* Sherlock's always been fascinated with the gritty, graphic, or unvarnished. If a couple are yelling at one another on a street corner he'll stop to listen if the invective is inventive and the emotions high. Once they came across a bug-riddled squirrel carcass in Hyde Park and Sherlock looked that thing over for a solid ten minutes. More recently John stumbled and actually skinned his knee—swore like a sailor, too—and as he made soothing tsk-tsk sounds Sherlock also murmured, "Stay still a minute won't you? I've been studying fibrin and want to see how long your wound takes to clot and—what? Why are you swearing at me now?"
* Of course it was John's idea to go to the open-air play in Regent's Park, and really, he must have known Sherlock would get bored. He also must've had an inkling of how Sherlock would cope with that boredom because it was June and still Sherlock had brought his damned great coat. Yet somehow the good doctor was surprised when Sherlock pressed his back to John's chest, scootched low between his thighs, then covered both their legs with the coat. It wasn't even a minute later John heard the groan. Is he…? and good god he was. For a long time he was, keeping them both waiting, nerves strung tight, pulse pounding, breath short. It's been over a year since then and John still can't remember what play they saw.
* Sherlock hates being bored. Sherlock loves to feel John's heart galloping in his chest. That's why Sherlock does sexual things in public. It's never boring, and John's response is almost always so lavish you can see the pulse thrumming in his throat from a metre away. The moment he threw the coat over their spread legs he knew John knew what was going to happen. Sherlock almost laughed out loud at the mighty kick of the good doctor's heart, then the steady hammering of it right up against the back of his head. By the time Sherlock came—during some robust musical number—John was humming-sighing-groaning softly in his ear.
* Apparently thirty hours without sleep, sex during a search on a long boat, and solving a case himself is an excellent way to get John drunk, and give Sherlock a contact high. It's the only way to explain why the good doctor dragged his lover through the Camden Town markets afterward, treating him like a dress-up doll—and Sherlock let him. For two hours John prowled cramped stalls, tarting his sweetheart up in corsets and braided coats, decking him out in cybergoth t-shirts and pornographic gloves. Though pretty much everything worked on Sherlock's long, saucy body, the only things that came home with them were bondage trousers (zips in very interesting places), big black boots, rings for every long finger, and a heavy velvet choker with a lock charm. The only thing left on the actual 'Lock by night's end, however, was the choker, the boots, and a satisfied smile.
* Sherlock's definition of not boring has expanded since meeting John. Before the good doctor, the consulting detective would never have endured watching someone slower than himself solve a case. After? Well, while Sherlock could have figured out who smuggled the paintings into London via canal boat, how the Hawley lock had been disabled, and why a dozen swans had been involved, it was somehow very not boring to watch John do it instead. It got even less so after the good doctor discovered a hidden cache of heroin in a place Sherlock never thought to look, worked out how the suspect had been in two places at once, and finished by tumbling Sherlock onto the suspect's water bed (on a canal boat?) and doing to him that thing they'd talked about once but had never actually done but certainly will be doing again because It. Was. So. Not. Boring.
* John's online more than Sherlock, what with the blog, electronic leg work, and simply whiling away boredom while his lover's in the kitchen slicing something open, sewing it closed, dunking it in acid, or heating it on the hob until it catches fire, has to be thrown out, and the whole process begun again. Anyway, the point is John's online a lot and turns out to be wildly susceptible to fads. He's messed around on MySpace, frittered away weeks on Facebook, and tried to figure out the whole point of Twitter. His latest addiction is Tumblr, if you must know, and he has on more than one occasion sat down 'for just a minute' and then looked up to discover the heating's long since gone off, there's a consulting detective snoring on the sofa, and he has no clue what he just did with the last three hours.
* Sherlock rarely gets online for anything other than work. Honestly, he can think of only one instance where he used the internet for recreational purposes and it wasn't technically he who did it, it was Mrs. Hudson and in the interest of keeping his landlady out of the flat for another twenty four hours—until the electrician showed up to fix the hob, which he'd managed to set on fire—Sherlock let Mrs. Hudson 'do his colors.' The whole thing took over three hours, and Sherlock learned most blues suit his complexion, grey washes him right out, and he should also wear checks more often. The fact that Sherlock later put some of these tips into practice is something he will never, never, not ever admit. As a matter of fact the one time Mrs. Hudson mentioned it again, in front of John, a month later, Sherlock feigned brief insanity. It says much that no one doubted for even a moment that he might possibly be losing his mind.
* John was surprised to learn that watching his home burn eventually became boring. No, no, that's not right. Not at all. All six times the kitchen was aflame John was very not bored. No, the part that always later filled him with ennui, after the shouting, after discharging another fire extinguisher, and after the aggravation of cleaning the mess that had—again—boiled over onto the stove, was the exhaustion, the incipient migraine, and his utter inability to form complete sentences without saying more swear words than actual, you know, words. But eventually the good doctor was sure he'd solved the problem: He bought a glossy, pricey, high-tech stove top that was, possibly, even smarter than Sherlock.
* Oh Sherlock loved the new hob. At first. It had a smooth surface so he could drag things around. The controls were precise, refined, and let him adjust the temperature a single degree at a time. And best of all, it contained sensors that detected if (when) liquids boiled over for longer than fifteen seconds, wherein the stove automatically shut itself off. However Sherlock completely lost respect for the appliance when he discovered this feature could not temporarily be disabled and that the sensors did not register mucus as a fluid so the hob did not shut off that time that he—never mind. Never mind. Suffice to say it turned out that their stupid new "smart" stove could catch fire just as easily as the old one.
* John regularly contemplates not paying their electric bill any longer so that all of the appliances prone to burning simply don't work. Some days he will spend hours daydreaming about it. Those days are very restful.
* Sherlock remembers things he'd do better to forget. Old words. Old wrongs. Old pain. It used to be that when he fought, with anyone—his brother, some idiot at the Met—he'd bring up trite grievances, cruel facts, or damn well make shit up if he had to. Then he did it to John, not once, not twice, but a dozen times before he realized that John did not fight back. If what Sherlock said was true, John would let his lover sucker punch him again, and again, and again. Eventually those jabs, every damned one, hit Sherlock in the chest. That's when he learned that sometimes a man can change. Sometimes he can become better than he is, without one word said or one hand raised. And sometimes he actually wants to.
* John doesn't hold grudges. He'll never dredge up old wrongs, reopen old wounds, or keep score. When he's done being angry, he's damn well done. For the good doctor rage is cathartic—which may be why he lets himself be so easily riled. Physician heal thyself. Once John's told you off, listened to your reply, told you off again, and then maybe gone for a walk to cool down, he'll come back and possibly apologize, take you out to dinner, kiss your pretty cupid's bow mouth, or do all three and then spread his legs for you after. Like we said, John Watson does not hold grudges.
This Minutiae ("min-oo-sha") brought to you by the letter 'b' and, apparently, not!bored. Oh, and if you would like to know what bondage trousers look like head on over to my Tumblr (atlinmerrick. tumbrl. com) because really, everyone should know what bondage trousers look like. With big black boots. After that you and your fertile imagination are blissfully on your own. You're welcome.