In Which Sherlock is Persistent

NSY, ten minutes. SH

I'm on a date, Sherlock.

So politely excuse yourself. Nine minutes, thirty seconds. SH

I'm at least fifteen minutes away by cab, for one thing. And for another: NO. I'm on a date.

Fine, why don't you just bring him or her along? Anderson will be there, so it's not like adding one more idiot to the heap is going to make a substantial difference. Nine minutes. SH

"Him or her"? Et tu, Brute? And have you forgotten how my last tagalong date went? Because I'm quite sure Sarah hasn't.

Reasonably certain the attacks against Julius Caesar were of a more serious variety; don't be dramatic. And what was wrong with that date? I thought it went swimmingly. SH

You're deranged. Poor Sarah had to start seeing a therapist- MY therapist, actually, which makes it all the worse that she advised Sarah to break up with me.

Oh God, ordinary dates must be dreadful. I thought that one had all the proper components. Well, until she nearly got herself killed, I suppose. Would it have been so difficult for her to tip her chair? Honestly. You managed to figure it out pretty quickly, somehow. SH

Right. Now I'm definitely not coming.

Don't go in a strop, it was a compliment. It's really quite interesting to watch such a typically simple mind exert itself into sudden and occasional bursts of higher functioning. A rare treat, I assure you. SH

Good heavens, I'm blushing. Well, since my date just called me something colourful and stormed off, I guess I'll be meeting you at the Yard in fifteen or so. (I suspect she found your constant texting a little less amusing than I generally do.)

Pity. Make it ten and meet me in forensics. SH