* When reporters ask John their sound bite-seeking questions, the way he handles them depends on his mood. If the interviewer has trod on his very last nerve John resorts to the unvarnished truth. Which is why a recent "What's in your fridge?" elicited an honest answer in the form of an actual list, which included: two hundred and forty-eight bee penises; the head of a Carmelite nun; a top hat ("Yes, on the nun."); four sticky toffee puddings; an eyepatch; three dead bats; a wine-filled condom; mascara; a bag of Highgate cemetery soil; dog biscuits; and a chess board. Left off the list because John was in a strop was the half dozen eggs, butter, milk, salad, and lime pickle.

* Journalists are ever on the hunt for a great quote and some will ask the most absurd questions in their quest. And sometimes Sherlock…helps. He does this by being a lying liar who lies. Understand this: Sherlock does not fib to friends or family (mostly), but to strangers, oh that's quite another thing. So when a Daily Mail scribe asked Sherlock what he considered to be "Watson's worst habit," Sherlock thought for a moment and then replied with a face so earnest the journalist still thinks that Sherlock was serious: "He insists I take the oral contraception."

* John loves jewelry on Sherlock, he's made no secret of this. He's bought his beautiful love more chains of silver for neck and waist and wrist, more rings for long fingers, than Sherlock can ever wear, yet lately the bling John fancies most on his beloved are his own dog tags. And while John was pretty sure they'd long since maximised the sexual potential of those tags, the good doctor discovered he was maybe a million percent wrong when he came to bed and found Sherlock…Shhherlock…oh god Sherlock…with the chain wrapped multiple times around his erection and the tags jingling softly against his balls as he slowly, breathlessly stroked himself off.

* For a man who came to the erotic late in life, Sherlock has a fine sexual imagination. He has used it to such imaginative effect—having found them more places to have sex, wearing more things, in more ways, under the most unusual of circumstances—that even Sherlock is amazed. Yet, to be honest, the good detective favours simple sex, slow sex, slightly-predictable sex. He likes to make love in their bed, or on the roof of 221B, places that are known and sweet and safe. Still, Sherlock does enjoy bringing along toys and other temptations, so that night last week, when he rediscovered John's dog tags? Well Sherlock knew just what to do with them, oh yes, he knew exactly how to make both of them…howl.

* A three continents reputation is not a thing that simply goes away. That's because such status is not so much earned as innate. Which is to say that to some men and women, John's an absolute sexpot. It's the swagger of course, and the straight back. It's the tilt of the head that says oh I know exactly what you're thinking, and the smile that's almost never on his mouth but often in his eyes. Yeah, when your allure is that fetchingly intrinsic, well you're going to have to explain to your sweetheart, again, how another constable was able to follow you into the gents, get at your mobile to leave a suggestive photo and her phone number, without you knowing one single thing about it.

* Sherlock mocks Mycroft's tendency for order. He believes the perfect furl of his brother's brolly to be repression made manifest. He sees the stack of pristine pads on his desk as conformity. And most importantly, he finds this facet of his brother's character extremely annoying. Of course Sherlock doesn't see this precise tendency in himself, for Sherlock thinks that skewing the door knocker left is a shout out to anarchy. When he stabs the post into the mantel it's transgressive. And when he leaves the toothpaste cap off again it's fighting against conformity. That he does each of these things with the predictability of convention is entirely lost on him.

* John will never be sure if the adoration was born of the warm water or the sultry evening temperature, all John knows is that he and Sherlock were, post-case and a two hundred miles north of London, wiling away the evening in the deep end of the hotel's pool. Then Sherlock wrapped his legs round John's waist and the good doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock and for the next hour John held Sherlock close, walking slow in the warm water, ear to Sherlock's chest, half listening to him talk about the case, mostly listening to the lub-dub of his heart, and wondering if they could stay right this way forever, or until John no longer felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

* Sherlock gets fitted for a new suit about twice a year. Mostly this is because criminals seem to relish destroying Sherlock's old suits. The villainous of London have done this deed by throwing at the good detective paint, corrosive chemicals, itching powder, something vaguely radioactive, more types of excrement than it would be polite to list, and, once, a half litre of very floral perfume. So Sherlock is measured for a new suit every spring and autumn. He wanted to donate the old ones to the maximum security prison out past Spitalfields but John told him that that was mean. Which, Sherlock replied, was entirely the point.

* John did it once, for a case, but he will not do it again. That said, John's kind of glad he did it once. Mostly because Sherlock enjoyed himself, but also because it felt…interesting. Now that the hair's grown back (dear god the infernal itching) John's pretty sure the pleasures in his being clean shaven back there came not so much from the goal but the journey. Which is to say it was the act of Sherlock shaving him, and Sherlock's avid response, that they each relished most.

* Sherlock has yet to learn that going silent at exactly the wrong time is exactly like waving a red flag in front of John's face. No, it's exactly like hollering, "Fine! I did it! I broke the wardrobe door, devoured the last three packets of biscuits, and text-insulted Dimmock using your phone." If Sherlock would just remember—and he never, ever will—that petulance, pacing, and his usual snide commentary when accused would render John's accusations baseless, Sherlock wouldn't currently be sitting on a bench in Regent's park with his hands shoved under his thighs, chin on chest, listening to John hollering, "And another thing mister—" while pacing so vigourously he's frightened all the ducks.

* John loves the taste of Sherlock. In bed some nights, when they've spent a long day apart, the good doctor will do an impromptu deduction dance over Sherlock's shivery skin. With a flick of the tongue along his sweetheart's wrinkling nose, he'll report that Sherlock used talc in his morning experiments. With a broad swipe along his jaw John'll announce that Sherlock had gooseberry jam on his afternoon toast. With a slow suck on a bed-mussed curl the good doctor will grumble that the bad man snuck half a cigarette again. And sometimes, when the morning starts early and they've had to hit the ground running, so busy neither had time for a cup of tea much less a shave or shower, well that night John'll snake his tongue down Sherlock's chest, and he'll tell his quick-breathing love he tastes salty, sweet, and just a bit bitter. "You taste," John will whisper, "of what we did last time." And then, amidst Sherlock's soft moans, they'll begin the next time.

* For nearly the first six weeks after they became lovers, Sherlock counted. He counted how many seconds it took John to come back to bed from a midnight loo run. He'd count how often John licked his lips while they watched telly. And Sherlock counted their kisses. For nearly six weeks Sherlock knew exactly how many times they'd kissed because when the kisses stopped Sherlock knew it'd be important to him to know how many kisses there'd been. But then one morning on day…was it day forty?…John pulled the duvet high against the morning and beneath that warm shelter he covered Sherlock in kisses everywhere. And though he tried to track them, he really did, Sherlock couldn't, he just couldn't. And so it was right then and right there that Sherlock gave up. He gave up counting kisses…and he gave up believing they would ever end.

These entries of "Minutiae" (min-oo-sha) were inspired by this and that and the other thing, random neurons firing in my brain as I walk, and the occasional line from one of my own stories that I wanted to expand on just a little. "Limb From Limb" completes next week.