* Sherlock Holmes remembers. A brain that can gather data at quite nearly the speed of light is of limited use if it can't hold the information long enough to catalog, collate, then conclude. For a long time the only things Sherlock bothered to remember were crime statistics, case facts, experiment results, and Mrs. Hudson's birthday. Then came John. Admittedly it took Sherlock awhile to make the shift, but eventually he did, storing away everything he knew John would want him to remember. And a few things John wished he wouldn't.
* The first John facts Sherlock tucked away for safe-keeping: The good doctor likes a scant half teaspoon of sugar in his tea. He wiggles his left foot a little when he's nervous. He'll often close his eyes when he's waiting—in a queue, or for someone to pick up their phone, for example. His tongue has no rhyme or reason, it'll dart out when he's sexually aroused, angry, bored. And John will sometimes say no when he means yes—"I don't want to have sex now, we're already late"—but every single time he does this saying-the-opposite-thing John bites both lips. And then? Well sometimes they're late, aren't they?
* Sherlock gets bored. Often. A lot. Oh hell, all the time. Left to his own devices Sherlock's coping mechanisms used to include heating objects in the microwave until they exploded, counting how many unobservant people would walk past a row of one pound coins left outside 221B's door, and driving up the bids for stolen Scotland Yard IDs on eBay. Fortunately then came John. The good doctor is the only one who can reel a bored Sherlock in, calm him down, and distract, entertain, and infuriate the man enough so that the blast radius of his ennui fails to encompass innocent bystanders, it only encompasses John. Which is usually the whole point really, and is often actively encouraged.
* Actually a bored doctor is worse than a bored consulting detective any day. No, seriously, it is. Because Sherlock does not try to reel John in. He doesn't attempt to calm, distract, or entertain him. No, what Sherlock does is he obeys him. Which is much, much worse. So when bored John says "Let's have a wanking contest," Sherlock takes off his pants right there in the sitting room. When John says "drink this entire bottle of absinthe with me," Sherlock fetches the glasses. And when a bored, very absinthe-drunk John says, "Let's go have sex behind Madame Tussauds," they actually do and frankly no one's bored for quite awhile. Especially after they get caught.
* Sherlock can be ridiculously compliant, and in ways that continue to amaze John. The one that surprises him the most is this: Sherlock goes to the doctor. If John books him for a physical, a prostate exam, a cholesterol check he goes to each appointment. So acquiescent is he that John's stopped going with him to make sure he, you know, goes. What the good doctor doesn't realize is that Sherlock's learned a lot from his lover about getting more flies with honey than with vinegar, and for every twenty minutes he spends being probed, tested, or scanned, he spends another twenty politely asking questions, discussing fluids, touching machinery and just generally doing what Sherlocks do: being a good-looking, curious pain in the arse.
* John has the dreadful habit of asking Sherlock random nonsensical questions. "What kind of car would you want if we got a car?" "What kind of dogs do you like?" And so on. But here's a secret: Sherlock doesn't know what sort of dog or car or beer he likes because he has little information about any of these things in his head, so sometimes (almost always) in answer he'll pick the first thing he sees and being as it's the only example of its type he knows, it really is his favorite. That worried John when he found out. "Then I'm the only example of my type?" "Yes." "So if another came along you might prefer him." Silence. Silence. Silence. "There will never be another John Watson. Never another. Not ever."
* It's not surprising Sherlock doesn't deem poetry worthy of his hard drive. What is unexpected is that there are a half dozen Shakespearean sonnets in there, though John cares for only one, especially its final line, which Sherlock has recited to him many times over the years, soft words spoken against his mouth when John's down, grieving a friend, or feeling his age: "…yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings."
* John eats, but Sherlock picks. Not at his food, but the restaurant. And while John would probably select small, clean, well-known establishments, Sherlock picks dives, tiny shops, unmarked doors. As a result John has had at least a hundred moderately all right meals, a dozen dinners that could without hyperbole be classified divine, seventeen that were nearly inedible, and in one case a meal that was left completely untouched after they both watched a rat run across the exposed rafters high above a fellow diner's head.
* Sherlock knows that John won't go out of his way to show off his body. He has evidence, should evidence be required: Those over-large jumpers. That's quite enough to be going on with but there's also those half-size-too-large jeans. Sherlock was fine with all of that until John, without a clean pair of trousers—tried on one of Sherlock's baggy pair for a lark. Do the words skin tight and oh the fuck yes mean anything to you? Sherlock bought John a half dozen of those exact jeans right after and though the good doctor doesn't wear them often, when he does Sherlock walks a good three paces behind him. Oh at least.
* Even from those first weeks together—well before they were lovers—John didn't require revelation regarding Sherlock's arse. He'd have had to be blind not to see those luscious curves, even tucked away under suit jackets. Yet John was surprised the first time he saw Sherlock in jeans. Not so much because dear lord those legs what the hell but because Sherlock walked differently when he wore them and—most importantly—when he thought-hoped-prayed John was watching.
* Sherlock used to be shy with John. Yes, shy. A little. Enough so that at the very beginning of their relationship he usually waited to be touched before he would touch, he waited to be kissed before he would kiss. Which was why Sherlock began caressing John at night, while the good doctor slept. Those touches, they were barely a brush of fingertips to night-warm skin, they were soft as a sigh across flesh. Some nights he'd while away hours just thinking, breathing, just carefully touching John. Up until then those were some of the best nights Sherlock had ever known.
* John calls them butterfly touches. Even after Sherlock's tentativeness faded, those soft caresses remained, though now Sherlock doesn't wait until John sleeps to indulge in them. The first time Sherlock paid him this sweet tribute John was sure he held his breath the entire time. There was something…religious about the devotion with which his lover touched him, something so tender and yes, kind, that John was left not only breathless but speechless. Even now, so many years later, Sherlock's long hands will gentle over him some nights for hours and oh yes, those are some of the best nights either of them has ever known.
Sitting on the slopes of Hampstead Heath my friend C2 and I wondered what kind of car or dog or beer Sherlock would like, so of course John had to wonder, too. Thanks Caroline, that was such a lovely day. And thank you BuffyRowan for wondering what the boys think the right pair of jeans does for the other's bum. I know what we think, but it was nice to check in with the boys.