[On the other end of the phone, Sherlock blinks in confusion, the sound of typing stopped for a second, under a second, before the obvious solution presents itself and she rolls her eyes irritably—more annoyed at herself than Irene. Though it transfers easily.]
You're hanging around on the balcony?
—oh. [And that's the sound of Sherlock Holmes having (highly illegally) gotten her hands on a certain flight roster. Her fingers still, a smile spreading over her face.] Perfect.
Send a text next time, won't you? I really do prefer them.
sorry for how late this is >_>
You're hanging around on the balcony?
—oh. [And that's the sound of Sherlock Holmes having (highly illegally) gotten her hands on a certain flight roster. Her fingers still, a smile spreading over her face.] Perfect.
Send a text next time, won't you? I really do prefer them.