This one is a bit short, but only because hoovering and swearing are sort of combined into one point, but sewing is particularly long. Here's a lesson: when my boyfriend is playing Skyrim and hogging up the TV, fanfiction will ensue, because watching someone play Skyrim is bloody boring.

Enjoy!

Hoovering.

John Watson could hoover like a motherfucking champion, but god did he hate it. If there was one god damn fucking household task that he would have killed to never have to do again, that would be it. And maybe, just-bloody-maybe, if his ever-loving prat of a flatmate would stop putting explosive fucking substances in glass fucking containers at the very fucking epicentre of the kitchen table, surrounded by a great bloody cavalcade of dozens of other glass containers, which would all shatter spectacularly like a pointy, bleedy, glittery firework and cock up the whole fucking flat with shards of fucking glass, well, maybe then he wouldn't have to do so much bloody hoovering now, would he?

Likewise, he would not have to wear his goddamn shoes at all fucking times inside his own god damn flat for about two weeks, because the one bloody time he forgot, he got jabbed in the foot with one of those aforementioned bits of glass and had to look the skanky sod responsible for it right in his smarmy face for five minutes as he had extracted the shard with tweezers. And that had hurt like a motherfucker.

Swearing.

See above. See also, "Jesus titty-fucking Christ and Gordon Bennett, Sherlock, you cock-sucking wanker!"

He had only used that once, and had apologised profusely afterward, but god damn, hydrochloric acid was serious fucking business.

Sewing.

It was immediately after this entry to the list that John had been forced to sit back in his chair and purse his lips in irritation, because was it just him, or was this list looking, I dunno, sort of domestic? Cooking, ties, children, and now sewing? It was completely true, but damn...what was next, cleaning? Wait, hoovering was sort of cleaning, wasn't it? And he was better at cleaning in general... No wonder people thought he and Sherlock were a couple, John was making it too easy, what with all this...wifey stuff. Was that sexist? Probably.

In John's defence, he had only ever sewn anything in the most masculine way that one could sew, that is, hand-stitching up things that were falling apart. It was perhaps one of the more practical things that he had learned in the army, because it saved a great deal of money and aggravation in the event of a popped button or a split seam, both of which he had repaired on his own clothing multiple times. Sherlock's solution to such problems (not that he seemed to have them often, in spite of his rough-and-tumble lifestyle, John figured that when you pay two hundred quid for a shirt, it had better keep all its buttons) had always been to leave it in the hands of a tailor, but after John had moved in, he had insisted on fixing any such problem himself. He suspected that in spite of his professed need for a flatmate, Sherlock had always had plenty of money, yet still, it was the principle of the thing ("They wanna charge eight pounds to sew your button back on? I can do that in literally fifteen seconds. For free.").

He had then found that he may have opened something of a can of worms, because unbeknownst to him, Sherlock kept a sort of collection of clothing he had been wearing when he sustained particularly grievous (Sherlock called them "memorable") injuries. After discovering that John frequently asked how the small rips and frays had come to be on his ordinary shirts, Sherlock had decided one afternoon to show John his catalogue of textile trophies. After finding that John was very fascinated indeed by the bloodstained garments, he had proceeded to regale him with a few particularly brilliant tales of the cases associated with the clothing and how he had come to be stabbed and crushed and bludgeoned and half-drowned and otherwise seriously wounded.

One story led to another, and before the evening was out, Sherlock had stripped off his shirt and was flaunting the more spectacular of his scars rather smugly for John to marvel at. The good doctor had been so fascinated as to prod at them with emotive wincing and hissing at their severity, and had asserted repeatedly that he could have stitched them up much better than Sherlock had done on his own.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you should have gone to a hospital, someone would have fixed you properly, I wish I'd been there," he examined a stab wound that had healed rather drawn, a still-pink burn, then the cobweb-like scars in the bend of his elbows form the bite of hundreds of needles. "I wish I'd been there."

P.S. I had to work really hard at British swearing, because British I am not, so if British you are and you find anything stupidly wrong about John's swearing, let me know and I'll fix it, because John needs to swear like a sweary Englishman, god dammit.