Jane makes her own observations on what it's like to live with an eccentric genius.

AN: Hey guys! It's been forever since I updated 'Afters' and I apologise. The play that I am in opened this week and so rehearsal has been crazy. And I also moved so that was hectic. If you are also following the interim part 'During' then I apologise for the delay in that one as well.

I hope you like it! I held off on this for so long because I didn't want to detract from the drama when I was wrapping up 'Pursuit of a Greater Thrill.'

THANKS FOR BEING PATIENT!
xxHoney

In conjunction with the chapter Planetarium in part five of the series.

Habits

'You see, Jane, but you do not observe!'

How many times has she heard that? A hundred, surely. And maybe he was right. She couldn't deduce how a man clearly just came from lunch at the Dorcester by the spot of raspberry aioli staining his sleeve, or which train a woman came off of based on her recent application of perfume. But she could be observant if she wanted to.

For example, she made it her job to be exceedingly observant when it came to one eccentric consulting detective.

One of the first things she noticed about the man was that he was a fiddler. He couldn't sit still even when he retreated into his MindPalace, fingers tapping against his lips, hands occasionally fluttering as if organsising invisible bits of information. When forced to stand to attention, he always had to have something in his hand, typically his mobile, which is twirled and tossed never missing a beat. It was as if twiddling was a pressure release for the constant revving and whirring of that massive brain. If asked, Jane would swear she could hear the gears clicking into place as he pulled connections out of thin air. It was brilliant, and she always said so, and through this she was delighted to discover another one of Sherlock's peculiar idiosyncrasies.

'Incredible!'

blinkblinkblink

'Ahem. Yes well…it's quite obvious.'

'Not to me. I never understand how you can make those massive leaps. You get it right every time. It's amazing.'

blinkblinkblink

'Ahem.'

And then…wait for it…the faintest dusting colour would rise to his cheeks, and after another small flurry of blinking, he would divert the conversation onto something else. Sherlock, after all this time, was still caught off guard by her praise, and the fact she alone could make the usually austere detective blush was something she lived for. Frankly, it was adorable, but she would never tell him that in a million years. Besides, she has her own 'MindPalace' and this was just for her, tucked away so she could pull it out and admire it from time to time.

Not all of Sherlock's quirks were endearing, however.

'Sherlock?'

'Mm?'

'We're out of tea.'

'Apparently.'

Aggravated sigh.

'How many times do I have to tell you to throw the box away when it's empty?'

'Boring. Waste of time.'

'No, Sherlock. A waste of time is having to go back out to get more because I didn't know we were out.'

'Mm.'

Whack!

'Really, Jane?'

'You know which tea. You even have the box for reference. Go on.'

'But…'

Slam!

'Jane? Ja – oh. Childish.'

He was always so wrapped up in his head or in some sort of experiment causing her to constantly repeat herself, or otherwise be completely ignored. He was messy and scatterbrained, usually leaving her in charge of tracking down the things he misplaced. He never did the shopping. He was loud and temperamental, and not to mention bloody destructive on some occasions if the bullet-holes in their wall were anything to go by. All in all, he was rather a nightmare to live with if she were being completely honest.

But when he wasn't driving her insane with all of his peculiarities, he would ruffle his hair like he does when he's agitated, or bite his lip when asking for a favour, or flex his long toes against her armchair as he sat across from her, and she would fall in love with him all over again.

And when he sidles up behind her in the middle of the night like he was doing right now, and his breath starts to stir the hair on the back of her neck, she feigns sleep just so she can hear his rumbling snore fill her quiet room. She grins to herself, and tucks this little bit of trivia like a bookmark in between the nuance of voice, and the creases just at his eyes when he laughs, and shuts it away sealed close to her heart with the rest.

Because surely if she were to tell him, he would be scandalised because of all things, the Great Sherlock Holmes is in fact something so mundane as a snorer.