Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, they all belong to their respective creators.

~ How Soon is Now?

It was the next day, in the morning when John was looking through Sherlock's possessions to find the notes, not exactly sure if he was looking for one notebook or several papers. The detective's closet was, well, right how he left it partially organized and the rest a mess. It reminded him of the time he attempted to pack up all of Sherlock's stuff, oh that was a dark day for him.

(Flashback)

It was two months after that fatal event the doctor stepped into the room, belonging to the now deceased Sherlock Holmes; boxes ready to be folded, taped, filled and taped shut to store and give away the detective's belongings. John turned on the alarm radio in the room, tuning the stations until he found a suitable station, playing some kind of indie pop song. The dirty blond settled himself on the floor in front of the open closet, ready to clean and organize the mess within. John needed to do this, he gathered strength to tackle this task from the previous days, knowing that putting away all of Sherlock's stuff would bring closure to his mind and heart; he had the strength to do this, he was strong. He built the box, securing the bottom with tape and began taking the clothes, folding them and putting them away. The radio having just announced a throw back to the days when boys bands ruled before it began to play a catchy pop tune.

John brushed it off as background music, something to fill the silence of the room and thought 'stupid song' with a small grin. It wasn't until part of the lyrics hit his ears that he started paying attention to the music, unknowingly slowing down his folding. The song brought back memories, unpleasant memories of Sherlock's last conversation with him and his jump.

"I'm a fake…"

"Sherlock…"

"I did it to impress you… Nobody could be that clever…"

"You could…"

"Goodbye John…"

"No, don't… No, Sherlock!..."

It also brought back all the good times they shared, their friendship and budding relationship.

"John?"

"This… us, won't be easy… but I do want us to happen…"

"Oh I could get used to this, sharing my coat with you…"

"Shut up, I'm cold…"

"Kiss me, or does it intimidate you?..."

"No… it doesn't…"

John was so caught up in his memories with the music sounding so far away, he didn't notice he was holding Sherlock's scarf in his hands until he felt the material. The unconscious running of tears blurred his vision as he recognized what he held in his hands, gasping when he saw it, only to sob into the soft blue material, loudly and somewhat violently. The memories and tears overwhelming him that his body was lying down on the floor sideways; the smell of the scarf, a combination of Sherlock's scent and the copper tinge of blood residue even though the blood was gone. He thought he was strong enough to handle the packing up of Sherlock's belonging but he was so wrong, he wasn't ready to let go. John wanted Sherlock back, his Sherlock, thinking about the potential they had as a blossoming couple and what they could've had. So there he lay, sobbing loudly into Sherlock's blue scarf with the ironic catchy pop song in the background, eventually crying him self to sleep on Sherlock's floor.

(End Flashback)

Just thinking back made him a little sad but he brushed it off, Sherlock is alive. After a few seconds of moving loose clothing from the floor, John found boxes at the back of Sherlock's closet, nine in total, stacked in three's and when he tried to lift one, he felt how heavy they were. Of course, John thought, Sherlock wouldn't make this easy, but the man wasn't the definition of easy. With some muscle preparation and a huff, he managed to get one of the heavy boxes on to the floor and opened it. Inside were books, old texts books from Sherlock's day at Uni, in which John closed the box, pushed it aside and opened another one. It was the six box that john opened when he finally found the notebooks and all the boxes after, that contain even more notes. John opened one of the notebooks, a simple little black notebook, with aging paper and notes written in Sherlock's hand writing. Something was different about these notes, John observed as he tried to read it and figured it out.

"Of course, leave it to Sherlock to write it in French." The dirty blond mumbled. John gathered up the note books and piled on the desk, ready to start deciphering the language from French to English, but he made some tea before he began, it was going to be a long day.

The doctor didn't finish until the early evening, only taking a break to get some snacks and a lunch, but he was determined to translate all the notebooks and he did, growing tired of all the French. It turns out the French was only numbers, Sherlock had written numbers in French, but there was a distinct pattern, John knew that much but he couldn't place it and decided to call it quits for that day. That's when John got a text.

'At night they come without being fetched, by day they are lost without being stolen, what are they?' -SH

'The Stars.' -JW

'John.' -SH

'Sherlock.' -JW

'It's good to text you again.' -SH

'It's good to have you text me again.' –JW

John smiled, reclining on the sofa, getting comfortable.

'What are you doing?' -SH

'Just finished with your notes.' -JW

'Really?' -SH

'Why French?' -JW

'It was easy at the time.' -SH

'They're numbers Sherlock.' -JW

'So you've only half cracked the code, I wish you luck with the rest.' -SH

John glared at the text.

'Sod.' –JW

'Do you have time?' –SH

'For?' –JW

"I've some hours to burn and I thought that we could go on a date.' –SH

'A date?! But how?' –JW

'Through the phone, texting.' –SH

John wasn't entirely sure how that would work but decided he wasn't going to care about small technicalities and went with it.

'Ok, yeah, sure, I've got time.' –JW

'Excellent! Now go get your self some take out and a glass of Merlot and we'll have a lovely night.' –SH

'Is that what you're doing?' –JW

'It's something I will do.' -SH

That's how John spent the rest of his evening, texting Sherlock into the late night hours until the detective had to go and bid John a good night. Even through long distance, the doctor felt himself falling for the brunette and was glad that Sherlock's alive but still felt the little bit of worry that this was still too good to be true.

Sherlock was right about the case files, when John received them in the mid morning, the reports were near shit with out Sherlock's notes. And for the next few days, when he had some free time between work and home, John tried to decipher the number part of the code, trying to apply some math into it, thinking addition, subtraction, multiplication or division would work but it didn't.

It was one afternoon, the dirty blonde sat on a park bench, just off from clinic duty and pulled out one of the notebooks to work on, thinking the fresh air might help him solve it. Of course, when a group of teens sat a small distance away, playing their music loud, it irritated John until he heard one of the songs they were playing, something about a 212. That's when it hit him, John's mind went through a subconscious process of connecting the numbers to letters, turning 212 into BAB and the light bulb lit up. Quickly, John went through Sherlock's notes, seeing the pattern and deciphering it, is was so damn simple, he became irate at himself for not seeing it sooner, the numbers only went up to 26, so of course it was the alphabet in number form. Sherlock's first message in the code was 9 8-1-20-5 1-14-4-5-18-19-15-14 for 'I hate Anderson', which was a very Sherlock remark. When John got home, he deciphered all of the notes, late into the night, his head on a mission to get it done and then start the process of going through them and comparing them to the cold case reports. Sherlock didn't text him until three days later.

Author's Note: I just wanted to get this chapter out, I'm sorry that it took forever and I just got frustrated with it, I, argh! Yeah, you get the picture, review if you want.