Sorry. But it's a no from me.
"So sorry but the answer is a no." She scratched her neck
That awkward moment when you have to tell her you’re gay… so no…
*he stared at the man before him and bit his lower lip shaking his head* “pass please you wouldn’t understand the pain…”
Remy studied the man in front of him before slowly shaking his head. "No... I have to reject you. I'm sorry."
Drace titled his slightly to the side, with a raised brow, "Hmm... possibly. You seem interesting enough... But, I'm not sure if it'll work out. So, I'll have to pass."
"Much too young, I'm afraid and while I tend not to get hung up on social constructs, I feel it would be in both our best interests to carry on as though we never met."
The detective took the lapels of his long coat with gloved hands and lifted them to deter the chilly air that loomed like a London fog. "May you find whatever it is you're looking for. Me? I am on the hunt and the game is afoot!"
The detective took the lapels of his long coat with gloved hands and lifted them to deter the chilly air that loomed like a London fog. "May you find whatever it is you're looking for. Me? I am on the hunt and the game is afoot!"
'Wotcher,'
The willowy and waifish figure that tails Sherlock down the bustling crawl of petticoat lane is all unflinching, jutting angles. They come from a long line of overzealous university students that grow to embody their major. In their neutrals and brogues, this journalist has the glassy-eyed look of a lost woodland creature caught in a brown paper bag.
Like some small, dust coloured sparrow -- Quinn puffs, flitting about the place in a harried attempt to protect their scoop from other proverbial bird's probing eyes and prying beaks. London will eat small birds up and spit them out feather and bone, but Quinn is fresh off Oxbridge's press and determined to be the best, so if they have to write with the wick of their own feathers, by God they will.
'I have information--for you, I mean,' they inform Holmes with an owlish glance.
'The Riverside Café, February 17th, 9 o'clock. I'll wait ten minutes, after that...'
A date, by all technicality. /💋
The willowy and waifish figure that tails Sherlock down the bustling crawl of petticoat lane is all unflinching, jutting angles. They come from a long line of overzealous university students that grow to embody their major. In their neutrals and brogues, this journalist has the glassy-eyed look of a lost woodland creature caught in a brown paper bag.
Like some small, dust coloured sparrow -- Quinn puffs, flitting about the place in a harried attempt to protect their scoop from other proverbial bird's probing eyes and prying beaks. London will eat small birds up and spit them out feather and bone, but Quinn is fresh off Oxbridge's press and determined to be the best, so if they have to write with the wick of their own feathers, by God they will.
'I have information--for you, I mean,' they inform Holmes with an owlish glance.
'The Riverside Café, February 17th, 9 o'clock. I'll wait ten minutes, after that...'
A date, by all technicality. /💋
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