The discomfort was, of course, obvious. To her anyway, just as hers certainly was to him. It was possible to find frustration in this, how hard she had to work to hide from him, but she met it now with relief. Finally, one familiar person, even if familiar was hardly equivalent to easy. Neither of them had ever fit that description particularly well nor, Irene suspected, had either of them particularly wanted to.
"Four days, as near as I can tell," she reported, without missing a beat. "By far the strangest days I've ever experienced." She pushed her weight forward, leaning into his space just enough for straighten the collar of his coat. For once, though, the motion wasn't to unbalance him as much as to rebalance her, the texture of the fabric stiff and familiar beneath her fingers, the warmth of his pulse close enough for her to touch, though she didn't reach in to feel that, too. It was enough to know that it was there, the marrow of him churning beneath his skin, in his lungs and heart and extraordinary brain.
"There are other people living in these houses, but no familiar faces, until you." It was more a coded way of saying Moriarty isn't here, because that possibility had certainly been on her mind, and clearly Sherlock's too, considering his little come and get me speech. Who else would he have been expecting to wait for him?
"My house, such as it is, is just there," she pointed to it, slightly in the distance. "It's not much, but there's tea. Come on. We could both use some of that."