Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Twenty-Four; Crimson

Trees became barren and gray; a constant blend of unchanging uniformity. The sun set in the daytime. Colors became darker.

And yesterday had been the first snow of the season.

John couldn't go home anymore. When Sherlock wasn't looking, he'd grabbed the key to the music room and Sherlock's private office, and when Sherlock went home that night, John snuck inside and turned on the tiny fireplace in the corner of the room, woefully inadequate. Then he wrapped up on the couch, using the blankets that Sherlock left in case he needed to spend the night there.

It was strange sleeping on this couch. It smelled like him; like cigarettes and mint. If he didn't think too much, he felt safe.

But he wasn't safe. He was freezing, and he didn't know how long he could sleep here, at the academy, without Sherlock finding out.

Or James. Or Mark, or Claire.

He'd come into work yesterday to see he'd been wiped from all the shifts. He knew he was fired; he didn't even bother to check with Mr. Morgen. The receptionist didn't even say goodbye to him; in fact, no one said goodbye to him. The entire lobby was dead silent as everyone watched John Watson, previous Doctor of the Year, leave with two boxes' worth of his belongings. It was almost surreal. His coworkers, who were previously so attached to him, watched him leave with the emotional capacity of a dead carp fish.

He realized when he was outside that he didn't have a place to stay, or a job, or money. No fiancée.

John still remembered where Sherlock had kissed him for the first time. It was in this room, right over by the desk Sherlock sat in when he was signing paperwork. Four months ago, Sherlock had whipped into his life with a key to a lock and John stole it. And before that, John was a better person. Before Sherlock Holmes, John knew how to lie in concept; he saved dishonesty for poker games and Mr. Tabbot.

Maybe he wasn't a good man. He didn't think he was. He'd stolen and lied too much to pass it off as circumstantial; the guilt was swamping him over but that didn't mean he didn't earn that guilt. It was his to have and to hold. He didn't have much else, these days.

John bought a pack of cigarettes today, with the only cash he had left in his wallet. When the sun set, he held one to the fireplace, and put it to his lips as smoke began to fill the darkness. John was able to make out abstract shapes, lit up by the flame, and he fixated his eyes upon some of Sherlock's possessions that were floating around the room. Of course, there were piles upon piles of song books, stacked up sloppily on bookshelves, and trinkets and toys and skulls of varying nomenclature. The wall that John painted was still covered in even musical notation.

Among all the things in this room, John was overtaken with curiosity by his desk, which Sherlock had never let him touch without the promise of sex. The one time John had attempted to sit down there, Sherlock had chastised him heavily, and then promptly insulted him.

John slid from the couch. Maybe this desk contained something about the "sensitive plans" Mycroft was speaking of. Maybe it was a clue.

As he sat, delicately running his fingers across the desk, a siren began to swell behind him, signalling a potential air raid. John ignored it, as he always did, and gently opened up one of the drawers. He turned on the desk lamp with a lit cigarette still in hand.

Papers. John ruffled through, not exactly methodical but not overly random, either. Pens, paperclips - a pair of handcuffs...?

John gave up on that drawer and tried the next one. And when that wasn't hiding anything, he tried the next, and the next. It was when he was getting to the second last one where he found some evidence of a secret.