Moriarty laughs, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm going to get dressed."
He wanders out into the main room and, when he returns ten minutes or so later, the dressing gown has been replaced with - some incongruously not Victorian clothing in the form of a loose pair of grey sweatpants and a neon green t-shirt.
(It matches his eyes, at least?)
He's tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, looking mildly ill-at-ease. He's Victorian, after all, he's used to far more layers than this. But on the other hand, the entire British Army is doing a parade in his skull, and he would rather not compound that with heavy, stiff Victorian gentleman's garb.
"How goes the baking? Need anything stirred? I can also do kneading and whisking, if I must."
no subject
He wanders out into the main room and, when he returns ten minutes or so later, the dressing gown has been replaced with - some incongruously not Victorian clothing in the form of a loose pair of grey sweatpants and a neon green t-shirt.
(It matches his eyes, at least?)
He's tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, looking mildly ill-at-ease. He's Victorian, after all, he's used to far more layers than this. But on the other hand, the entire British Army is doing a parade in his skull, and he would rather not compound that with heavy, stiff Victorian gentleman's garb.
"How goes the baking? Need anything stirred? I can also do kneading and whisking, if I must."