Irene wouldn't call herself scared. Though, to be fair, Irene wouldn't call herself a lot of things, scared included. But she certainly wasn't happy, not by a long shot, nor was she even particularly neutral about anything that had happened in the days since her arrival. Though generally a people person and an explorer by nature, she'd retreated to the little house she'd chosen, emerging to forage for food and occasionally clothes but then slinking back to her self-made little den.
But then, her third day there, she hit on the idea -- irrational though it might have been -- that Sherlock would be here. And perhaps she didn't know what to do, not on her own anyway, but there was little that she and the world's only consulting detective could accomplish together, which was why, when he finally did appear in the town square, Irene was ready.
Or at least, she thought she was. It was a his voice that called her from the little loop she'd walked in. You got me. Her heart was in her throat as she turned, relief pounding through her as she half-ran in his direction, though she stopped short when she saw the blood blooming over his chest, her breath hitching, her eyes sweeping over him, panicked at first, and then calmer to realize that he was, in fact, standing there before her. Even i if she did look, at least to her own eye, rather ridiculous in her pale yellow sundress, without so much as a belt for an accessory, or even a hint of makeup, though at least her hair was up in tis usual bun.
"Thank God," she breathed, drawing level with him, and for a long second it looked very nearly as if she were going to throw her arms around him, though she narrowly resisted, though her eyes dropped from his face to his chest again, her mouth tightening. "What happened?" she asked (demanded). She met his eyes again. "You're not dead, Mr. Holmes."
Even now, it was Mr. Holmes, not Sherlock, a distancing tactic she'd used from the start. As if the formality were enough to maintain any distance at all. "Don't argue," she snapped, cutting him off before he could protest. "Whatever this is, it's not Hell. Or Heaven." She lifted her chin, trying to keep herself together, though the slight tapping of her left foot betrayed her anxiety, despite the conscious softening of her tone. "But I'm glad to see you."