Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

The River Runs Deeper

Sherlock's POV

I didn't sleep that night, my mind was on sensory overload. John had kissed me, and I had kissed him, and my brain had no idea what to do with the information. I'd shut down emotions years ago, all they ever did was get me in trouble. But around John... everything just began to light up again. I felt things, things I thought I never would again. I loved him, and apparently, he loved me back.

This did not, however, help any of my many mental issues. I'd already gotten dressed and wore a suit, as always. I walked over to my violin and began to tune it. I'd begun composing more and more as my mind spiraled further into depression. I began playing a soft piece I'd created, closing my eyes, letting myself get lost in the music. I heard gentle footsteps leading into the sitting room. John.

I continued playing as if I didn't hear him. The music had grown unbearably sad, and I felt myself moving with the music. When I had finished, the last note singed the air with an intense darkness. John walked up behind me. He knew I only composed based on my own emotions, and I knew he knew.

"Sherlock..." his voice trailed off, not knowing what to say. I whirled around to face him, the violin and bow still in my hands. My eyes fell on his face and I felt my expression soften. "John," I said simply, knowing exactly what conversation was going to ensue. He shook his head gently and I looked into his stormy gray eyes nervously.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked gently, his hands clasping and unclasping. I put the violin away slowly and sunk into the couch beside my, now, boyfriend. I sighed and placed my hands under my chin, unsure of how to start.

"You know I am suicidal, and you know I have clinical depression." John nodded slowly, following my words but not where they'd lead. "Have you deduced why?" I asked, turning my head to his. John looked dumbfounded for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I, uh, assumed it was because of the bullying." John looked back up at me, his eyes clouded with extreme worry.

"Yes, but," I paused. "There are other things too," I took a large breath, nervous about what I was going to admit. "My father was a hot-headed man with a short temper," John quickly realized where this was heading, and his mouth fell open with saddened shock. "No.. Sherlock.. please tell me he didn't.." John asked softly.

I gave a huffy, shaky laugh, which was the only answer John needed. He slipped off of the couch and in front of me, kneeling so his face was level with mine. I felt tears threatening to pour over, and I bit them back. I hate crying, it gives away too much emotion, but I couldn't stop my watering eyes. He caressed my face with his hands, holding my face as a single tear slid down my cheek.

Johns POV

No, oh God, no, no. I was speechless, he was so wonderful and brilliant, and to be abused... God, I wanted to crush the man who had hurt him. I kissed the tear that had fallen. "I-I," Sherlock paused, taking a deep breath. "That's why Mycroft shut himself away, to block out our daily hardships. I was beaten more often than he was, I talked back to Father more. He was beaten too, of course. Our backs... are covered in scars, lashes from his belt. Our mother never knew, until one day, he was arrested, and I saw Mycroft and her talking, and he told her everything. I was 16 when he was arrested." His voice shook with emotion, such intense emotion that I'd not known he'd felt.

I wrapped my arms around him protectively. "I am so sorry, Sherlock." His arms gripped me tightly, holding on for dear life. "No one deserves that, especially not someone as amazing as you." I stroked his back, comforting the broken detective. "I will never, ever let anyone hurt you, do you hear me?" He nodded and I pulled back to look at him.

"When he found out I was dating a man, he beat me so bad I couldn't walk for two weeks. I was 16. Mycroft, who was home for the weekend from University, heard my screams and dragged Father off of me. Mother wasn't home and he carried me to my room. Mycroft had just set me on the bed and locked the door when Father banged on the door. He called me all sorts of names, slurs, and other things. I sat there with Mycroft barricading the door, unable to move. I couldn't tell if it was from fear, pain or the actual wounds." I listened to his heartbreaking story, deeply saddened. I continued to hold him, rubbing the back of his hand with my thumb