John walked into their flat, followed by Sherlock. He shut the door behind them rather loudly. They had just gotten back from a painfully simple case; it had only taken a half hour, and most of that was in taxis on the way there and back.
"My head fucking hurts."
"People generally don't appreciate when young ladies use such vulgar language."
"I have a fucking migraine, I don't care about fucking societal norms."
This pulled Sherlock's attention from the mess of beakers and bottles that had been left abandoned in their rush to the crime scene. "Hmmm."
Answering his unspoken thought, John said, "Yes Sherlock, she does sound a bit like you in one of your more petulant moods."
"I don't get petulant," Sherlock responded, his tone dangerously close to said territory.
"Can you just shoot me and put me out of my misery?" If Astrid's head hadn't felt like it was imploding, she might have noticed that this cavalier attitude towards his shooting anyone made John very uncomfortable.
She was, in a way very reminiscent of her biological parent, sprawled across the couch with her elbow crooked over her eyes, blocking out the sunlight. She had stolen ("procured") Sherlock's dressing gown, which he had allowed because she wasn't feeling well (or so he told himself-there was no way it was because he enjoyed the thought that she was comforted by it), and was wrapped in it. No one, herself included, was quite sure if she had on anything underneath it, so that was probably also a factor in her being allowed to keep it. She flinched every time Sherlock so much as brushed two pieces of glass together, causing them to clink. The sounds of London outside were positively jarring. John's soft doctor voice was the only sound that didn't cause her to feel like knives were being driven through her brain.
"I am desperately craving chocolate, but there's no chocolate in, because there's never anything in, because I live in a flat with two people completely incompetent at anything resembling adult activities, who instead go gallivanting around London and leave me here alone, in pain." All of this was delivered in a quiet whisper, attempting to balance her need to castigate her parents with her strong desire to not worsen the pain she was experiencing.
To this, John offered his ever-present remedy for absolutely everything: "Tea?"
In response, he only got a brief glare before the elbow was over her eyes again.