Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Sixteen; Lace

Everything in John's bones felt cheap and worthless. His pulse was pounding like he just ran a marathon, and somehow speeding up as he put an unwieldy palm to the door of their home. John told himself to breathe.

He turned the knob. He entered. Staccato steps and staccato heartbeats thudded into the entrance hall, and he swore that Claire could hear him come in, even though he clicked the door shut almost silently. He could taste the residue left on his clothing, his skin - Moriarty's cologne and his wine and his cigar, permeating John's hair and darkening his eyes from blue to steel.

He walked slowly, and avoided creaky floorboards, trying to balance himself on the balls of his feet. He could hear the radio playing.

"Another air raid has shaken the city of London, killing approximately forty people and seriously injuring two hundred more. It's a mighty good thing that our RAF pilots and Auxiliary Fire Service are hard at work to keep this nation safe. We'll now report to..."

Underneath the hum, he heard the chopping of vegetables. And underneath that, he heard soft singing.

He approached the noise carefully, making sure to use the assortment of sound to disguise his footsteps. Something that smelled savory suddenly wafted into the dining room as he passed by, filling his nose. He could make out the scent of eggs, meat, and potatoes diffusing throughout the house.

Finally, he rounded the corner where Claire was chopping celery, looking at her from afar. Where she usually had a pack of cigarettes were a pair of cooking scissors, and her hair seemed more casual than usual, done up in messy bun. Her bangs were in her eyes, and every few seconds she'd puff at them to try to make them go away. She wasn't wearing any makeup whatsoever, as if she woke up that morning and decided she didn't care anymore.

John leaned in the doorway. "Hi," he murmured. It came out soft and left a concavity in its place, a hole in his throat.

Claire's head snapped up and she stopped slicing celery. For a moment, her face was entirely blank, like she didn't know what to do with herself.

John was reaching for words to fill the silence, but he couldn't place any of them; he couldn't pin them down and execute them in a consecutive order. "I-"

"John-"

They cut each other off, speaking simultaneously.

"You go first," John conceded.

Claire glanced down at her food, as if to remind herself she was cooking. Then she looked back up at John, her emotions playing out on her face like a camera without a shutter. "Oh, I..." she trailed dejectedly. Claire swept her body up into a stand. Her back was pin straight, emulating her father's posture. "I was making dinner."

John met her gaze and held it until she turned back to her chopping board, cutting celery fanatically. "I'm sorry," she kept on saying. "I'm sorry." Her shoulders started to shake as she was cutting the food, and her voice was started to crack: "I thought you left" and "I'm sorry I slapped you" and "I can't cut - I c-can't cut these damned celery sticks" until her shaking shoulders turned into a nasty cut on her finger from a kitchen knife. Worry bloomed warm in John's temple, and the cut on her finger turned into erratic - but quiet - crying. John traveled across the room to grab a hand towel, wetting it with warm water in the kitchen sink and bringing it to Claire's bleeding ring finger.

"No," she cried, pulling her hand away, until John gently wrapped one arm around her shoulder and brought it back to the towel.

"It's alright, Claire, Jesus." John pressed the towel to her finger, but she edged away, as if she were afraid to touch him. He tried to catch her glance, but she was staring at a blemish above the sink. Every few seconds she'd wipe away hot tears, making eye contact with nothing but a bland fruit bowl on the counter besides her. "How on earth did you cut your ring finger?" His tone somehow switched from tired to paternal, and she finally looked up from the wall.