Archive of Our Own ^beta

We are human beings. I was born in London. My name is John H. Watson. I have been alive for seventeen years.

The sky is blue.

The problem with facts is that they have to be true, even though no one really knows for sure.
Facts are only as true as the records we keep and the people we trust.
I don't remember being born. I have to take my parents' word for it, where and when it was, how I looked, my size, et cetera.
I don't count the years. The earliest birthday I remember is what they say is my sixth birthday, so I need to trust my parents that there were five more before that.
I don't know what blue is. It's the color of the sky, apparently. I have to trust my parents on this as well, because the Society dictates what we see. I don't see a problem with the predictability of First Sight, everything different shades of the same color. But after you experience Real Sight, my mom says, you never want to go back to The Grey.
The Grey. That's what people who have experienced Real Sight call First Sight. If you ask people who have seen with Real Sight to describe it, no one seems to know how to string the words together.
"Everything changes. Everything is new and different and strange and beautiful." said my father.
"Even the plainest, most mundane things are suddenly bright and new," said my mother. "Ordinary becomes extraordinary."
"Everything becomes so... alive!" sighed my sister, Harry. "You wonder how on earth you've gone this long without it. And you never want to go back."
I suppose that's why after people experience Real Sight, they seem happier, different, and especially clingy. Clinging on to their boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, whoever. All clinging onto their soulmate as if everything will collapse if they let go for one second.
Real Sight only happens when you're touching your soulmate. The second you let go, you go back to First Sight, or The Grey. That's why the word 'grey' is synonymous among the older folk with 'horrible'. They say the only color Firsties see is 'grey' or sometimes they call it 'black and white'.
Black and white. Colorless. Blank. Boring. Predictable. Reliable. Steadfast.
Grey.

When you touch your soulmate, you know. You just know, right away, who you're meant to be with.
It eliminates choosing. It eliminates choosing wrongly. It eliminates being uncertain or heartbroken, eliminates breakups or divorce or hasty decisions.
There are some people who have no soulmate, and others who have multiple soulmates. There are males with male soulmates, females with female soulmates. The Sights System (made legit in 2593, long before I was born) eliminates those kinds of prejudice and judgement. After all, straight people didn't choose their soulmates either.
The Sights System just works.
Except...
Except for the Freaks. The abominations. The glitches in the System. Even our perfect Society can't be perfect all the time.
It has happened before. Rare, oh yes. Extremely rare. But not impossible:
When one person touches someone and sees Real Sight. Sees the color. Just... sees.
And the other person is left in the Grey. They feel nothing. They see nothing. You and your meant to be weren't really meant to be.
You are just a Glitch. Both of you.
These are the freaks. These are the ones we avoid.

•••

"John!"
"Sorry-" I yelped, pulling a jumper over my head and racing down the stairs, three at a time. "Sorry, coming Mom!"
I skidded on my woolen socks, sliding into the kitchen where my mom stood at the stovetop, where she was preparing Eggs Benedict (my favourite). My dad sat at the table, reading the newspaper, but he glanced up as I sat down and nodded a greeting.
"Oh, here you are. Oversleep a little?" my mom jokes, ruffling my messy hair and sliding me a plate of eggs. As I tuck in, my mom sits next to my dad, who immediately slips his fingers around her bony wrist, sighing contentedly and blinking a few times as he goes from the Grey to the Real Sight.
"What color jumper am I wearing?" I asked interestedly. The words meant nothing to me, of course, but I liked to hear them.
"Beige." said my dad after a minute.
"Beige." I repeated, rolling the word around, trying it out on my tongue. "What's it look like? Is it dark? Light? Happy? Cold? Warm?"
"Light." said my mother kindly. "Happy and warm, and a little bit... well, a little plain."
"Oh well, just like me then." I said. "I do love the reliability of plain."
My dad rolled his eyes. "You are so weird."
I chuckled. "Where's Harry?"
"Clara's house. She spent the night."
Clara. Harry's soulmate. Harry had discovered Clara at a night club Clara had been bar tending. She'd reached across Harry to get someone's bottle, accidentally brushed Harry's arm, and now they were planning their wedding ceremony.

One thing you start to believe with the Sights System: accidents don't exist. Everything is fate.

"So, just me then. I think I'll take a walk, actually." I said thoughtfully, polishing off my plate and pushing out my chair.
"Be sure to get to school by eight." reminded my mom sternly.
I nodded, and checked the band that circled my wrist, the Time issued to every Member the instant they were born. It read 6:45
"Love you," I said, pecking my mom's cheek and giving my dad a fleeting hug, before snatching up my satchel and taking off towards the park.
I walked with the awkward gait of someone very short yet broad shouldered and stocky along the well-trodden path that cut through the park. Someone sitting on a bench a way's out waved to me. Squinting my eyes, I made out the form of Mike Stamford, a fellow schoolmate of mine.
"Hullo, John!" he called genially. I internally groaned. Mike was nice enough, but aside from the fact that we were both sixteen, we had next to nothing in common.
"Hello, Mike." I said, hoping I didn't sound displeased to see him.
"Say, John, sit down, will you? We haven't talked in ages."
Reluctantly, I sat down next to Mike. We got started on a conversation about school stuff, and when he brought up the topic of science, I groaned loudly.
"What, you don't like science?" Mike sounded incredulous that someone wouldn't enjoy learning pointless information about cell reproduction.
"No." I said defiantly. "Why would anyone care about why and how cells repair themselves? As long as my cells continue to repair themselves, I'm going to be fine! When I get a paper cut, I don't think about exactly how my cells are dividing for mitosis, I just trust that they are."
My mini-rant left Mike with a little grin on his face. "I feel that way about history. Why do I care what started ancient conflicts, just so long as they got resolved?"
I gaped at him. "History is nothing like science, are you kidding me?"
Mike chuckled slightly, before a thoughtful expression crossed over his pudgy face. "Say, you're rubbish at science, yes?"
I made a face. I couldn't see myself, but if I had to guess it looked a bit like if I was sucking a lemon. "I s'pose."
"And you're brilliant at history?"
"Well, I mean, I wouldn't say 'brilliant', but I do fine."
"Would you consider being a history tutor?" he asked.
I pondered it for a minute, before saying, "Oh, honestly. Who would want me as a tutor."
At this, Mike really laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing. It's just you're the second person to say that to me this week."
After a moment's hesitation, curiosity got the better of me. "Who was the first?" I asked.

•••

"Sherlock Holmes, meet John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes, my mate from science class."
Mike and I were standing in the chemistry lab, looking up at a tall, slender boy with dark, curly hair. He was wearing a long overcoat and had a pencil stuck haphazardly behind his ear. He looked me over for a minute, nodded his head in greeting and turned back to the petry dish he was examining.
"Sherlock, John has offered to be your-" Mike began, but Sherlock cut him off in a voice that sounded a little too deep to come out of such a skinny guy.
"History tutor, I know."
"H-how did you know that?" I asked, whilst Mike just grinned. I turned on Mike. "Did you tell him about me?"
"Not a word." said Mike, still grinning like a cheeky little bastard.
"I told Mike just yesterday that I needed a history tutor, and he shows up today with a boy I've never seen before who is doing exceptionally well in history. Hardly a difficult deduction."
"Oh. Yes, well, we've also come to ask-" I began, but this time it was me being cut off by the slightly melodic voice of Sherlock Holmes.
"If I'll tutor you in science? Gladly. Have a nice day." He stood up and whisked towards the door, his coat making a swoosh! noise behind him.
"Wait." I said. He stopped and looked at me exasperatedly. "We've only just met, and now we're tutoring each other? I don't know you, you don't know anything about me."
"Oh really?" he said, his voice low as he stepped a little closer to me. "I know you're a middle class ruby player living at home with parents struggling to pay the rent. I know you have a brother with a rich soulmate, but he's starting to question if she's really the one. Their relationship's been rocky for ages and he spends the night at her house every night to try and make amends, tie up the disagreements before the wedding. Soulmate wants a spring wedding, you know. I know you want to be a doctor but need your science grade to come up, and that's why you're looking for a tutor but you won't ask your brother for help, even though his soulmate is excellent at sciences and would gladly help you, which shows you've either got something against her or your brother... more likely it's your brother, however. You disapprove of his drinking." He leaned extremely close to my face, so close I could feel his breath as he all but whispered, "Oh, and I know you ate eggs benedict for breakfast." He straightened up and said loudly, "That's enough to be going off on, don't you agree?"
He turned to leave again, and even though I was in a state of shock, I managed to choke out, "Wait."
He sighed dramatically. "What is it now?"
"When are we supposed to meet? And where?"
Sherlock looked at me over his shoulder. "Tonight, seven o'clock pm. The address is 221b Baker Street." And with a cocky wink thrown in my direction, he all but sashayed out of the room.
"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike said, in answer to my unasked question.

•••

At seven o'one, I found myself, against my better judgement, standing in front of a peeling wooden door with a brass knocked, bearing the legend 221b. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I reached across and grabbed the knocker, knocking deliberately 3 times.
A scuffle, a crash, and then the door flew open. Sherlock Holmes himself was standing there in a dressing gown, the same pencil sticking out from behind his ear. "Hello, John Watson." he said, and then turned on his heel and started up the rickety old stairs. I followed him after a minute.
The combined sounds of our footsteps stirred someone below, and a door opened. An elderly woman with a loose bun held in place by several bobby pins and wearing a tasteless dress looked at the pair of us. "Oh, Sherlock, the racket you're making- oh!" she all but squealed when she saw me. "Sherlock! You've got a friend!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at me, before calling down, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. And we're busy with school things, so please do not disturb us for the next hour."
I may be wrong, but I swear I hear her mutter, "'School things'. School things, yeah right, sure. You're not fooling me, Mr. Holmes... well, live and let live." smiling softly to herself, she went back inside her flat.
"Who was that?" I asked as Sherlock unlocked the door to his flat.
"Hmm. Mrs. Hudson, my landlady." he said, opening the door and striding into the flat. I followed after him, and then stopped in my tracks.
The flat was cluttered and cramped, but in a cozy sort of way. There were papers all over the coffee table, two chairs with stacks of books in them, a skull and other strange things on the mantel place, and (oddest of all) several holes in the wall that looked like they came from bullets.
Sherlock was in the kitchen, which was even more crowded than the living room. There was a microscope on the table, as well as discarded newspapers, files, pieces of food, and other oddities.
"Erm," I said, feeling awkward. I cleared my throat, a nervous habit. "Are you going to start tutoring me, or am I going to tutor you?"
"You tutor me at your house, I tutor you at my house." said Sherlock absentmindedly. His eyes were closed and his hands were steepled under his chin. He looked like a child kneeling by their bedside in prayer, an image I knew only because of a picture bible I had owned as a toddler.
"Uh," I cleared my throat again "are you going to tutor me now, or..?"
His eyes snapped open. "Oh, yes, of course. Now, what unit are we on in science?"
I shrugged. "You're the tutor, you're supposed to know. I'm sleeping in that class, anyways."
Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Oh. Well, I always sleep in that class, too. So elementary. Mitosis? Meiosis? Honestly, this is preschool stuff."
"Not to me!" I defended. "Not everyone can be a genius like you!"
His head snapped up to me. "I'm not a genius."
"Are you kidding me?" I almost laughed. "All those things you knew about me, back in the lab? You knew them all just by looking at me!"
Sherlock looked at me curiously, his brow furrowing in the middle. To be honest, it was kind of cute. "That wasn't so impressive. I can do it to anyone."
"How?" I asked.
"The science of deduction. Being able to look and observe and draw conclusions."
"Well, I think it's brilliant. I can't do it."
"That's because you're an idiot." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
Okay, that was uncalled for. I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut me off.
"Oh, don't worry. Almost everyone is."
"Well, that may be so. But you did get one thing wrong."
"Me? Get something wrong?" Sherlock scoffed. "What?"
"I don't have a brother. Harry is my sister's name."
Sherlock looked horrified. "Sister?' he muttered. "But... ugh!" He flung his hands up. "Sister! It's always something!"

By the end of the tutoring secession, I knew the stages of mitosis, learned how to tell an airline pilot by his left thumb, and may have found myself a new friend.

•••

"See, the Serbian collage students were going up to France to-"
"Boring!"
I groaned. "Well, I think how sex cells duplicate themselves is boring too, but I listen to you when you tutor."
"Boring!"
"Sherlock!" I snapped. "How can I make it not boring?"
Sherlock sat up. He had been lying on my bed, shooting the peeling, popcorn ceiling with a finger gun, as I sat in the old leather swivel chair at my desk. We were in my room, for our 8th tutoring secession, and Sherlock was, thus far, proving to be a difficult student.
"Well for starters," he said, staring me straight in the eye. "You could talk about something aside from history."
I made a frustrated noise. "But it's World War I!"
"Boring!"
"This is primary school stuff! How have you made it this far in your life without ever learning about the World Wars?"
Sherlock fell back onto my bed, took aim with his finger gun, and fired thrice in rapid succession. "If I ever did learn about it, I deleted it."
"D-deleted? What do you mean?" I asked. I'd been Sherlock's 'friend' (were we friends? I mean, we enjoyed each other's company, we had tutoring about once a week, and sat together at lunch, but did he consider us friends?) for nine weeks now, and it seemed there was always something new to learn about the strange genius.
Sherlock sat up and pointed his finger gun to his head. "This is my mental hard drive, and it only makes sense to store important information in it. What's the use of knowing about these wars? There is none! And I can't fill my head up with rubbish, that takes up too much space in the Mind Palace."
"'Mind Palace'?" I chuckled. "Do I even want to know?"
"Hypothetically speaking, I'll never forget anything if I keep it in my mind palace." He squeezes his eyes shut, as though if by closing them he could see the 'palace' he described. "I have a wing for important-" emphasis on the word with a pointed look at my WWI notes from earlier that day in class- "things I learn at school, a wing for possible insults to use against Philip Anderson, a room for the periodic table of the elements, a room for types of tobacco ash (142 and counting), a room for John Watson, a room for types of-"
"Whoa whoa, wait." I said. "'A room for John Watson'?"
Sherlock looked embarrassed. My mom told me that when I get embarrassed, my face goes all red. If I could see what red was, it would probably be Sherlock's face right then. "Well, it's technically a room for things I learn about my friends, but it was empty until I met you."
A curious, bubbly sensation filled my body, starting from my chest and curling around to the tips of my ears and the bottoms of my feet. An involuntarily smile spread across my face as I looked back down to my notes. "So as I said, the Serbian college students had plans to assassinate the crown prince of France, but..."

•••

It was after I had been Sherlock's friend for twenty-seven weeks that I first heard somebody call Sherlock "freak".
It was Philip Anderson, of course. Anderson was all greasy hair and big talk and slimy deeds, and there was a pool on when/if he was ever going to find a soulmate, because "'Oo in 'ere righ' mind 'ood wanna touch 'im?' Nathan Spiers, a boy in my English class, once wisely put it.
He had been passing the table Molly Hooper, a shy, mousey girl in Sherlock's science class, Sherlock, and myself were eating lunch, when he'd randomly called out, "Freak!" for no apparent reason whatsoever.
Sherlock had then proceeded to tell the whole lunchroom, loudly and in rapid succession, what financial struggles Anderson's parents were in, what grade he had just gotten on a science test (not a very good one), and how many pounds he had gained since their last meeting.
Anderson had stormed away, spluttering, "Ugh! You weird little freak! It's no wonder you have no friends, you're a macheine!" and Sherlock had called over his shoulder, "Give your grandfather my condolences. Ulcers are the worst."

•••

I don't know when exactly it was that I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.
It may have been the moment when we were sitting together on my bed, studying the map of Europe (before the Great War of 2237, which demolished most of everything, but that's a different unit) and suddenly I was looking at Sherlock and admiring how nicely angled his face was, and how much I wanted to lean over and touch his cheek bone, but didn't.
It may have been the moment when we had been in his kitchen, sitting at the table and examining green leaf cells under his microscope, and his bare hand had been lying so close to mine that I almost touched it, before Mrs. Hudson had interrupted us with a platter of tea and biscuits.
However, I think maybe it was the time when we had first met, and Sherlock deduced me. Or maybe when he called me an idiot.
Or maybe I just fell in love with Sherlock Holmes in the same way that people get addicted to things, liking it at first, getting more and more of it and only realizing things are getting dangerous by the time you're so reliant you can't quit.

•••

Deductions about Sherlock Holmes:
• He played the violin.
• He was a genius when it came to science, loving having an understanding of the world and how it worked
• He hated the Society and disagreed with the sights system
• He never talked about his family
• He loved Mrs. Hudson.
• One time, Molly Hooper grabbed his wrist, looked confused, and then ran away crying. When I asked her about it later, she said "I hoped he might have been my soulmate. But he wasn't."
• I didn't need to see in color to see that I was hopelessly, utterly in love with him.

•••

I remember when it happened.
It was after school one day, when Sherlock and I were walking to Baker Street together for more science tutoring. Technically I didn't really need it anymore, because (thanks to Sherlock) I was acing with flying colours, but that was a fact we both ignored. I had just said some utterly stupid, corny joke that had us both laughing. Sherlock was smiling and I was giggling and the wind was blowing, and suddenly, three things happened at once.
1) A big gust of wind went blowing, causing me to stumble against Sherlock, 2) my pinky finger grazed across Sherlock's momentarily exposed wrist, and 3) everything changed.

Colors.

I drew my breath in sharply. Everything was different. Everything was new. Everything came into focus, and I felt like I had been asleep for a very long time, and now suddenly... I was awake.
The pavement was the same color as my jumper, and the trees were dark with pretty, happy leaves growing out. My skin was tanned and my hair was light, and my shoes were ink black. I turned with wide, awestruck eyes to Sherlock, who had gone rigid, and-
Oh my god. Sherlock.
Before my very eyes, Sherlock's skin and bone turned into something beautiful. His skin was pearly white, in a beautiful, almost eerie kind of way that looked old-fashioned, almost. He was attractive without Colors, of course, but- oh, God- with colors he looked simply too gorgeous to be allowed.
His hair was not quite as black as my shoes, but it was darker than my sweater. His coat was still grey, but the grey was just amped up, like grey with the volume turned on. I looked around at everything, drinking it in, soaking it up. So this is why people don't like First Sight.
"Sherl-" I began, but my breath hitched when I looked into his eyes. They matched the color of the sky high above our heads, which looked closer when it wasn't in Color, but now looked millions of miles away, as though there was nothing holding me back from floating up and getting lost in it.
The sky is blue.
Sherlock's eyes look like the sky.

I know what blue looks like.

"Oh my god." I whispered. I tore my eyes away from Sherlock's and just looked at him in hushed wonder.
Sherlock's eyes had looked startled and a little... afraid? Sherlock, afraid? Preposterous. He had looked put out, to say the least, but suddenly his eyebrows knitted together, his eyes (beautiful, beautiful, blue eyes) narrowed, and he asked sharply,
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Oh my god," I whispered again, clutching desperately at Sherlock's wrist as if my life depended on it, "d-do you see it?" I breathed.
Sherlock looked startled, as if he thought I needed psychiatric help. "See what?" he asked.
I felt my stomach drop and settle somewhere in my trainers. "Y-you don't... I mean to say, you aren't seeing-"
"God, John, stop blubbering. What are you on about this time?"
I could see it. See it in his cold, stony, unseeing eyes. I thought that maybe, for a second there, he had seen it too.
But no.
"You really are a freak." I whispered, so quietly I thought maybe he wouldn't be able to hear. Then I turned on my heel and sprinted away, tears splashing onto my jumper as the world went back to Grey.
I used to think it was comforting, but it was actually depressing. And to think, I'd never see those Colors again. Never see the trees or the pavement or the grass or the sky or-
Oh my god his fucking eyes.

I flung the door to my house open. "Oh, hello John, I thought you wouldn't be back until- John? John!"
I shoved past my mom and ran into my room, slamming my door as sobs wracked my body.
He was a freak. I was a freak.
Abomination.
Nothing but a glitch in the system.
Why was I so surprised? Sherlock told me himself he didn't experience emotions like a normal person. He really hadn't felt anything when we touched. Hadn't seen the sky or the ground or me. Hadn't seen anything.
He never saw anything. Never saw my eagerness, or how much I cared about him.
Fucking idiot! Why is he always asleep when I'm trying to be awake? Doesn't he get it?
I sobbed long and hard until my throat was dry and my eyes ran out of memories to squeeze out, so I sat on the floor, staring at the wall and wishing I was dead.
I couldn't have him. Never.
We were just glitches. Never meant to be.
A gentle knock came at my door. Groaning, I stood up, wiped my face fruitlessly of stray tear streaks, and opened the door.
Then I immediately tried to close it again.
"John," came Sherlock's voice from the other side as he used his giant size fucking thirteen feet to stop the door before it could close all the way.
"What do you want?" I asked. I tried to sound tough, but my voice cracked halfway through. "Sherlock, just... what do you want?"
"Ten minutes. Please. I need to explain."
"No." I said firmly, even though my heart broke into a million pieces as the syllable left my lips. "There's nothing to explain. We're just glitches. That's it."
Sherlock pushed hard enough to open the door, and I stumbled back a few paces. He was looking down at me with the strangest expression I'd ever seen etching his chiseled features.
"Sherlock, what the hell do you-"
My angry question was cut short by two freezing cold hands grabbing my face, cupping my cheeks firmly.
Again, I felt the sensation that everything was coming out of a haze. The picture was clearer focused. I hadn't noticed it was blurry until I was seeing it in high def. My familiar room I'd spent most of my life in was suddenly a new and colorful place, and I would definitely have to explore, but currently I had eyes only for the two hovering inches in front of my face, those sky-colored-I-guess-I-know-what-blue-looks-like-now-eyes, whose pupils were so dilated I almost lost the blue.
"I do."
Sherlock breathed the two words so quietly that if he hadn't been one centimeter away from my face I wouldn't have been able to hear it at all.
I could feel my pulse quickening. "Y-you do what?"
I actually managed to squeak out something coherent with Sherlock's face so close and colorful.
"I do see it. The Colors. I see it too. " he breathed. His eyes with the pupils expanded to twice their normal size were darting across every inch of my face with such a malicious glint I was almost afraid, but suddenly Sherlock Holmes was dragging me closer and all of the sudden, his lips were pressed firmly to mine.
Oh my fucking Jesus.
I wanted to keep my eyes open. To drink in every last inch of Sherlock Holmes and everything and the world and how new and strange everything looked now that Sherlock and I were touching. But I just couldn't. An inhuman and slightly embarrassing noise formed in the back of my throat, and I closed my eyes so I wouldn't get distracted by everything around me.
My fingers found their way to his haywire curls, and I fisted a clump of them, twisting his hair around my fingers and tugging slightly, and Sherlock's fingers were inching up the back of my jumper and tracing beautiful nothing's across the plane of my back, and noises were bubbling out of throats and mixing and getting lost somewhere in the two mouths, lost for good.
I pulled away after what felt like forever and no time at all, blinking my eyes dazedly at Sherlock, drinking in every inch and color of him. His expression mirrored my own, flushed, breathing heavily, slightly confused and shocked at his own luck, and undeniably happy.
"B-but-" I gasped. "But I thought..."
Sherlock mewled and pulled me in again, with a deep and throaty, "You talk too much,"
This kiss was a lot shorter. I pulled away right away.
"What?" Sherlock all but whined. "What's wrong?"
I tried to sort my thoughts out, so I let go of Sherlock. The world turned grey and I hated it, not just because it was colorless, blank, boring, and predictable (and now that I had seen Color and been snogged by Sherlock Holmes, clearly the world was anything but), but also because Grey meant that there was unnecessary space between Sherlock and myself, and I didn't like that, so I grabbed his hand again.
"Sherlock," I began. "When we touched, just then, outside. You said you couldn't see it. You made me feel... God, I started to think-"
Sherlock buried his head in my hair, sniffing slightly like a little boy who'd done something he regretted. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please."
I sighed a little. "I will, but I want to understand. Why? Why would you lie and say you didn't see the Colors?"
Sherlock sighed into my locks, his arms gripping me tighter in a close hug. "Because... I was scared."
"Scared?" This was not what I was expecting. "Scared... of what?"
"Of myself. Of you. Of what you were making me feel and see, and how much I cared about you."
"You're not making any sense." I murmured, tugging at the baby curls sprouting from the nape of his neck.
Sherlock snuffled again, burying himself deeper in my hair. "I always tried to divorce myself from feelings. Convince myself First Sight was best. My... my elder brother. Mycroft."
"I didn't know you had a broth-"
"Well, yes. I don't anymore."
"I still don't get it."
Sherlock's sigh was not exasperated, nor huffy, just... tired, and a little sad. "He was a Glitch. There was a boy named... God, what was it? It started with a G... Geoff? Gavin? Whatever, there was a boy. Touched my brother's hand. Mycroft saw the Colors, and what's-his-name didn't. He was actually disgusted by my brother, calling him queer, a Freak, an Abomination, all the usual taunts. And then Myc came home and hanged himself for unrequited love."
"Oh god Sherlock, I'm so sorry."
"No need for sympathy. Happened years ago. Anyways, everyone who knew him learned about me, and called me 'the Freak's brother', which quickly shortened to 'Freak' as soon as they got to know me. I guess... I guess I just always thought that the Sight System was awful. That it didn't work, and the so-called 'glitches' who were cast aside by the Society were just normal, everyday people... people who lived and breathed and wanted a life. Who deserved a life."
"Oh, Sherlock," I murmured, rubbing his back comfortingly. We stood like that for a while. I didn't want to press the issue, but the questions were burning, so I gave Sherlock ten seconds, before-
"But if you knew how badly your... your brother reacted to the exact same situation, then why did you pretend you couldn't see the colors when we touched?"
Sherlock sighed sadly. "John... I was so scared. People call me a machine, that I don't feel regular emotions. I thought that they were right. I didn't feel things the way other people did. And then you came along, and God, John- it was real. The things I felt when you were next to me. Emotions... terrified me. They were so new and strange. And then when we touched... it was a dream and a nightmare all at once. I was scared, I panicked, I did the only thing I know how to do. I shut the person that mattered out. I thought that maybe I could divorce myself from these feelings, too. God, I was scared of how much I cared. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring... caring isn't an advantage."
"I still don't really understand it, but I'll try. I'll just keep trying, okay?" I said, grinning up at the tall, beautiful dork looking at me sheepishly. "There is one more thing, though."
Sherlock "hmm"ed into my hair.
"What made you come back?"
Sherlock pulled away slightly so he could look at my face. "When you called me a freak. I realized that I'd just lost the most important person in my life, all because I was a fucking idiot."
I laughed slightly. "Well, you are an idiot." I pulled him in close by his coat collar. "Don't worry, almost everyone is."

This time when we kissed, I didn't need to have my eyes open to see that my world was changing. And the change was for the better.