While she spoke, Sherlock took out his smartphone, already knowing what he would find on the screen: no signal. He groaned. Four days trapped in some abandoned quaint little village with no internet and, apparently, little resources. "Are you sure this isn't hell?" Sherlock drawled, desperately clinging to his annoyance and practically vibrating out of his skin with the effort it took to keep himself contained. He felt adrift, and worse, confused, vulnerable, too like he'd felt after Serbia with only his older brother to cling to in the aftermath. That had been difficult, but not impossible; Mycroft had seen him at his worst, knew what he was like. Irene being here for this was problematic at best, compromising at worst.
He was so preoccupied he barely registered Irene leaning into his space. Sherlock waited for her to finish, as if this were a natural occurrence between them and not something wildly new and confusing (something he'd think about much, much later), then paced around Irene, restless, roving his sharp gaze over their surroundings with a more critical eye than before. It was bright, and idyllic, and fake. Staged, if he had to guess, like they were actors in a play. But why? If Irene had any explanation, she would have given it by now—identified the threat or at least teased the fact that she knew there was one. But she didn't. If anything, her unspoken comment regarding their mutual nemesis was even more worrying. They were up against an unknown, and perhaps someone far more clever than the man who had nearly brought them both to heel.
Thoughts swirling, he barely caught Irene's offer of tea. When it finally hit, a little delayed, Sherlock turned on his heel again to stare at her.