Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Sixteen; Lace

"I don't know," she cried, "I'm sorry-"

"Come on, Claire," John said, desperately trying to calm her down. "You don't need to be sorry. I deserved it. I was being rude, and... yeah. I deserved a good slap."

Claire laughed, almost - it was soggy and miserable and wet, but it was still a laugh - and John smiled to encourage her. With her face damp and pink, her hair undone, he could see a lot more of her than he had in months.

He stepped back, remembering himself. "I actually..." John trailed, the realization hitting him. He swung a thumb back toward the door. "I have to go to this - this thing, soon."

"Oh." Her gaze broke away from his. She seemed to notice the change in the air, too, straightening up and wiping the residue of wetness away from her cheeks. "Alright, John."

They stood at a standstill until John stuttered forward and gently kissed her cheek. "I'll be home soon," he promised. "Don't wait up."

When she acknowledged him, he moved to the front entrance in what must have been seconds, his entire chest feeling like it was folding in on itself, creating a new alloy, imploding and exploding with the same velocity of a fighter jet. She didn't know a fucking thing, and she never would, and John was going to hold those secrets somewhere dark and soggy and hope to God they'd never see the light of day. If she was hurt, it'd be his fault. If Sherlock was hurt, it would be his fault. He was carrying the weight of two people on his shoulders, and he didn't know how to pull back and view it objectively. Every bone in his body was vibrating with panic.

He didn't even know how to coax someone like Sherlock into saying the things he wanted to hear. He didn't know what he was looking for, or if this was treason, or if this had to do with the war, or if it was personal, or if Sherlock would end up dead.

He knew he didn't want Claire to get hurt.

He knew he didn't want anyone to know about his secrets.

Was Sherlock worth that? Sherlock, with his touch that could turn you toxic?

Did he really want to hurt the only person in life who could truly make his heart pound again?

John wiped his thoughts and paced across an empty road, the entire blacktop covered in a blackened sheen of icy water. Every step he took splashed, soaking his dress shoes and crawling up the hem of his pants. He'd regret not taking a bus into the city later, but for right now, he needed to just walk somewhere. Walk and walk and walk and walk.

***

He arrived at the theater two hours later. His clothes smelled strongly like a wet dog, as it had began raining for fifteen minutes before he realized the he could probably rest at one of the nearby markets without being chased out with a broom. It was a good thing that he was wearing old clothes from Harry's house, that resembled a burlap sack more than actual clothing. When the warmth of the theater hit John's face, he relaxed into it, leaning into one of the concrete walls exhaustively. Someone gave him a strange look as people filtered in.

Every time that John wanted to follow into the theater, he was pulled back by the thought that Sherlock could get hurt. And every time he started to leave, he was pulled back by the thought that Claire could be hurt even worse. He didn't know how many people Moriarty owned. The man behind the ticket stand, or the woman that had interacted with him on her way into the theater. He could be in a room filled with enemies and have no clue. Responsibility recognized that he should've left ten minutes ago, but it also dictated that he had to go in.

It was Claire, or it was Sherlock.

John looked at the clock. 6:30.

He paid the ticket holder six shillings, and entered the theater.