A/N: So, a good friend said she wanted more of my words fic, and this is me fulfilling that. Hopefully, you've read 20 Words John Watson Need Without Knowing Them, but it isn't necessary to your understanding this fic. I'll probably be updating this semi-regularly with five vignettes at a time based around different obscure or little used English words. My only qualification for picking the words will be that I either a) have never heard of it before, or b) have a really great story idea for it while still being difficult to work into everyday conversation. As always, constructive criticism is welcome and I apologize for any glaring errors I may have missed in my editing process.

Disclaimer – I have no claim to the rights of Sherlock Holmes in any incarnation, and I'm making zero money from this writing.

More Words John Watson Needed Without Knowing Them

Or: Vocabulary Lessons with Sherlock and John

1. Flummery: n. 1. Meaningless or deceptive language; 2. Any of several soft, sweet, bland foods, such as custard

Although Sherlock rarely ate while on a case, John had learned one trick to get carbs into his body and rush sugar to his remarkable brain during their longer jobs: strawberry Angel Delight. If John placed a bowl of the pinkish fluff in front of Sherlock he would eat it, no matter what else he was doing at the time.

(John had even caught him eating the powder directly out of the package with a spoon on a few occasions. Any time Sherlock ate without prompting was a small victory so John stayed silent on the quirk.)

During his game of wits with Moriarty, Sherlock had already gone a couple days without food when he solved the mystery of the fake Vermeer painting and set about sending John to continue investigating Andrew West's death.

"No," John had said when he'd first been told to leave the art museum and see to Mycroft's case so he would stop texting the pair of them. "Not until I see you eat something."

"But, John," Sherlock whined, "The pattern: he'll call again. I can't let your silly belief in regular meals slow down my mind when that happens." He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he turned away from his flatmate.

"I don't care. You're eating; it's good for you," John said, "Food'll keep your insides from turning into mush. I'm a doctor, so you know that's true." John smiled innocently. "Either way, I'm not leaving until I see something high in either fat or sugar go into your mouth and not come out."

Sherlock went from glaring to pleading in a moment, "John, I don't have time, and you know I won't eat anything you can find around here. Please just go so I can finish up here with Lestrade." He pouted, and John had to force himself to look away from Sherlock's lips.

Instead of arguing further, John reached inside his coat pocket and removed a packet of Angel Delight which he firmly pressed into Sherlock's hand. "Don't act like you don't want it, so just eat it, alright?" John said. The detective nodded mutely. John smiled, "Okay, good. Let me know if you get another message." Then he turned and walked out the door.

2. Marmoreal: adj. Of or relating to or characteristic of marble

Even after a year of living with Sherlock, John was still astounded by just how pale the man's skin was, almost translucent at points where his pale, blue veins showed through. If John had ever met one of those sparkly vampires from those books half his teenage patients seemed to be reading, he knew Sherlock Holmes was it. So John was always shocked by how warm Sherlock's skin felt to the touch and how flexible he could be, sometimes wrapping himself around John in the oddest configurations when they lay together on the sofa or in bed.

Then, on a particularly cold day while chasing a particularly reckless suspect, Sherlock ended up in the Thames; he had at least had the forethought to remove his coat before going in and thus it was the only dry article he had on when Lestrade caught up with the duo and the apprehended man. John watched as his partner pulled the greatcoat tighter across his torso as water droplets splashed down from his dark curls onto his collar, and a sympathetic shiver ran down his spine.

"Are you alright, John," Sherlock asked, his keen eyes trained on the doctor's face.

"I'm fine. But I want to get you out of those wet clothes," John answered softly.

"I don't know how Lestrade would feel about our more… carnal activities happening right in front of him, but if you really need to I'm sure—" A smile danced across his lips when John cut him off.

"Sherlock, you know that isn't what I meant! I am honestly worried about you suffering from hypothermia; your lips are starting to go blue," John said as he gripped Sherlock around his biceps and let his thumbs stroke back and forth unconsciously.

"Then let's go home, John."

After simply nodding to Lestrade, John pulled Sherlock into a cab and took Sherlock's ice cold hands in his as he muttered, "Of all the stupid, impulsive, reckless things you could have done, you had to jump in the river in the middle of December just to catch a jewel thief." Sherlock nodded weakly, his whole body wracked with tiny tremors as shallow breaths hissed in and out of his mouth. John fretted as he looked Sherlock over and paused at how paper white his skin had turned.

They arrived at Baker Street and John paid the cabbie before rushing Sherlock to their bedroom and swiftly divesting him of his soaked clothing, and then pushing him under the thick eiderdown comforter. John considered going to put the kettle on for tea, but instead he stripped down to his boxers, slid between the bedclothes, and pressed his body against Sherlock's shivering form, flinching only the slightest bit as clammy, chilled skin pressed against him.

"You do know that you haven't got nearly enough body fat to cope with being this cold, right?" John asked as he ran his fingers along Sherlock's vertebrae.

"Thank you, John," his shivering partner muttered as his eyelids fluttered shut.

"Just, think it through next time," John whispered as he pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's marble-cold shoulder.

3. Interdigitate: v. To fold or lock together, as when the fingers of one hand are laced together with those of another

John and Sherlock had been involved for a little over a month and had avoided anyone finding out beyond Mrs. Hudson—who would have to be deaf not to realize their relationship had definitely progressed to a new level—and Mycroft—who sent them a congratulatory gift basket the morning after which included tea, chocolate, and a rather wide array of personal lubricants. They had been especially careful around Lestrade, who had actually taken John aside in the hospital and told him just to tell Sherlock how he felt once they finally got home, or "Hell, go in there right now and say you can't imagine life without him and that you think you should start having lots of really great sex when his stitches are out."

John had, of course, shot down the idea immediately, saying that there was no way Sherlock would go for it and that he had already made himself very clear about his openness to a physical relationship with anyone, let alone John.

So the two men had done everything within their power to avoid rousing the suspicion of the Detective Inspector which had become increasingly more difficult the more time the three spent in each others' company. Then, after a night of running through dark alleyways and avoiding gunfire, Lestrade had asked John to join him for a pint and Sherlock, lacking anything better to do now he didn't have a case, tagged along and looked extremely out of his element in the little pub they found down the street.

As the night wore on, after John had had just enough lager to make the edges of his mind go fuzzy, he let himself revel in the sound of Sherlock describing a recent experiment involving several types of pollen, a pickled ear, and some boric acid. As his mind wandered he let his eyes settle on his partner's smooth, white hand lying on the table between them. Almost as though his hand moved of its own volition he reached for it, and unconsciously Sherlock turned his palm up so their fingers could lace together as he continued his explanation to Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector made no mention of what he had just witnessed, but he smiled. Donovan owed him twenty quid.

4. Sternutation: n. The act of sneezing

When Sherlock got sick, he tended to do it rather brilliantly, which only made sense as it happened so rarely and Sherlock Holmes never did anything half-way. Home with what should have been a simple cold with mild fever, John walked in to find him looking half-dead as he snuggled into a pillow and coughed for a minute straight. Setting the tea he had brought with him on the night stand, John ran a hand over Sherlock's forehead and down to the back of his neck, feeling the fever that lived there.

Knowing he would get a smart remark John asked, "How are you feeling? Any change from the morning?"

"Wad do you ding?" Sherlock mumbled hoarsely before devolving into a fit of coughing once more. After he managed to regain his breath he moaned pitifully and pulled his blanket over his head. "Jus kill me now, John. Put me oud ob my misery," Sherlock said, the sound slightly muffled by the blanket.

"You'll be fine," John said as he pulled down the blanket and stared at the matted curls on the back of his flatmate's head. "Now sit up, you need to drink something or you'll dehydrate and die." John lifted the mug of tea and placed it in Sherlock's hands, watching as he took a small sip followed by a slightly larger one.

Sherlock moved to return the tea to the bedside table but John crossed his arms over his chest as he glared. "Nope, you have to drink all of it, then you can go back to sleep." The two men locked eyes, each waiting for the other to back down until Sherlock slowly lifted the mug to his lips and drained it of its contents. Immediately John took the mug and set it down, a smile on his face as he said, "See, not so bad. You can go back to wallowing for the rest—"

And then Sherlock quite suddenly, also loudly and moistly, sneezed directly into John's face. The detective simply reached for one of the tissues on his side table and handed it to the doctor, who dabbed at his face.

"Funnily enough," John said, "That wasn't the first time that's happened to me today. But the other time the patient was four and my mouth was closed."

"Sorry," Sherlock said as he slid down on his pillow and returned his blanket to its rightful place just below his chin.

"No, you're not, but thanks for trying," John said with a sigh as he picked up the mug again and moved to the door. He flipped off the lights as he went and added, "Just get some sleep."

5. Apodictic: adj. Demonstrative; incontestable because demonstrated or demonstrable; of the nature of necessary proof.

Sherlock Holmes saw everything, absolutely everything. Only on the rarest of occasions did he miss a minor detail, and even less frequently did he miss a crucial one. John Watson knew this, and it quite frankly terrified him because some things were meant to be private and living with Sherlock meant confidentiality had become a thing of John's past. His only sanctuary was his bedroom, which Sherlock had promised not to intrude upon unless absolutely necessary.

But John found himself in their shared spaces more than anywhere else, since he liked being around his flatmate, which he really should have taken as a sign. Sherlock certainly had.

Even though he never commented on it, Sherlock spent a good deal of time paying particular attention to the habits and mannerisms of his closest—and in all honesty only—friend. He saw how John shut down when he talked to his sister on the phone, giving only the most cursory of responses. He noticed the way John fidgeted on their cab rides across the city and how the movements slowly ate up the space between them in the seat. He took in the slight tremor in John's left hand and the recurring limp whenever their lives got too quiet. He spotted the stares, both the distant ones that trapped John in memories from a few thousand miles away and the tense ones that focused hotly upon the consulting detective. He even perceived the slight change in John's respiration rate when they came into contact; the sharp intake of breath followed by stillness and then a slow exhalation that made Sherlock's skin tingle.

From all this—and so much, oh so much more—he had deduced that John Watson found him attractive. He had first thought that his pronouncement upon their first outing to Angelo's had perhaps been one of his rare misreads, but now he knew he was right, whether or not John was aware of such feelings at the time. After so many months of dancing around each other, Sherlock wanted to say something, but he knew the time wasn't right. John had Sarah, and while any idiot could see that it wouldn't ever work out for them, Sherlock did not want to have that particular conversation with John just now.

Then an explosion blew out their windows and they were pulled into a case that kept Sherlock from thinking about heated glances and held breaths. But he still knew. He had the proof before him as the ex-Army doctor did everything Sherlock asked without question.

It was with that knowledge that Sherlock went to the pool, those thoughts locked up tight in his chest.