A/N; This little story was begging to be written for a couple days, then at 1am last Sunday, inspiration struck. It's a story told through a collection of drabbles each written from a colour prompt and with changing POV's. I hope everyone enjoys tonight's episode. We all know where it's going to end, but let's try to enjoy it while it lasts and flood this site with more amazing stories tomorrow.

White

John marvelled at the wonder that was his friend. He'd seen him deduce cases in seconds, each more brilliant than the last, but he still preferred to watch Sherlock enjoy the glories of nature, the look of peace on his face. Sherlock was happiest when he was delving into a case, but few knew that he was almost as happy walking in the park, John by his side. That was why when John saw the flicker of white from the roof, as he made his own deduction and pushed, he was disappointed that this one joy was now ruined forever.

Red

He'd been happy, peaceful even, blissfully unaware of his surroundings until he'd felt John colliding into him. Faithful John, always observant, forever the soldier. He'd heard a groan as they fell, heard a shot from afar and instantly knew what he would find as he gently removed his friend from his protective position on top of him. Blood...red everywhere, spreading, covering John's right side. He wanted to panic, wanted to wake up from this nightmare, but instead he screamed for help, unravelled his scarf to put pressure on the wound and begged John to stay awake, to stay. with. him.

Black

He'd felt the air knocked out of him as he pushed Sherlock to safety, felt the almost familiar searing pain as the bullet went in as he fell on his charge still trying desperately to cover him, so the sniper could not make another attempt. He felt himself being turned gently, like an injured child, heard a frightened shout for help, Through the mind numbing pain he thought for a moment that it had been Sherlock but Sherlock would never sound so...helpless. He heard his name, knew he should open his eyes, but the blackness of painless oblivion engulfed him.

Blue

He felt his gaze once again drawn towards the blue linoleum floor, anything to stop looking at the pale figure in the bed whose hand he had held since being allowed to enter the room, forgetting for a time his aversion to touch. John was not supposed to be so pale, it was Sherlock who was ghostlike, who never slept or ate. John would never be here had it not been for him, for his idleness and his inability to see the true threat behind Moriarty's words. He would pay for this, Sherlock promised himself. He would make him pay.

Purple

The journey from oblivion was arduous. His mind was foggy, sluggish; he remembered a snipers lens, lunging forward and pain. He felt himself begin to panic, eyes shooting open, Sherlock's name on his lips, remembering who he had been protecting, needing confirmation that he was alive. He found him to his shock sound asleep, head on his bed, hand entwined with Johns. As he scanned him for injuries his gaze fell on Sherlock's once purple shirt, now drenched in John's blood. He hasn't left, he felt a lump form in his throat, a small gesture that spoke volumes...he hasn't left.

Colourless

He awoke to a hand squeezing his. He opened his eyes, suddenly afraid to meet the gaze of the man who had once again saved his life. But the hand was insistent now, demanding. He looked up, not meeting his eye, ashamed of his mistake, he should have seen it, should have stopped it, should be out there hunting, but he could not leave.

The hand left his for a moment turning his face so that he would meet John's gaze.

"You stayed."
"I had to."

Had to because without John everything would be pointless, his life would be colourless.