Though he enjoys sex, Sherlock tends to favour kissing. Having experimented extensively in university, he couldn't say at the time that he liked any of it. The exchange of fluids, the sticking of someone else's skin to his, he never felt anything for it other than distaste.
And then there was John, though that's putting it mildly. (There had been a brief affair in Islamabad with Irene after Karachi, but that was more testing himself than anything else and was only moderately more enjoyable than before.) Somehow, it was all different with John. He went from wanting no human contact to craving it, to longing for the callused fingers of an army doctor across his bare skin, the press of another's body to his. And with it, kissing didn't seem so bad.
There's a tenderness to John's kisses, a gentleness that soothes Sherlock's brain, calming his frenzied thoughts, allowing him to get some rest. With John's lips gently pressing delicate trails along his skin, he doesn't feel like a freak or an outsider, feels instead what he assumes is simply blessed, blessed to have this man beside him to love him. He's never imagined himself a cuddler, abhorring extraneous human contact, but with John he'd hold on and never let go, attempting to keep this for himself, this sentiment which has proven so wonderful. He's composed sonatas in honour of John's kisses, his lips and tongue and teeth. (Not all of them are on paper, most existing only in his mind and fingers, played along the ridge of John's spine in moments of ecstasy. They all exist in some way, shape or form, unique, singular, yet united too, never capturing the full picture.)
Slow, languorous kisses, hasty post-case kisses, passionate kisses on the couch of 221b, and illicit crime scene kisses, all the better with the threat of getting caught. They're all there, all accounted for, all adored.
So, yes, surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes really likes kissing.