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In a world of colours, Sherlock had never seen anyone whose voice was gold. The other boy’s demeanour was unassuming and overshadowed by the brilliance of his voice. While other children fluctuated between mottled greens, vibrant blues and dark reds, John’s gold stood out like the veins of a precious lapis lazuli.
John with all his conventional veneer was anything but if his voice gave any indication. Which it always did. Cerise for anger issues and gunmetal, tending towards black for cruelty. Blue used to be his favourite colour for all the variances it displayed in people. Glacial blue like his brother with his emotional aloofness, vibrant for the happy & content Sarah who draws every day and the dark hues for the sadness that lingers still from Molly’s parents’ deaths.
Rarely other people’s voices shone like that; Jim’ sometimes edged towards silver but it always remained slate in colour. Sally’s was always a sharp, bright claret as she spat “freak” at him and Molly’s always went black and blue when she squeaked at him, looking like Sherlock’s bruises after 3 days. Sometimes Mycroft’s voice would turn silver with speckles of gold but eventually it faded back to an arctic blue. All dull and ordinary. Boring.
But John.
Gold infused itself in John. When he hummed it spiralled through the air like the dust motes that played in the light. His quiet and shy voice sent rivers of gold twining about Sherlocks hands. When John laughed it haloed him in all its precious hues.
Some days it wasn’t gold: it was saffron. Others it was buttercup and sometimes so pale in its buttery appearance that Sherlock feared it would fade to white.
Death.
Like the words that escaped his mother’s lips as she bid him farewell. Her words seemed to blend into the hospital with its white walls and white sheets and white tones splashed on every surface. It was on one of those days when John’s voice looked like his butter that Sherlock decided to talk to John.
Even if John hated him.
Even if John blatantly ignored him.
Even if John called him a freak like Sally and the others.
At least his voice wouldn’t be white. It would go vermillion in anger or heliotrope in fear. Or maybe cornflower blue in apathy. But not white. Never white for his John.
“Hello John”
Startled wide eyes turned to meet Sherlocks, breaths stalling to a halt as they looked into the eyes of each other for the first time. Sherlock had never seen a shade of blue like Johns eyes before. The vibrancy of them being subdued by the darker streaks but crystallising from the icy blue veins. Sherlock breathed in the moment, painting a mental portrait of all the new shades and hues he’d never seen before. The moment however was lost when John’s eyelids blinked shut for a moment, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.
“Hullo. Who are you?” the boyish voice inquired, the lilting tone drifting from Johns mouth like gold mist from a perfume bottle to wrap around Sherlock.
“’My name is Sherlock. Yours is John. You seem… subdued today.” Sherlock rattled off haltingly, fear paralysing his usually silver tongue. A blush started to steal across his pale features as Sherlock cursed his English heritage. Impossibly, Johns eyes widened even more so. “How do you know that?!” John exclaimed in wonder.
“Your voice. It’s… not as vivid as usual. Usually it’s quite gold but now it’s vanilla, or lemon chiffon. Rather pale.” Sherlock replied, flustered. Brilliant blue eyes bored into Sherlocks own in the determined way only children are ever really capable of. “Voices aren’t coloured silly. They high or low. Loud or soft. But not colours. ‘esides, what’s lemon chiffon? Is it food?” John inquired, his voice gaining in vibrancy as his curiosity increased, threads of blood orange and violet tinging its edges.
“Lemon chiffon is a pale yellow. Lemon chiffon cake,” Sherlock stated with an eye roll, “is food.” John huffed in amusement, a grin tugging at the corners of his chubby cheeks. “Alrighty. Gosh you talk like a big person. Anyway that doesn’t say how you know that I feel differently today.” John’s eyes landed on him expectantly. Sherlock sighed as he clung to the remnants of gold that still swirled over his pale skin. This was the crossroad: the one where John either rejected him -he will- or stayed and continued to paint Sherlock’s world in gamboge like Rembrandt’s masterpieces.
“I have synesthesia” Sherlock blurted out, his own voice a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, blues and oranges. It looked like someone had sicked up. Kind of like how Sherlock felt now as his words were soaked into John’s skin.
“Umm… what’s synes-th-thingy-majigy?” John asked slowly, most likely worried about another bout of Sherlock’s verbal diarrhoea. Mentally, Sherlock cursed himself. Of course John wouldn’t know what it was. John was lovely and normal, so unlike Sherlock himself. “Synesthesia is where two or more senses are intertwined. In my case that’s my sight and hearing. I experience seeing sounds as colours. I’ve seen blue on sad people, red on angry, green on jealous, purple on scared and orange on cheerful people but never gold. Sometimes people have pale yellows like yours was earlier but never the buttercup colour it is now.”
Silence echoed in Sherlocks ears, he himself not even breathing and John in all his 8 year old mental capacity trying to understand what a freak Sherlock was. With the silence came the greyscale of the world, no colours to brighten it. A forsaken landscape where Sherlock always feared he’d end up living in. Of course he could still see the brown of the chairs and blue of the walls but they were nothing compared to the colours of sound that usually ensconced his vision. The world seemed to bleed of all colours, dying like the ashes of flames and –
“That’s brilliant.”
Gold seeped back into Sherlock’s world, settling down on everything like fiery autumn leaves that landed with a crisp crunch, bringing both sound and colour. Sherlock felt his heart soar and a grin stole onto his mouth, teeth bared in delight. Everything would be ok as long as there was gold.
As long as there was his John.