Their time together was riddled with many pleasant things that John cherished. One of them being their laughter. He noticed that Sherlock didn't laugh often. When he did laugh it was timid at first, as if he wasn't sure if he was supposed to. Then he'd give into the sensation, emitting a low chuckle. He rarely let it get past that, but John privately adored the instances when he did. Sherlock was always so guarded and when he lost himself to laughter he looked almost vulnerable.

To Sherlock, John's laughter was a lot like bitter tea that had been sweetened with a teaspoon of honey. He was aware of the horrors that John must have bore witness to during his time in the middle east. John's laugh always seemed to carry a ghost of those horrors. The first time Sherlock had laughed, John had thrown him an almost startled glance. Apparently the man was convinced that Sherlock Holmes didn't laugh. This of course was absolutely false. It was just that very few things have ever given Sherlock the urge to laugh.

Another thing that John cherished was the unintentional physical contact that he and Sherlock sometimes experienced. Often, John would be reaching for a book on a shelf just above his reach. Sherlock would notice his peril, pause for a second to smirk at his friend's struggle, then jump in to help. Sometimes in these common incidences Sherlock's fingertips would accidentally brush over the back of John's hand. Other times Sherlock's hips would accidentally nudge John's own. Sometimes John's rear was the recipient of the bump and in those cases John's cheeks flush and Sherlock would give him a concerned look.

"Are you feeling well? You look faint," he would diagnose in a serious tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John would reply as casually as he could, "I feel perfectly fine." He would then, in his flustered state, rip the book from Sherlock's grasp a little too forcefully and sit on the couch as he skimmed it. He would always avoid conversing after these situations due to a sensation of paralyzing shyness.

On occasion Sherlock would attempt to do an experiment in the late evenings. They would require him to stay up until the early morning hour. One morning John awoke to the smell of burning plastic coming from downstairs. He descended into the kitchen and was almost faint at the pungent odor that greeted him. He pulled the collar of his flannel pajamas over his nose and mouth. The fabric irritated the sensitive skin of his face, but he didn't have options at this point. The smell was making his eyes water. He discovered a pot on the stove with a flame beneath it burning dully. He didn't want to know what was simmering inside. Instead of opening it he shut the heat off and cracked a window.

He noticed a lamp on in the sitting area. He made his way over to it and realized Sherlock had passed out on the couch. John considered leaving him there. He quickly decided against it since Sherlock was not a morning person and the cramp that would wake him in the morning would put him in an even more sour mood than he usually was in.

"Okay, up," John said resolutely.

Sherlock merely grunted and rolled over to face his back to John.

"Nope. You're getting up. You'll thank me in the morning." John shook Sherlock firmly.

Sherlock's attention snapped to reality and he gripped John's wrist forcefully, blinked once, and then released him. "Never startle a man when he's sleeping."

"I didn't startle you," John shot back as he rotated his wrist a few times.

"Obviously you did," Sherlock replied gesturing to John's sore wrist. John lowered his hands awkwardly before crossing his arms over his chest.

"What were you cooking up in the kitchen? It smells bloody awful in there." He frowned.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he had left a pot on the stove and he rushed past John to check on it. He lifted the lid and used a wooden spoon laying discarded on the counter next to the stove to stir it.

"Stop that!" John hissed, "We have to use that to cook!"

"Sorry," Sherlock said in a tone that John knew to mean that he was not apologizing at all.

"Okay. Well if you pass out on that couch you're not going to be happy when you wake up," Watson warned Sherlock. He moved through the kitchen and ascended the stairs to his bedroom.

"Good night!" Sherlock's voice called from behind him.

John rolled his eyes and continued on to his room