If Irene realized Sherlock was aware of her discomfort, that she'd disclosed a tell in spite of her efforts to do otherwise, she would have registered (nearly) equal parts of irritation at herself and a lack of surprise at his observations. It was to be expected after all, but that didn't mean she wanted him to know the extent of what had happened to her. Maybe it was rooted in pride (likely), but Irene Adler didn't care to show any sign of her own pain. For the moment, she remained unaware of his realization.
The motorbikes do not go unnoticed by her, and Irene's eyes narrow slightly in the direction of the window. Her captors had not used motorbikes that she had been aware of, perhaps preferring four wheeled vehicles, but that doesn't mean the sounds do not indicate a threat. Everyone is a threat as of now, with the exception of the man in the room with her. The man who, for reasons she does not understand, came to her rescue. It isn't that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have known where she was or what had happened to her - of course he could have. Knowing where she was would be the simple part for him. But why had he come? It was a question that would be useless to ask now, and possibly never to be answered, yet a question ringing quietly in the back of her mind.
Her toes curl into the carpet as she stands again, crossing the room towards where he stands near the window. The angles and planes of his face are cast in shadows, both from the lightning and the candle flame. Irene drifts to his side, enough to allow her a view of the outside street. Thunder booms again, closer in time now but still not quite on top of them. Her body tenses again at the sound, and she crosses her arms over her chest to conceal the resulting throbbing ache across her upper back. She's almost come to anticipate them now.
"Three motorized bikes," she says quietly. "Moving away from here, not toward. Away from the storm." Irene flexes the fingers of her right hand before settling them back onto her upper arm. Her thumb strokes the fabric of the robe absently. Another flash of lightning, a bit closer now.
no subject
If Irene realized Sherlock was aware of her discomfort, that she'd disclosed a tell in spite of her efforts to do otherwise, she would have registered (nearly) equal parts of irritation at herself and a lack of surprise at his observations. It was to be expected after all, but that didn't mean she wanted him to know the extent of what had happened to her. Maybe it was rooted in pride (likely), but Irene Adler didn't care to show any sign of her own pain. For the moment, she remained unaware of his realization.
The motorbikes do not go unnoticed by her, and Irene's eyes narrow slightly in the direction of the window. Her captors had not used motorbikes that she had been aware of, perhaps preferring four wheeled vehicles, but that doesn't mean the sounds do not indicate a threat. Everyone is a threat as of now, with the exception of the man in the room with her. The man who, for reasons she does not understand, came to her rescue. It isn't that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have known where she was or what had happened to her - of course he could have. Knowing where she was would be the simple part for him. But why had he come? It was a question that would be useless to ask now, and possibly never to be answered, yet a question ringing quietly in the back of her mind.
Her toes curl into the carpet as she stands again, crossing the room towards where he stands near the window. The angles and planes of his face are cast in shadows, both from the lightning and the candle flame. Irene drifts to his side, enough to allow her a view of the outside street. Thunder booms again, closer in time now but still not quite on top of them. Her body tenses again at the sound, and she crosses her arms over her chest to conceal the resulting throbbing ache across her upper back. She's almost come to anticipate them now.
"Three motorized bikes," she says quietly. "Moving away from here, not toward. Away from the storm." Irene flexes the fingers of her right hand before settling them back onto her upper arm. Her thumb strokes the fabric of the robe absently. Another flash of lightning, a bit closer now.