* Sherlock takes baths. Not often no, but they're not rare things either. Constrained by the cocoon of a small tub around his large body, Sherlock is forced still, which sometimes makes other parts of him move faster, specifically brain and tongue. With John note-taking from a perch on the closed toilet, the damp detective talks through the latest case rapid-fire, bossy and brilliant, laser-focused and loud. It doesn't last long. As the water cools, so eventually does Sherlock's fire. Though sometimes…
* …John likes to crawl into the tub with Sherlock and wash his hair. Not often, no, but it's not a rare thing either. Tucked in behind his sweetheart, the good doctor will spend a long time studying the architecture of Sherlock's curls as he constructs soapy monuments with them. He'll dig fingertips into Sherlock's scalp until one of them moans. And then John will lift handful after handful of warm bath water and rinse those curls clean. It's not a speedy ritual this, and really that's the point.
* There's an interesting way to drive Sherlock right round the bend: Lavish attention on one of a pair of things. Like so: John woke one morning, found a nipple in his face, and did what any red-blooded adult male would do: He sucked it slow and contented until he again fell asleep. He woke to Sherlock insistently rubbing the other nipple against his lips. A week later the good doctor was offering a testicle similar devotions when Sherlock grunted and twisted, until the other ball was firmly mashed against John's mouth. John has since run tests with toes, earlobes, and butt cheeks. Sure enough, ignore one side over the other and Sherlock gets so fidgety he is inclined to fall right off the bed.
* Which leads to floor sex, usually. John's a fan and though he can't tell you why, he has theories. Theory the first: It feels illicit and the spice of illicit-but-not-illegal has always appealed to the Watsonian temperament. Theory the second: They once had sex under a four poster bed during a stakeout (it made deep and abiding sense at the time), and each came so lavishly John's been on a quest to reproduce the experience since. Theory the last: It's wrong and he knows it's wrong and it will always be wrong but dear god the sight of Sherlock with rug burns sends John right round the giddy bend.
* Sherlock's a scientist through-and-through. Sometimes he'll buy the odd sex toy—no, he'll buy sex toys that are odd—because, of course, he's curious. That's why they possess a vibrator from 1903, a cock ring that doubles as a prostate massager, and something pointy and confusing once belonging to Isadora Duncan. The most unexpected toy Sherlock has purchased is a fluffy-soft cotton bunny tail. This might not sound like much until you put your mind to how such a tail might be…firmly kept in place. Let's just say every time Sherlock wears it he ardently encourages John to, uh, 'pet' it. Hard.
* John's got an odd quirk: He gets shy in sex shops. If you can even get him into one. Which you can't. Even if it's for a case (it wasn't, but still). The one time Sherlock managed to trick him into a Soho store John frowned sternly at his feet the entire minute he consented to be in the proximity of all those dildos and crotchless knickers and pornographic DVDs. So engrossed was Sherlock in trying to figure out how a strappy-flashing-lights thing worked, he didn't notice John had fled to the safety of the corner pub.
* If someone's going to develop an unusual side effect to medication, it'll be Sherlock. Setamol not only relieves pain a treat (John told him he was going to have rug burns after) it makes Sherlock sneeze like a cat. Lineocan staves off infection (John told him to keep that mould away from the rug burns) and makes Sherlock so loquacious even Mrs. Hudson asked him to shut it. And while emanephin vanquishes head lice (John told him to keep his distance from the informant) it left Sherlock with such sensitive follicles he actually fell to his knees and nearly broke into song when John ran fingers through his hair. At least this time he listened when John told him they should make use of that side effect while it lasted.
* John Watson doesn't use chat-up lines. Any more. He employed plenty as a young man, but after developing that slow smile and sexy swagger his need for awkward come-ons diminished. And then there was Sherlock who, for quite awhile, completely didn't get romantic subtlety. Which was why, one night early on, when an alluring gaze was misconstrued, a gentle touch misinterpreted, and a whispered sweet nothing misunderstood John finally just looked his lover in the eye and said, "Basically, Sherlock, I want you to come upstairs and sit on my face so I can eat my way to your heart." That the deductive genius totally got. So he did, and then he did, and it was fantastic.
* Sherlock's prouder than most and this pride is sometimes misplaced. Proof one: He won't accept his eyes are aging a teensy weensy little bit. The certainty of this was brought home one night when, after testing the tensile strength of lengths of silk, the sleepy, somewhat-inspired detective beribboned a penis he had, uh, erected for the occasion. He then photographed it and sent the result to John; call it a sweet little email surprise for the good doctor over morning tea. A surprise indeed it was. For Sherlock's mother. ("I told you, Sherlock. I did tell you. Squinting is not the same as seeing.") After that Sherlock got reading glasses. He doesn't wear them much, but at least now he has them.
* John can eat with a speed that'd alarm a wolf pack. He rarely does because he's a quietly sensual man, one who enjoys enjoying things. But when the John wakes at 5:05 am because Sherlock's slammed the loo door, the bedroom door, the flat door, then the front door on his way to hail a cab, John knows he has one hundred twenty seconds to piss, dress, and eat. As such he's learned to piss while he dresses, and with the remaining minute make two sandwiches, the first voraciously consumed as he makes the second, and the second he's been known to literally shove down Sherlock's throat in the back of the cab. Those mornings they're both extremely alert when they reach their destination.
* Sherlock believes in geography. But for the longest time it was the urban geography of alleys and mews in which he put his faith, in hidden balconies and blind turns. He knew so much of London, where her twilight gathered, where her streetlights blazed, and he was fine with that, just that, because who needs love when there are clues, cases, and crowds ripe for the deducing? And then John introduced him to a far more alien terrain, a place with which he was only passing familiar: John acquainted him with the fine, sweet topography of his own heart, and that's when everything changed.
* John believes in geography. But the good doctor's geography is writ small: It's in the valleys between Sherlock's fingers, the tiny mountain of a nipple, it's the river of words his husband babbles as he comes. John's geography is the hurricane pulse at Sherlock's neck, the warm hollow between collar bones, the gradient from belly to chest to nose. Sherlock will alter, and already he grouses as his body changes with age, but no matter the tectonic shifts of pale skin and long bone, John will remain a devoted explorer of his much-cherished, and well-loved Sherlockian terrain.
Thank you Nearlyalmostlover for wanting something about John washing Sherlock's hair, and Exit-stage-crowley for reminding me of that quote where Ben professes he's got sensitive follicles. Inspector Snuggles provided the wonderfully awful pickup line, and the bunny tail? That beauty came from the legendary Random Nexus. Finally, Bookworm0902 wanted to know more about Sherlock sending his mum that beribboned photo, as I mentioned in chapter 14 of "Feeding Sherlock." Thank you all! (Been laid low with the flu, more "Long Time Coming," when I'm not coughing up a kidney.)