* Sherlock took the case despite John's "instincts," because Sherlock does not believe in instincts (yes he does), and even if he did (no, he really does) he was irked with John (that ankle comment was unnecessary) and so, even though John thought Sherlock shouldn't take the case Sherlock took the case and he's glad he did. It turned out to be an eight and frankly he had sparkled. Noticing the false door was easy, but realising about the powdered sugar allergy and finding the hidden jewels at the bottom of the vat of marshmallow? Well even the chief superintendent was impressed, as well he should've been. Yes, sure, Sherlock was maybe sick for three days after but he did not technically ask John to sponge bathe him, hand feed him, or suck him off under the duvet so Sherlock really does not know what John is going on about.
* John has instincts. Lots of instincts. They're good instincts. For example, even when he meets an annoying, know-it-all git in a hospital lab John's instincts tell him to go ahead and live with the git anyway and look how well that had worked out. Likewise John knows when a case will be good and when a case will be not so good and he sensed from the start that this Turkish thing was an oh-hell-no. But unfortunately Sherlock was irked—look, the ankle thing was a compliment—and so he took the case against John's wishes and did his deduction dance and impressed everyone, even the chief superintendent. The problems started when the confectionaire paid Sherlock in rare Turkish delight. Sherlock's weight in rare Turkish delight. It's good John, Mrs. Hudson, the corner grocer, and Mycroft likes it because after devouring two and a half kilos and enduring a three-day belly ache Sherlock won't go near the stuff.
* Sherlock Holmes does not judge. Well, okay, yes he does, all the time and with vigour, but there are some things that are sacrosanct and John's libido is one of them. Of that precious thing Sherlock will not sit in judgment, he will not make sly allusions, he will not pronounce something boring or commonplace or weird. So when John attended the Royal Society's summer science festival—"Come with me!" "Is there an astronomy exhibit?" "Yes." "Then no."—the good doctor returned from an evening lecture not only giggling, but with an erection Sherlock could nearly see from space (maybe he should've given the astronomy exhibit a look-in). After Sherlock finally got to the bottom of why John was groping his bottom, the good detective did not at all mind that a talk on insect penises was what had got John going. Sherlock minded even less opening himself up to admit John's…stinger.
* And since we're talking about penises, more or less, let it be said that while John seems all right with his temples being silver-dusted, he's not so keen on going grey down there. As a matter of fact, the first time he laid eyes on this particular evidence of aging—sitting in bed with a hard-on and waiting for Sherlock to find the lube already, John looked down, whispered "mother fucking fuck" and decamped to the loo immediately. Therein he proceeded to pluck and swear, pluck and swear for twenty minutes. By the time he emerged, flushed and furious, Sherlock had passed out on top of the duvet, the skull on his belly and the lube so deeply wedged inside her cranium that they ended up having to attack the tube with scissors to get it out.
* Sherlock generally does not swear. He employs the occasional damn for emphasis, but John is enough foul-mouthed for two, thank you. There is, however, one occasion upon which Sherlock blasphemed himself blue, and that was not the time he set his dressing gown on fire, it was not the time he dropped his laptop on his big toe and somehow broke the laptop, and neither was it the time he jerked his dressing-gown-clad arm away from a fire, elbowed his laptop to the floor, and then nearly broke his toe. No, the occasion upon which Sherlock most memorably swore was that time, for a case, when he pierced his own penis. He had had to do it himself because John was busy lying on the floor deep-breathing into a paper bag after just seeing Sherlock bring the piercing gun near his cock.
* John Watson did not used to believe a man could die of boredom but he has changed his mind. It's like this: They both knew the loo doorknob needed fixing, yet each presumed the other would do the fixing. As neither fixes more than a sandwich in 221B it's a mystery why anyone presumed anything. The result of all this presupposing was that when the knob finally broke a morning-sleepy John found himself locked in the loo for three hours while Sherlock was at the Met. The good doctor then cleaned the entire room, wanked, took a bath, wondered how hard Mrs. Hudson would kill him if he broke the loo door open, then finally he tried reading the book Sherlock had left beside the toilet. It was when he was on page seven of Search, Seizure, and Sequester: 2014 Conference Notes and Addendum, Vol. II—that John came to the sure and certain belief that a man could definitely die of utter ennui.
* At about the age of four months, Sherlock Holmes became fascinated with his own fingers. Seven-year-old Mycroft Holmes then became fascinated with Sherlock's fascination. It would go like this: Tiny wee Sherlock would lie on his back, chubby legs kicking, and in front of his face he would hold a finger-wiggling hand. He would stare at his randomly gesturing digits for long seconds and then—this was the part Mycroft liked most—he'd raise his other hand and look at it with great surprise. This would manifest in his little legs bicycling faster, then shoving the old fingers in his mouth until they were spit-slick and forgotten. Then the pattern would repeat. Sherlock could do this for twenty minutes at a time and Mycroft would be besotted for every moment of it.
* John does not really have an addictive personality (except to Sherlock, danger, biscuits, telly, tea, a long lie-in, sex during a long lie-in, and bank holiday weekends), so the good doctor didn't expect he'd get addicted (well addicted may be a strong word for it, intense giggling interest is more representative) to Mycroft's brief stories of Sherlock as a child, but addicte—uh, 'interested'—John certainly is. They're working from birth to age ten, and so far Mycroft's only on baby-month five, mostly because John keeps leaving the room halfway through a story so he can gaze adoringly at Sherlock, who most times has noisily retreated to another room, where he pretends he's extremely busy but from which place he carefully listens to every coo John makes at every coo he made.
* Sherlock believes that a man never knows what will be of use when, so a sensible man will, for example, craft a dozen experiments to perform on, for example, common house plants. Generally speaking, that man will not regret the time or resources he spends on such experiments. However, if that man is Sherlock Holmes, he will regret the one portion of his recent studies that resulted in the loss of two erections and an entire hour of John's approbation. On the plus side, Sherlock has enough material for a thirty-five hundred-word blog entry, with graphs and formulae (John forbids images), detailing precisely what happens to a hard-on after application of two millilitres of dumb cane sap.
* A sensible man does not put the juice of a dumb cane plant on his penis. John Watson is quite sure of this, just as he is sure that he is a sensible man. Sherlock Holmes however—Well look, all the proof you need you can find as John Watson stands nude this very minute, gesturing with both hands at his flagging erection. The reason John Watson's lovely erection is drooping is because 1) John is sensible and so 2) his penis is annoyed with Sherlock's penis which is 3) as limp as a kitten sleeping in the sun and finally because 4) some people are crazy in the head at the exact wrong time.
* Sherlock used to think the endearments and diminutives John murmured were strictly for his benefit, words to make Sherlock understand that he was cherished. It was a long time before the good detective realised that the sweet talk was also for John, that when he called Sherlock little love or whispered my angel and felt Sherlock burrow deeper into his arms, well John was being told yes. Yes I am yours to cherish, John, I am your sweetheart your lover your friend. Wrapped around you here in the dark and counting the thrumming miracle of your heart I am every pretty thing you wish to name me. For as long as you believe that I am…I promise I will try to be.
* John was a doctor, then a soldier, then an invalid, he was never a writer. But John writes every day now, thousands of words and into the night sometimes, and still he has more to say, more tales to tell, more of Sherlock to bestow on the world. Because Sherlock changes things. He changed John from heart to head to steady hand, he said this is how I see things, in all their strange dark colour—can you see John? And yes, over time John learned to look through those witchy pale eyes because Sherlock took him by the hand and showed him, only him. So John writes and he writes about this man with the new kind of vision and he knows the words are barely enough, but he'll do it all the rest of his days, put pen to paper, and he'll help change things by showing the world the man who changes things.
A few things: If you've never commented before, this week would be the one to begin. *shakes tin comment cup* Make Atlin's crap-week-from-hell a little better? Second: "Keeping It Loki" continues next week. Finally, Sevenpercent and Harpling asked for more about the dieffenbachia debacle mentioned in chapter 51 of "Minutiae," while MustangWomanT wondered about the boys' genital hair going grey. The Turkish delight was inspired by Chocolamousse's offhand comment about Sherlock receiving his weight in rare sweets, and yes I went to a Royal Society talk on insect penises recently. It was lovely.
