(no subject)

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock is folded up in the seat of one of the booths, working on a gift for Jim.

The traditional first anniversary gift is paper; so, Sherlock has a stack of thick paper with some marbling and a good tooth, a dip fountain pen, and a few pots of ink in various dark colors. He's copying scribbled verses out of a notebook onto the good paper in his tidiest, prettiest handwriting.

There are crumpled papers tossed to the end of the table for disposal later. Nothing less than perfect will do.

Comments

[cottoncandypink]

At a nearby table, Wilford is also getting some work done, albeit on his laptop. Or at least, that is the intent. The thing has been getting slower and slower to boot up lately, so in reality, he's waiting for that to happen so he can get to work.

And then it throws an error message. Which might have been no big deal, except it would seem that somehow the volume got cranked up all the way, sending Windows' angry alert sound through scratchy, ten-year-old laptop speakers. It's enough to make Wilford nearly have a heart attack, but at least the tiny force of nature playing under the table doesn't seem to be bothered by it.

[mightbeagoodone]

The noise makes Sherlock's hand skitter across the page, marking it with an angry black splotch of ink.

He looks up to find the source.

Wharfstache.

"Turn your volume down." Flatly.

[cottoncandypink]

"Yeah, that was completely intentional," he says. It's probably supposed to be an apology? Maybe?

He does turn it down though, because that was not a nice sound.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock crumples the ruined sheet of paper. He gets to work on preparing the next one.

[cottoncandypink]

Whatever Sherlock's doing looks a lit more interesting than a plastic dinosaur all of a sudden. While Wilford is distracted trying to get his ancient laptop to behave, his tiny force of nature decides to wander off to see what Sherlock is doing. And the first thing the wayward three year old does is tries to stick his finger into the inkwell.

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer ambles over and looks at the writing.

Because he's nosy.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock looks up, annoyed but blank-faced.

[wayward_sun]

"I like your gs," Lucifer says, completely oblivious to any indications that he is disturbing Sherlock.

"They're very neat."

[mightbeagoodone]

"Thank you," Sherlock says and returns to writing.

[electro_kinetic]

He isn't the only one with paper nearby. Noriko is at a table with a quite large sheet of it herself, nearly a meter square, delicately and intricately folding it into what looks like scales. The black and gold-foil surface catches light and ends it reflecting as she folds and manipulates it, and the rustling noise is pretty constant as her hands fold tiny shapes.

She is also, upon further inspection, not touching the table at all with the way she's balanced in the chair. Only the rear two legs are on the floor, the chair's back supporting her torso and her feet kicked up on the rungs. She's good at finding balance.

[mightbeagoodone]

The little flashes of reflected light catch Sherlock's attention, but aside from observing for a moment or two, e has nothing to contribute.

[electro_kinetic]

That's all right. Noriko doesn't have a lot to contribute to Sherlock's writing either, being she can't see what it is he's transcribing. But she can compliment the materials as she looks up from her paper. (Forgetting one's glasses and doing tiny detail work, not ideal.)

"Pretty colors."

[mightbeagoodone]

"Thank you. Yours, as well.

"Is it origami?"

[just_cant_lose]

Arms snake around his neck from behind. There is a warm press of lips to his skin.

‘I’ve got my eyes closed,’ Jim murmurs, truthfully. ‘In case I’m not supposed to see.’

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock pulls a blank sheet over his current one, and clsoes the notebook. "It's safe to look now."

[just_cant_lose]

‘Mm.’

Nah, not going to let go. Always nice to cuddle him.

‘You were ages.’

A whole half an hour, at least.

[mightbeagoodone]

"That long? Poor darling." He tugs Jim into the booth with him. "You shall have to be kissed right away."

Which he is.

[curlytop]

George is wandering through with a mug of coffee and a plate that seems to contain a double-portion full English breakfast. He tilts his head as he passes, curious, and slows down a little to see what this bloke is working on with his fountain pen.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock says, without looking up, "Careful of your plate."

[curlytop]

"Whoops," says George, catching it before any of the beans slide off. "Cheers." He nods in the general vicinity of the entire project in front of Sherlock. "Are you practicing calligraphy?"

[mightbeagoodone]

"Ah, no. I'm copying poems as a first anniversary present for my husband."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric is curled up on one of the couches, headphones in and book open. He notices Sherlock but is a little unsure of his welcome. When a piece of paper falls off the table and bounces his way, he picks it up and flattens it out. A few moments of folding, Sinric sets it on the end of the couch, reformed into a paper crane at the brink of flight.

[mightbeagoodone]

At some point Sherlock looks up enough to notice the crane, and it makes him smile a little. he sees Sinric then, and debates a moment before rising from the booth and going to him. He sits on the edge of the couch and waits for Sinric to take off his headphones.

[thewidewideworld]

Which he does at once. Hyper-aware of Sherlock's movements. He nods to the crane. "A gift. The paper was too fine to waste."

[mightbeagoodone]

"I made a mistake on the page so I threw it away. But of course you made something fine from it."

He's quiet a moment, playing with the crane. "Jim told me he'd spoken to you. I hope it wasn't too terrible. I understand if you don't want to talk to me, after that."