Of Purple shirts and Orange shock blankets

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: John showed that life goes beyond the 1256 shades of grey that Sherlock has catalogued; now Sherlock has the whole world of colour to organise. And Sherlock wouldn't want it any other way.

John often thought it rather strange that one could wear such a jovial colour to such grim scenes. The shade of purple was not particularly bright, nor was it particularly brash, but the joviality lay within the way it was worn, an air of regal superiority (similar to that which surrounded the wearers brother, though in telling the wearer that you ensured said wearer went into a sulk for the rest of the day). Yet the colour was almost always hidden behind good tailoring and dull black, a jacket: one that seemed too cloying for the regal puce. Trying to hide the brave choice? A subtle hint towards some sort of insecurity of the owner? Sherlock was not insecure; of that John was certain, there was nothing the tall, arrogant man had anything to be insecure about. But still John wondered, why hide behind a bland jacket? A mystery, but then John would not want Sherlock any other way.

It was funny wasn't it? How the colour of roses, of love and lust could ultimately equate to death as well. But the puddle now forming worrying close to John's new shoes was more mauve than red; Sherlock bounced around on the balls of his feet, rattling off long names of bacteria and parasites, toxic substances and chemicals. Then before he could even blink, John watched as Sherlock, in one fluid motion, swept down to the puddle, trail his index finger through the liquid rubies and press it to his lips. The quizzical arch of his brow relaxed after seconds, to be replaced by a look of grim recognition, which made way swiftly for the sheer luminosity of ecstasy which remained present for hours proceeding the case, it was the look adopted when a (usually) supremely clever serial killer was outwitted by Sherlock within seconds (a common occurrence). The droplets of blood were still stuck to Sherlock's lips as he danced off, red, glistening and gory. A masterpiece, but then John would not want Sherlock any other way.

How on earth orange was supposed to have a calming affect on someone, was anybody's guess. The god-awful shade was enough to make ones eyes bleed, and why a "shock blanket" should be made such a hue was quite simply an atrocity. John remembered the days when the shock blankets were tin-foil-style, and wondered why they ever changed, he imagined there would be some sort of health and safety regulation behind the changes, and pondered what could have possibly happened to lead to such a regulation. John mused on his way home whether it was possible for someone to cook themselves within a foil blanket. He made a point of asking Sherlock when he returned home. After all he was the fount of all knowledge. An intellectual, but then John wouldn't want Sherlock any other way.

John never really differentiated between lights, but now, after running through darkened streets, with only minimal illumination from the street lamps, he finds it quite easy to distinguish one type of light from another. He has become accustomed to the lights of the street now and sometimes, quite often in fact, he finds that the glare of a light bulb is much too harsh, headaches often follow prolonged exposure to the fluorescent glare of inside lights. The yellow glow from the streets was comforting to him now, and his eyes had adjusted to them, so much that he could make out many things in the dark glare of streetlamps, however the problem always seemed to be that whenever he and Sherlock where running from/to something, he was always the one following, Sherlock knew where he was going of course. And now, even though he could see well in the light, often all he could see was the back of Sherlock. That was just him: Always in the way, but then John wouldn't want Sherlock any other way.

Green was the colour of recycling bins, the colour of Mrs. Hudson's favourite dress but more importantly, even in the central hubbub of London, green was something that John got to see surprisingly often. Parks it seemed, specifically the parks dotted around the central London were the favourite place for criminals of all sorts, whether as a rendezvous point, to exchange information or simply to commit a crime. John found himself in parks, walking past parks and running through parks more often than someone living in central London would expect. He always liked little walks around the parks, but suddenly life with Sherlock opened up doorways and he found that the small grassy areas were much more alive at 3 o' clock in the morning, and, despite his protests, John would always follow Sherlock, no matter what, even if before they started running again John looked down at the fluorescent green hands on his watch which pointed to an ungodly hour and sighed. How Sherlock never managed to sleep, he did not know. The nocturnal man, but then John wouldn't want Sherlock any other way.

Sherlock had seen a lot of dead bodies in his time, and he would tell you quite complacently that death did not have a colour, that the grey pigment that surrounded death was a shade not an actual colour.

Quite bizarrely he was wrong, and what was even more out of place was his contentment in being so wrong. For so long John had argued that colour was everywhere: every mood, every person and every thing had a colour.

And Sherlock saw now that death was no exception, death was blue. He never really noticed before the sharp hue with which the ambulance screamed passed him. The bluest of blues.

Even in hospital everything was blue, the blankets, the curtains, the wall tiles, the floor. Its like the interior designers have yet to discover any other colours. It was completely infuriating.

The sharp beeping of the heart monitor is punctuated with a green line though, and that is a welcomed relief.

Sherlock holds johns hand and traces his veins with a finger, they are almost navy against the ivory of his skin. And when John stops breathing, only then does Sherlock finally relinquish the breath he has been holding for what seems like hours now.

Two steady exhales, followed by one solitary inhale.

And for a moment Sherlock (selfishly) is happy that John didn't have to suffer the inner turmoil he has been through in the past day, having to watch John fade away, into that final sleep.

Ironically Sherlock notices (and by now he really wishes he would just stop noticing things) something he never realised before. He honestly doesn't know why it has never occurred to him before, but the skin, particularly the lips, takes upon itself an azure tint after life has fled from a mortal vessel.

At the funeral Sherlock actually brings flower, they are blue, or as close to blue as you can possibly achieve in flower. He does it as a final salute, to his blogger, his soldier.

The grave is simple, it reads his name, and then below: he found the good in everybody.

So true.

Sherlock rests the flowers on the grass, so green, and looks at the stone, and he doesn't see grey. No he sees blues, greens, yellows, browns, and reds all mixed into one hue that seemed to personify john.

And Sherlock waits for a minute before cracking a smile because he is happy; he is so sad, yet so happy. He knows John would scold him for laughing in a graveyard but he also knows that John would accept him and his always-inappropriate behaviour at inappropriate times. And then he can't help it, He laughs uncontrollably, because through all the years, John has never once forgotten Sherlock's most annoying habit.

"That man will outlive god trying to have the last word,"

And now Sherlock was happy because John; resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic John had finally had the last word, outlived him and proven him wrong one last time. Colour was everywhere.

And Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it any other way.