(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.

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer ambles over and looks at the writing.

Because he's nosy.

[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.

[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.’

[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.

[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.