"No loss, I hate parties," rumbles Sherlock with a tight smirk, not bothering to fold away the tablet in his hand - it's already been customized and rearranged to Sherlock's liking, a spartan background, utilitarian icon setup screaming of a device that's been fine-tuned for work. The girl's got his attention now, and his focus hones down in on her, eyes narrowing a touch behind the mess of his curls - a little grown out and unkempt, if anyone's noticing. There's the telltale signs of a rather nasty fall showing in some very faint bruising, but he seems largely recovered from it save to favor his right side a bit. The bruises are at least a few weeks old. His fingers, long and pale, curl around the cup to absorb the warmth. "If you've a bit of silver, you could test for arsenic in the food, but only if there's a high volume of arsenic in the food, and at that point you'd probably taste it before you died," Sherlock intones.

The cup of tea gets set down on the counter. "I don't think they'd so much as poison us here as to employ the use of drugs to keep us here. Quiet. Complacent. As long as we're fed and have a warm place to sleep, who cares what's going on in the outside world, who cares the entire world's been turned into a post-apocalyptic nightmare, oh no, good food and a soft bed will fix all of that right up." Sherlock's voice tends to err toward being a bit flat, but the sarcasm, the snide irritation simply drips off of his words. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat to shove away the tablet after folding it over with a click.

"Is there any way to get food here that hasn't had someone else's hands on it?" Sherlock looks back out to the banquet table, a thoughtful frown turning at his lips.