Here I am writing again for Sherlock. It's been a while. I had had this idea quite a while ago, in fact, it was all pretty much written, but after watching the prequel to the season 3 I decided to post it.

Enjoy! :)


It's much after eleven in the night when Sherlock decides to take a walk on the Hyde Park. He wants to feel the fresh air of the night and doesn't want to find people or to talk to anyone. He simply wants to past by them. But it's late and doesn't find anyone. Even better, he thinks as he smirks. Only the nature sounds accompany him. The wind whistling on the leafs of the trees, his footsteps walking in the recently wet mix of dirt, gravel and sand of the ground. Perhaps he listens to nothing more than is own heart pounding inside his chest and his heavy breathing.

Insomnia. It has happened many, many times before, but on those times he used to grab his violin and disturb the sleep of half Baker Street. Now, he has got nothing and he's utterly bored.

Now he tends to get lonely, and if before he never cared about loneliness, after meeting John it affects him a little. Even if he and the soldier man would be in the same room, quiet, it'd still be the two of them. And everybody knows that nobody is alone when with somebody else. The human warmth and reassurance that there was someone right next to him made him feel he was never alone. In fact, it made him learn about loneliness.

His breath freezes immediately after leaving his mouth. His hands are hidden inside the coat's pockets, the coat collar is popped up and the scarf is tied around his neck. And so he walks, getting closer and closer to the famous Speakers' Corner. There's somebody there and he immediately wants to turn around and walk away until he notices something crucial. As Sherlock attempts to quietly pass by the boy, he eyes him from head to toe.

Even though he's too small, physical development suggests being thirteen -years-old.

Owner of a dog. Sherlock notices the two eyes of the big black Labrador dog, sitting beside his owner, staring him in the dark of the night. Big sized dog. He reformulates just then acknowledging the full body of the dog.

Red haired, green eyed; both parents had to carry the genes. Paled skin. Typical Irish.

Father's dead; uses his square-framed glasses without lenses even though he's clearly blind; stares forward, eyes do not move. Turns his head to listen; supports his weight over the white cane placed in front of his body.

"Mister." The boy speaks. Sherlock attempts to ignore, but he calls out again. "Mister, please."

Sherlock stops; the gravel under his soles makes noise. He's a true British man and he knows once somebody speaks on the Speakers' Corner, it's somebody else's obligation to answer back. Besides, how could he fool a boy whose auditory sense is more highly refined?

"How come you know it was a man walking by?"

"Steps too heavy to be woman's; it's too late to be a child walking out here."

"Very well, you stopped me, ask me whatever you please but don't make it too long."

Carefully listening to the man's voice, the teenager concludes. "I was to say that you'd have to be too fat to have such baritone voice, but you appear to be very skinny with a good ribcage. And you're tall; I listen to your voice coming from above…"

"Did you stop me to analyze me? Because, I've got not time for that."

"Pardon me, Mister." The boy apologizes. "I've been blind all my life, never seen a glimpse of a single color. Don't know what they mean. Describe me the colors, please."

"How am I supposed to describe you something untouchable?" Sherlock then frowns; that was a challenge and he likes being defied. "Alright, tell me what colors you want me to describe to you."

"All colors you know. You know, red, blue, yellow, green… The ones from that thing they teach us at school, the color wheel."

"First of all, the primary colors are yellow, cyan and magenta. Secondary colors are orange, blue and violet, made from the junction of the primary colors."

"And what about white, black, brown and grey?"

"Not in the color wheel." Sherlock quickly explains. "White and black are elementary colors. Grey and brown are a mix of black with white or yellow, depending. Which color you want me to describe first?"

"Red." The boy listens to Sherlock breath thoroughly. He wanted him to have said magenta.

"Red is the color of blood, rubies and strawberries. It's commonly associated with danger, sacrifice, passion, fire, beauty, blood, anger. It's the color that makes us all equal. It's the color you listen on a strident cry of pain, on a shy silence, on a profound sentiment of love pulsing on the hot flesh of red-tainted lips. It's the color that our heart pumps. It's the color of our guts, the color of the blood that runs through our veins. It's the color that drips from everyone's wounds. When we're in pain, embarrassed or in love, the feeling is the same for all of us. The blood that runs inside each one of us is the same. When we bleed, we bleed the same, not matter how different we look on the outside."

Just on the first explanation the boy is taken aback. He can relate the color to those feelings.

"Tell me about yellow."

"Yellow is the color of the sun, butter or ripe lemons. It is commonly associated with gold, wealth, sunshine, reason, happiness, optimism and pleasure, but also with cowardice, envy, jealousy and betrayal. It is mostly the color of light. It's a color that naturally attracts us to it. It's the color of the sun of the day and the stars of the night. It's the color that warms us and lights us. It's the color that is shed from a warming hug and that shines a sincere smile. It's the color of ones smile when not being truthful; it's heat boiling in someone who's envious and jealous."

"Orange." The boy requests.

"Amusement, the unconventional, extroverts, fire, activity, danger, taste and aroma, the autumn… Orange is the red and yellow carefully mixed. It's the color that gives us joy after pain; that gives warmth to love; it's the light that breaks through from an awkward silence. It's the color of fire; it's a flame inside each one of us. It's the color that makes us all the same and all different at the same time. It's the way we react that makes us different. It's the color that only those who believe can see when facing trouble."

"Have you ever seen orange? I mean, after facing a trouble… have you seen it?"

"No." Sherlock briefly answers. The boy takes the hint.

"Tell me about blue. People tell me it's a contrasting color."

"Blue is the color of sapphire, the clear sky and the deep sea. Blue is harmony, faithfulness and confidence, coldness and sadness. It's up in the sky, is reflected in the water. It's a cold color, but peaceful. It's the color of a light aura, the color of a protective warrior. It's the color you listen on a battle cry to state peace. It's a color of contrasts as you said. It's the color of peace ruling over the chaos and the color of the chaos ruling over peace."

The boy scraps his foot on the grass he's standing over and asks. "Green is more than just the grass color. Tell me what it means."

"Green is the color of nature, spring and hope. It's seen everywhere, no matter how small. It's the color of growing grass and leaves, emeralds, and jade. It's the color of life, fresh air. It's the color you can see on a leap of faith; it's the color of encouragement words. It's the color of a righteous decision made today that gives hope to tomorrow. It's the color that gives enough serenity and happiness so that good choices are made. It's the harmony between the blue and the yellow."

The boy raises his head, understanding the pattern. "When two colors mingle, the feel associated blends too."

"Isn't it how's life? Every moment has a bit of everything."

"Then let me guess. Purple is something like extreme desire and extreme coldness."

"Purple is the color of the royalty and the piety, of the extravagant, the individualist, the ambiguous, the unconventional, the artificial and the sinner. It's the color of the eyes of who envies, the color that drips from ones mouth when lying, it's the color of greediness of who envies too much and it's the color that emanates from a lazy body. But it isn't the color of evilness… It's the color of what's like to be human… It's the color of insatiable desire and extreme coldness. It's just a deep, rich shade between red and blue, both at their best and at their worst."

Sherlock prepares to walk away, telling the boy. "I've described all the color as you asked me-"

"Wait! You haven't told me about the ones that aren't on the color wheel… Black, white, grey and brown."

Sherlock sighs.

"Black is the darkest color, the result of the absence of or complete absorption of light. It is the color of mourning, the end, secrets, magic, power, violence, evil, and elegance, of the shadows, of the dark night without any light in the sky. It's the darkness of a dead end or deep hole. It's the color that takes away your strength and knocks you down. It's the color of the eyes of those who are possessed by anger and evilness. "

"So white is the opposite, right?"

"White is indeed the lightest color of all, produced by the reflection, transmission or emission of all wavelengths of visible light, without absorption. Yet, it is said to be the color of innocence, perfection, the good, honesty, cleanliness, the beginning, the new, neutrality, lightness, and exactitude. I tend to disagree."

"Why so?"

"White is dull, infuriating, nerve wrecking." Sherlock affirms. "White is not the good. It's the beginning, yes, but the beginning that starts from something else's end. It gives away extreme calm and absolute clarity. It's the color that gives away peace and fear at the same time. It surrounds you when there's no more strength and that sometimes makes you get up, other times swallows you and gives you quietness. It's a fake! And it's useless…"

The teenager is scared. Sherlock is angry and he doesn't know why. How come describing a color would make him so upset like that?

"But…" He starts a little afraid. " if brown and grey have based on black, what's the difference between them?"

"Brown has a shade of yellow. It's a taciturn color that leaves you devastated but gives you a glimmer of hope to carry on. Grey has a shade of white. It's a taciturn color that leaves devastated, that makes you fall down on your knees, give up and let yourself dive into extreme calmness and absolute clarity. Grey is an intermediate color between black and white, a neutral or achromatic color, meaning literally a color "without color"."

"Which color is your favorite, Mister?"

"Brown." He tells the boy. "Brown's my favorite color. It's what I constantly feel. And now that I've told you what you asked me, I believe I can carry on with my walking."

"Mister!" Sherlock stops again; the boy is stretching his hand. "My name's Doyle. It was nice talking with you Mister Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes." He responds, feeling some panic. "He died three years ago and he was a fake. Haven't you heard the news?"

Doyle smiles and puts down his hand. He grabs the leash of his dog and walks away in the opposite direction of Sherlock's. Only the sound of Doyle's cane tapping the ground fills the air, gradually fading away.

When Doyle exits the Hyde Park and takes the first turn, a man stretches his hand and puts two £20 bank notes on Doyle's hand.


Sherlock stands on the top of St. Bart's. Moriarty lies dead on the rooftop.

There are no more colors.

Just red, black and grey.

Sherlock's red lips pursed together, nervously trembling. Moriarty's red blood still gushing from his head's open wound. Red double-decker buses rush down on the street; no-one predicting what will happen next.

Sherlock's long black trench coat flitting in the wind that he tries to keep closer to his body so he stays a little warmer. Moriarty's black suit, elegantly and untouchable confining his dead body. Black clouds in the sky; soon it will rain.

And when he looks up to the sky, waiting for the right timing, he sees the grey sky. An overcast sky, suiting his melancholic mood. And when he looks down, waiting for the right timing, he sees the grey sidewalks. His face loses its color when he realizes what he must do. His legs lose strength when he sees John and realizes what he must do.

And when it's time, he spreads his arms with teary eyes and he lets his body fall. It feels nothing like flying. The ground rushed at him instead of the other way round.

When he opens his eyes again (for real, after so long of running and hiding) there's a gleam of sun hitting him in the eye. He steps over growing green grass; fresh air enters his lungs. The blue of the sky is reflected in the water of Kuri Chhu River. Red and orange brush strokes color the horizon as the sun rises. He puts the hood of his brown monk garment and walks around.

He's in Tibet and he's safe now. And so his lips sketch a small smile.


As Sherlock continues to walk around the city a thought hits him. Why would a thirteen-year-old standing alone in the Hyde Park so late at night? He passes by there regularly and he has never seen him so he's not a homeless kid. Unless…

"Mycroft…" Sherlock mumbles quietly.

No matter what people say, Mycroft cares about his brother. He helped him faking his death, and now, when he's deciding to come back (or at least, show himself to the world) he's helping him realize that people don't consider him a fraud. And neither does he; Mycroft understands why is brother made that decision.

He just wants Sherlock to feel welcomed again. It was a way to tell him that he's being missed in Baker Street and a bit everywhere.


A review would be much appreciated.