George cups her gloved hands around her mouth, shouting, “Have fun! Stay warm! Call if there’re shots fired!”
John’s answer is two extremely rude fingers; Sherlock doesn’t bother at all.
“It’s like I haven’t learned my lesson at all,” George says philosophically, four hours later, standing in the lobby of the planetarium and feeling extremely zen for how completely furious she is. “It’s like I think that telling you asshats to call in case there are shots fired is a safe, fun, playful thing to say, and not taunting fate at all.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Asshats?”
“I learned it from the traffic pool,” George snaps. “How the fuck did you break the planetarium and where did you get this bloody gun? Why shouldn’t I let those officers drag your arses back to headquarters?”
Behind her, she can hear the officers in question sniggering. According to Sally, it’s major Yard gossip currency to see George tearing into the legendary Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. She can’t imagine why. She feels like she has some sort of rage-induced seizure at him on a quarterly basis, but then again Sherlock enduring her screaming at him for any length of time is telling of his affection for her — she’s seen others try it before only to have Sherlock wander off in boredom.
