* John Watson loves bad weather. Because John's a doer. Usually he's a doer. When there are things to do. However, when it's minus-holy-shit outside, and the pavement is so slick he's seen a dauschund lose her footing, then John gets into a snuggle into the sofa with a movie, a book, three medical journals, a whiskey, some tea, and two kinds of biscuits mode and is happy to be there. At such times he has no wish for the sand truck to come along, the mercury to rise, or for Sherlock to stop octopusing all over him in search of warmth.

* There is not a time or place in which Sherlock Holmes will not eat sweets. He has consumed five fairy cakes from a box of six while queuing at Tesco to buy fairy cakes. He's spooned lemon-lime marmalade right into his maw while bathing. He's left Christmas parties with frosted biscuits bulging from both pockets. And, because John will tackle him to the rug and wrench a treat from his hand if he thinks Sherlock's overindulging, the good detective has been forced to get creative with how he consumes. For awhile he got away with dropping handfuls of jelly babies or wine gums into his takeaway brew, relishing the syrupy result that still looked just like coffee. John eventually twigged to that, so now Sherlock's new sweets stratagem is to take sugary cases. Such as the recent one which required the good detective's brain be MRI-scanned and the resulting image used as a model for milk chocolate confections.

* John is not an idiot, no matter how often Sherlock makes the pronouncement. And while he's still not clear on what the actual case of that MRI case was, even he couldn't stop himself from eating Sherlock's brain. No one could. The factory that made ten thousand of the chocolates must have sold half of them to every last one of Sherlock's foes or envious colleagues, all of whom John is sure felt they were somehow consuming the essence of their enemy, so to speak. Yes, well John gets Sherlock's essence regularly and in every orifice, so that's not why he became addicted to those sweets. He thinks he nibbled those tiny brains because sometimes, when Sherlock caught him at it, he'd eye-sex him so thoroughly John would have to tackle him to the rug.

* Sherlock never claimed to be the most sex-savvy husband in the world, all right? This is was and ever shall be his only romantic relationship, so how was he to know that, because he's noisy as a brass band before, during, and even sometimes after he comes, that that is pretty much what leads John to be mostly-quiet when he comes? Never mind, that's a rhetorical question and now the real thing Sherlock needs to ask himself is whether he can keep his mouth shut, as in zipped, as in closed, as in completely quiet when John finally just stops messing around down there and at last gets inside him with that—"Oh god John, oh John, oh oooooh yes yes YES!" (Apparently not.)

* You know what? The reason Sherlock's so vocal in bed isn't because Sherlock's vocal in bed. It's because John has begged, pleaded, and wheedled Sherlock to be vocal in bed. Through positive reinforcement—deep throating isn't just for secret informants—John's caused Sherlock to associate sex with sounding off and that's because John, who has never been noisy in bed no matter how silent his partner, absolutely positively unashamedly loves the sounds Sherlock makes when pleasured. From low groans to breathy whispers to hollering so loudly the dry cleaner across the street rang at two a.m. to say she'd put creases in all of Sherlock's shirts if he didn't keep it down, John adores Sherlock's vocalisations. They amp the good doctor's pleasure, they wake a tired libido, for heaven's sake, they even turn Sherlock on. So yes, the night Sherlock so valiantly tried to keep quiet John got quite insistently loud about how loud he hoped Sherlock would be.

* Speaking indirectly of ironing, no. Just no multiplied by all the swears John knows, no. The first eight or so weeks of their acquaintance, when Sherlock realised John would say yes to almost anything, he asked the good doctor to iron two of his shirts. The horrible things John called him, the terrible allusions he made, the eye-widening threats of mayhem he promised if he was ever, ever, at any time ever again asked to attend to Sherlock's laundry have guaranteed that Sherlock not only sends out all of his shirts, he quickly and forever became aware that John Excitement Slut Watson only says yes to things that are thrilling. Until he came up with the idea of fingering John while John pressed one of his tuxedoes, that did not include tending to Sherlock's vestments.

* John is not an excitement slut. John is…he's…yes he likes thrilling things, but not just any thrilling thing. If he liked everything that stimulated, he'd like roller coasters and scuba diving and riding a horse, but John's tried the first, studiously avoids the second, and fell off the third so he emphatically does not love just anything thrilling. What John does like is adventure. Like Sherlock he relishes not knowing what's going to happen next, he likes nervous giggles and feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He loves being important to what happens next, being necessary, pausing in pools of streetlight searching the shadows, clutching Sherlock's cuff, whispering something vital against his neck. John likes moving too fast to think and getting it right anyway, he likes running when running's important and he—he—John…he…fine, yes John's an excitement slut, damn it, are you happy now?

* It took Sherlock years of vague scratching and slight congestion, but eventually he figured out he's mildly allergic to dogs. This doesn't usually matter as they do not have a dog. They do, however, have puppies. Temporary puppies. Two chubby puppies they are caring for over a bank holiday weekend while their next door neighbours are away. And though Sherlock knows he will feel fluish later, and though he is not exactly a squealer (except in bed with John) (and at a particularly superb crime scene) (or when Mrs. Hudson brings up a banoffee pie), he does kind of squeal when—stretched out on the floor—the puppies waddle across his belly, up his chest, and right over his face, huffing warm against his cheeks. Sherlock had no idea about puppy breath and has now added it to the extensive list of his favourite scents.

* In John's defense he was skunk drunk. Also in John's defense he was that sloshed because Sherlock, who was posing as a bartender, asked him to pose as a drunk and then surreptitiously "helped" him get into character by secretly getting John rat-arsed with absurdly fruity ciders. Further and finally in the good doctor's defense, he maybe has a teeny, tiny, hardly-noticeable stiffy for the Doctor called Who, all twelve/thirteen versions of him, in any order (though eight, my god eight). Anyway that is entirely the only reason John Watson banged on the door of the TARDIS-blue police box outside Earl's Court tube station shouting "Come out! Come out!" until a nice passing constable arrested him, and the whole reason Sherlock wasn't there to provide rescue is because he was busy frenching the pub owner so as to pickpocket the stolen key from her pocket and this missive has wandered entirely off course so we'll end here.

* Baby Sherlock had a dusting of dark hair, a chubby face, and upswept eyes. And yes Mycroft was smitten, captivated by the heat lightning he could see firing in that tiny head. It was no hardship caring for the infant and father more than once had to pry Sherlock from Mycroft's own plump little seven-year-old fingers…except. Except. Except when the baby would wee. Actually that would have been a small tribulation but for the fact that infant Sherlock excelled at wriggle-twisting his diaper so much that his little penis would often break free of its confines and two times out of five a cuddling Mycroft would find baby brother peeing right on down the front of his crisp school uniform.

* John would never turn Sherlock's baby stories against him. In the old days Sherlock would have used such tales against anyone who made him feel stupid, angry, or small, so John knows there's something in his love which still needs the reassurance of quid pro quo. Which is why John took Sherlock to bed, plied him with allsorts fed mouth-to-mouth, and told Sherlock about years and years of Watson home movies that show a tow-headed baby John with endlessly tear-glazed eyes. "I was the weepiest kid every last friend of my mum's had ever seen. I would cry if you smiled at me, I would cry if you frowned. Apparently I'd cry when mum nursed me. And then there was my stuffed rabbit…" Long into that night John patiently regaled his love with sniffly story after sniffly story, thinking he was giving Sherlock a little something to hold over his head. John was wrong.

* Quid pro quo: Sherlock wants it from informants, from the Yard, from clients. He does not want it from John, though he understands the human impulse to give for what we get. So when John shared his baby tales, tales Sherlock knew were meant to give him 'ammunition,' they were both surprised that instead of laughing at that long ago child, Sherlock felt protective of him. He wanted to go back and deduce why the baby wept and what he could do to brighten those eyes with smiles. Yet even Sherlock Holmes can't turn back time or undo the wee pains of a tiny heart, all he can do is something sweet and strange and somehow right. He can tug the grown man John became close to his chest, guide a nipple into his mouth, and smile when John begins, dry-eyed and content, to suck.

TeaNbrains wondered how the boys react to bad weather, Chocolamousse wondered if John irons Sherlock's shirts and sent the chocolate-brains-MRI link, while Snogandagrope said the magic words puppy breath. The TARDIS prompt came from my hubby, while Nis, OpalGrey, WingedFoxKit and others liked baby!Sherlock from the previous chapter, so here is more. It seemed quid pro quo to have little!John, too. P.S. Sherlock's list of favourite scents is in chapter 8.