progressed quickly, Sherlock moaning as John touched and felt around. He could feel it, his mind slipping into a lustful haze. Right before he was going to pull away, a piercing pain shocked him. It startled him even more so when a loud, keening moan bubbled from his lips as his back arched. Suddenly, he felt like he was on steady ground once more. He looked down to see John licking over the spot he had bitten down, stroking his hot tongue over the small wound.

"I will always catch you. You just have to trust me, Sherlock."

There had been so many marks after that. The usual rounded hickeys matching the large love bites. The pain worked and John began to get creative. He wake in the morning with burns around his wrists, smirking at the pain it caused when he moved his hands. There had been nights he'd stare down in longing at the long, red welts forming on his thighs and almost screaming at the delicious sting of his leather riding crop. It was enticing and absolutely perfect with the pleasure John caused. It kept his brain from floating off. It was wonderful. But, it wasn't always like that. There were times where Sherlock just wanted to be loved and John loved him. He would cherish every part of his body slowly, at an almost torturous rate. Other times, Sherlock took over, giving the same treatment to his lover.

They each left marks.

And they were always purple.