Always moving, the machinery of his mind going like some great steam-powered machine, Sherlock's mental process often manifested itself in physical ways. Now, for instance, he drummed the pads of his fingers on the arms of her expensive Edwardian chair, his heels alternating up and down. It was hard for him to sit still when he was mentally active, and he was always chewing on an observation or eight.

He didn't answer her; rather, he pulled himself up out of the chair and set about exploring the perimeter of her room, flicking the curtains aside for a peek out onto the inner courtyard.

"Berlin's a very public place for someone of your reputation." His way of finally responding. He dropped the gauzy curtain. Every one of his observations somehow ends up coming off as a criticism. It just had that tone.