A/N: I kind of realized this chapter and the last were a tad a shorter than my usual since I have started updating. I honestly have forgotten how long these chapters are so some will be short and others longer. It really depends. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Chapter 17: Undiluted

-Flash forward a few weeks since JM encounter-

Much to the dismay of Sherlock, the murders all ceased soon after our encounter with Moriarty. I didn't know if this was due to that meeting or simply because he didn't feel the need to murder anyone. Maybe every single criminal is taking a break. Whatever it is, the cases have dwindled down to none for the past weeks.

It has been taking its toll on Sherlock for sure.

I was well aware that when a case wasn't present, or even when there is and he has to wait, Sherlock gets annoyed and rather agitated at the simplest of endeavors. It was understandable for him.

Nonetheless, his agitation seemed to affect anyone and everyone around him much to my dismay.

One such case was while I was curled up on the couch, a small sketchbook in my lap and a pencil in between my fingers. I was doodling again for it was the only aspect I decided to spend time in and it was also the easiest habit to past time. Thank god this flat was a mess. I was able to pick a box of science supplies – such as dirty beakers and flasks – and was able to set them up for a still life.

I was in the middle of shading one of the beakers when Sherlock deliberately placed his hand over my drawing, ceasing my actions. I glanced at him, my brows furrowed. Perhaps I should have just gone to my room and drawn this. No doubt the first word he is going to say is –

"Bored."

Exactly.

Closing the sketchbook cover, I lean on the arm of the sofa, sparing a look at Sherlock. I was not amused. Far from it. In fact, I was quite at peace and tranquility before he decided to throw his irritated aura around.

"Bor-"

"Yes, I get that Sherlock. You have been saying this every bloody hour of every day," I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose in annoyance, "Go do some sort of experiment. I know you have plenty to start."

Sherlock paced in front of me, shaking his head, "You never seem to approve of my experiments."

I laughed, "And when has that ever stopped you before?"

Sherlock gave me a look before repeating that abhorred word. "Bored."

"Take a nap!" I throw out there, but the look I got from Sherlock could shrivel a leaf.

"A nap?" he seethed. "Sleeping in itself is tedious and completely boring. Not to mention that dreaming is even more useless. That's what being awake and thinking are for. If the only time you ponder ideas are in your sleep, then clearly you are incapable of adjusting while being awake."

"Alright! I get it. I get it." I threw up my hands in defeat and tossed another idea to hopefully appease the finicky detective. "How about you phone your brother? I'm sure he would love for you to take one of his cases."

Another look. I shrugged in his direction and opened my sketchbook again, deciding to just ignore the prat and return to my drawing. For having such a big head, he doesn't seem to know how to use it properly! Sheesh. Deduct a murderer? Fine. Figuring out what to do with ones own time? Not so much.

My previous aura of peace was heavily disturbed, making everything I did not nearly good enough or simply not to my liking.

I felt a twinge of loss and bitter resentment for the pencil I carried so gingerly in my fingers. Not for it being incapable as a tool, but because of the color it represented. Since it was an ordinary writing utensil, and not a colored pencil, the color it exhibited was the correct one. Nonetheless, I wanted to see color again. It was selfish of me but I couldn't deny that those little moments of hues and pigments were one of the best moments of my life thus far.

Well, perhaps besides meeting the man who broke my tedious lifestyle from its course.

Tilting my pencil, I sized the shape of the flask I decided to draw to my paper. After outlining it, I began the lightest shades of gray for shading.

When I felt a dip in the couch and a faint brush of warm air over my shoulder, I knew Sherlock had resolved to merely watching me. I had no idea why. I mean, the man wasn't really too fond in art at all.

No, he didn't hate it – he did hold some level of appreciation I suppose – but he didn't get it. It was just pictures compared to his mind and all.

So you can clearly see why I was confused with his actions. He wasn't a hindrance. Wait, no. That was a lie. He was definitely a hindrance. How would you feel if you had someone constantly breathing over your shoulder and watching your every move like it was some new discovery? If you didn't feel a twinge of nervous anxiety or even the most subtle bits of embarrassment, then you are lying. It was awkward but I tried my best to ignore him.

He was just being a prat. He was just trying to attract my attention. That was all. I can play it "cool". I'm a bloody soldier for God's sake. Please, I can handle a little childish detective observing my sketches.

Easy.

Well, at least it was until he decided to ask questions. I expected them – it was Sherlock we are talking about – but again I saw no point. In general terms of what he once told me, his mind palace, or whatever you call it, only holds information he holds important to him and his cases. Any questions regarding what I was doing certainly wouldn't aid him, right?

Ugh. Stupid detective and his utterly misguiding and mysterious ways. Twat.

Pointing to the flask, particularly the darkest part, he asked, "How do you know what shade it is without colors? Without the hues? It seems rather… redundant if you will."

I chuckled, shifting a little on the sofa, "I wouldn't expect you to know. I mean, you are always into all those cases and experiments. But art is not run by the same principles. You don't need color to draw something." I paused before adding reluctantly, "Although it would be nice. Another aspect to make art better I suppose."

Sherlock didn't reply to the statement. Perhaps he has lost interest in my work? I doubt it. I can just feel the air and it was exclaiming all the questions he apparently wanted to ask this very moment instead of waiting for an opportune time.

"Would you like to… see it?" The question was hesitant but not opposed to the action. I, on the other hand, was well aware of what he meant and my face flushed. Ugh.

I'll play the idiot for now. He will probably see right through it, but I didn't want to jump the gun, so to speak. What if-

Shut up. Just shut up John and answer. You're taking too long.

"Would I like to see what, Sherlock?" I retorted, forcing a roll of my eyes, "You complain of how bored you are? Please. I think the entire world knows that, or at the very least, everyone in this building."

Sherlock glared at me before sighing and laying his hand on my arm. Just the contact sent a jolt through me. My heart felt like it was beating faster than it should and I felt oddly light-headed. I didn't like this feeling needless to say.

But, that didn't mean I didn't enjoy the effects. The simple contact, although the bond wasn't too strong at the moment, allowed me to see the lightest hue of each and every color. Or I assumed was every color. It's hard to tell when all you have seen is black, white, and gray all your life.

"Color," Sherlock clarified when I gave no response, "Would you like to see color, John?"

Is that a rhetorical question I grumbled silently, battling want with what I should probably do.

It probably wouldn't hurt. It's fairly obvious Sherlock doesn't feel any sort of affection towards me. It will just be for… testing purposes and personal curiosity. Yes. That's definitely it.

Denial A voice chimed in my head and I sighed heavily.

A part of me wanted to accept it because, as I pointed out before, it wouldn't hurt me. I mean, perhaps in some genetic way it would, but not physically. But then there was the why.

Why did Sherlock suddenly care about my wanting to see color? Why did he want to see color? Why was he so adamant about it even though I am absolutely 99.99 percent positive he knows the effects on my average person? Why this. Why that. God this blasted detective is only whys!

And yet, after a moment of hesitation, I still nodded.

"Fine. But no more than a minute or so," I thinned my lips when he gently tugged my hand away from my sketchbook, leaving my knee to prop it up as he intertwined his fingers softly with my own. A stronger shock resounded through my nerves and it felt as if I was going to be electrocuted with this current.

It was amazing and that didn't even do it justice.

Color is… it's color. That's the best way I could put it. How do I describe reds and blues to an individual who hasn't seen color? It's impossible! Trying to would only depreciate the fact!

So of course when every possible pigment in the air and flat made itself known like some bright pop art piece, I smiled wildly and couldn't hold back the spurt of laughter. Call it childish glee or even euphoria, but it was just breath taking. All the colors that we have been abstained from! If color was a drug, then I might as well be an addict.

Beside me, Sherlock was confused but also giving off a small, but visible smile of his own.

I nudged him, my picture all but forgotten, "What are you so happy about? Experiment gone successful?" I felt giddy like the hues were fumes and I was getting high off of it.

Sherlock shook his head, "I feel off and I'm not… completely sure what it means. It's rare, but I don't understand this feeling of happiness. I suppose that's what it is, yes? It's quite the foreign experience."

At this moment, I guess I kind of… sympathized with Sherlock. No, it wasn't pity. It wasn't because I was in the same boat as he was. The only difference was that I understood why I felt this sudden euphoria.

Should I bring up the bond? I thought as I aimlessly lead my eyes from one color to the next. Would it aid in his coming to terms with it?

Or I thought bitterly and fearfully Would it only push him further away? Would it end our comradery entirely? I was afraid for that reason. Sherlock, as I have been claiming time and time again, was not a relationship friendly man. He was a science and mental man. He goes with his head more so than his heart. I am the opposite.

"Sherlock, I-" A knock on the door interrupted my possible confession. Looking at each other, for a moment, I shrugged and called out.

"Yes? You may enter!"

For a while, nobody entered the flat. I almost thought that whoever was there was now gone. But that was not the case. Eventually, the door knob turned slowly and silently. When it opened, Lucille was standing there, clearly nervous and embarrassed.

"Am I interrupting anything?" she whispered, adding quickly after that, "I just had some information about that man from earlier and I heard that your… friend was a detective and I thought maybe-"

She squeaked when Sherlock immediately jumped off the couch, a grin on his face. His hand ripped out of mine and the color left with it. I tried not to let it get to me, but it was a drug. Color was a drug and I was very much aware how addicted I was. Each drug had its downfalls I suppose.

Putting aside the sketch, I rose from my seat and made my way to the kitchen to prepare some tea while Sherlock retrieved the stool he kept specifically for clients or informants.

When I returned, I realized how much Sherlock may need some common knowledge on personal space.

Lucille was holding her knees to her chest on her stool, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock as he leaned forward, his hands in their classic pose. Those eyes, which have been scorched blue in my mind, narrowed at Lucille as if he was scrutinizing her. I noticed her shivering a little and sighed. And to think I sympathized with him earlier.

Walking up to my chair, I gently tug Sherlock back. He complained, of course, but I ignored him. Lucille looked at me gratefully.

"Sherlock. There is such a thing as getting too close. I swear I don't think getting right up to them is going to make them confess any sooner or easier."

"On contrary," Sherlock spoke with a satisfied smirk, "It actually does. Intimidation and a common aura of fear combines with your mind wanting to perform almost any motive to relinquish that combination."

"Smart alec," I grumbled before adding louder, "Well, Lucille isn't keeping information from you. She came here on her own accord, remember? Therefore, your intimidation is unnecessary.

A small tinkling laughter, similar to a wind chime, rang out and Sherlock and I ceased our bickering. When we looked in the direction of the sound, we came in contact with Lucille. She was stifling her laughter.

Sherlock pouted, not seeing what was so funny. I rolled my eyes and ignored his childish antics.

"What's so funny?" I questioned nevertheless, curious myself.

"You two!" she answered, her voice almost normal volume, "The way you act around one another is almost like soul mates do. It's actually amusing and a little… cute if you will." She smiled warmly but Sherlock and I merely froze, avoiding each other's gaze effectively.

I coughed a little, "Um… the case! You were here for the case, right Lucille?" This room desperately needed a topic change. I swear the room, or at least Sherlock and I, dropped ten degrees at the mentioning of soul mates.

Lucille was confused over the change in topic but seemed to shrug it off.

"Where should I start?" She asked softly.

"Specifically the most useful pieces of information," Sherlock answered and I glared at him.

"Um… okay," She paused, "I've been hearing of his whereabouts. Mostly with a scientist I think they said, but that's not all I heard, or rather all I felt. I fear he isn't just… part violent and part monochrome. Actually, my instincts are telling me he is something possibly worse."

Sherlock and I were silent, but I knew we were thinking the same question: What was worse than a Violent Vicinity member? Especially a hybrid? There was practically nothing.

"What did those voices whisper to you, Lucille," Sherlock interrogated. I glanced at him in confusion.

Voices? She never mentioned any voices in her question or in her statement for that matter. How would he know about these voices unless… He must be suffering from those same aspects from his Translucent diffusion. I didn't know whether to see this as beneficial or slightly worrying.

"They breathed words such as Pallor and Rubicond. The hissed phrased that connected both words. A Rubicond advancing to a Pallor field. Not alone. Very few uttered anything I knew. Perhaps you do?"

For once since the color experiment, Sherlock looked on the brink of euphoria. It could only mean one thing. Well, actually two to be precise. The first was that he knew exactly what she was talking about. The second was that now he was definitely not bored. Far from it. And I wanted to give a sigh of relief at that.

"Stop giving that look," I smirked when Sherlock looked at me with confusion. Lucille blinked as well although due to her race she is blind so she probably didn't know what I was speaking of.

"What look?" He prompted, leaning back and raising a brow. Was he trying to challenge me?

I laughed. "You know exactly what look I'm talking about! That expression of I-Know-Everything-And-You-Are-All-Mindless-Idiots that you seem to have when you know something that we do not." Sherlock opened his mouth, but I cut him off, "Don't try to deny it! I'm human, Sherlock, not blind."

Deriding over my words, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Please. You have exaggerated the expression, John. I save that one specifically for the Yard or, if set for a singular individual, Anderson. The look I'm giving now is of pure satisfaction and/or enjoyment of knowing information that makes rational sense. I suppose if your little mind wasn't rolling with art and whatever it is you think about, you would also be reveling in this emotion."

Lucille looked rather confused and I myself realized I was going to get nowhere.

"I'm sorry we can't all experience and inhabit the same mind that you have, Sherlock. We are all only mortal and human compared to your intellect," I remarked with sarcasm dripping off every word.

"It's perfectly fine, John. Now, the case. I assume that you want me to fill in?" Sherlock completely brushed aside – or didn't identify – the heavy laced sarcasm I meant for him. Of course he would. This was a case. Actually, to him this might as well be the beginning of the dangerous game he and Moriarty took on.

"Oh, are you offering?" I mocked him. When he didn't reply and wouldn't look at me, I relented a sigh, "Yes. I would like to know. Isn't it obvious, Sherlock?"

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock leaned onto his prayer-like stance and spoke clearly but quickly. He probably wanted to get to the case more than trying to discuss what he thought we should know.

"The Saturation Sorority," he began. I was about to remark about the name, but a look from the detective hushed my banter of its ridiculousness. "You remember the Sepia Order, don't you John? You were captured by them after all – albeit briefly – and it was our first case as a…"

"Team?" I offered and he grimaced before nodding. I didn't question it.

"Team…" he spoke slowly before continuing, "The Saturation Sorority is much like that organization except they don't care of the color spectrum. It's just another aspect or variable in their eyes from what I have gathered. So, in terms of danger to the local populace divided by Monochrome and Iridescence and all the other races of this world, it's not a hatred towards color and therefore not towards them.

"What they do want is an overthrowing of the system. They don't believe it is at its best or it's fairest although their own methods are far from what we need and would make it worse. Nonetheless, they want a hierarchy created with their kind on top."

"Kind?" I questioned. "There's different types?"

"Yes, although I do not know much about the qualities they have, I am very aware of the names themselves. Primarily, there are the Rubicond and the Pallid. One is mental and the other is physical. From there, if a Pallid or Rubicond were to advance on will, they can be a Dusky or a Pallor – another mental and physical group of greater knowledge and power."

"So, in general terms, another group who wants to be on top of the world?" I spoke and Sherlock smirked.

"Precisely."

"Wonderful," I sighed and glanced apologetically at Lucille. Apparently I didn't need to because she wasn't even fazed by our discussion. If anything, she looked more at ease. Perhaps finally knowing something in your thoughts would be a plus.

A knock at the door caused us all to jump. Opening the door, Mrs. Hudson peeked around for a bit before meeting Sherlock and my gaze.

"Someone is at the door, dears. He's here for you two."

I knew Sherlock wouldn't abandon Lucille and the information she still had to reveal. It was so him. So without argument, I stood and followed Mrs. Hudson down the stairs to the door.

I froze when I opened the door.

Just my luck. Bloody hell.

"Mrs. Hudson, you can go back to your flat. Thank you for telling us or we probably would have never heard it," I gratified and she smiled before shuffling back to her room. I don't know how I remained calm and collected, not tense in the slightest.

The man in front of me definitely wasn't another client. For one, they would have been directed to our door. No, he definitely wasn't one of those.

The American grinned at me when I glared back. He seemed pleased to find his experiment. I wasn't sad to say that I didn't reciprocate that feeling.

"What are you-" I flinched when a sharp pain in my side followed with a feeling of drowsiness and lethargy. When the scientist pulled back his hand, he had a syringe in his palms, twirling it between his fingers. I cursed to myself though it sounded like complete rubbish with my lead tongue.

When I finally did fade to black, I heard one of the first words he uttered since I arrived.

"A scientist never leaves any experiment unfinished."