Where did this come from? It actually happened to me on the bus yesterday. School starts at 7:30, so I get to watch the sunrise usually. Yesterday I looked out at the dull, blue and gray sky and say these small spatters of bright and deep red. And my mind flashed to that image of Sherlock on the pavement, his blood streaked across his face, looking so red in comparison to his marble skin.

And I thought, how hard it would be for John to have to see his best friend like that. And then to walk outside and have the sky remind him of it.

And I'm in a bit of a low right now, so I wanted to write something sad to get it out.


John couldn't watch sunrises anymore after Sherlock…died. He could barely bring himself to say his best friend's name without his voice cracking. He didn't know if his ability to acknowledge Sherlock's absence had gotten better or worse–some days he could go all day hearing his name without crying, and some days all it took was seeing someone in a trench coat or blue scarf.

But he could not watch sunrises anymore. He had seen one a few weeks after Sherlock's fall.

All he had done was go outside in the morning. To watch one of his favorite things. Sunrises. When he was in Afghanistan, it was like a lighthouse, showing him that even though he was thousands of miles away from England, that he wasn't as far as he could be, because he could still watch the sun rise. He knew it was hard to describe, but it made him feel normal in the midst of the violence and horror.

And so, he had walked outside of their flat. The cold air hitting his face. And although he couldn't bring himself to smile, he sat on the front step of 221B Baker Street and (almost excitedly) waited for the sunrise.

It did eventually come. Probably only after 10 minutes of sitting there on that cold step.

Blue and gray sky, like the normal early morning sky always was. The scarlet sun just peeking out of horizon. John looked down at his feet. He still felt empty.

And then he looked up at the sky again, probably only a minute or two later, to see that dark red streaks were now coming from the center. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened. The streaks looked just like…

"Oh God." John exhaled, whimpering.

The image of his friend's pale face, spattered with his own deep red blood. All over the sidewalk. A vivid stroke of it across his eyes. Like war paint. The same color as the streaks across the pale blue and gray sky. The same pattern.

On the one thing he thought he could always rely on to be there for him–sunsets.

John stood. A single tear rolled down his face. No heavy sobbing. No true sadness. He just felt broken.

He turned around, went back inside, and slept for the rest of the day. From that day on he made sure to not look outside until almost noon. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he didn't see Sherlock's blood seeping into the sky.