[ cont. ]

“When you say ‘you could hack into its feed’, are you suggesting I hand you my laptop, or are you going to talk me through it?”

her primary love language is quality time, she just enjoys sitting with him, whether they’re reading together or doing work in the same room. though her secondary is very likely acts of service. 

she makes him tea. he doesn’t want tea? it’s too late, she’s setting it on a clean workspace with the expectation he’ll drink it.

rosie has kept almost every flower otto has given her, ( if he gives her a bouquet she will pick one or two to save ) she presses and dries them so she can keep them. most are pressed in old books of poetry on her shelf at home, a few have found their way onto the shelves in her classroom.

she flirts with him a lot more than one would expect considering they’ve been together since collage. she adores him and she needs him to know that.

rosie does her best to have at least a very basic, very limited understanding of what otto is doing with his work. she understands it’s important to him and will listen to him ramble talk  about it even if she has absolutely no clue what it means. ( very rarely rosie gets to be very proud of herself when she adds into the conversation with a guess and manages to get information right )

she absolutely knabs his sweaters when he’s working late and she finds herself home alone, it helps her sleep. 

cont .

  If he was being quite honest then John hadn’t expected to find this when entering the room, but he was quick to make his way over to the other, pulling him into a hug.

“Hey, everything alright? What happened?”

The moment William saw the blonde, he was quick to jump into those welcoming arms, his own hands wrapping around John’s shoulders tight. His head is buried into the doctor’s collar, words mumbled against the fabric in exhausted breaths.

cont. [x.]

HE DOESN’T ANSWER RIGHT AWAY - feels as if anything, he’s earned a moment of inner contemplation without having to answer to anybody; just for a moment. Sits on the curb, pulling out a flask and a cigarette, and finally he gives the smallest of shrugs.

Could probably laugh at the situation if he didn’t feel so despondent, and he offers Sherlock a cigarette.

        “My excuse?” a wry smile forms around his cigarette as he takes a pull, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “The world has gone to hell, and nicotine patches don’t do a damned thing.”

From behind the other, remained standing, Sherlock accepted the offered roll of tobacco. The patches, the gum - or any other attempted substitute - it was all for the others; John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. Perhaps Mycroft could be added in there at some point. Though on occasion the two brother’s did share the occasional smoke. But considering recent exploitations and events, Sherlock needed a bit of a break today. He knew a bit of tobacco would be more preferable for them, than for him to be partaking in something harder. And that’s where Sherlock had the upper hand, definitely utilizing this advantage every so often.

cont. [ x. ]

“I am going on watch. Want to come little man?”

cont. [ x . ]

“Oh my g o d RUDE!!”

Lizzy had only just walked into her brother’s room, when the textbook came flying at her and she had to HURRIEDLY duck out of the way! “Some welcome t h a t is for your s i s t e r!” Lizzy cried out, before wandering across to pick up the book.

Turning it over a few times, she nodded to herself. Chemistry. “Uhh...I’ve forgotten why I was here...” She muttered to herself, before the proverbial lightbulb over her head switched on. “Oh yeah! There’s a spider in my room, I need to borrow a blowtorch or something.”

Sherlock had been poised and ready the moment he heard the familiar footsteps of his sister start to meander their way down the hall. He didn’t care which projectile was chosen, as long as it were effective. And thus, the chemistry book of choice - conveniently placed near his desk where he now sat - was a perfect option. Unfortunately, it seemed it had not been enough to ward her off. 

“Get out.” he huffed, under the breath. But it was still a hostile greeting. He was currently otherwise preoccupied with a collection of notebooks, loose papers, and a variety of books strewn across his desk. In his own method of organized chaos.

cont. [ x. ]

        “Honestly, I’m fine.” John had been fine for a long time, or maybe he wasn’t even quite sure what FINE actually meant. Or if it meant what was normal for him. Shaking his head, he looked at the other.

       “You can make me a cup of TEA if you want?”

     “Good. Yes. Done.” The detective wasn’t going to argue, if John was giving him something, some task to help the doctor. Of course he wouldn’t let up either way, but he was less stubborn at pressuring the other compared to when Sherlock was in similar situations.