"London," supplies Sherlock to the question of his origin, still leaning against the wall. His eyes drift out to the tables full of food - he's abstractly aware that he hasn't eaten in some time, but eating makes him feel full and stupid, and that is the last thing he wants to have his mind dulled at this precise moment.

There's faint approval in his eyes at the words of the girl, her self-assured confidence, but yes, there's clinical observation, the gaze of a studious, if not blindingly intelligent man attempting to unravel her just by looking at her. "So you might be found more on a rooftop with a sniper rifle than brawling among the brutes, mm?" The faintest flash of a smile flickers across his face, it's more of a tight smirk and the entire expression feels a little forced, unnatural even, as if he's not so sure that he knows what a smile is supposed to be.

Thankfully, the banquet hall has his eyes now, and he scans the table once again to see if there's anything to nibble on that won't slow him down too terribly.