Tea, English Breakfast, seeped until it's almost black then topped up with milk to the exact colour of chocolate digestives. Just enough milk to take the bite out of it. That's how John Watson likes his tea in the morning. He doesn't feel that the day has begun without it. Tea in the army tasted like someone had made a single cup of tea, added enough water to stretch it for twenty men and then served it two-thirds milk and one-third tea-ish water. The freedom to make a perfect cup is a luxury he indulges in as often as possible.
Good whisky, well-aged, blended malt, with just a dash of water to bring out that woody-earthy taste. That's how Greg Lestrade likes to close out an evening. Two maybe, certainly no more than three. He's seen too many coppers try to erase it all with alcohol. But that mellow, warm feeling spreading out from his chest is a blissful reward. He likes to roll it around the glass and admire the amber colour, like a solid pendent around a lady's neck. He used to enjoy it with a cigar once or twice a month, but he doesn't miss the cigars.
Strawberry milkshakes should be frothy and made with real strawberry ice cream. There aren't many places that make it right, but Morelli's at Harrod's is perfect. Well, that's to be expected—it's Harrod's. Molly Hooper's tried to make it at home, but she can never get it as airy as they can with their special machines. When she was a child she would beg her mother to take her to Harrod's. It seemed so magical, so far from Croydon, but her mother said it was a ridiculous place full of ridiculous overpriced things. Now that she's grown she goes often.
Giving testimony that shows the accused must be the guilty party, that's a job well-done, and despite what a certain person might think, Brian Anderson enjoys a job well-done. He's quite good at his job and he wishes that Lestrade wouldn't automatically turn to Holmes. He also knows that he is better at the courtroom part of it—the justice. Someday Holmes is going to cost them a case, letting someone guilty go free and he dreads that day. But when he can put a criminal away, the glow in his chest reminds him of why he joined the Met.
Sherlock roams London by night, always has. He tracks changes; practical—what streets have construction, what buildings have gone up, been torn down—and criminal—new faces, new drug sources, new crimes. He'd deny it, but he likes to feel the city sometimes, its age, its history, its beauty. He'll climb up to rooftops where he won't be observed and watch the lights flicker and change. He didn't need sleep so he used to walk until dawn.
But now he knows that John is waiting for him, and going home to tell John what he's seen is sweet as well.
One of the things that John hates about his adventures with Sherlock is the edere interruptus (or something—Sherlock would know). Sherlock mocks the way he carefully prepares something at home, gets settled in front of the telly and only then starts to eat.
John wants to show Sherlock that sometimes the anticipation is as good as, or even better than the thing itself.
Like leaning in for a kiss, the caress of your lover's breath, the unique scent of their skin, the radiant heat you can feel when you're that close in that moment before you close the distance.