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through the grey

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“We're just fumbling through the gray;
trying to find a heart that's not walking away.
Turn the lights down low; walk these halls alone
We can feel so far, from so close”


John felt sorry for whomever “his person” was.
It must be difficult to fluctuate what colors you can and cant see.

Whomever, was his, by theory anyway, whomever it was
Probably hated him.


When you are born, you can see. You can see every color except one.
The color of your soul mates eyes.
And you can meet thousands of people with those color eyes.
John has. He's seen countless shades of gray knowing they all have the eyes that could make him see.
But they aren't hers, and while he doesn't know what green looks like.
He aches to see it.


When he meets Sherlock he asks him reflexively, “What color are you missing?”
Sherlock looks at him, his face tightening, just the slightest, but he doesn't look up from the grains of sand under his microscope.
“I'm not missing any color.”
It throws John because Sherlock doesn't look like the type to keep someone's fancy. Or vice versa. But instead of asking whom, he rewords the question, because really surely if there is someone, he'll know.
“What color were you missing?”

He crashes into her outside of the grocery, fruit and vegetables and bread and everything goes crashing to the ground. He curses turning his gaze to hers and all of a sudden, the world literally burns. The lettuce turns this beautiful shade of green, the traffic light glows blindingly vibrant, the dark green eyes pierces into his soul and he can literally feel himself being ripped apart. Green feels like adrenaline, and danger and adventure. It is everything he thought it would be, and more.

He looks into her eyes and sees the same sense of amazement staring back, as her arms lift instinctively around his neck and he presses his lips to hers.

“Its you.”


John wonders briefly if it was the woman, he asks the question one day, in a manner he hopes appears casual. He knows Sherlock said he wasn't missing any colors before her, but it wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to well- lie.

“No.” He says dismissively, his eyes growing hard and his gaze going out the window. “She was just a poor substitute of brown.”


It never crosses Johns mind that Molly Hooper could be anything to Sherlock Holmes.

The crush is obvious, though not unheard of, for someone to fall for someone who could already see. The mind is a complicated thing, and John knows when Molly does find her someone whatever she thinks she feels about Sherlock will evaporate like air.

He wants to ask what color she needs to see. Maybe guide her in another direction, as Sherlock isn't missing any pieces. She deserves better.

He never even notices her eyes are brown.


They sit in Sherlock's flat, their hands intertwined.

“It must have been hideous.” John sympathizes with his wife “Not being able to see blue some days, and brown others. Though, I suppose brown isn't a terrible color to miss.”

His words are a careless thing to say, but he doesn't pick up on them.

Mary frowns at him.

“No. Your wrong. Brown is...Brown is warm. It's...the thing that starts your morning. The cuppa tea to calm your nerves. Brown is comfort...missing brown is like....missing home.”

John doesn't notice how Sherlock's eyes soften as his gaze meets Mary's from across the room.



“What's your favorite color?” Mary asks Molly one day as they sit around Sherlock's flat.

“Blue.” Molly says without missing a beat.

“How does it feel?” She whispers knowingly.

“It feels like brilliance. It feels like crystal clear skies, and summer rain, and...hope. ” She says her eyes fixed on Sherlock's back, her hand clenching a little tighter around her wine glass, her red lips staining the edge as she takes a deep swallow of her wine before slapping on the saddest smile Mary Watson thinks she's ever seen.

“But right now it just feels like loneliness.”


John wouldn't think the colors affected Sherlock at all, by the way he navigates himself.

But sometimes, he watches Sherlock run his fingers along a dark mahogany desk with affection. Sometimes he sees him spending hours looking under the microscope analyzing the different shades and textures of dirt and sand. Sometimes, he thinks he must really yearn for her.

Whoever she is.


It isn't until he sees Mary huddled in a corner of Molly's lab does he finally get it.

Molly Hooper's hand slams hard against his wife's face and his wife, skilled assassin that she is, takes the blow without even attempting to block it. Anger courses through his veins- but the conversation makes his blood flow halt all together.

“Do you know what it was like?” Molly hisses, tears burning her brown eyes. “Do you know what those three minutes of not seeing blue felt like?”

“I had too.” Mary sobs. “I couldn't lose John. He's my blue, he's my brown, hes my everything.”

“And Sherlock is mine.” Molly says venom and despair oozing out of every word. “If you /ever/ tempt with his life again....I will have yours.”

And John knows she means it.


It's a terrible idea. John muses. But how else would Sherlock ever come to terms with it?

He hangs up the phone as he walks into the lab, one day, by himself, and Molly is, obviously surprised to see him.

“Hello John.” all sunshine and rainbows. “What can I do for ya?”

He chews on his lower lip nervously, scrunching his eyes closed in pain.

“I'm not the right man for this.” He finds himself saying, and all of a sudden Molly is looking at him with wide, watery, worried, innocent, perfect brown eyes. He thinks maybe, maybe he could see the appeal in brown after all.

“John, whats wrong?”

“I'm sorry.” He says, before he loses his nerve.

And he pulls the trigger.


Sherlocks eyes are wild as he storms through the hospital doors, on the edge of mad. His hair disheveled and his signature scarf missing from his neck. Mycroft follows behind him a few paces behind, not even bothering to keep up, as Sherlock growls at the receptionist and demands to know where the bloody hell Molly Hooper is right this instance.

Mycroft over steps him, speaking in a low quiet voice that John can not hear. But Sherlock has still not noticed him, his eyes closed muttering to himself. A doctor comes out, exchanges hands with Mycroft before speaking calmly. He think he maybe catches the word 'precision.' and 'a clean shot.' and a 'fine'

It isn't until than does he catch Johns eye. Sherlock looks at him, a look between dazed, betrayed and than- anger.

John had expected as much but what he had not expected was just how quickly Sherlock had moved across the room to strangle him. His hands wrapped around his throat and he was shaking him, Johns hands grasping at his fingers.

“Get the bloody hell off me.” He grunts and gasps

But Sherlock is livid, practically foaming at the mouth, “Why? John why would you- even-?”

“Look at you. You're about to kill me over a flesh wound Sherlock?” He manages to squeeze out as he gasps for air, Sherlock rolling off of him, exhausted of fighting back the other doctors and emotions alike.

“It isn't a flesh wound. You harmed her.” He says pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice cracking with a repressed sob. “The sand, the sand wavered John. You, you damaged my home.”

“No.” John says softly, placing a hand over his. “You did that.”



“I don't remember who did it.” Molly's voice did not waver as Lestrade questioned her, her answers completely useless much to the detective inspectors dismay.

Her loyalty to Sherlock, is terribly, terribly fierce. Mary muses watching her behind a closed door.



She goes back to work before it is recommended, even though the bullet only grazed her, Molly feels fine- just jumpy. It isn't until she's slipped on her rubber gloves does Sherlock come in, his coat blazing behind him, in his self created wind.

It's so nice to see him. She muses. It's so nice to be the center of attention under those perfect blue eyes.

“Sherlock” She smiles, because how could she not? She lives and breathes to see her favorite color once again. “What can I do for you?”

“You should have told them.” He says his voice flat. “But you didn't, why?”

“He had his reasons.” Molly said quietly. “And I had mine.”

“He jeopardized your life Molly- your very well being could have been at stake had he miscalculated, and he isn't nearly half as clever as either of us. What reason could you possibly have to forgive such...such condemnable behavior?”

“He's...your best friend.” she says a small smile tugging at her lips. “It's...fine.”

But it isn't, and he closes the distance between them by pressing his lips against hers.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers his fingers intertwining through her brown hair lovingly as he places his forehead against hers. “I lied. You were always my missing piece, Molly Hooper, My absolute favorite color.”

It's involuntary, the tears that cascade down her cheeks as she flings her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in lovely black locks. “You're my everything.” Molly whispers brokenly. “If I had known getting shot was all it took...I would have asked John to shoot me ages ago.”

“Dont joke Molly.” he whispers against the shell of her ear, but even she hears the underlying subtext- he is also thanking god for John Watson.


Outside the lab doors, John's fingers intertwine with Mary's.

“You did good love.” Mary whispers, green eyes sparkling with mischievous adventure.


If you ask John what his favorite color is. He'll tell you green, without any hesitation.

If you ask him why, he'll tell you adventure is green.

But, if you cant have green. Blue and Brown are pretty great too.