Hey guys! So, you may have noticed (and, from what I've heard, appreciated…) the change in format. I will continue aligning to the left, and have gone back and edited all my previous chapters.

So, yeah… just wanted to say… thanks again, to all who have read, story alerted, favourited, author alerted, reviewed… you're brilliant XD

This chapter is going to end up really quite fluffy… probably.

So, I hope you enjoy it…

It's Not That I Don't Like You…

John had initially complained about the arrangements, but Sherlock had deftly outlined all the practicalities of it, until he couldn't argue.

Sherlock smiled, in the cab towards the hotel.

His plan was working perfectly.

The journey to the hotel was incredibly boring. It was on the opposite side of London to Scotland Yard, and was well-hidden, which was a large part of the reason Sherlock had chosen it. He got the cab driver to stop outside of a different hotel, nearby, just in case, then he and John walked down side alleys to their chosen one.

They walked into the lobby, where Sherlock went to the desk, and smiled.

"I made a reservation earlier, on the phone, in the name of Allan Harding."

The receptionist smiled at him, and handed over his key.

"There you go. Hope you enjoy it."

He went ahead to the lift, John close behind him.

As soon as the doors closed, John looked at Sherlock, desperate to make conversation for once. John was usually content to leave him in silence.

"She seemed nice."

"I feel sorry for her."

"You do? Why?"

"She came in early today, so she could leave early, to surprise him. She's planning on proposing tonight, but she's going to get back, and find him sleeping with her sister."

"How did- Never mind. It's you."

"It's her perfume."

John grinned and nodded.

"Don't have to explain it. I'll trust you."

Sherlock smiled at John, and the lift got to their floor.

Sherlock walked down the corridor to their room, and unlocked their door.

John frowned at him, as they went inside.

"You seem awfully familiar with this place."

Sherlock looked at him, as he shut the door behind them

"I… uh, stayed here for a sort while… after the fuss had died down… about my death, that is…"

He coughed nervously.

"No. there's more to it than that."

"Please don't push it…"

"What aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"Don't forget… you asked me to tell you."

John nodded.

"Go ahead…"

"Before it changed management, I used to come here… before I met you…"

John missed the meaning behind this admission, at first, but then it dawned on him. I used to come here to do drugs.

He blushed.

"I- I'm sorry."

"Don't be… Mycroft will be here in about ten minutes."

"Okay."

An idea occurred to Sherlock. The sniper… he was obviously John's sniper. From St Barts. He was sure he had… taken care of him. Obviously it had been another member of Moriarty's web, hired to appear to be John's sniper.

So, he simply had to recheck through the footage he had on his laptop, which Mycroft would definitely bring, and he should, hopefully be able to pick out the sniper.

So he had to wait for just a short time, and he'd be able to move on with the case.

This case, though, didn't hold the appeal of the others. Not now the intended victim was John. Sure, Sherlock wanted it solved as quickly as possible, and for that he needed to work, but he was feeling no thrilling rush at the prospect of danger.

Not for John.

The fact that John was being threatened, his life being threatened, well, that made Sherlock see red. And he knew that he wasn't able to focus properly, and that the anger and emotion clouded his judgement.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

Mycroft.

Brilliant! He could get started!

He practically ripped the door off of its hinges, and nodded at the suited man with his umbrella.

"Hello, Sherlock. Doctor Watson. Someone is bringing your possessions up, as we speak."

Sherlock nodded his thanks at his brother. He supposed he should try making conversation.

"How's Lestrade?"

John did a confused double-take.

Mycroft smiled slightly.

"Gregory is perfectly fine, thank you for asking."

If Sherlock didn't know his brother so well, not even he would have noticed how long it took him to respond, or the slight blush colouring his cheeks.

But then one of Mycroft's minions came up with their bags, and Sherlock pounced on his. Remembering temporarily, he dug a letter out his jacket pocket. It was for Mycroft, thanking him for stopping all press interest in him, and his return to the living.

He handed it to Mycroft, then opened his bug, and extracted his laptop.

Mycroft took this as his signal to leave.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

"Bye, Mycroft. And… uh… pass on my congratulations to Greg, will you?"

Mycroft smiled at him, a rare display of emotion from the Iceman.

"Thank you."

John nodded at Mycroft, absently.

Sherlock sprawled on the bed, as it was the only comfortable place to sit, and opened his laptop.

He began to analyse the video, frame by frame, taking every possible angle. He knew this was going to be hard. He had known it from the start. But who was he if he didn't appreciate a challenge?

This was definitely a challenge.

Sherlock was so involved in his work that it barely registered that John had left the room. That he barely realised John was showering.

But he did notice when a pyjama-clad John Watson turned off the lights and climbed into bed with him.

He froze when he felt the bed dip, his heart thudding erratically.

Because both of them were completely in their right minds, Sherlock suddenly felt that this was very different to earlier.

Very different.

He tingled from head to toe, the warmth from John's body surrounding him. John was as far away as the space would allow, but that was still very, very close.

Sherlock was hyper-aware of John's body, just centimetres away, and he knew he couldn't work like this.

John sighed.

"Sherlock, it's late…" A pause while he checked his watch "…early. Are you going to keep that up all night? Because if you are, go somewhere else to do it. I'm going to sleep."

Sherlock quickly shut down the laptop.

"There's nothing more I can do tonight, anyway."

A stunned silence from John.

Sherlock placed the laptop down by the side of the bed, then realised he was still dressed.

He quickly got up, and made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his bag on the way.

It was dark, but his eyes were already well-adjusted. He flicked the light on in the bathroom, and pulled out his pyjamas. He quickly showered, then dressed, and brushed his teeth.

He had to take a deep breath before unlocking the door and making his way back into the main hotel room.

John was already asleep. That should make this easier.

Sherlock picked his way back across the room, and slipped under the duvet. He tensed all his muscles, to resist the urge to press himself up against John.

Sighing, he lay on his back, and finally, with the heat of John against his side, fell asleep.

Sherlock woke in the morning, to find a lightly struggling John underneath him. Wait… underneath? Sherlock realised he had his arms firmly around his doctor.

He let go, and sprang back as quickly as possible.

"I… uh… I apologise."

John looked at Sherlock.

"It's… uh, it's… fine."

Sherlock grabbed his laptop, and set back to work.

He analysed the footage, over and over, and then he saw it. A figure, tall-ish, with sandy hair, and a black duffel bag. Talking to the man Sherlock had tracked down and… dealt with.

He sprang up.

"John! I found him!"

John looked up, from where he was, by the door, clearly more anxious about this than Sherlock was.

"You did? That's excellent."

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders, and whirled him around.

"Yes, my dear doctor!"

In the heat of the moment, he hardly registered that the things he normally only thought were being said out loud.

Before he realised what he was doing, he bent down and kissed John firmly on the lips.

John froze.

Sherlock caught himself, and backed away, embarrassed, and muttering apologies.

He's done it now.

Ruined it.

No going back.

No fixing this.

Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. John.

John pulled him, so he was back facing him.

"Sherlock. Don't apologise."

Sherlock froze. Does this mean… was John…?

John stood on his tiptoes, and pulled Sherlock down a little, and their lips met, gently, slowly, softly.

John broke off the kiss, and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, and he could hardly move, but it registered that John was… crying?

He pulled John toward the bed, and took a seat, John on his lap.

"John… what's wrong?"

John looked at Sherlock. He was smiling.

"Nothing. I'm so happy, Sherlock. So happy you wouldn't believe. I just… this is what I've always wanted. But, I didn't think you…"

"Wrong, John. On both accounts. I am pretty sure I know exactly how you are feeling. I feel it too. But I thought you were completely heterosexual."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

John pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, and when it stopped, he pressed his lips against the detective's neck. Sherlock almost missed his whispered words.

"I love you."