The question snaps him out of it enough to straighten up, let out a slow sigh through his nose. Of course everything isn't okay. Nothing is remotely in the area of being okay.

His hands have been behind his back, starting to twitch -- but following the sigh he brings one of them out, makes a circling gesture in midair.

"And in your -- world." That little pause before world; he's not comfortable with the idea of there being different ones. "This sort of thing's commonplace, is it?"

It's not only that the rationale behind the explanation is solid enough -- it's those circles. That's the sort of talent that would only very rarely be innate; far more likely something like that would need to be trained.

It makes sense. As much as anything here does, if not more. But it still opens up a slew of questions that are either irritating or unimportant or both.

One floats to the top that seems much more appropriate to the situation. Might as well.

"You've been here a while." It's directed at Quentin, but it isn't the question he has in mind, or even a question. The remark about the adjustment gave it away right off, but he can get more specific than that. He nods toward Quentin's chest, tossing away an offhand remark: "At least a couple of months, going by your shirt."

Sherlock straightens his shoulders, levels his eyes on Quentin.

"Know where I can find a cigarette?"

So the choice is between something that'll cloud his mind rather than sharpen it, and something 'weird.' Can't even get actual tobacco here. That rankles on a more familiar level.

"Something weird would be par for the course," he acknowledges, letting his shoulders roll back slightly as he adopts a posture that isn't quite so stiff. He glances down the stairs -- saw something that looked like a chemist's a block back.

"Morning," he says, by way of good-bye, before he starts to step away.