* John Watson will spend the entirety of his adult life trying not to swear. He will valiantly make great effort to steer clear of fuck and shit, bollocks, bloody, and bastard. He'll be keen to avoid damn it, dick, prick, crap, cunt, and cocksucker. Instead, John will do his best to insert kinder oaths. These gentler obscenities will not long last but they'll often be creative, alliterative, and fairly personal and will include calling Sherlock a fluffy-haired fool, Donovan a sharp-jawed jerk, and Mycroft a great big ginger tit. That John often finishes each of these pale imprecations by mumbling 'and take that you little shit' is completely lost on him.

* Some things are not self-evident. That Harry is short for Harriet. That your life can change forever one day in a hospital lab. Or that come will cure your hiccups. The only reason Sherlock knows this last truth for fact is because, when hiccups laid him low a few months ago, Sherlock grew so grumpy at John's giggling—"I'm sorry love, but you squeak"—that the good detective decided it would shut them both up if he had something on which to suck. It wasn't until Sherlock had hiccupped through the entire act of giving head, swallowed the ejaculate, then opened his mouth to say something petulant, that everyone realised the hiccups were gone.

* John was a proper little boy, if by proper you mean he loved all the things little boys are said to love. His tricycle for one. As a tiny tyke he was smitten with his tiger-striped three-wheeler and would toddle around on it for hours, making high-voiced little roaring sounds. Another of wee John's favourite things was his gangly purple bunny. This bunny had a way of looking at him, a peering, probing gaze that always made John confess his baby dreams and small sins. It wasn't until many years later, when the good doctor's gangly, purple-shirted lover was looking at him with a peering, probing gaze, that John finally thought, Oh hey, wait a minute…

* The problem with starting something is sometimes it starts something. Which is by way of explaining why, after John gave him plushies meant to look like internal organs, Sherlock went a bit nuts and decided that if John was going to Sarah's baby's second birthday party, he was going to go too—and bring the baby gifts. Why John said yes to that he still doesn't know, but what everyone does know is that Sherlock spent two hundred quid on plushie ebola viruses, plushie cold germs, and two bespoke, velvet-covered soft toys designed to look like severed limbs. Sarah's toddler loved the arm especially and spent most of the afternoon teething on its fake-rotten fingers.

* Like most people who can put weight on easily, John would rather he didn't. But John's not in a panic about it and when he's waxing instead of waning John's learned to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Or the pleasures of Sherlock enjoying his flesh. While at first the good doctor felt a touch awkward with his lover's love of his soft tummy, that embarrassment went the way of all pointless things and instead sometimes John can be found in the middle of their bed, pants low-slung, rubbing his midriff seductively. Nine times out of ten this consulting detective catnip results in Sherlock rutting against John's belly until he comes, then falling face first into the mattress and wiggling his arse. John then climbs onto that vast acreage and ruts until he comes. This is generally followed by John falling face first into the mattress and everyone passing out amidst the wreckage.

* Sherlock has never broken a single bone, but that doesn't mean he doesn't keep trying. Attempts include but are not limited to tripping over kerbs during mad dashes in the dark, nearly breaking a forearm diving for cover seconds before the thing Sherlock expected to explode did so, and falling off a chair after hanging up Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe. A more recent, and perhaps the most spectacular, near-break occurred when Sherlock slipped on excess lube in the shower as he was squatting low and trying to give it to John right up the bum.

* John's got a bad habit, a habit Sherlock considers his worst and no it's not the swearing, it's not visiting terminal violence upon bad people, neither is it his tendency to take so long typing a single sentence that most onlookers are driven mad before he arrives at the full stop. Though these habits are not winning, they're far from John's worst. As far as Sherlock's concerned, that distinction's reserved for the good doctor's tendency to occasionally slide slick fingers right up Sherlock's arse only to start poking around in an impromptu, highly unsexy prostate exam.

* Of course Sherlock's got his own fleet of unfavourable habits, including his proclivity for insulting the insipid, a recent predilection for dipping cheese wedges into the sugar bowl, and his inclination to put crime scene exudate in his mouth to speed up deductions and get a jump on Anderson. While none of these characteristics are charming, right now Sherlock's worst habit is showing off in public toilets, deducing the sexual predilections of strangers by the way they hold their penis. This has already resulted in one black eye for John and the good doctor does not want another.

* John's an inveterate tucker-inner. If there's a blanket within a room and a sleeping Sherlock within that same room, he will unite these things with the fastidiousness of a hen nestling eggs beneath fluffed feathers. With silent precision he'll wedge duvet edges beneath arms, make military corners at feet, tug a hem right on up to a long neck. If Sherlock wakes under these ministrations—usually to John's softly susserated shhh—the good detective often pretends to be still sleeping. Mostly this is so he can go about the lumpy-throated business of feeling loved.

* To exactly no one's surprise, if a food splinters, crackles, bursts, or burns Sherlock will order it, eat it, and play with it, only not in that order. It's a new enthusiasm, one inflamed when John introduced his sweetheart to papadums. These foolish little food fancies seem to have little purpose other than as carriers of chutney and to keep six foot infants mostly quiet and messily entertained until their restaurant meal arrives.

* John knows there is an inexhaustible bounty, a feast, an endless sweet reserve of the things. For example, there is little love and sleeping beauty. There's gorgeous boy and angel. There's my love, my darling, and sweetheart. There is no end to John's little terms of endearment for his big, blustery man who, by all rights, should mock them…but doesn't. Instead Sherlock hungers and so John cooks up a feast for his famished love, and for all the years they'll be together he'll feed him just so. On a cold, rainy night when his sweetheart is feeling foul, of a dark winter morning when things are too still, or when John knows Sherlock has seen too much, heard too much, deduced too much…well that's when John will whisper things sweet, sweeter, sweetest. And Sherlock will feed.

* The more he's fed, the hungrier he is. As time goes on, Sherlock's appetite for endearments only grows, it does not diminish. But of all the things he demands from this world as his due, of all his needs and wants on which he's emphatically not silent, this is the only thing for which Sherlock doesn't ask. Instead he waits, and waits, and when the words come…oh he is lavish in his response. For each of John's precious diminutives, for every loving whisper, Sherlock smiles, he purrs, he sighs, he moans. He wraps in long arms the man uttering these soft sentiments and again and again Sherlock offers the very best one he knows in return: My very, my only, my love.

Some of this chapter was inspired by people wanting to know a little more about the entries in the previous "Minutiae." So thank you Sakuradancer3 for asking about childhood toys, and Enrapturedreader for being enraptured by the idea of Sherlock's special brand of 'petting' John. Meanwhile the 'great big ginger tit' thing is for SweetLateJuliet, and reading Lockheed_London's wonderful Cabin Pressure fics on AO3 inspired the endearments entries. By the way, this makes 566 entries in a story that was meant to be 312 entries long! Party at Speedy's when I reach 1,000!