"I don't know," Irene muses, pretending to think about the question. Her lips curve up briefly. "Would you like me to?"

Silence filters in. Her eyes remain fixed to Sherlock's with a steady and penetrating look, determined to keep their shared gaze before sleep completely grabs hold of him. It strengths to communicate something, almost the opposite of her tone moments ago -- something immense, something terrible, like it was looming over them. He should understand (they spoke better without words).

She isn't certain how long they stay like that, but she is the one who breaks the connection, wordlessly sliding away and putting her feet back into her shoes near the side of the bed. She clears her throat, reverting back to her previous question, "Careful though, you wouldn't want to get addicted."