His lips on satire autopilot, Sherlock deduced the best approach to this sweet little pale situation with her cute pixie hair and modest mouth, was to let her have his humor instead of withholding it from her discreet graces. Thus, the warrior let loose without skipping a beat of his big fat heart: "Yes, Pete's is kind of... how can I put this, ostentatious." a wishbone of index and thumb banded his chin, tap-tap. "You might want to change, unless of course, you can tell I'm totally lying by the look in my eye. " he widened the bright blue chasms of them. "Or read my tarot cards before I came downstairs to meet you and the hanged man came up like, heeey, he only does laundry Sundays. Look at me, I'm hanging here."
Satisfied with himself (obviously.) he swallowed back the familiar, glittery taste in the air and the also, surprising familiarity he felt gnawing the grass in the pastures of his only occasionally intuitive mind. The leader in all things but laundering, he initiated the first steps toward the exit preferring to shake hands once they received their coffee. Why? Because he might be unable to stop himself from pulling her into a closet. That's why.
"P.S., you look just dandy." the crackle of lightning said to the mystery of water flowers, as he opened the door for her to make their way out into the open.