hand drawn patterns

Gryffindors are bright mornings, leaves dripping in gold. They’re the trailblazers, unafraid of the road ahead. They’re laughing so loud your stomach hurts, the knowledge that your friends are right behind you wherever you go. They’re ice skating with someone you love, clinging on to them for dear life. They’re make-believe games with quests and dragons and swords pointing at the sky. They’re rosy cheeks, winter winds and freezing hands. They’re the adrenaline when a plane takes off, the drop at the top of a rollercoaster. They’re delighted screams and freedom, the wind through your hair. They’re panting, pillow fights, feathers bursting into the air. They’re finger painting and festivals and burning sunsets. They’re the burn in your lung after chasing something you’ll never be able to catch. 

Hufflepuffs are honey and flowers and the soft autumn sun. They’re knitted jumpers and scarves and soft tan boots. They’re fresh air and nature, the sound of birds singing. They’re rolling down a hill in the spring, grass stains on your knees, daisy chains in your hair. They’re waving at someone across a crowded room, bright smiles and laughter. They’re coming home after a long day and seeing your family. They’re playing fetch with your dog, your cat weaving between your feet. They’re fluffy socks and song birds and kraft notebooks with hand drawn patterns. They’re throw cushions on a bed, a tiny cottage surrounded by wilderness. They’re the ground beneath your feet, the air that you breathe. They’re the light you chase when you thought you’d never see the morning. 

Ravenclaws are leather bound books and overstocked libraries. They’re waking up at two am to google that thing that’s bugging you. They’re journals with half the words crossed out, scribbles and ink stains and missing pages. They’re stretching when you’ve been hunched over all day, rolling off the edge of a bed, burrowing in blankets. They’re torch light and held breaths and reverent whispers. They’re the entire night sky and everything beyond it; the embodiment of the universe. They’re desperate searches and hidden castles and ghost stories by firelight. They’re the mystery of a dark corridor, the force of a whirlwind. They’re the excitement of discovery, the rustle of crunched up paper. They’re the last whisper before you fall asleep. 

Slytherins are foggy hillsides and picturesque landscapes. They’re hand written love notes and subtle glances across a classroom. They’re black boots, long coats, buttons done up to the top. They’re tipping your head back to breathe the air, kicking up stones on a deserted path. They’re mirrored lakes, everything below the surface. They’re the confidence to get something right, the feel of magic in your fingertips. They’re holding your breath underwater, pretending to be a mermaid when you swim. They’re finding that one song that makes you want to create a storm. They’re the chill in the breeze, the force in the tide. They’re enchanted forests and lingering glances and long drives. They’re the lightning and the thunder and everything in between. 

Tea Time

Sherlock’s busy. Sitting in his leather chair near the fireplace, he’s texting furiously with Lestrade (Will the idiots on that forensic team ever learn? Nope. Apparently not today.). 

Rosie sits to his left at a tiny toddler-size table on a little matching stool. It’s round and painted lavender, a delicate hand drawn vine pattern circling the edge and trailing down the table’s legs. She’s playing with a miniature tea set- a gift from Mrs. Hudson- pretending to pour out tea and stir in sugar and milk with a silver baby spoon.

“Tea, Papa?” Rosie’s chubby hand offers a small porcelain cup of imaginary Earl Grey to Sherlock. 

He doesn’t stop texting, never looks away from the screen, simply shifts to using his right hand only and allows his left arm to fall to the side, low enough for her to place the petite teacup into his large hand. It moves automatically to his lips and he takes a sip before he fully realizes it’s only filled with make-believe tea. His eyes widen in surprise. (Sherlock’s body is, after all, hard-wired to accept tea from a Watson at this point.)

He looks down at Rosie, who meets his gaze expectantly, eyebrows raised. “Papa like tea?” she asks. 

Sherlock only hesitates for a moment before saying, “Mmm. Yes, love. I think your tea may be the best I’ve had.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “But don’t tell Daddy.”

Rosie nods solemnly, her daddy’s tea making prowess already well known. She goes back to filling and refilling cups with the play teapot, babbling “tea, tea, tea” happily.

Sherlock “drinks” cup after cup, eventually solving Lestrade’s case after a couple of shoddy screen-caps make it clear it wasn’t even a murder in the first place. Dull. 

It was a normal afternoon for Rosie in 221B. A perfect day for tea time with her Papa.

OMG I ACTUALLY FINISHED HER O_o ???!!!! SHE KILLED ME GUY’S. ALL THOSE DETAILS SERIOUSLY KILLED ME! Everything is hand drawn including the patterns (I wanted it to look like an overdone costume). Knowing me, I will pick up on something stupid later in the week and tweak it, I’m never happy >:/ I shall now go to sleep forever. 

Either way, hope you like it, and also Happy Thanksgiving to all my lovely American fan’s out there :) sadly my country don’t celebrate it ;_;