This is my 50th fic. and I haven't really written anything in months. and this is my first Sherlock fic. It's probably not that good and it's not what anyone wanted me to write but... I wrote it. I am rather glad I managed to write it even though at one point I nearly quit and erased the whole thing. I don't know if that point is visible but I think the fic changed direction a bit at that point.

anyways. I never thought about writing Sherlock fic. but apparently I did that anyways. I am happy that number 50 was something really special.

John had been reading a book in his armchair for a while now. When he had come home from work Sherlock had been playing his violin by the window.
Enjoying the downtime he had picked up his long-deserted book and started reading. But occasionally he would stop before turning a page and just stare at the playing Sherlock for a moment. In his childhood he had often wanted to play something, mostly guitar or drums, but had never really get around to do it. He couldn't ask his parents to buy him something so expensive so it had always remained as a distant wish. So he watched Sherlock played and wondered what it would be like to learn to play violin. He knew it was way harder that guitar. And more posh too. Not many commoners played it and very few played just for their own pleasure. At least not that he knew.
Not as well for sure. He observed the ease what with Sherlock played, gazing out of the window and seeming nearly oblivious to the complicated movements his hands were making. Like they wouldn't be anything harder that typing.

He frowned. Sherlock typed with alarming speed too. Maybe he had just unnaturally agile fingers.

He shook his head and turned a page. It was time wasted to think about it. He himself would probably play anything. He was too stiff for that, with his gunshot wound. Repetitive motions would not do it good. He shifted his eyes onto the new page and dived into the story.

It took him a while to notice that the flat was quiet. Slightly alarmed he lifted his gaze to Sherlock but careful not to move his head. In case it was just Sherlock again tasting him for one experiment or another he didn't want the detective to know where his focus was. But Sherlock was still standing in the window and looking out. The violin was still resting on his shoulder but the bow hand was hanging on his side.

He risked lifting his head up a bit to get a better look. He wished he could see Sherlock's face but from his chair it was impossible. He frowned. Sherlock was just standing there, motionless. That was not something he was used to seeing. The only spot Sherlock would be still was on his back on the sofa.

After a few long silent moments he cleared his throat

"You want some tea?" he asked as normally as he could while focusing on getting every reaction from Sherlock. As always the detective was able to control most of his reaction. If he didn't have such fluffy curls he wouldn't have noticed the little jerk his head had when his words startled him. He could kind of understand Sherlock though. It was not like he was the most open person in the world, ask his therapist, even though he could make others believe he was open and honest person.

"Yes please" Sherlock finally answered, never moving from the window.
He sighed and got up from the chair before dropping his book on it.

He walked in the kitchen and put the kettle on. Taking two cups out he tossed teabags in them and then he just waited. He noticed he had been staring out of the kitchen window when the kettle clicked off and dragged him back to present.
Pouring the boiling water into the cups he thought how similar he and Sherlock really were. They were both hiding things, even from each others. It wasn't that they were bad things, at least with him it wasn't. He just didn't feel comfortable telling his personal things to others. He didn't want anyone knowing what was going on in his head.
He snorted. Of course Sherlock probably knew. But just like Sherlock didn't want him to dig out his personal things Sherlock left his personal things alone too. He appreciated it. For some reason he was fine with just guessing that Sherlock knew everything about him as long as it was not confirmed.

So they lived happily together, he thought while tossing the teabags away. He occasionally had a shot with women but every time the relationship was about to turn more serious and he was expected to tell how he felt about things, what he thought about things he backed out. And Sherlock helped him with that. He didn't know if Sherlock was worried of him leaving or if he just happened to occasionally be more demanding, needing more help with getting a pen or sending a text.

And he never asked. That was part of the unspoken deal. He didn't ask why Sherlock did it and in return Sherlock never asked why he wasn't properly angry at him for loosing his girlfriends. Not that he had any right to be, it was his decision to put Sherlock first. Always his decision and one that he was not about to chance.

Because they worked. They were comfortable together. He felt safe and relaxed with Sherlock. Not something he had felt much after coming back from 'Ganistan. He didn't have to hide himself, act like he was just like everyone else. That he was okay with killing people as long as they were bad ones. That he didn't mind breaking rules and laws as long as it was for a good reason. And as long as they didn't get caught.

He had changed in the war. He knew what it meant that ending justified the means. And he was okay with that. But he also knew that not everyone would be okay with it, so he did his best to act like he hadn't changed and that he was still good average citizen.

Granted that people did wonder why he was living willingly with Sherlock but it had eventually been shrugged off with him needing the thrill and danger. It wasn't the whole truth but part of it. He needed the excitement too. And Sherlock had helped imprint that into people's minds. Had helped him blend in and be accepted with a slight white lie.

He brought the cups to the living room where Sherlock apparently hadn't moved at all. He walked up to the window and held out the mug.

"Here" he said and smiled. Sherlock tilts his head to face him. Then balanced the violin against his cheek and shoulder and takes the bow into the same hand as the violin neck and freed a hand for the cup.

"Thanks" Sherlock said nonchalantly and takes the cup before looking out of the window. He shook his head.

"That won't work. Give me the violin before you drop it and I'll put it on your chair"

Without a word Sherlock lifted his head and moved the violin a bit over his shoulder. He took the instrument and brings it to the chair before sitting back down on his chair. The book digs into his thigh and with some struggle he pulled the offending item away and places it on the floor.

Then he leaned back and stared at the man staring out of the window.

He couldn't deny that Sherlock was the most important person to him. That Sherlock had saved his life when they had met, when they had moved in together. Sherlock had showed him, was showing him all the time that it wasn't wrong to be different. It wasn't wrong to keep some distance to others and live the way you wanted .
And in return he tried to protect Sherlock. He tried to make the man a bit less offending. Because being different and distant was one thing, being hated was other. And he needed to get Sherlock to see the difference before something went terribly wrong. The man was brilliant, he didn't want anything to soil that. And he was sure that both Donovan and Anderson were just waiting for Sherlock to slip over the line.

He set his jaw. He would not let that happen. He would save Sherlock from prosecution, from being turned into a freak. Partly because Sherlock had done that to him and he wanted to pay it back, mostly because he just liked Sherlock. His strength, his intelligence, his personality.

He accidentally snorted out loud when he thought how far the sociopath mark was from truth. It only took a good look into Sherlock's eyes to know it wasn't true but a handy armor.

"What is funny?" Sherlock asked, finally turning away from the window. He smiled genuinely

"You" This time Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Not many would agree with that" Sherlock remarked and took a sip of his tea. He shrugged

"Not many know you"

Sherlock didn't answer but walked to his chair putting the bow onto the box and moving the violin into it too. Then Sherlock sat down opposite to him. They looked into each others eyes and then Sherlock leaned back.

"So. You are contemplating life again" It wasn't a question. So he didn't answer.

"What were you thinking?" he asked instead. Sherlock huffed

"How boring this day is"

he giggled at that.

"You seemed pretty occupied to me" he said. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"And I thought you were reading a book"

He shrugged.

"I was."

after some more staring Sherlock's lips turned into a smirk. Then he changed topic

"So what conclusion did you reach?"

he drank his tea and rested his head against the chair. What did he think about life nowadays. What did he think about sharing his life with Sherlock. He grinned

"That it's not bad at all"

This time Sherlock smiled contently

"No" he drawled out "No it isn't"

"Telly?" he suggested after a while. Sherlock's phone beeped before the man could answer. Digging the phone out of his pocket Sherlock glanced at it and a slow predatory smile spread over the previous one

"Murder" he said with his deep excited voice. He was up his chair in a blink of an eye but instead of storming off he stepped closer to his chair and held out a hand. He blinked in surprised but reflectively grabbed it anyway. Sherlock pulled him up to his feet and they were standing only few inches apart.

There was no need for words. Because even though neither of them asked, both of them knew it. They didn't need to share their deepest thoughts and darkest moments. They understood each other, they knew each others as well as they knew themselves.
It was them against the world and neither was going to back down.

Sherlock was his sanctuary, his sanity. He was Sherlock's support, his heart.
Stepping together they rushed to the door, grabbed their jackets and run to the street. The game was on.

I don't know. so I ask you. how was it? please don't be too mean. I know there is some grammar problems, probably OC problems and all other stuff. so at the very least, don't be too harsh. but I would like to hear your opinions.
thank you for reading, to those who had the time and effort to read all the way through. I thank you.