[Lestrade looks to John, and then Sherlock, trying to process what he can infer from the both of them - or to be more specific, John. It's clear that he doesn't know that Sherlock faked his death, which means he probably has no memories of where Lestrade himself had been. What does that mean, then? Did he dream all of that up, or--?
No. No, he's certain that what happened in the last year back there was real. He rubs at the gunshot wound at his side, feeling the scar that's still there. It's real, which means even though he's no longer there, he's... well. He's not back in London.
Bugger it all.]
The jab wasn't a drug. [Pauses.] It was a translator, and also a cure to help us get used to the world here. [See, John, this is why being calm and asking helps.
He glances back at Sherlock, then, blinking again at the words and not acting entirely surprised or affected. After having to deal with worse things, Sherlock's abrasiveness doesn't affect him as much as it used to by now.]
God forbid I know why I'm special enough to be taken. [So very dryly, and he manages to not roll his eyes, but its a near thing. Lestrade tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers (which he was certain he wasn't wearing when he went to bed) and scans their surroundings.] As to where we are, I've been told that this is the city of Mandalus.