COLOUR - Teenlock/johnlock

Loss

Most people's lives are grey.
A series of monochrome images that mean nothing to them and are simply discarded.
Love is nothing to most, for they have never come close to it. Most haven't the faintest idea what love is.
Love isn't a one night stand with the red haired girl with a lip ring on New Years Eve. It isn't having a crush on the boy with the best pencil case in the class at the age of twelve. It isn't having a relationship just to split the rent.
It isn't grey.

Love is a masterpiece. A symphony of colour. Reds and oranges in the flames and sparks erupting whenever two pairs of lips touch. Blues and purples in tears of joy at the opening of a little black box to reveal a small, shiny ring. Greens in the meadows that are led in by lovers, gazing at shapes in the clouds. Yellows in the gentle glow from a candle at a romantic dinner on Valentines Day. Pinks in the faint blush from a compliment.
Love is colourful. An array of bright hues for all to see. But unfortunately, most do not have that privilege.

Sherlock loved colour: he loved the soft haze of yellow sunlight filtering through his curtains in the morning; the way his hair would turn slightly brown on a bright day; the golden brown of his mother's infamous vanilla biscuits; and he adored the warm array of colours in a sunset.
And yet, unfortunately he was an early loser at the age of six.
He lost his childhood pet, Redbeard. He was told that Redbeard had to go to sleep, although, after hours of waiting for him to play with him, when Sherlock went looking for Redbeard, he was nowhere to be found.

Day after day he would look for him, running around the house and calling his name, to no avail.
His parents refused to answer his questions, for fear of hurting him further.
But his big brother did.
"He's dead, Sherlock. Don't be stupid!"
When he heard Mycroft's words, all sound was cut off, and he felt faint. He fell to the ground in a daze, his eyes closing as he hit the antique rug.
He could hear a high pitched note ringing in his ear, but poor little Sherlock didn't know what to do.
He tried to sit up, and had to use all of his strength to push himself up off the ground.

He sat up straight and opened his eyes, but when he looked at mycroft, he was grey.
"Mike? What do you do to yourself?"
"Nothing, little brother. you have lost your colours. It comes to us all, brother mine."
"B...b...but can't you change it back again?"
"No. Never. Welcome to the real world, little brother."