Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Morning Sunshine

John's POV-

I still couldn't wrap my mind around it, Sherlock had attempted suicide five times, the last time being mere months prior to our meeting. I felt nothing but sympathy and love towards him, he had gone through so much in his life. I looked up from the tea kettle to look at him curled up on the couch. He lay on his side, facing me. He'd fallen asleep on me last night, and I had fallen asleep like that too. I'd woken up this morning stiff and pained, but still in his arms. I'd carried him to the couch so he wouldn't wake up hurting.

The blanket I'd wrapped him in was tucked up to his chin, the blanket hugging the curve of his waist and back. Sherlock's dark curls fell straight into his eyes. A light snore came from the detective. I smiled toothlessly at him, wishing I could capture the moment. I finished making the tea just before I heard Sherlocks gravelly morning voice.

"Good morning." He said this almost nervously, tentatively. I handed him a mug of tea and smiled.

"Morning sunshine," I teased in a light hearted tone. Sherlock's curls stuck up in all directions, giving him a large Halo of curls. Sherlock attempted to hide his blush by frowning and furrowing his eyebrows. I laughed and sat down next to him. Sherlock shifted so our knees were touching, and I felt a small smile tug at my lips. I licked my lips, a nervous habit of mine. Sherlock instantly caught on to my nervousness and became very serious.

"So, last night," I began, unsure of where to start. Not only had I learned the heart breaking fact of Sherlock's mental health, We'd both confessed our love for each other. I felt Sherlock stiffen a tad.

"John, if you didn't mean what you said, I'd understand, it was the heat of the moment-" Sherlock began to speak quickly and I cut him off. "Sherlock, of course, I meant what I said, I love you. What I was wanting to say is that I will be here for you if you want to talk about it." I was referring to his attempts on his own life, however, I had left out an essential question I was dying to ask, however that was not my main concern at the moment.

Sherlock blinked, still obviously shocked at my words. "I love you too, John, and.. that's a tad bit of a sore subject, but maybe in the future." He ruffled his hair. I nodded in understanding.

"That's totally fine, Sherlock. But there is one other thing I wanted to ask." Sherlock nodded, waiting. I hesitated, still nervous after Sherlock's words. "Would you like to go on a date, with me?" I blurted out and Sherlock smiled.

"Of course John, Friday?" He asked, smiling his crooked grin. It was, in fact, Friday, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Of course, why wait? 6:00 tonight?" Sherlock smiled into his tea, blushing. I took that for a yes, and chuckled. "Alright then, any cases today?" I stood and began making myself breakfast. "Nope." Sherlock popped his lips on the p and steepled his hands beneath his chin before walking out of the room to get changed. I finished making my breakfast and made my way to my own chair. Sherlock walked back in and I ate quietly, watching Sherlock as he retreated into his mind palace. His side was patched up and didn't seem to be bothering him.

He wore a suit, as always, and he had combed out his hair into their usual suave, styled curls. He had closed his eyes, and I noticed how incredibly gaunt he was beginning to look. His sharp cheekbones were so sharp I could've sworn they'd break through the skin. He was beautiful, a masterpiece of art. However, he looked hauntingly tired, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his suicide attempts.

It was entirely possible that he intentionally starved himself. This thought gnawed at my insides, bringing an intense emotional pain to my chest. I had finished eating and took my dishes into the kitchen. I had begun to wash up when I heard a noise from the living room. I glanced up, it had been nearly an hour since Sherlock had last moved.

He had gotten his violin out and was now tuning it. After a minute or two, he began playing. The music was intense and beautiful, bittersweet and tragically melancholy. I stood in the kitchen, unable to move from the sincerity of which Sherlock played. He was not an expressive person emotionally, but Sherlock often poured his heart out on his violin.

I stood, listening contently to the music, smiling faintly. I loved to hear Sherlock play, no matter if it was 3 pm or 3 am. Of course, it was a tad annoying to often be woken up at random hours of the night, but it didn't matter as soon as I always registered Sherlocks playing. I continued to stand lost in his music as the music turned down a heart-wrenching path. The sadness poured through unnervingly. I slowly slid into the room as not to disturb Sherlock and sat silently until he stopped. I felt the tears in the backs of my eyes. I wiped them as I glanced up at the clock.

Oh God, it was already bloody 2 pm! I glanced back over to Sherlock who was staring intensely at me. He was studying me closely and I felt my cheeks grow hot. "You're crying. What's wrong?" I laughed, shaking my head.

"No, nothing," Sherlock's head tilted to the side in confusion. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard." I rested my head on my fingers, propped up by the armrest. The corners of Sherlock's lips quirked upwards, and he placed the violin back on his shoulder, his chin resting elegantly on it. "I'm glad you like it," Sherlock's voice rumbled deeply. "I wrote it." I smiled warmly, but my heart skipped a beat in fear. Sherlock went back to playing, a different piece this time. The smile on my face faded when Sherlock turned away.

Sherlock only ever wrote music to how he was feeling. I knew this from the experience of living with him for almost a year, and the extreme sadness was how he must be feeling. That thought didn't shock me after last nights talk as so much as worry me. Still, I said nothing, not wanting to upset the man mere hours before our date. Instead, I simply sipped my tea and listened.

Sherlock was playing a lively tune now, one not of his creation, and I pulled out a crossword. Nothing was said for the next few hours, but the air was filled with Sherlocks music and comfortable silence.