So I have had this story part way done for like a year but was too lazy to finish it. I finally did though, and I am happy with it so I thought I'd share it with you bros!

Please R&R, and thank you so much for reading, it makes me so happy!

-Chelsea

John wasn't sure when it started, really. He had originally scrawled a quick note on a piece of scrap paper and left it on top of one of Sherlock's experiments where he was sure that he would see it, because for someone that was so observant, he wasn't that observant.

It wasn't a long note, it merely said, Going to Sarah's, will be back late.

John wasn't quite sure why he didn't text him, as he generally does, but Sherlock was at Bart's Morgue looking at tongues, so this would save him a couple of hours before John was bombarded with texts of, "Where are you?" and, "I'm bored."

He bundled up and went out into the storm. Normally John wouldn't go through all the trouble of going to Sarah's, especially with the weather as it was but her tone had suggested that… well you know, and after months of depressive wanking, her offer was much better than his own left hand.

As he expected, nearly two hours later, John got a series of texts, which he ignored in favor of the lovely lady straddling him on the couch.

John got back to the flat around one in the morning, feeling better than he had in weeks. It's amazing what a good shag can do for you.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, thankfully, he didn't need him deducing all the things John had been doing. He walked up the stairs to his room where he found a note attached to the door.

You could've just texted me. Have a nice shag then? I hope you brought milk.

John laughed at his bluntness. He grabbed the note and flipped it over, writing, I was using the element of delay. It worked. It took you about two hours. No, I didn't get milk.

He slid it under Sherlock's bedroom door and retreated back to his.

John sighed contentedly as he slid under the blankets and closed his eyes. He managed to get a good shag and didn't have to deal with Sherlock post-case all evening. He could get used to living like this.

…

John woke up that morning well rested, feeling extremely happy. It wasn't often that John made it through the night without being woken up by his annoying flat mate playing the violin at all hours or without having a nightmare.

He sat up and threw his feet over the edge of the bed, yawning, before noticing the slip of paper on the floor in front of the door.

John smiled to himself before getting up and stretching, retrieving the white page.

Really, John? The element of delay? That has to be the most daft response I've ever heard. A child could do better. Nonetheless, I hope that you will forgive me for what I'm about to write next. I might have mixed the wrong chemicals and burnt a hole in the table. Don't tell Mrs. Hudson.

John went through a series of emotions before choosing to stick with frustration.

He walked down the stairs to look at the damage.

Indeed, there was a particularly large hole in the middle of the table. John ran a hand down his face before leaving the kitchen to find Sherlock.

He didn't find him, but he did find another note on John's chair.

No, I'm not hiding from you, Mycroft has urgent matters to discuss and I thought you should sleep more. I didn't hear any screams last night, no nightmares?

Since when did Sherlock care about his sleep schedule?

John shook his head and went to take a shower. After he got dressed in a warm jumper, he went to Tesco's and got two cartons of milk and a can of beans.

When he got back to the flat, he put up his few groceries and decided to write Sherlock back.

No nightmares, thanks for asking. And a bigger thank you for not waking me to go see Mycroft, the prat. And we will talk later about the hole in the table, do not think I've forgotten about that.

He set the paper next to the burned though spot on the kitchen table.

Sherlock was gone most of the day, coming back late in the evening. He pulled his Belstaff coat off and untied the blue scarf around his neck, hanging them both on the coat rack.

John looked up from his chair where he was flipping through the channels on the telly, the crap telly being even crappier than usual.

"How was the visit with the big brother then?" John asked, giving up on the TV and settling for some game show.

"Boring. Government things that held no importance to me whatsoever, but for some reason Mycroft saw fit to drag me through the meeting with him. What a waste of a day."

John nodded and looked back at the telly while Sherlock went to the kitchen, pulling out a stool to sit in front of his microscope.

John heard what seemed to be the sound of a piece of paper and then a snort from the lanky detective.

"Go on then, John, tell me off for the table."

John laughed. "Isn't it obvious what I'm going to say?"

"Yes, plenty obvious, I just want to get this over with."

The good doctor stood and made his way to where Sherlock was.

He reached past the array of experiments and snatched the used paper up, along with a pen.

The blond haired man then wrote, Tell Mrs. Hudson you'll replace the table or I'll throw away the toes that are in the refrigerator.

He set it in front of Sherlock and with a grin, walked up the stairs to his room.

…

Sherlock was gone when he walked into the kitchen the next day.

He immediately noticed the note hanging from the fridge and snickered as he read it.

John, do NOT touch the toes… please. They've been soaking in a chemical for a week and it would be unfortunate to have to restart. I've already told Mrs. Hudson about the table and am on my way to get a new one.

John made a cuppa and set to work on his blog, he'd forgotten to update it recently so he was behind.

About half past one, John heard Sherlock shout his name from downstairs.

The shorter man reluctantly got up and went to see what Sherlock was yelling about now.

John had to hold back a laugh at what he saw.

Sherlock trying to pull a box through the front door, sleeves rolled up revealing two nicotine patches on his left inner forearm, cheeks flushed from effort.

Sherlock looked up at him and scowled. "Anytime you want to jump in, John."

In the end, it took twenty minutes to get it into their flat, with Sherlock cursing the entire time, and three smashed fingers.

After they set it up and a placed it where the old one was, Sherlock checked the fridge.

"I'm thrilled to see my toes are still here. I'm going to take a shower now, sweating is uncomfortable."

John rolled his eyes and checked out the new piece of furniture. Sherlock had done a good job, it looked almost the same as the other one they had just put outside.

The evening was nice, with Sherlock playing his violin and John finishing up his blog.

The doctor went to bed early since the next day was Monday and he had work.

"'Night Sherlock," he yawned at the figure by the window.

"Good night John."

…

There was another note for John when he woke. It was sitting on his nightstand by his handgun.

Have a nice day.

John frowned a bit. This was Sherlock's handwriting, but it wasn't like him to leave domestic notes as such.

Still, the blond appreciated it and propped it up against the lamp where he could see it everyday.

Before he ran out of the flat, he scribbled, Thanks Sherlock, you too, don't get in trouble while I'm gone, onto a notepad.

Work was stressful as ever, seeing half of his patients were sick children who found it was okay to scream and cry while he was examining them. He needed to buy earplugs for times like these.

After work, John sat at his desk typing up some patient notes when Sarah walked in, smoothing down her beige skirt.

"Dr. Watson," she smiled nervously.

He looked up and grinned back. "Sarah, John please, we are way past formalities at this point, don't you think?"

"Yes, well, maybe I like the way Dr. Watson sounds," she flirted, giggling uncontrollably.

He logged out of the system and stood up. "So what can I do you for?"

"I was wondering if you had any plans for Friday? I thought perhaps that we could get a bite to eat or maybe catch a movie?"

"That actually sounds really nice, Sarah, I'd enjoy that."

She beamed. "Great! Then I'll text you the details?"

She kissed him on the cheek as John replied, "yeah."

John had just walked up to the flat as Sherlock opened the door, grabbed his elbow dragging him down the stairs and out to the sidewalk.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Sherlock?" The shorter man yanked his arm from the detectives gloved hand.

"There's been a murder," he said simply, putting his hand out, signaling a cab.

"You could have just told me," he slid into the seat and slammed the door.

"Thank God you could make it," DI Lestrade said with a tired voice, shaking both of their hands.

"We've got no leads, nothing to go on."

"Not surprising," Sherlock sighed, walking under the police tape and to the body.

There was a woman, with not much clothing on, body contorted into a wonky position across the rug of the hotel room she had been staying in.

Sherlock did his thing, eyes sweeping quickly over every detail of the entire room within seconds, closely scanning the body and surrounding area for any missed evidence.

John stood off in the background, waiting until Sherlock was finished before he asked him what he had deduced.

The tall detective stood up from crouching over the body.

"Honestly Lestrade, how do you manage to get anything done without me? Your incompetence is astounding."

The DI scowled. "What did you find?"

"It was suicide."

"What?" Both Greg and John exclaimed at the same time. "But this place is a wreck, there are scratches and bruises covering her body!"

"Yes, but if your lot had looked correctly, you would have found dead skin under her nails, the shapes of her nails matching her wounds. The bruises were harder to explain until I saw the pill bottles on the floor. One is for Schizophrenia, the other for depression. She was mentally unstable. She most likely went into a serious episode, destroying everything and hurting herself. The bruises are from her hitting herself repeatedly. You can see the faint scars on her arms, which means she self harms, and cutting isn't the only form. It seems she overdosed and passed out on the floor."

"Christ. How could we have missed that?" Lestrade sighed.

"You have idiots as help. Come along John," Sherlock dramatically turned and walked out, a very impressed John behind him.

They stopped at Angelo's for dinner, and after much begging and yelling, got Sherlock to eat a few bites of pasta. It was better than nothing.

"I cannot believe I went down to that crime scene for a two. I have more important things to do besides hold the Yards hand while they try to solve novice transgressions."

They were walking down the street to their flat now, the cool air whipping around them both, making John button up his jacket.

"Not everyone is as clever as you."

"Sadly. The world would be a much less boring place."

They made to the flat before the first few snowflakes fell.

"I'm headed to bed, Sherlock, long day tomorrow," the doctor waved the detective goodnight.

"Sleep well John," was the reply.

John was pleasantly surprised to see another note tacked to his door.

He sat it on his bed while he changed into his night clothes.

He was excited to see what it said as he slipped under the covers.

I always have a good day when you're around. I'd be depressed without my blogger.

John blushed. He had no idea that he had made such an impact on Sherlock and it was nice of him to say so. He set this note by his other one and smiled at them before turning off the light.

…

I'm grateful to see that I've made as much of an impact on you as you have me. Really Sherlock, I was just a lonely, damaged bloke before I met you but you saved me. Thank you.

John left the note on top of Sherlock's violin that was laying in his chair. He wasn't sure if that note was too much, but he felt that he should be honest and tell Sherlock truly how much he meant to him. He didn't care if it was cheesy.

Work was alright, Sarah catching his eye ever so often, then proceeding to bite her bottom lip in a seduction attempt.

Even though he really liked Sarah, he didn't know how far he wanted their relationship to go. She was a beautiful, sweet woman but John didn't feel a connection like he hoped that he would have.

It snowing steadily now as he sat in the back of a cab making his way to 221B.

Sherlock, as John was sad to see, was out when the doctor walked in.

'Probably at the Morgue,' he thought to himself as he lifted the lid of the kettle.

He was about to fill it when a rolled piece of paper caught his eye.

He carefully pulled it out and unrolled it, a soppy grin spreading over his face.

John, I'm assuming you have found this and it's not been destroyed with boiling water. I want you to go upstairs to your room and look under the object that illuminates the area.

He turned the stove off and hurriedly climbed the stairs to his room, note in hand. He knew that Sherlock had to be talking about his table lamp, it was the only thing that illuminated anything.

He was right, a folded square of torn paper was taped to the felted bottom.

Do you remember where we first met?… The day that Holmes became Holmes & Watson? The thing I want you to see next is very tiny and you need a strong magnifying instrument to see it with. Think carefully.

His heart sped up. He had no idea where Sherlock was going with this, but he was more than excited to find out, and he knew exactly where to look. St. Barts. The lab where John let the brilliant detective borrow his phone.

He grabbed his coat and caught a cab, politely asking the driver to step on it.

When he made his way to the room, he stopped and re-read the note.

He looked around for this instrument and grinned when his eyes stopped on the microscope on the desk. The same one that Sherlock was using when John walked in all those years ago.

There was a slide under the lens he was happy to see and put his face to the eye piece. He could barely make out what it said so he started fiddling with the adjustments until the message was clear.

Rache, was all it said.

He stared confusedly at the word for a minute, trying to recall where he had seen that.

When it clicked, he was out the door and on his way to the abandoned apartment.

He was happy to see that there weren't a lot of people in the hallways. The door was locked when he got there but that was no trouble for the doctor and he was in the room in a matter of moments.

The word Rache was still scratched into the floor and a small wooden box sat under the writing.

He opened it carefully, and saw a single white partially melted candle. He laid it aside and picked up the note with Sherlock's writing.

I'm not his date. That's what you told him, but he brought this candle anyways. I've never admitted it to anyone but I'm glad he brought it to the table. That way it made it look like you were mine, that we belonged together, even if it was only for a few minutes. My next note is where we had our first meal in the middle of our first case.

John blushed heavily, a goofy smile plastered on his face. He sat the candle and the notes in the box and caught a cab to Angelo's.

The table by the window was vacant except for a cane, his cane to be exact, was laying in the middle of the tabletop.

He waved at Angelo who was at the counter talking to a couple of customers. He smiled and waved back.

John went on and examined the object, almost missing the small piece of paper wrapped around the base.

This is it John, one more note after this. This next area is where you shot a man and I realized you were different. Find the room you stood in when you killed the cabbie.

When he got to the College, he was surprised to see that the door was unlocked. He made his way up the stairs, down the hall and into the vacant classroom.

It was dimly lit but noticed a bright light coming in through the window. The room that Sherlock followed the cabbie into was lit up and written in big letters across the paneled glass were the words, TURN AROUND.

John immediately did so, spinning on his heel to find Sherlock smiling at him a few feet away, hands behind his back.

The blond grinned widely taking a couple steps closer to the pale man in front of him.

"Sherl-" he cut himself off as one of Sherlock's arms reached out to him, a note between his fingers.

John took it slowly, his fingertips tingling from contact where he had touched the curly-headed man.

He unfolded it, staring at Sherlock all the time. When he finally looked down, his breath caught in his throat and tears brimmed in his eyes.

That night when I said 'good shot,' I meant, 'I love you.'

Fin.