Maybe it was her tired state, but Rose was quickly becoming put-off. "I'm standin' righ' 'ere," she reminded them both.

Sherlock could likely see the frustration on Rose's face. Fictional or not, famous or not, who did he think he was? He had mentioned not being human. Maybe he wasn't the Sherlock from the books at all? Maybe he was some alien or creature using a familiar alias. He certainly didn't look like she'd imagined Holmes would.

Rose shook her heavy head, trying to focus back on the conversation.

"I'm sure they didn-" she started, before remembering that Dean had just shot someone. She covered her face with her hands. First, she'd been cleaning up after John. Now, she was in trouble for the Winchesters. Couldn't anybody just bloody care for themselves? She wasn't their mum. She had much bigger problems to deal with than a bunch of whiny gits swatting at each other.

Had she gotten her sleep, she would not have snapped, but instead, Rose found herself demanding, "'ow is tha' my fault??"