As distracted and, quite frankly, traumatized as Sherlock felt right then, it didn't escape his notice that Irene hadn't picked apart all the observations he knew would be obvious to her, too. They'd called an unspoken truce, which he was profoundly grateful for. He didn't think he would've been able to handle anyone picking him apart any more than Irene seemed open to it. That's mostly why he kept his coat on, carefully maintaining his last piece of armor while they discussed superheroes and supernatural beings. God, he needed a cigarette.
"Most people think they're clever," Sherlock noted, immediately thinking of Anderson and his staunch belief in his own intelligence. He might have no experience in the world of fantasy made real, but he did understand that, at least. It seemed as though their strange neighbors were, perhaps, not so strange at all. Thankfully, they had each other. He never would have actually imagined he'd believe that sentiment, but there it was, sparked by Irene's fleeting smile. Strange.
It came as a surprise when Irene told him some of the residents had been there for months. He took a sip of his tea to cover the fact that his hands shook slightly. "What have you gathered, then?" Sherlock prompted, watching Irene carefully. Even if she'd only been trapped in this fresh hell for a few days, he fully trusted in her judgment. Irene was nothing if not an expert in behavior and identifying pressure points. He was genuinely interested to hear what she thought about it all.