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For as long as he could remember, he could see snatches of two colours: red and blue. Which, when he thought about it (and he did, quite often), both colours represented the two dominating facets of his temperament: blue was the cold, calculating, calm facet, while red was the passionate, dangerous and adventurous side of him. However, when it emerged that he was able to see two colours instead of only one, it merely served to further alienate him—reinforcing that he was not like everyone else.
Like the rest of the world, black and white were how he grew up seeing the world—literally and figuratively. Once his questions became so frequent as to be unavoidable, Mummy and Daddy Holmes sat him down and explained (as best they could) why he was able to see two colours.
It was taken as fact that everyone had a soulmate. The colour one grew up seeing on objects was the colour one would eventually see on one’s soulmate. Colours were never seen on people before being matched, only on objects. One would only see the dominating colour on one’s soulmate and, when intimate contact was initiated, only then would the whole world bloom into colour.
What was most unusual about Sherlock then, was that red and blue seemed to be warring over which was the primary colour. Which, Sherlock told his parents, was ludicrous, but since the science behind the phenomenon was lacking, he could nothing except take his parent’s word for it. Only when he was at boarding school did the curious thing that made Sherlock different become a bit clearer:
“You have both a romantic and a platonic soulmate,” a knowledgeable professor had informed him when he asked about his condition. “This is very rare, Sherlock. The fact that you can see two colours is extraordinary in itself, but that your soulmates have competing colours shows that they will both have an enormous impact on your life.”
Even as a child, Sherlock Holmes was never one to be conventional.
***
The colours became more intense and more frequent during the dark period of his drug usage. He pretended that it didn’t bother him that he had yet to find either soulmate—Victor was the closest he had gotten so far, yet the colours never quite….looked right. He couldn’t explain it to himself (though God knows he tried), but something about Victor was…off. Overdosing on a “safe” dose of heroin Victor had provided him—a dosage that had been cut with PCP—might have had something to do with it (the irony never failed to escape him).
He cut Victor out of his life soon after that and the colours became less vibrant with every passing day.
He ignored how much that grieved him.
It was years before he saw either blue or red so clearly and so vibrantly again.
And, as luck (or fate) would have it, he’d see both colours on the same day.
***
“Listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you’re finished…”
Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance at Molly’s feeble attempt at asking him out and glanced at her, doing a double take when he saw her lipstick.
Red.
Bright, vibrant, unmistakable red. The kind of red he hadn’t seen in years, and privately thought he might never see again. Shiny, passionate, seductive red on Molly Hooper of all people.
Bloody hell, she’s my soulmate, he thought, panicky.
He buffered for a moment, his heart leaping to his throat and his stomach dropping before remembering himself and his commitment to The Work.
“Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before,” he rambled, the sentence speeding out of his mouth before he could get his bearings back.
He watched her get flustered, light red spots appearing on her cheeks to compliment her lipstick.
“I, er, refreshed it a bit,” she stammered nervously. He watched her a moment longer, his brain shutting down with the magnitude of the information he was processing. Molly Hooper’s my soulmate?!
“Sorry, you were saying?” He dropped his gaze back to his notebook and attempted to get his mind back on track, back on The Work, The Work, it’s always about the work, no time for soulmates…
“…like to get coffee?” she was saying, a hopeful smile gracing her face.
He stomped on her hopes (and his) immediately.
“Black, two sugars please. I’ll be upstairs.”
***
He had sauntered out of the morgue (and away from Molly and her bright red lips) but ran up the stairs and took refuge in an out of the way stairwell while he willed his heart to calm. He closed his eyes and mentally cataloged the information regarding his soulmate status, remembering that it was highly possible (though not probable) that Molly was merely his platonic soulmate and not his romantic one. He still had yet to meet the person that matched the blue he would sporadically see; it wasn’t impossible that person was his romantic soulmate…
Either way, both will need to leave me be. I have no use for soulmates, romantic or platonic, he thought with a sneer. “Sentiment,” he spat, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against and heading up to the lab.
***
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked casually, still typing on John’s phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched John’s eyes widen and his hypothesis was confirmed.
Blue eyes. Soulmate number two.
Bugger.
“Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?” he repeated, in response to John’s query.
Yep, he thought, as the door to the lab opened, definitely blue.
”Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.”
Jesus Christ they’re in the same bloody room, now, he thought, panic rising within him again. He heard Mycroft in his head as he took the coffee from Molly:
“What do we say about coincidence?”
“The universe is rarely so lazy,” he whispered to himself. It served to calm him, keep up the pretense that nothing was amiss. He looked at Molly, bestowing a rare smile on her that dropped as—
“What happened to the lipstick?”
She grimaced and smiled at Mike and John before returning her gaze to Sherlock. “It wasn’t working for me,” she replied.
Really? It was doing interesting things to me.
Catching his train of thought before it could fully derail, Sherlock said “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”
But it’s less red. Something I can handle at the moment.
Just, for God’s sake, neither of you touch me.
***
He notices everything. Sherlock had always prided himself on his observational prowess—“You see, but you do not observe!” he’d frequently growl to John—so it startled him quite badly when he removed his scarf after a case one evening and realized it was blue.
And it stayed blue.
The colour was solid. It didn’t waver or fade, but on the contrary, became more vibrant (for a navy blue scarf) and…real, for lack of a better term. A muscle ticked in Sherlock’s jaw as he ran his long fingers over the fabric. His hands still had that dull, greyish tone to them they always did; his coat was still black with grey flecks; and his shoes were still black with a greyish shine. His world, in other words, was still black and white with shades of grey, with the obvious exception of the scarf he held in his hands.
He slowly looked up and around his quarters as John entered behind him and began puttering around the kitchen. The Union Jack stripes on the stitched pillow that rested on John’s chair—grey and blue; the books on the shelf next to the fire place—blue; the skull painting behind him—blue. He looked down at his scarf again and sucked in a breath—his shirt was navy blue.
“Sherlock?”
He looked up at John, who wore a look of confusion on his face.
John’s jumper was blue.
Sherlock swallowed and furrowed his brows. From what he had been told and what he had ascertained about his unique condition over the years, there was really only one way to see if John was his soulmate. Steeling himself, Sherlock tossed his scarf onto John’s chair and crossed the room, placing his hands on John’s shoulders.
“John,” he began, “stay calm, this is for an experiment.”
“Sherlock, what—”
And then Sherlock was kissing him.
John froze under Sherlock’s hands, his mind racing. What the fucking hell? He’d never known Sherlock to be romantically interested in anyone, with the exception of The Woman, much less himself. He’d always given off blatantly heterosexual signals, if the parade of girlfriends he brought around the flat counted for anything, and while he did question Sherlock’s interest in, well, anyone, he’d never shown any sign of romantic interest in any member of either sex.
So the fact that Sherlock was kissing him—and quite hard—was off-putting to say the very least. Still frozen, John felt a bit of relief when Sherlock parted from him with a loud smack. His stomach dropped, however, when his gaze ticked over to where Mrs. Hudson stood frozen in the doorway, a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands.
“Sorry,” she squeaked, turning quickly and heading downstairs. “Didn’t mean to interrupt!” she called back. John sighed, and looked back at his friend, who was studiously scanning the flat and now wore a crestfallen expression.
“Damn,” John heard him whisper. Sherlock removed his hands from John’s shoulders and picked up his scarf, hanging it and his Belstaff on the hooks next to the door.
John cleared his throat. “And that’s how the rumours get started,” he huffed. “Right, so we’re never speaking of that again after this conversation, but what the absolute bloody hell, Sherlock?” he asked, his voice staying remarkably calm.
“Experiment, John,” Sherlock said, matter-of-fact, irritating John further.
“Come again? What sort of experiment?”
Sherlock sat in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs and steepling his fingers. “I can see blue.”
John stopped and stared. “You can see… colours?”
Sherlock exhaled in annoyance. “No, I can see colour, singular,” he emphasized. He ran his hands through his curls, a sure signal of his frustration. “All of my life I’ve been able to see patches and hints of two colours--”
“Two colours?” John parroted, aghast.
“And I’ve just realized that one colour is solid, real. It doesn’t fade in and out like they usually do, however it doesn’t appear on any people, either. Well, except for you, of course,” he added offhandedly, waving away the piece of information as though it wasn’t of extreme importance.
“So, you thought I might be your soulmate?”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. “However, upon initiating…intimate contact,” he struggled, “the world has failed to bloom into the rainbow of colours I have been repeatedly assured it truly is. Blue certainly has more prevalence, but the red… the red is still elusive, still fades in and out like a poor quality photo. I’ve only see red on one person and that must mean she is my soulmate,” he finished with a murmur.
John continued to gape at his friend. “She? She who? Who is your soulmate, Sherlock?” He watched the detective shoot him a pointed glance and proceeded to ignore the questions.
“The question then becomes,” Sherlock continued, “what contact between the two of us initiated the colour to remain steady?”
John noted the avoidance of his questions, but chose to roll with it for the time being. There was always another time to needle Sherlock about the identity of his romantic soulmate. He exhaled and thought. “Colour comes about via intimate contact, yeah?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock responded, “though intimate contact might only apply to romantic soulmates as opposed to platonic. Clearly kissing you wasn’t necessary in order to see colour.”
“Bloody right,” John murmured. “But some other physical, skin-to-skin contact must have set it off?” he asked, getting back to the matter at hand.
Sherlock stared as he thought about the course of their friendship. They didn’t touch often, certainly not skin-to-skin contact. But then, it came to him:
“Punch me in the face.”
“Punch you?”
“Yes, in the face. Didn’t you hear me?”
“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”
He started as he removed himself from his thoughts and pointed at John. “You punched me in the face!” he shouted.
John’s face contorted. “What? When”
“When we met Irene Adler,” he replied, becoming excited. He stood and began pacing. “I asked you to punch me in the face so I could go undercover as a vicar.”
“Sherlock, that was over a month ago; how are you just now realizing that you can see a colour?” John asked, contemptuously.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” the detective shot back. “The case, Mycroft, Adler.” Molly’s lips.
John stared at his friend, a small smile playing at his lips. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there,” he said slyly. Sherlock straightened and stalked past John down the hallway to his bedroom.
“Don’t we have people coming in a few hours?” he sulked, slamming his bedroom door. John merely chuckled and set about preparing the flat for the impeding party.
***
“Oh dear Lord,” he murmured when Molly finally appeared in the doorway to the flat. And she’s wearing red lipstick. Fuck.
His stomach did queer little flips as she smiled nervously at him and he felt his self-preservation instincts kick in as his mouth worked to wipe the vibrant red smile off her face. He pulled the top most gift out of the bag—fiddling with it as he prattled on, knowing his words were arrows aiming at her heart, yet powerless (and unwilling) to stop them.
“The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind,” he purred, deliberately avoiding looking at her, not wanting her to see his jealousy. “Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…” He flipped open the card and trailed off, feeling his face grow warm as he looked at the inscription in shock.
Dearest Sherlock
Love Molly xxx
He heard her speak and her words penetrated his mind as he gently caressed the red packaging that matched her lipstick so perfectly.
“You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always.” She sipped her wine and fixed her gaze to the floor, her eyes shooting to his in shock as he apologized.
“I am sorry. Forgive me.” He watched her eyes widen as he approached, felt her shudder the tiniest bit as he gently wrapped his hand around her wrist, stepping into her space. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock dropped a kiss on her cheek and he could swear he saw the world light up in colour for the smallest instant.
***
His heart clenched the slightest bit when he saw her at the morgue later that evening and her red lipstick was gone.
***
He often thought about what would happen should he initiate intimate contact and kiss Molly Hooper. The brief glimpse of his life lighting up in true, pure colour was like a spark and he itched for the match that would set fire to his world and eliminate the black, white and grey (and now blue) that dominated it.
He thought about kissing her as thanks for helping him die, then bringing him back to life in her flat before he disappeared. He studied her face as she cleaned the blood off him with a rag, taking in the details, staring at the lips she had bitten until they turned red… (pretending his world didn’t flash with colour when she curled a hand around his wrist to steady him in her bathroom)
Ultimately, he knew it would be unfair and cruel to her, not just for taking advantage of her feelings, but also, should he (gods forbid) die over in parts unknown, it would be disgustingly selfish of him to reveal himself to be her soulmate just so he could finally see the world he glimpsed for brief moments. So he contented himself with a kiss on her cheek (the world lit up again for the smallest of instants) before swanning off to take down an empire.
***
He thought of her often when he was away and avoided her touch like the plague when he used her flat as a bolt hole during his excursions back to London (though he slowly began to yearn for human touch, even hers, even if it meant enduring glimpses of what he denied himself—a world of colour). He slowly, but surely, came to crave the red she wore, just so he could see something other than the blue that he saw so often (and would make his chest ache). He would leave the red lipstick on her vanity table every evening as a hint for the morning, and frequently, she would emerge from the sanctity of her bedroom wearing it. Just as frequently, he would have to work to hide the smirk that would grace his visage. He often wondered if she knew he saw red on her person or if she saw the lipstick he left her as coincidence. Mycroft smirked in the back of his mind, Molly Hooper is many things, but stupid is certainly not one of them.
His trips back to London, sporadic at best, ceased altogether when he was forced to go undercover for a year in Serbia and the Balkans. So he missed the memo that she had gotten engaged to a man who was clearly not her soulmate. He came close to kissing her that day in the locker room, not just as thanks, but to attempt…something with Molly Hooper. A sparkle on her left hand killed any hope he thought he might have had of finally claiming what he now realized he was missing and craving in life—a companion. The palette of colour his world would finally become was merely the icing on the cake to him, now.
He kissed the corner of her mouth after he took her on cases, very carefully avoiding her lips, and his heart leapt as his world sparkled with colour for longer than an instant. He heard Molly gasp in his ear.
“Sherlock!” she whispered, her tone laced with shock and awe. “Did you see…?” She looked down as his gloved had clasped her left hand and fingered the solitaire she wore. His eyes never left her face, though she noticed just the subtlest shift in his expression.
“See what, Molly?” he rumbled quietly. She swallowed and closed her eyes, shaking her head.
“Nothing,” she whispered wetly. He squeezed her hand, smiled softly, and left her in the foyer.
***
“I ended it with Tom.”
Sherlock looked to the doorway Molly Hooper stood in. He took in her wedding day finery—the dress she wore to the Watson's wedding he imagined sang with bright colours, the bow in her hair he knew would match perfectly. He gripped the glass he held harder and took a sip of scotch to calm his nerves. He knew why she was here and his nerves sang with anticipation.
“Oh?” he responded nonchalantly, swirling the contents of his tumbler, schooling his posture and his expression into one of practiced poise. Molly bit her (red) lip.
“I told him it was unfair. We both knew we weren’t meant to be together—soulmates,” she clarified. “I was so afraid I’d never find mine. Then I found him…and realized that he didn’t have room in his life for a soulmate until recently. Oh the irony,” she smiled sadly. “You saw the colours too, didn’t you Sherlock? Just for a moment.”
He swallowed hard as he met her eyes and nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because, contrary to popular opinion, I do have some morals and standards. I’ve been called so many ugly things, and the label of “homewrecker” has a bit of a nasty tinge to it, don’t you think?”
She smiled and nodded, slowly approaching him. He stood and allowed her to come near him, allowed her to get close to him, for the first time since he took her on cases. She stopped in front of him, reached up and trailed her fingertips down his temple. His world flashed, and, by the look in her eyes, hers did too. He caught her fingers in his and brought them to his side.
“What colour can you see?” he asked, his voice soft, quiet, scared.
“Green,” she replied. “And blue.” He raised an eyebrow. “But only on you,” she added. “No one else. I can see both colours on objects, but I’ve only seen both colours on you.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed at that and he opened his mouth to ask. “It’s because your eyes are different colours depending on the light and what you wear—I asked Mary about it once. I can also see flashes of yellow from time to time. All of them show up in your eyes.
“What about you? What colour can you see on me?”
“Red,” he rasped, grazing his thumb over her lower lip.
“Is that why you left the lipstick out every morning?” she asked knowingly. His mouth twitched into a grin.
“Sherlock,” she said, sobering quickly. “Will you kiss me? Please? I want to see the world light up. I know we’re soulmates, you can’t pretend anymore that we’re not. Please? Let me in.”
Sherlock felt his pulse race with her words at the same time he felt his heart crack. Closing his eyes, so he wouldn’t glimpse the brief preview of the world that could be, he pressed his lips to her forehead—an apology.
“I can’t.”
She let out a sob at his words. “Why?”
Sherlock rested his temple against hers. “Because I’m terrified,” he whispered. “Look at my life, Molly. I’m constantly in danger of being killed by one madman or another. Alone is what I have, alone protects me,” he said fiercely.
She palmed his cheek and brought his gaze back to hers. “Alone is a very lonely way to live, Sherlock Holmes.” Another flash of intense colour. “No one needs to know but us,” she said quietly, reassuringly. He inhaled deeply at her words, leaning in to her touch, feeling his barriers beginning to crumble.
No, no, no, no, no.
He leaned his forehead against hers, aware that one wrong move and everything he had been planning for months would be undone. “Molly, for reasons that will soon become clear, I can’t. Truly, I can’t.” He drew her into his arms as she began to sob into his chest, aware that things had irrevocably changed between them, and not sure if it was a good or a bad thing.
His broken heart offered him no condolences.
***
Sherlock knocked on her door and steeled himself for the oncoming explosion. He was quite surprised, then, when Molly opened the door to her flat and looked at him with blank eyes. She remained silent as she retreated back into her flat, leaving the door open. He took that as an invitation and stepped over the threshold. She held a glass of (red) wine and stared at him as he closed the door.
“Molly,” he began, but she cut him off immediately.
“You died.”
His mouth dropped open at her statement and he buffered for a solid minute until it clicked. “You lost your colours, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. She nodded and took a large gulp of her wine.
“I was in the middle of a post mortem when I noticed something…wrong,” she started. “My gloves weren’t blue anymore. Everything had turned grey, dull, depressing. I instinctively knew something had happened to you. I’d heard of people losing their colours before—when their soulmates died. Lestrade called me two minutes after my colours had returned telling me you had been shot.”
“Molly, I—
“And then,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “I lost them again after the broadcast. Mary at least had the decency to call me and tell me you went an overdosed on the plane. You couldn’t even say goodbye to me, Sherlock,” she said, her voice hitching with unshed tears. “We’re soulmates and you couldn’t say goodbye to me,” He slowly approached her, taking the wine glass out of her hand and setting it on the coffee table, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I’m an idiot,” he began.
“Yes,” she agreed, the corners of her lips twitching.
“I’m a complete arsehole who had a wonderful thing in front of him but was too bloody scared to act on it. I’m used to being alone, Molly. I’ve always believed that being alone protects me, but it’s your steady love, and John’s and Mary’s and Lestrade’s that keep me alive. It always has been, since I asked you to kill me.”
“And I brought you back,” she added cheekily.
“Twice.” She smiled and stepped into his arms, allowing him to wrap her in his embrace.
“Who brought you back this time?” she asked.
“Mmm, John did,” he replied.
“Bastard, that’s my job,” she said.
“It will always be your job, if you want it to be,” he said seriously, meeting her gaze.
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, quietly confident. “I have for years and couldn’t stop now if I tried. I will save you every night if you let me.”
“Do you know what I need right now, Molly Hooper?” he asked, quite seriously.
“Mmm?”
“You,” he whispered against her lips, before claiming them with his own. Lights flashed behind his eyes, and he felt Molly’s hold on him tighten. His heart soared as she kissed him back, her lips and tongue tangling with his in a dance older than time. He gently pulled away when the lights behind his eyes stopped flashing and he slowly opened his eyes to the world around him. Colour assaulted his senses, but he only had eyes for the woman in front of him.
He cupped her face and stared into her (brown) eyes, fingered her (auburn) hair, ran his thumb over her (red) kiss stung lips. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed.
“So are you,” she replied, her fingers running through his (black) curls, one hand skimming his (purple) shirt, her thumb coming down to run over his (red) kiss swollen lips.
“Colour my world, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered into his ear. He grinned and captured her lips again, colours be damned. He had all the time in the universe to marvel at his newly colourful world. Right now, he just wanted to kiss his soulmate, his companion, and soon, his lover.
His Molly.