* John hugs absolute strangers when he's happy. No, that's not right. When he's utterly relieved about something John hugs acquaintances who happen to fall within his orbit. Like so: The night they thought Sherlock had been dowsed with anthrax but learned instead he'd been covered in talcum and artificial sweetener, a mixture to which he turned out to be sneezingly allergic? Well, John was so giddy with relief he hugged Dimmock, Superior, three constables he'd never met, and even kissed Lestrade on the mouth. When Mycroft showed up a half hour later, clearly put out, John stunned his brother-in-law with a faire la bise and a gentle pat on the cheek. Yes, that cheek. No real surprise that Lestrade showed up five minutes after that, very clearly put out.
* Sherlock has never been a quiet creature and from the start made noise. This became unmistakably evident when he was ten weeks old and had a brief struggle with colic. The pain for the wee one was so great he cried himself to sleep for a week. Yet, when he'd wake, pain-free for long hours until the next bout of cramps, so habituated was he to his own noises that wee Sherlock would simply lie in his cot, grunting to himself in between gassy little baby belches, legacy of all his previous wailing.
* John Watson has perfect eyesight. This has contributed to his marksman's aim, careful physician's gaze, and to his ability to write in tiny text a pornographic limerick in the gent's by Lestrade's office. John did this to see if Sherlock—who always reads the scrawl on the walls in public loos—would finally admit that he needs glasses. John waited three days, writing more limericks in progressively smaller text, but Sherlock did not make any squint-eyed admissions. Thank god a few days later a suspect threw her briefcase, heels, and spectacles at Sherlock as she ran off, or John probably would have himself soon needed glasses to write those wee lewd limericks. Be that as it may, the suspect's rescued glasses perfectly suited both Sherlock's looks (heavy dark frames) and his far-sightedness. And the now-readable limericks apparently suited his libido, as John found out later.
* Sherlock remembers what he wants to remember. As he's learned to appreciate people in his life who are not John, Sherlock's chosen to remember things that before he'd have made a point to forget. Birthdays chiefly, and the oddities of the people whose birthdays he recalls. Which is why when everyone gave Dimmock cufflinks for his birthday last month, Sherlock gave him a tiny Scottish terrier ceramic—remembering Dimmock's wistful mention of this pet of his youth. To Molly on her birthday Sherlock gave a brace of fresh-baked almond croissants—a treat her long-gone father used to make when she was a child. And to his dry cleaner Sherlock gave a pair of leather knickers. As nice as the sentiment might have been, John had explained that it didn't matter how easy it was to observe a person's S&M fetish, certain presents were emphatically not meant to come from friends. Sherlock never did understand. The dry cleaner stayed out of it. And wore the knickers.
* John Watson would rather have you believe he eats baby ducks than know he once let Sherlock pierce his nipples. And he'd rather have you think he spit on the floor at the House of Lords than have you know he felt completely bad arse with those silver rings stuck through his fragile, manly flesh. And fine, though in extremis he will admit to both of these things because they were for a case, John's just going to look at you as if you eat baby ducks and spit on Lords rather than admit he liked getting it up the arse those few weeks Sherlock left his frenum piercing in.
* We all have tells, things we do that betray our moods and emotions. Sherlock, as you might imagine, has more than most. An exasperated Sherlock not only sighs petulant, he holds his shoulders well back; a confused one blinks fast and goes still; and one who's gone three weeks, two days, two hours, and twenty-one minutes without a case—a six, a four, a one, he would take a one at this point—paces the flat with a fist to his breastbone and can not be persuaded to unclench it. Not until John calls from somewhere in the city, breathless, and says, "I have a case, I have a case. It's a four, at least. Find me and I'll show you. Find me Sherlock," and disconnects. Sherlock's tell for joy? Oh that one's simple. He flies. Right on down the steps and to wherever John is waiting.
* John Watson would like to tell you that there's no good way to get wasabi up your nose. Because insanely hot spicy green stuff up inevitably leads to mucus, spit, and your brain coming out. By now the good doctor should be used to the surprising things Sherlock does, but clearly he is not, so John had just better learn to cope with water, wasabi, coffee, tea, and in one instance a half-masticated carrot in his sinuses each time he responds to these surprising things with shock instead of ennui. So, anyway, if you see John Watson coughing up a lung some day, please just pat his back. After he's done half dying to death he'll thank you. Then he'll head toward Sherlock—who at that moment may be nude, chartreuse, or on fire, who knows—with an expression that will be either murderous or lust-filled. It'll be difficult to tell which, so don't even try.
* Sherlock gets bored a lot. How he manages this boredom changes with the seasons, John's patience, the jam they have on hand, and how much acetylene is left in his blow torch. This weekend, to hasten along a dreary, bright summer day, Sherlock managed boredom by lying with his head and shoulders hanging off the side of the bed, seeing if the sustained blood rush would make him pass out. As he performed this experiment, John read a magazine, then apropos of nothing asked what sort of animal Sherlock would choose to be for a day. John's sweetheart made rude noises at this feeble divertissement, wiggled a little further off the bed, started thinking about the question, and then for forty minutes did pass out due to entirely too much blood to the brain. After he woke the answer was as clear as the erection he'd grown during his nap: "An octopus, John." Sherlock then dived at his sweetheart and set about channeling his inner cephalopod.
* There are strange, unexpected books on John and Sherlock's shelves, books few people expect to see. Sherlock's copy of Moby Dick is there, as is his King James bible, there's also a compendium of internet lingo, and something called The Anatomy of Love. However, the most unusual book on their sitting room shelves belongs to John. He bought it last winter, when Sherlock got the flu, and the good doctor loves it so much he sent it to the publisher in hopes of an author autograph—a boon he received. The book is called Go the Fuck to Sleep, 'a bedtime story for parents,' and honest-to-god reading it to Sherlock last winter when the whiny great child was flu-ill and absolutely could not rest, may be the only reason John Watson is currently not in prison for homicide.
* Sherlock did not mean to be a big baby that terrible November. As a matter of fact he tried suffering in a noble, they-make-statues-lauding-you-after type of silence. But when Sherlock gets the flu, Sherlock's joints fill with broken glass and even a hairbrush makes his skin hive up sore. Which is why the good detective's grateful for the small gift given John on day two of their mutual exhaustion. John believes it was the bedtime reading that kept them sane, and while this was part of it, what helped Sherlock's frazzled nerves far more than that bedtime story was sucking on the little yellow bee teether that came with John's new book. When Sherlock was hot, John chilled it, when he was cold John warmed it, and each time Sherlock hooked a long finger through its little loop, he let that wee bee comfort him until John's measured reading sent them both to dreams.
* John's been around men in uniform his entire life. His grandfather served in the navy and granddad's friends used to come by on Remembrance day, every man in full kit, chins high. A white lab coat's just another kind of uniform, so really, John's seen a lot of bodies in a lot of regalia. Which is perhaps why he wasn't prepared for his own reaction after Sherlock took that re-enactment case. When John saw his sweetheart in the red wool of a Victorian-era army dress uniform, the bright scarlet and braiding, the fit and Sherlock's posture, his manners, his respect when he wore it…they took John's breath away. The other reaction John hadn't expected was his own straight-backed esteem—for Sherlock. He stood taller before him, at attention behind, chin lifted, gaze steady. And when Sherlock found the felons, men who had more than once shown no mercy to smaller, weaker men, John's pride in his sweetheart's gifts moved him later to hold Sherlock close and whisper soft, "Thank you." Unsaid were all the other words: Thank you for your own service. They don't have a Remembrance day for what you do my love, but you've more than once risked as much as any soldier and so…thank you.
* Sherlock knows more than most the quiet sacrifices people make, for Sherlock can hear a man's silence, read a woman's stillness, he can deduce secrets not only bad, but so very good. So Sherlock knows the things no one else does. He knows Lestrade sends a very dear hundred pounds a month to his brother's son, the one trying hard to make it as a writer in Paris. He knows the corner grocers give sandwiches away to homeless kids over by Marylebone station. And Sherlock knows that for every single instance he's seen John step between him and an alley shadow, for each time he's heard John defend him against slander, for every instance he's praised Sherlock within hearing, well John's a dozen times a dozen more than that risked soul or safety to keep Sherlock safe. Because from that very first night John Watson not only believed in Sherlock Holmes, he believed the world needed him. What Sherlock will spend his life showing John is that Sherlock Holmes will always need John Watson. So Sherlock will step between John and alley shadows, he will praise and defend, he will risk everything he has and all that he is…to keep John safe.
"Keeping It Loki," is not forgotten and will soon continue! So: Baby Sherlock burping came from my "Shave and a Haircut," while the birthday entry was for SkyGypsy (happy birthday!). Blackmorgan snorted wasabi while reading one of my stories, so I needed to apologise. Artemis Fortune asked whether Sherlock would enjoy being an octopus, while 'going to sleep' was my husband's recent prompt and I immediately heard the title of that book (which really does exist!). That then seemed a good time to fulfill MASHFanficChick's request that we learn more about a bee teether I found: tinyurl dot com slash bee-teether.
