Lips.
Soft, if a bit chapped, most likely due to the cold weather of London's winter, the subsequent increase of tea intake –chamomile, going by the taste- and the good doctor's habit of licking his lips after each sip. Had raspberry jam on full-grain toast and didn't brush his teeth afterwards. Surprisingly not a bad taste.
Stubble.
Very slight, more of a five-o-clock shadow and a need for a new razor than actual facial hair growth. Mint aftershave, pleasant but rather cheap brand. Must buy some decent replacement and flush the old one down the toilet.
Hair.
Light brown in youth but bleached to a dark golden hue by the Afghan sun. Combed into obedience for years and years of the same military, practical hairstyle. Regular shampoo, unscented. And… who would've guessed? Product! Styling cream, maybe? Must investigate further.
Face.
Tanned and weathered by the elements. Lines around mouth suggest easy-going character; lines around eyes show the grief and burden of a battlefield life. Bags underneath eyes suggest a sleepless night two days ago. Nightmares?
Hands.
Callous formations show clear familiarity with both weapons and medical tools. Scalpel and scissors have been employed much more recently than guns. Fingernails kept short, though not manicured, for practicality. No more of that psychosomatic tremor. Also, wear down pattern on fore and middle finger of both hands suggest very poor typing skills. Not that those fingers are unskilled at other things…
Body.
Compact and stout. Defined muscles, though losing some of their tone after one too many teatime biscuits. Scar tissue on left shoulder, just a few millimetres shy of a vital spot. An inch to the side and it would've been lethal. Thought too terrible to dwell on. Moving on... legs accustomed to running, yet also to long leisurely afternoons. And between them, conclusive proof that he is enjoying this new aspect of the relationship, despite his earlier claims. And –risking the chance of sounding vulgar- the drapes do match the carpet.
"Sherlock?" John says, a little breathlessly. Sherlock looks up, asking questions with his eyes, as his mouth is otherwise occupied.
"Would you mind turning your big head off for a minute? Your thinking is so loud even I can hear it," John requests between a pant and a long moan. Sherlock flashes him an 'I'll try' smirk and reassumes his task. He earns a grateful grunt from John.
Sex.
That urge that had never really been important and had always been seen as messy and unnecessary… might not be that bad. A welcome distraction, even. It certainly beats shooting at the wall, and John seems to prefer this over any other of the alternative diversions. And watching John become undone under his ministration is certainly an ego boost for the detective.
John and Sherlock are not the cuddling type. After their passionate encounters, it is not unusual for the former to settle with a cuppa and a book, and the latter to go peer into a microscope for hours. They are the glancing type, though.
Eyes.
Infinite shades of blue –and grey, in Sherlock's case- blend within the iris, guarding dilated pupils behind contented, half-closed lids. Brows and blinks speak their own language; so do the stares that fly across the room, meeting halfway in an embrace too intimate for a third party to observe.
Conclusion.
There is only one theory that covers all the facts. Everything points to love, and that's a good thing. A deduction worth keeping inside the mind palace, in a place of honour, obviously.