The idea of sleep is appealing. Irene Adler was able to sleep in small increments when in the custody of her captors, though not for an extended amount of time. She had been accustomed to that as well, sustaining on less sleep than others might have required, but the damp cell with the soldiers just outside the door was far from a comfortable setting. Here, they are comparatively safe, and Sherlock is right - the days to come will be a challenge, to say the least.
Irene raises her cup to her lips again, and she takes a longer drink than before. It's familiar, comforting, something she would have done in any of her previous residences, and maybe that is why she lingers over it. Or maybe it's to avoid movement and aggravation to her shoulders and back - truly, it's impossible to be sure. Her head remains tilted downwards until she draws the cup away from her lips, and she turns back towards the table. Setting her cup down she takes a seat in one of the chairs and retrieves the brush.
She has only pulled the brush through her hair twice before lightning flashes outside. It's far away for now, as measured by the gap between lightning and thunder, but the world outside is briefly illuminated. Irene's head turns sharply towards the window, and while she maintains her hold on the brush it's with a grip that has turned her knuckles white. Even with the distance put between them and what would have been her death, she is still on edge.
The quickness of her movement sends another, sharper pain along her back and into her right shoulder. Irene Adler clenches her jaw briefly, then sets the brush down once more. With her eyes on the window she rises from the chair, crossing to the edge of the bed. Bending her left knee she eases herself to sit, pulling her hair to the left side of her neck in a dark twist. Her hands come to rest on her lap again, one concealed beneath the other. It's a few moments before she speaks again.
no subject
The idea of sleep is appealing. Irene Adler was able to sleep in small increments when in the custody of her captors, though not for an extended amount of time. She had been accustomed to that as well, sustaining on less sleep than others might have required, but the damp cell with the soldiers just outside the door was far from a comfortable setting. Here, they are comparatively safe, and Sherlock is right - the days to come will be a challenge, to say the least.
Irene raises her cup to her lips again, and she takes a longer drink than before. It's familiar, comforting, something she would have done in any of her previous residences, and maybe that is why she lingers over it. Or maybe it's to avoid movement and aggravation to her shoulders and back - truly, it's impossible to be sure. Her head remains tilted downwards until she draws the cup away from her lips, and she turns back towards the table. Setting her cup down she takes a seat in one of the chairs and retrieves the brush.
She has only pulled the brush through her hair twice before lightning flashes outside. It's far away for now, as measured by the gap between lightning and thunder, but the world outside is briefly illuminated. Irene's head turns sharply towards the window, and while she maintains her hold on the brush it's with a grip that has turned her knuckles white. Even with the distance put between them and what would have been her death, she is still on edge.
The quickness of her movement sends another, sharper pain along her back and into her right shoulder. Irene Adler clenches her jaw briefly, then sets the brush down once more. With her eyes on the window she rises from the chair, crossing to the edge of the bed. Bending her left knee she eases herself to sit, pulling her hair to the left side of her neck in a dark twist. Her hands come to rest on her lap again, one concealed beneath the other. It's a few moments before she speaks again.
"And you?"