She catches the sheet, trying to ignore the speckles of red that land on it as she does. It occurs to Irene, almost idly, that standing in the aftermath of an exploded car bomb, barefoot and scraped bloody, with a sniper somewhere in the vicinity, invisible, that she still feels distinctly less vulnerable than she had when he'd tried to deduce how she'd broken a finger twenty seven years ago.

She shakes her head, as if shaking away the thought itself, and looks around the parking lot. It's mostly empty, but there are three cars still left. All of them rentals. She dismisses the luxury car immediately, and heads towards the beige midsized. It is easily the most nondescript of the three cars, with enough space for the sniper's gear.

The sheet trails behind her as she does, as she picks her way along. She keeps an eye out for the sniper, but a part of her suspects he (or she) is gone. She says nothing as Sherlock returns; something is niggling at the back of her mind, and she isn't certain what it is just yet, but she knows it may be important.