Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock is actually quite fond of the multitude of pet-names John has for him. Every monday of the month he is simply Sherlock, or the soft mumbled 'Lock of early morning contentment and late night fuzzy exhaustion. When they've just slowed from running after a suspect to tripping over each others legs, adrenaline leaving them silly, he becomes Sugar Plum and they laugh giddily as their noses rub together.
On thursday afternoons in the fluid warmth of Angelo's, half melted cinnamon scented candle between them, John refers to him simply as Precious, eyes flickering with the memory of Sherlock sluggishly calling his name and fire alike. When he cradles a newly orphaned ten month old in his arms and rocks from side to side for two whole hours or settles Lestrade's six year old daughter astride his shoulders, he is known as Oh, sweetheart and earns a hand cupping his cheek and a smile that threatens to steal his breath.
And as for Sherlock, well. John is always my. My assistant. My flatmate. My doctor. My soldier. My blogger. My friend. My heart. My darling. My love. My reason. My inspiration. My happiness. My strength.
And later, after Sherlock is publicly declared John's Husband and everyone knows John is Sherlock's Everything, while everyone else is dancing and drinking, they hide beneath the head table, paying no mind to the dust coating their expensive trousers, crack open 'Get Started in Beekeeping' and, in true Holmesian fashion, plan their retirement thirty years in advance.