There were several types of kisses when it came to Sherlock.
There were the ones John bestowed on him, in public, when Sherlock said something that wouldn't be endearing to anyone but John, the chaste little peck on his lips which he would feel for minutes after minutes, hoping for a crook or a cranny where he could claim Sherlock's lips proper.
There were the distracted, nigh unwitting small brushes from Sherlock when he was distracted by his own thoughts, staring into the distance, the bullet holes in the smiley face on the wall Sherlock refused to get rid of, or his eyes wandering upon row upon row of his own notes, a book, a newspaper - clues.
There were the exhilarating lick of Sherlock's tongue against John's own when Sherlock, out of a whim, cornered him in the kitchen and smooched the living daylights out of his love, only to walk away with a glint in his eyes, smile and a promise on his lips, for more.
There were the long, time-gets-lost-and-you-don't-even-care- kind of languid exploration of well-acquainted grounds on the sofa, the TV droning on forgotten when two lovers once more mapped out the familiar contours, memorized the rise and fall of breath, pulse, heat, once more found the paths into each other's hearts.
And there were the passionate, biting, teasing kisses all over John's body, vicious on his nipples so that he would shout and hold Sherlock closer, closer, and returned in earnest, when their bed was a sheet-tangled mess and John was so deep in Sherlock, enfolded, surrounded by heat nearly unbearable, so that any more would certainly devour him whole.
There were the wet suckling mouth on his cock, so far removed from the fervor with teeth, they alone made the earth beneath John shiver and shift, licking deeply into each nerve-ending Sherlock could possibly find.
It was these kisses that John carried proudly, hidden inside his own mind or boldly on his skin, just as he cherished the knowledge of Sherlock doing the same, for it all spoke of a God's honest truth;
"Mine."