"If you're looking for a needle you know you've lost, you don't start at the pincushion; you start in the haystack." Irene says airily, idly flicking through what sounds like (thin paper, narrow in diameter, machine bound) John's address book.
The door closes behind her with the sound of locks clacking into place and she steps from her shoes, calling ahead of herself.
"I could have given you a key, you know," she comments, pausing for a moment for the answer that doesn't come in sound but comes instead in silence. She steps through to the kitchen and, slightly irritated at the state of the countertops, puts the kettle on.
Sherlock appears in the doorway - which surprises her in itself, for she had expected to have to search for him - and she raises an eyebrow at the lack of disguise.
"We're going to have to teach you how to be dead, I think." She remarks, enjoying the childish roll of the eyes he gives in return before replying in a tone that only emulates boredom.
"It is noon and a clear day, and this room faces south. The sunlight will be reflected in the window panes should anyone happen to be taking an interest in you."
"That didn't seem to stop you from… Taking an interest," she says, coy, her amusement reflected in his features. He looks away and the pull is broken and Irene tuts as she turns back to the kettle.
"Irene," he murmurs after a pause, and the hairs on the back of her neck shiver at the closeness of him, even from across the kitchen, after so long going without. She feels fingertips in the middle of her back, his touch light and curious. Her body responds before her mind can quite catch up, and she curses the victorious look he gives her when she turns to serve his tea.
"I need a favour," he says, suddenly and without preamble, and Irene almost laughs, "I need you to go back to London and keep a close eye on things. And a biscuit would be lovely too, if you have one."
There is a morning, soon after Sherlock has grown bored of being in hiding, when he decides to follow Irene - not for the sake of actually finding out what she gets up to now, but rather as a simple distraction. But, after six hundred yards, and just when Sherlock starts to believe he has the wool firmly over her eyes, she turns to him and gives him a pointed look. He smirks (voluntarily) and then chuckles (not so voluntarily) before turning back the way he came, boredom temporarily sated.