Everything is Grey

by perksofbeingtrash

Summary:

In a world where when you meet your soulmate you can see in brilliant technicolor, Sherlock has never seen colors.
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I'm bad at summaries. Sherlock doesn't see color, then he meets John Hammish Watson.

Life was black and white, quite literally monochrome. Nobody knows if it was ever different or if there was any other way of life. Every individual was born with monochromatic eyesight; they could only see in black and white. The story goes that one day, a man and woman bumped into each other and the moment they locked eyes, their worlds bled into color. It didn’t happen quickly, but for a world that had only known one way of life, it was shocking. The man and woman who had made this first discovery were soulmates, in every sense of the word; they married weeks after meeting, had 3 dazzling children, and then lived out their lives together harmoniously until their deaths.

This is the world that Sherlock Holmes inhabits. He moves through life with an air of confidence around him. He moved to the busy heart of London the moment he graduated University and found a flat. Mrs. Hudson was a lovely woman who reminded Sherlock of his own Nan back in Musgrave Hall. Now as an adult, he had lived at Baker Street alone for years and he believed himself to be content.

Sherlock had given up on the ideas of love and soulmates. His whole life he’s watched strangers in the world find their soulmates and live their lives in brilliant technicolor. He remembers the first time a girl had looked him in the eyes directly and smiled when she saw glimpses of colors.

“Sherlock! We’re soulmates!” The blonde girl, no more than 12, as he was 13 himself, proclaimed. She drew the attention of the other children on the courtyard looked their way. The girl, Sherlock had deleted the memory of her name moments after the ordeal, had exclaimed about the colors fading into her view. She cried out about the blue of Sherlock’s eyes and the reds in his school uniform shirt.

“So what color are my eyes?” She asked, her eyes widening with the question. Sherlock looked over her face and focused on her eyes. He stared, unblinking as no colors bled into his view, no vibrant colors, no change.

“I see no colors. Nothing has changed.” The girl’s smile faded and morphed into a grimace. She froze as everyone took in that Sherlock didn’t see any colors. From then on, he was looked at as being defective, as unlovable. This sentiment was one that was always attached to those who were seen as soulmates, but did not see colors themselves.

Sherlock had gone through his childhood and teenage years with the notion that love and soulmates didn’t exist and would never exist for him. So with that, he threw everything into starting his career as a consulting detective; convincing people that it was a real career and that it wasn’t a hoax. It had been a long and arduous journey, but he had finally made a name for himself and now he was in need of a flatmate. He had been living in central London for cases and it was becoming too expensive for all the cabs. Mycroft had offered a car to his younger brother, who had outright refused any aid from his brother.

So now Sherlock was engrossed in looking for a flatmate in the midst of solving a case. He had put word to his colleague Stamford, to be on the lookout for any potential flatmates. Sherlock’s requests were pretty mundane, in his own opinion:

• A man (obviously)
• Someone unbothered by violin music
• Someone unbothered by late hours (he doesn’t sleep until his case is solved)
• Someone unbothered by odd smells

Sherlock was straightforward to Stamford about these requests. Stamford wasn’t a dumb man, but Sherlock was mentally preparing to go on his own search soon. Sherlock was peering into the microscope in the lab of Bart’s when the door swung open. In walked Stamford, but he was not alone. Without looking up, Sherlock could hear the tapping of a cane, too much weight, heavy steps, male; psychosomatic limp.

“Ah, I thought I’d find you here. This is my friend, Mr. John Watson.” Stamford said, holding the door for the man behind him. The man shuffled in and Sherlock glanced up from the black and white grayscale of his slides to the door. He made eye contact with Stamford then looked over to the man to his side. The moment Sherlock made eye contact with the man. Slowly, the grayscale seemed to lift and different hues began to bleed into Sherlock’s vision. He had never understood what others had said when they talked of the overwhelming colors and hues that bleed into their view.

Sherlock took a breath and swallowed as he looked over the man. The man was older than he was, maybe by ten years, his hair was silver, his face tastefully wrinkled, and his eyes were a striking green.

“Hello. Afghanistan or Iraq,” Sherlock said, looking down again to his slides. He didn’t want to give any indication that he had seen colors when looking at this man.

“How did you-? Uhm, Afghanistan. How did you know about Afghanistan?” The man, John Watson, asked looking baffled at Sherlock, but also some awe.

“Now John, you might not want to-”

Sherlock delved into a deduction about the tan around John’s wrists and ears, his cropped cut hair around his ears, his posture, and his affiliation with Stamford. As he talked, he watched Stamford raise his eyebrows and turn to watch John. Sherlock could see the amusement, wonder, and overall disbelief running over John’s face.

By the time he had finished and turned back to his slides, John was left speechless in the doorway.

“So, do you have anything against chemicals and odors? How about late nights, I work strange hours.” Sherlock said, still looking down.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked.

“I inquired to Stamford about looking for a flatmate earlier today. Now he brings you here, so that could only mean that he thinks you’re a good match.” Sherlock explained, as if it was as simple as saying that the sky was blue and grass is green.

“Wow,” John just said, in disbelief.

Sherlock smirked as he put his slides back in their respective storage places. He picked up his scarf and put on his Belstaff. He tied the scarf around his neck, which he could now see was a dusty navy blue and his jacket was a darker shade. He opened the door to leave when John called out to him.

“Wait, where are you going?” John asked.

“The address is 221B Baker Street and the name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said and then left the room with his usual amount of flourish, if not a little more. He wanted to get out of Bart’s quickly.

~~

It had been 4 months since John and Sherlock became flatmates. It had been 4 months since glorious technicolor had filled Sherlock’s eyesight after meeting John Hamish Watson. Sherlock and John had solved many cases, once Sherlock noted John’s psychosomatic limp and his need for adventure. They had just started their new case, given to them by Mycroft himself. Which is how they found themselves in a sitting room in Buckingham Palace, John in his usual jeans and a sweater while Sherlock was donned in nothing but a bedsheet.

“You wearing any pants?” John asked, leaning into Sherlock’s space, giving Sherlock a quick glance over.

“No,” Sherlock said, still trying to maintain his disgruntled look from being manhandled by Mycroft’s men.

He and John shared a look and soon the two of them burst into giggles as they took in just how absurd the whole situation was. Soon Mycroft was coming around the corner and the two of them burst into more giggles as Mycroft huffed as he looked at the two men.

After Mycroft explained the case and all the unknowns with it, Sherlock stood from the sofa and began to walk away. Mycroft stepped on the sheet and Sherlock barely managed to catch the sheet before his own jewels were exposed to the walls and eyes of the palace. When Sherlock turned to confront Mycroft, he took note that John did not school his eyes away from where Sherlock’s buttocks had just been and now where his sheet just stopped. Sherlock could see the slight rosiness that rose in his cheeks. Sherlock huffed and continued his argument with Mycroft.

Soon he was in a cab with John leaving Buckingham Palace with a case file with so many unknowns it was annoying.

“I wish I had stolen something, you know, like an ashtray.” John said wistfully as he looked out of the window, watching London breeze by.

Sherlock smirked pulled the ashtray he had nipped from the palace and handed it over to John with a chuckle. John smiled and grabbed the Crystal ashtray. For a brief moment, their fingers met and there was a shift of warmth between them.

Sherlock just smiled and turned to his mobile phone and began to think his way through the beginnings of the case. By the time John and Sherlock’s ruse got them into The Woman’s home and revealed where she was keeping her insurance policy, the Americans had infiltrated. So here they were; John, The Woman, now known as Irene Adler, and The Americans. Guns were drawn and Sherlock was deducing like his life depended on it, because not only did his, but so did John’s.

“Come on Mr. Holmes. We know that she gave you the combination, we heard her tell you that you already know it.” The agent said, pressing the muzzle of his gun into the back of John’s neck.

Sherlock froze. He never froze. He thought back over the conversation between him and Irene since entering the sitting room. He could see John’s hands were starting to tremble, he was doubting Sherlock. His irrational brain was taking over and making his fear prominent.

Sherlock had his epiphany. He turned to the American and yelled, “STOP! I know the combination.”

He turned to the safe and entered the numbers. He saw the look of realization and pure amazement when Irene realized he had figured it out. After inputting the final digits he turned the lock and heard the telltale sound of a gun engaging. He quickly glanced at John and then to Irene and swung the safe door open. The glock inside engaged and set off a few rounds. Without even thinking, Sherlock lunged towards John, pulled him away from the American and blanketed his body with his own lithe frame. Soon the chaos was dying down and Sherlock was running his hands over John as he double-checked him for injuries.

Next thing Sherlock realizes The Woman, Irene, is taking back her phone, drugging him, and leaving through the window. He could hear John fretting about what she gave him and in what dosage. Sherlock could hear the worry in his voice as he faded into the depths of his subconscious.

~~

Sherlock came to hours later, in the comfort of his bed and John explained the events of the evening before Sherlock fell back into his drug hazed sleep. Yet some more hours later, Sherlock woke with a clear mind and clear eyes. He walked into the sitting room to find John sitting in his chair, his laptop on his lap and the newspaper on the arm of the chair. Sherlock shuffled past him and flopped into his own armchair.

“Welcome back to the land of the waking,” John said with a smirk - his attempt at humor no doubt.

Sherlock grunted as he pulled both feet onto the chair and rested his chin on his knees. He looked over to see what John was wearing. Sherlock would take this secret to his grave but since realizing John is his soulmate and seeing color, Sherlock had created a new room in his mind palace categorizing the outfits and their colors that John wears. Since John presumable sees black and white, his sense of style was immaculate. His outfits were always matching and the colors always complemented each other.

“John, that sweater completely washes you out. You should stick to greys and blues, that red does nothing for you.” Sherlock said, not thinking about his words until they had already left his mouth.

“W-What?” John asked looking up from his computer with a shocked look. There were tinges of red rising to his cheeks and the tips of his ears (Sherlock would not be commenting on it).

Sherlock froze, for the second time that day - he froze.

“I-I don’t know. I think the drugs are still in my system. I should go drink some water. Increased fluids should flush out the remainder.” Sherlock panicked and stood up, but way too fast.

His feet stuttered under his weight and he was sinking back into his armchair, mortified and dizzy.

“I’ll grab you a glass,” John said, quickly putting his laptop on the arm of his chair and shuffling off into the kitchen. Sherlock could hear the sounds of John finding a glass, deeming it not fit, finding a second glass, filling it from a water pitcher in the fridge, and beginning to come back. By the time he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock had curled in on himself and was spiraling.

He had let his best kept secret slip out after months of hiding. John was going to assume he was cheating on his soulmate, or worst; Sherlock was the one who was left. He couldn’t bear to have John leave his life, their life. Who else would run around London catching homicidal cabbies or catch Moriarty. John had taken to his lifestyle so well, and Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of it all crumbling down.

“-to breath. Sherlock, you need to breath. Breath, Dammit!” John was right in front of his face. Following this, there was a small sprinkle of water on his face that caused Sherlock to take a heaping breath of air, filling his lungs. Sherlock coughed as the burning in his chest subsided.

Sherlock looked up to see that

John was kneeling in front of him with concern etched across his face. The striking blue of John's eyes were focused on him, searching for any signs that Sherlock wasn't okay.

"Better?" John asked, his voice soft but demanding an answer.

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly, still feeling exposed and vulnerable.

John nodded and handed over the glass of water. "Here, drink this slowly." He stood up and went back to his chair, but didn't pick up his laptop again. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and fixed Sherlock with an intense stare.

"So," John began carefully, "you can see colors."

It wasn't a question, and Sherlock didn't treat it as one. He took a sip of water and avoided John's gaze.

"How long?" John asked.

Sherlock considered lying, considered brushing it off as a lingering effect of the drugs, considered simply walking away. But something in John's tone made him pause.

"Since Bart's," he admitted quietly. "Since Stamford introduced us."

“You’ve known for months? Why didn’t you say anything?” John asked, no judgement, but genuine curiosity.

“I didn’t want to ruin this. I finally found a person who didn’t hate being in my presence, who enjoyed working with me; I finally found a friend.” Sherlock explained, ignoring the break in his voice indicating a rise in emotions.

“Sherlock, I’m going to say something, and I want to make sure you hear me when I say it. Okay?” John said, tone still soft to match his expression.

Sherlock looked up from where his eyes had been locked onto the floor.

John held Sherlock's gaze steadily. "I've been seeing colors since Bart's too. Since the moment Mike introduced us." He smiled softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I didn't say anything because I was afraid too - afraid you didn't feel the same, or worse, that you didn't want a soulmate at all."

Sherlock's eyes widened. After all these months of carefully hiding his feelings, of meticulously observing John's wardrobe choices without comment, of cataloging every shade of blue in John's eyes without ever revealing what he saw - they had both been keeping the same secret.

"We're both idiots," Sherlock murmured, a small smile forming on his lips.

John laughed, the sound warm and familiar in their sitting room. "Complete idiots. But at least we're soulmates. I want it on the record that you agreed to being an idiot.”

Sherlock actually cracked a smile, enjoying the warmth spreading in his chest being able to run his eyes over John’s face and not feel guilty for enjoying the sight of the rosiness in his cheeks.

“I owe Mrs. Hudson 10 quid,” John said with an amused huff.

Sherlock looked at John and the gears in his mind seemed to stutter to a halt.

“Did you bet on this John?” Sherlock asked, amused and shocked.

"I bet that you knew," John admitted with a sheepish grin. "Mrs. Hudson insisted you were as clueless as I was. We made the bet about a month ago when she caught me staring at your eyes one morning over tea."

Sherlock laughed, a genuine sound that made John's smile grow even wider. The thought of Mrs. Hudson secretly observing them, making bets on their relationship status while they both fumbled around their shared secret was both ridiculous and perfectly fitting.

"I suppose I should feel offended that our landlady has been analyzing our romantic situation," Sherlock said, "but I find I can't muster the indignation. Not when she was right."

John reached across the space between their chairs, offering his hand, palm up. Sherlock looked at it for a moment before placing his own hand in John's, marveling at how natural it felt.

"So what now?" Sherlock asked, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

"Well," John said, gently squeezing Sherlock's hand, "I think we've wasted enough time dancing around each other, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes cataloging every detail of this moment - the warmth of John's hand, the soft afternoon light filtering through the windows of 221B, the exact shade of blue in John's eyes that he'd been secretly admiring for months.

"Would it be alright if I kissed you?" John asked, his voice low and gentle.

Instead of answering, Sherlock leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss that quickly deepened as months of hidden feelings finally found expression. When they pulled apart, both were smiling.

"You know," John said, running his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles, "I always thought it was a bit unfair."

"What was?" Sherlock asked, still slightly dazed from their kiss.

"That I got to see all these brilliant colors around me - the vivid blue of your scarf, the rich purple of your favorite shirt - but I couldn't tell you how extraordinary they looked on you."

Sherlock felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the drugs still in his system. "I've been keeping a catalog," he admitted. "In my mind palace. Every color you wear, how it complements your eyes, your skin tone..."

John laughed. "Of course you have."

There was a soft knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson peeked in. She took one look at their joined hands and beamed.

"Oh, my dears, finally!" she exclaimed. "I was beginning to think I'd have to lock you both in a closet to make you talk to each other."

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with a rare, genuine smile. "Though I believe John owes you something."

John sighed dramatically and reached for his wallet. "Here's your ten quid. You were right."

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand dismissively. "Keep it, dear. Seeing you both happy is payment enough." She gave them a knowing wink before disappearing back down the stairs.

When they were alone again, John pulled Sherlock closer until they were both sharing his armchair, Sherlock half-draped across John's lap.

"You know this changes everything and nothing at all," John murmured against Sherlock's temple.

"How so?" Sherlock asked, relaxing into John's embrace.

"Well, we'll still chase criminals across London. You'll still leave experiments in the kitchen. I'll still blog about our cases." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's curls. "But now I get to tell you how magnificent you look when you're being brilliant. And I get to kiss you when you're being impossible."

Sherlock smiled, resting his head on John's shoulder. "I find those terms acceptable, Dr. Watson."

"Good," John replied. "Because I wasn't planning on negotiating."

As the afternoon light filtered through their windows, painting the familiar walls of 221B in shades they could both now fully appreciate, Sherlock realized that for all his deductive brilliance, he'd missed the most obvious clue of all - that John Watson had been his from the very beginning, just as he had been John's.

In a world that had once been black and white, Sherlock Holmes had found his colors in John Watson. And he wouldn't have it any other way.