He should have known better. After all know better it's exactly his job.
Now he stares at her, thinking that there must have been clues somewhere, because there are always clues somewhere: it's the starting point of all his work, isn't it?
But love is a weakness, and grief is a blindfold; and Sherlock is a genius, yes, which also means he is human.
Logic is no fun when it's against you.
(He supposes this is how people feel around him, and for a moment he almost feels bad for them.)
She is beautiful, he thinks.
And Sherlock knows that he should focus on something else ─ possibly something not so obvious and totally useless like that ─ but he can't help himself: Irene is beautiful.
Way too much for a dead woman.
She also looks as shocked as him, though, and Sherlock's mind runs: what if she thought he was dead too? What if she has been deceived too? What if...
But there is also guilt in her eyes, and he can't pretend not to see it.
It hurts.
He remembers long, rainy afternoons in London, with music and tea and unfinished paintings; their endlessly, stupid, passionate arguments, and the way she used to smile when she was able to outsmart him.
He remembers short, shiny nights, with her body pressed against his, and tangled hands, and her lips kissing his jaw, then humming old songs in his ears.
He remembers all of this and so much more, and he doesn't understand.
"Irene", he repeats, and beside him Joan frowns, turning to look at the woman.
She remains still under the weight of their gaze. Colored drops begin to fall on the floor from the brush in her hand. The music goes on and on.
"Why?", Sherlock finally asks.
And Irene just smiles.