A/N: Two updates in one day, that's a first. I'm on a writing spree today, which is good. Enjoy reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, sadly.

Oddly enough, for the next couple of days it became somewhat of a habit for them to stick post-it notes in random places with short, silly, or meaningful messages.

On a case. Please buy milk, I used it for an experiment this morning. SH

Will arrive home late, I'm taking a double shift. Dinner is in the fridge. John

Mrs. Hudson stole my skull again. Let's play Cluedo. SH

Sherlock, buy your own aftershave. It's bad enough that people are talking. John

John, I'm too lazy to buy my own - besides, yours is a good substitute. And let them, people do little else. SH

Two weeks into their exchange of post-it notes, it progressed into something more affectionate, but still seeming to appear platonic all the same. The first, of course, to start it, was John.

The hot water's for you to consume. Eat breakfast. John

Don't bother to buy milk when you go home from the clinic, I'll stop by Tesco on the way from Scotland Yard. Sherlock

Sherlock, thanks for heating the kettle and making me toast again. I appreciate it. John

John, thank you for covering me with a blanket this morning when I was asleep on the couch. Sherlock

You're an idiot for taking a bullet for me last night. Guess we're even now. Thank you. John

Only an idiot when I'm with you. Sherlock

PS

Always.

On the fourth week of John and Sherlock's habit of exchanging post-it notes, John woke up on a warm Saturday morning to a neon green triangle-shaped note attached to his alarm clock. Sitting up in bed, he retrieved the post-it and read what was written - a warm smile slowly spreading across his face.

Good morning, John. Tea is ready when you go down. Sherlock

Indeed, it was. After changing into a pair of dark-washed jeans and his black and white striped jumper, he went down to the living room to see his flatmate lying flat on his back on the couch - dressed to kill, yet poised in his thinking stance with eyes closed. He greeted him good morning but didn't expect Sherlock to reply at all. Upon reaching the kitchen, he saw his blue mug filled with hot peppermint tea, and yet, another note attached to it. But it was a red square-shaped post-it used this time.

Whatever you're wearing, you look good in it. Sherlock

Grinning, John chuckled and kept the note in his pocket, sipping his tea as he moved to the pantry to take out the still not expired bread and toasting it on the toaster. After breakfast, he washed the dishes and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Upon entering it, though, he was caught completely surprised. He knew he shouldn't be, but he was, nonetheless. There, on the mirror, were five white skull-shaped post-it notes attached. Furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity, John closed the door and moved towards the sink to read it all.

The first one was:

I like that you make time to do these silly but meaningful notes with and for me.

I like that non-verbal communication has brought us closer in the past four weeks.

I like that this has become our 'thing'.

John's heart skipped at this note, as he felt himself grin widely.

I like that in the past five months, I have started to look forward to every morning because of you.

And as John read the last note, he couldn't help but gasp and for his heart to beat a little bit faster.

It was silent in the bathroom, Sherlock mused. It has been for ten minutes now, and he was starting to get nervous. He opened his eyes and swung his legs off the couch, only to be greeted by the door of the bathroom opening and then closing. He looked up to see John, face slightly flushed and an odd glint in his warm brown eyes (which sent shivers down his spine, might he add), looking at him with a soft smile.

"Sherlock," the shorter of the two began, but then stopped as he couldn't think of anything to say next.

Unconsciously biting his lower lip, Sherlock rose slowly from the couch as he felt heat creep up his neck and then to this face. Damn it, he thought, can't control my body from reacting like this.

But before either men can speak another word, the door to 221B opened with a loud bang and someone came up the stairs as if in a hurry. Upon entering the living room, panting, DI Lestrade regarded both Sherlock and John with a curious look.

"Entering with a loud bang as always, Lestrade," commented Sherlock dryly as he forced himself to look away from John's mesmerizing eyes to fix on the DI's duller ones. "Do come in, would you like some tea?" He added sarcastically, making John roll his eyes in half-exasperation and half-amusement.

Huffing out a breath, Lestrade looked apologetic for a while before opening his mouth to speak.

"I have a case," he said, still breathing heavily. "Brian Grint, manager, found dead in his office in Barclays. No traces of evidence at all except for the several bullets found in his chest - three of which were aimed at his heart. Not even the surveillance cameras can give us a head start. We're thinking it's an assassination, instead."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock moved to his armchair to grab his coat and scarf, John doing the same after a second - grabbing his light brown coat from the hook near the door.

"Not an assassination," remarked Sherlock confidently and in his don't-be-an-idiot voice. "Have your team gather the entire list of the security personnel in the building, and I want a complete footage of everything that's happened two hours before, during, and after the victim's death. It's an inside job, that one."

"But why would a security personnel kill the manager of Barclays?" asked John as the three descended the stairs.

"Maybe he was fired," suggested Lestrade as they piled in his car, Sherlock and John taking the back seat for a change and making the salt and pepper-haired detective raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"It's a she," remarked Sherlock, sounding bored already. John looked at him, then.

"How can you be sure it's a 'she'?" he inquired, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" the Consulting Detective replied instead.

"Not obvious to the lesser minds, Sherlock," bit back John jokingly, a small smirk dancing in his lips.

Sherlock looked at the doctor to his left, his own smirk growing by the second. Lestrade glanced at them from the rear-view mirror and rolled his eyes as if in exasperation.

"You're not of the lesser minds, John," he said in what can only be considered as half-affectionate, half-stern. "Just Lestrade."

"Oi!" complained the DI from the driver's seat.

The detective and his blogger laughed at this, making Lestrade crack a smile in return, but he made sure they didn't see it.

"But yes, how can you be sure that it's a 'she'?" asked Lestrade this time.

Sighing as if feeling bad for the entire human race, Sherlock elaborated further.

"A single bullet would mean the killer only wanted vengeance. But several bullets - and three right through the heart? There's pain, there's emotion placed in that action. The killer wanted to make sure the victim - Grint - felt every ounce of pain she felt which he inflicted on her. Now, why would that be? Could she be a lover, or a mistress? Neither, obviously. Because Grint happens to be a happily married man with two children who are studying law and theatre arts in Cambridge, his wife being the stage manager in West End's production of Wicked. What kind of pain he inflicted on her, you ask? Grint rejected her advances on him, which led to her losing her job, for sure. Thus, the killer wanted vengeance for two reasons: she was rejected, and she got fired. Dull, really."

"How could you possibly know about Grint's marriage and... well, that?" asked John, completely amazed and shocked at Sherlock's deduction skills, even after all this time.

Smirking smugly, Sherlock looked at John and then said, "It was in an article I read in the newspaper three days ago. Do keep up, John."

Blushing slightly, John glared half-heartedly at his best friend as Lestrade shook his head in amusement at the two from the driver's seat.

I may just have to visit the dentist soon, the DI thought to himself as he sniggered inwardly. They're too sickeningly sweet in their own, odd way.

"Shut up, Lestrade," said Sherlock suddenly, making Lestrade look at the sociopathic (Whatever he says, the DI thought) detective behind him.

"I didn't even say anything!" he exclaimed.

"You were thinking it and it's annoying."

Rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time that day, Lestrade completely shut up and focused on his driving for the moment as his two companions chuckled at the back. As to why, he'll never know, and he'll never want to in that matter.

Thirty minutes later, they were nearing the bank. With Sherlock busy with his texting and Lestrade with his driving, John inconspicuously took out one of the five white skull-shaped post its from his jeans pocket as he read for the twelfth time that morning the last note Sherlock wrote in the bathroom. And every time he read it, the familiar warm feeling spread through his chest -a feeling he has associated with from the very day he met the consulting detective.

And I like that despite what the world thinks of me, you care about me. And I like that I care about you, too.

And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock may feel the same way John does about him. But unbeknownst to John, he didn't notice Sherlock looking at him from the corner of his eye, successfully concealing the wide grin that wanted to escape his lips.

Don't worry, things will heat up in the next chapter. *wink wink* Don't forget to review!