Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Forty; Ash

There were things John knew now that he hadn't known before today. 

He discovered how church windows looked when the stained glass shattered, when the roof caved in on the pews. How craters swallowed houses whole, and fire consumed entire streets, hollowing out the frames of apartment buildings for ten blocks. 

John traveled through the midst of endless destruction, speechless, galled. The skeletons of blackened buildings were lined up like toy soldiers, street after street after street. He stared in thankless amazement at the rubble passing before him. Every few minutes, he would see a stray person picking through the ruins of their home and feel a stab of pity. It was a wonder his street had been spared - truthfully, he felt his luck was undeserved.

Although the night had been terrifying, they had gone untouched by German incendiaries while the rest of Bristol was relentlessly bombed for the third day in a row. He and Claire had fled to the bunker in their backyard and hid in stark silence as bombs thundered closer and closer. After the raid had ended, they'd emerged, shocked to find their house still yellow, still intact. 

John had figured that there had been infrastructural damage to the city. It wasn't until the bus started moving on the way to the academy that John put an image to the constant noise of the night before. He'd never seen Bristol so black, still smoking from the uncontrollable fires that had sprouted from incendiary bombs the night before. Even the sky was gray - it was almost as if the entire city had been drained of any color, and now John inhabited a bizarre parallel universe where everything was silent and cold and dead.

The only reason he had ventured out of the house was to - hopefully - speak to Mark, but now even that seemed dismal; there were only a couple people on the bus alongside John, and most of them looked to be nurses. Today, Mark technically had to teach a painting lesson today - but he may have just stayed home, in which case, this entire trip was useless. John internally credited it to the attempt he was making to rebuild the life he used to have, but an unwelcome and constant throbbing in his head was saying that he just wanted an excuse to see Sherlock. 

Which was untrue. John did not want to (and was not going to) see Sherlock. And as an aside that John definitely hadn't thought about in detail: he sincerely doubted Sherlock could play violin with a fucked up rotator cuff, anyway. He probably now had a cast over his ankle, his chest bound by ace bandages, a sling.

God. John turned away from the fathomless damage passing before him and slid his head in his hands. Why would he ever go back there? What was for him at the academy?

He could have just as easily gone to Mark's house and apologized. He could paint at home, with Claire, even in their tense mutual understanding that John had cheated on her. The idea was unpleasant, but how did it ever measure up to the cruel punishment of seeing Sherlock again, in the flesh, bruised body unobscured by chiaroscuro and flickering light? "Christ," John breathed, his eyes squeezed shut, breath pluming from his mouth like smoke. (Like Sherlock's cigarette smoke, like smoke from burning buildings. It didn't matter. Ultimately, John realized, they were equally as destructive.)

***

As much as the last two weeks had shaken the city, here he was, at the academy - and not only were there people, there were a lot of people. He couldn't quite believe how many. There was a line from the lobby leading to the canteen. The whole room was buzzing with energy, with gossip, with hunger. Men, women and children sat on cots that had been laid onto the concrete flooring for them. John didn't know what to do with himself, so he stood in the midst of the commotion and searched for someone he knew.

He could clearly see that the academy had been transformed into some sort of makeshift shelter for those who had lost their homes in the attacks. There were police officers, none of which John personally knew, but he was aware that some of them worked with James. Collins was a cop that he especially recognized. Stocky, blond but balding, and a face soured by time and sleeplessness, James had gone on hour long rants about the way Officer Collins had talked down to him after James brought Francis as a plus one for a work party. (Another racist, apparently.)