Sherlock loves John's charm. When John first walks into a room, no one takes notice, but within five minutes, he has a small coterie around him, all of them smiling and laughing. Simply watching it fills Sherlock with a warm sort of pride and amazement that someone so captivating and appealing has chosen him.
Sherlock loves how John makes tea. It's not logical, but John's tea tastes better than tea made by anyone else. Sherlock has catalogued John's tea making process down to the last detail. He can reproduce it precisely, but his tea is always inferior to John's.
Sherlock loves John's hands. Oh, he knows that people think his own hands are lovely, but he thinks that's rubbish. His fingers are too long and his palms are like plates. John's hands are compact and strong. They can heal. They can kill. John's hands can make Sherlock's mind stand still and his body quake.
Sherlock loves John's scar. He doesn't love that John was shot or that he had to endure such pain. He definitely doesn't love that John had nearly died. What he does love is that John is so very much alive. He's part of Sherlock's life. That ugly scar reminds him, every day, just how precious that is.
Sherlock loves John's height (or lack thereof). When they hug, Sherlock can tuck John beneath his chin and hold on tight. When they spoon, Sherlock can slot John perfectly against him. When they fight, and they do, John somehow manages to loom (Sherlock still hasn't figured out how.) When they make love, long and slow, it doesn't really matter.
Sherlock loves John's ability to command. He's loved it since that moment at Baskerville when John had pulled rank. John slips into military mode during a crisis. He barks out orders, sure in the knowledge that they will be obeyed and they are. Even Mycroft was susceptible, as evinced by his reaction that one time when John had shouted, "Shut it and duck!". Mycroft had flattened himself to the floor, thus avoiding the impact of a heavy paperweight to his temple. (The visiting ambassador had been very angry at being caught in an illegal import scheme.) Sherlock is more than susceptible, as evinced by his eager compliance when behind closed doors.
Sherlock loves John's jumpers. Yes, those ridiculous, bulky, horrid jumpers. Their patterns accost the eye, tedious and plebeian, but they are redolent of John. If Sherlock sometimes curls up on the sofa, John's jumper pressed to his face, when John is out of the flat, well, that's really no one's business but his own.
Sherlock loves John's medical skill. Guns, knives, thrown punches and dead bodies have little effect on Sherlock, but a body, broken, but alive, that makes his chest grow tight with fear, though he never shows it, not Sherlock. John, however, he moves into decisive action. He knows just what needs to be done and he does it and then there's another life saved.
Sherlock loves John's blog. He reads it and he laughs. Sherlock knows that he's probably laughing at all the wrong places, but still, he laughs. The way that John describes Sherlock! It's ridiculous, sometimes insulting and sometimes flattering, but always loving and it's out there for the entire world to see.
Sherlock loves John's eyes. Unlike Sherlock's own, which can't seem to decide just what colour they are, John's eyes are a dark, decisive blue. When he smiles, wonderful, joyous creases adorn their corners and John's eyes dance. Sherlock wants to make them dance right now.