"This is impossible." Sherlock growled as he tore off the sixth shirt he'd tried on.
Rose looked up from her comic book and to her distraught brother. He was going on his first date with John Watson and apparently the success of it depended heavily on the shirt he wore.
Sherlock flopped dramatically on the bed next to her.
"Call him and cancel," Sherlock mumbled miserably into the blankets.
"Mycroft said dinner's ready… What's with him?" Greg asked as he opened the door and spotted a topless Sherlock sprawled across the bed.
"Boy trouble," Rose supplied, going back to reading her comic book.
"Ah," Greg said. He quickly retreated out of the room, honestly not having the energy to deal with any teenage drama.
"I personally liked the black one," Rose said more to herself than anybody. Sherlock lifted his head and scoffed at his sister words.
"You certainly don't know anything about the psychology of colors."
"No I can't say I do, or does any other normal teenager," Rose retorted effortlessly.
Mycroft opened the door to his brother room and sighed at teen's dramatic antics.
"Oh for God's sake," he sighed, "Wear the purple one. The particular make will highlight your muscles and give the right impression. Rosina go down for dinner. Sherlock I will see you before 12. Not at 12, not after 12. Before 12," Mycroft's tone hardened towards the end of his spiel.
Sherlock merely grunted in response.
"Good luck for tonight, Sherlock," Rose said while rummaging through the closest and laying said purple shirt on the bed.
"Luck? Why would I need luck?" Sherlock said the word "luck" like it was a bad taste in his mouth as he swiftly buttoned up the shirt in question.
Rose grabbed her comic book of the bed, thanking God her brother was back to his normal cocky self and not Mr. Teenage Drama Queen.
"No reason at all."