One of John's favourite things about Sherlock is how he says his name.
"John."
Sherlock has many different ways of saying it.
While he's on a case or when he's in deep thought. When he's bored or when he's tired. The whisper just before a kiss, or the yell when there's a criminal right on his heels. Sherlock has a way of injecting magic into the four letters.
John had never thought his name was anything special. There had been two other Johns in his school year, and three at his army base. He met several Johns daily working in the surgery. He would have thought Sherlock would find it dull too, 'there must be hundreds of John Watsons the UK alone' John had said one evening.
Sherlock had his head buried in a pillow, and John wasn't sure if he'd heard him, but Sherlock had propped his head up and stared at him blearily for a moment, before saying, "yes, but there's only one John Hamish Watson I tolerate." Before dropping his head back into the pillow.
John smiled and went back to updating his blog. Half an hour later he snaps the laptop shut and glances at Sherlock. He's draped across the sofa, snoring lightly. Sighing, John takes the blanket from the back of his chair and covers him with it. Sherlock shifts, mumbling "John" under his breath.
John gives him a fond look and pats Sherlock's hip, "goodnight."