Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Irene, but said nothing about her outburst. He wasn't an idiot. Poking her further, even in the name of concern for her wellbeing, was a gamble he couldn't afford to make right now. Not considering his rather tenuous state of mind, something he knew she was aware of and already using as an excuse to redirect attention away from whatever it was he couldn't quite put his finger on yet. Irene was distressed, and decidedly not dead, so what was the problem? She was a chameleon, far more adaptable than he could ever hope to be, easily blending in wherever she went. There was something missing, though. Something important. Something—
It clicked.
"Fine," Sherlock said, gentler than he'd meant it to sound. Placating, he told himself, knowing full well it was a lie. "But I'll make the tea." It wasn't, for once, a power play—Sherlock did, in fact, prefer handling this particular task. He always had, despite wildly inaccurate reports that John had been the one between them to brew dozens of cups a day. The man hadn't gone near their kettle when they'd been living together, mostly because Sherlock beat him to it and more likely because he knew it gave the detective something to do while he worked through a problem in his head.
Not to mention the fact that he already knew how Irene took her tea. He gestured with a hand to indicate she should lead the way to wherever it was she'd chosen to stay in this poor excuse for a village. Sherlock wandered from her side twice; once to peer into a darkened window, and a second time to crouch down near the pond, studying the water before dipping his finger in and tasting it. He huffed an irritated breath. Nothing. Not even a little toxic.
When they made it to Irene's accommodations, he circled around it to the side, briefly taking out his sliding magnifying glass to confirm a hypothesis about the paint. That finished, he swept inside, already moving to get the tea ready. It was easy enough to figure out where things were, and besides, he was British. "Well?" They weren't, but then, there was something almost comforting in that. Almost.