This was inspired in part by the profile picture of the lovely xXxAralasxXx and in part by my younger brother. Shocking, I know. But my brother saw the picture belonging to Aralas and as he is 10, gleefully yelled "Check no!" and voila! Idea central. I am not impressed, however. Read at your own risk.
Begins right as Sherlock and John arrive on the scene of Ian Munkford's abandoned car in "The Great Game", but the rest is somewhat suspended in to "Everything At Once" by Lenka.
Disclaimer: Check Yes, Check No has absolutely no elements in it that belong to me. They are the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and in the picture's case, xXxAraslasxXx.
Warnings: None. This is fluff. I'm practicing writing fluff because I need to make up for all the angst I am about to inflict on you lovely people. (And yet somehow, a little angst still made its way in here. Does this say anything about my mental state?)

Sherlock opened the glove box of the car and pulled out the business card inside. It was small, white, completely unremarkable in every way. Completely unnoticeable.

He looked over at John, who was busy being accosted by Donovan about something very boring. Stamps? The best she had to offer for something to do was collect stamps? The entire collection of Yarders just got more boring by the day.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. He scrawled a note on the page, tore it out, and folded it around the business card before he could change his mind.

The rest of the time spent there was utterly, completely boring and a waste of Sherlock's time. He finally stormed off, annoyed, John right behind him.

"So where to now?"

Sherlock's hand shook imperceptibly as he handed John the card, wrapped in his note.

"Found this in the glove compartment." He sped up a little in his haste to get in the taxi. He didn't want John to notice his face turning red. That infernal blushing business was the bane of his existence. He wondered if there was a way he could stop his cheeks from turning pink every time his skin came into contact with John's, every time John came downstairs in pyjama bottoms but no shirt, every time John looked at him and smiled the smile that meant You are so clever, you big idiot, and I am proud to be standing here next to you.

John unwrapped the business card, pocketed the card, and scanned over the note.

Do you like me?

yes

no

John raised an eyebrow, added the note to the contents of his pocket, and vowed to ask Sherlock about it later.

Later was a bit late even for them, though.

After the events of that infamous night, Sherlock had gotten shot in the left leg, John in his right shoulder and his back. John was unconscious, his blood staining the pool water red, while Sherlock was awake, covered in burns, and positively screaming in agony.

In the chaos of the following days, the note was forgotten.

John recovered first.

It would seem, from their injuries, that Sherlock had tried to drag a bleeding John into the pool after Sherlock himself had been shot. He had struggled with it, John had eventually gone into the pool, but Sherlock's clothes had already caught fire. He was covered in third-degree burns. He needed skin grafts and plastic surgery. He would have scars on his face for the rest of his life.

John felt immensely guilty and immensely grateful at the same time.

He didn't leave Sherlock's side for almost three weeks.

Sherlock was hurting. All the time. In his head, outside his head. It didn't matter. It hurt him. He was bored and tired and everything hurt and if there was ever a time that he'd wanted to die, it was now. It was four o' clock in the morning and nobody cared.

There was nothing, no one, no point any more. He was going down and he was dragging John with him and no matter what happened, he never wanted to hurt John. Never.

He took out the box of needles from under his bed and set them on top of a piece of white paper. Why bother to read it? He was about to leave for good.

He rolled up his sleeve and was about to inject that 7 percent cocaine into his vein when something made him stop. He unfolded that note. Then read it.

Do you like me?

yes

no

Sherlock's heart stopped for just an instant. It was held up in the air, suspended in time.

Then it fell and broke into a thousand little pieces.

The needle fell off the table and rolled under the bed. He didn't bother to go after it.

John was making tea.

He couldn't sleep. He had been having nightmares ever since that incident at the pool and now it was 4 AM, he was absolutely exhausted, and yet he couldn't sleep.

So now he was standing here in the kitchen in his pajamas making tea and cursing the heating in this damned house because really, did it malfunction all the time or only in the winter?

The door creaked open upstairs and he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock staggered into the kitchen and sat down heavily in a chair. He looked as horrible as was possible for Sherlock to look.

John didn't look at him.

The few fragments of heart left were crushed under a gigantic heel.

The teakettle whistled after several agonizing moments and John poured the hot water into two mugs. He set one down in front of Sherlock and the other down in front of the kitchen chair opposite.

Sherlock looked at him. John, gorgeous, trusting, good John, sitting there sipping his tea and not realizing just how much he had hurt Sherlock.

"Doyoureallymeanit?"

It flew out of Sherlock's mouth before his hard drive had a chance to reassess the situation and, well, pay attention to what he was saying. He wanted to melt. And yes, that was the infernal blushing starting up again. Damn his black Irish blood.

John took another sip. "Do I mean what?"

"What you wrote. On the note."

Something Sherlock had noticed about human nature was that whenever people were making a very serious observation or trying to prove a point, their brain somehow tried to make them look more intelligent and made them rhyme. Which, incidentally, served no purpose but to make that person look like an absolute moron. Sherlock was already intensely uncomfortable in this topic area and his newfound poetic abilities were not helping. At all.

John looked at him. Just looked at him.

Sherlock wondered if it was possible for the human head to go up in flames from too much blood rushing towards the face.

John set his mug down and stood up. Came around the table until he was standing right in front of Sherlock.

Blood was rushing to several places now on Sherlock's anatomy. Would it be possible for the situation to get any more awkward? Potentially? Maybe if the chemistry beaker blew up in the corner because that chemical reaction finally – Sherlock really did not want to think about that at the moment. The more pressing matter was the fact that John was standing in front of his chair. JOHN was standing IN FRONT of HIS chair.

John leaned down, grabbed Sherlock's jaw in his hand, and pulled Sherlock's lips to his.

Sherlock nearly fainted on the spot.

"Of course I don't like you, you big idiot," John finally managed to say whilst his tongue was actually inside Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how that was possible, but then again, he didn't want John to move his tongue. Or anything else, for that matter. "I bloody love you."

Well, that answered that question.

Thanks needs to go to my bestie Eliza, who read and promptly pointed out a very crucial (and embarrassing) error :/