* Sherlock has…what's the word for it? Ah yes, a bodacious bum. He is in all regards a slender man except in the caboose. The back forty. The posterior. He has, as the kids like to say, junk in the trunk. Which is to say Sherlock's butt is kind of big. That capacious bum and its difficult-to-dress dimensions are the chief reason Sherlock buys expensive bespoke suits from a very lovely Savile Row tailor. He's been going to Gerald—a gay man of fifty nine who's been happily united with his sweetie over three decades now—for more than ten years. Needless to say Gerald just adores Sherlock to pieces.
* John is also partial to Sherlock's behind, of course. As a matter of fact he loves it so much he once spent an entire evening calling it every remotely pleasant name he could think of. "I cherish your delightful bottom," had been his opening salvo that night, as they prepared to leave for Angelo's. It was followed, over the entrée, by booty, tail, and tush. Later, as John sipped wine and Sherlock ate dessert, posterior made an appearance, along with buns, bund, and derrière. By the time John unveiled the more rarified callipygian, pygoscopia, and macropygia, Sherlock was under him, John was in him, and the only thing being called was Sherlock's name as John came.
* Speaking of recherché terms, Sherlock secretly loves them. He rarely uses unusual words, but he does enjoy knowing he knows them, just in case. A few of his favorites include slubberdegullion, gongoozler, and nudiustertian. About three seconds after making love to John for the first time basorexia (an overwhelming desire to neck or kiss) became a new favorite, as did gymnophoria (the sensation you are being mentally undressed), and krukolibidinous (staring at someone's crotch). Had John been asked, he would have given two vigorous thumbs up to gowpen (a double handful).
* John has many ways of relaxing after a hard day but his three current favorites are telly, Tetris, and toes. Telly sort of always occupies one of the top positions John's embarrassed to admit, and Tetris, that wonderfully mindless computer game, has recently made its way into his greatest hits, but honestly, if John wants to shut down all mental processes and just stop thinking for awhile he's discovered the best, most guilt-free way to do that is to watch Sherlock's toes. Do you have any idea how wiggly those prehensile things are? Do you?
* Sherlock sets fire to himself now and again, almost as if checking to see he still knows how. Of course he doesn't mean to do it, and yet it happens with such regularity that John's taken to marking the calendar for months in advance, with reminders to buy plasters and aloe and new fire extinguishers. Lately Sherlock has started surreptitiously checking that calendar to see if he's overdue for injury. Somehow it helps to know in advance when he can expect to be an idiot. It doesn't prevent it (he's tried), but it does help keep the conflagrations manageable.
* John's up for just about anything that gets the blood pumping, from a midnight chase dockside to invading a perfectly nice country. There is one excitement the good doctor declines however, and that's being tied up by Sherlock in any fashion whatsoever. He has no moral reticence regarding bondage, as a matter of fact he quite enjoys it on a rainy winter evening (long story). No, John has put the kibosh on this little sexcapade (three times so far) because he is grimly certain that as the last knots are tightened at wrist, ankle, and mouth, Sherlock will get a text from Lestrade and he will be left secured to the bedposts until daybreak. It's entirely possible. You know it is.
* Sherlock's English tends to get more stilted and clipped the crankier or more tired he becomes. "That's silly," morphs into "Well that was a farcical attempt at jocularity," while "Stop that," turns into "If you could cease and desist with alacrity I'd be obliged." Sherlock always gives this proclivity full reign with everyone at the Yard (except Lestrade; usually), but learned to curb this altogether peevish propensity with John after a few fearsome eye narrowings and one entire night without cuddling.
* The military does not easily leave the blood of many who serve, and though John signed up as a medic first, a soldier second, he still carries with him the core traits expected of soldiers: Integrity, service, respect, and honor. Sherlock made the mistake of belittling John's loyalty to queen and country once, but only once. Even as the words left his mouth Sherlock knew he mocked because he himself lacks the selfless courage John has in such abundance he feels no need to remark upon or prove it. If he's lucky, Sherlock thinks he'll one day grow up to be maybe half the man John Watson is.
* Sherlock is not the type to sing in the shower, of course he isn't. No Sherlock recites poetry as he bathes. And not just any verse, but the one and only poem he's ever learned (for a case, naturally): Ode to a Nightingale. Sherlock doesn't know why he still remembers the eight stanzas of this epistle, or why he enjoys reciting it amidst the shower's splash. Another thing Sherlock does not know is that every time John hears that deep baritone dancing over those lyric words, he leans up against the loo door and…just listens.
* John Watson knows how to compromise. Of course he does. So after the third time Sherlock asked to tie him up (and to prevent a fourth time), John hit on a kink they both share: Sex in small spaces. So far they've enjoyed some sort of sensual shenanigans under a piano, in a police box (John can not recommend the Doctor Who Experience highly enough), under a suspect's bed, and in the boot of a luxury car (don't ask). They are always on the lookout for additional venues, should you hear of any.
* On nights when he can't sleep but is far too warm and comfortable to get out of bed, Sherlock studies John's breathing. Sometimes he hovers his fingertips just over John's lips while he sleeps, touching…what? Heat. Life. John. The warmth of him, the nearness of him, the reality of him sleeping there in peace sparks strange fires in Sherlock. Sometimes those fires take the form of desire. Still other times simple gratitude. Why him? How has this miracle happened? Sherlock doesn't know. He thinks he'll never know. That's all right. This is one mystery Sherlock hopes to never solve.
* John had a pair of black motorcycle boots when he moved into 221B. They put a good five centimeters on him and when he wore them he felt kind of sexy and cool. He's long since given those boots away; they got in the way of hugging. You see, when Sherlock tugs him close and holds him, the top of John's head comes to rest just under Sherlock's chin. From this sweet, warm place John can hear the most precious thing in the world: The sound of Sherlock's heart. The slow, deep beat of home.
Thank you Livia Carica for sharing the idea that Sherlock needs to get his suits tailored because of his bodacious tush, and thank you SisterRaven for providing the idea of Sherlock reciting poetry in the shower. Thank you bulleteyes for allowing me to use your elegant line: "The military does not easily leave the blood of many who serve." P.S. With a quick search online you can listen to Benedict Cumberbatch reading "Ode to a Nightingale" very prettily.