I get super emotional when I see their kitchen, or their living room or a bit of Sherlock’s bedroom. All the tiny details that make their lives. They know where each stuff is, or they can ask each other but it’s their own bubble, maybe it’s a mess, or a dump like someone called it, but it’s theirs. It’s the way they like it, the things they bought maybe on a whim, they presents they’ve received, or bought each other, something Sherlock found on the street and picked it up while John is like don’t pick up stuff from the street and Sherlock smells it anyway and John stares and is ready to slap that thing away before he sticks his tongue on it, you know, their freaking life. Their entire life in a flat, filled with themselves. Their flat. Their home. It’s beautiful.