Benevenuta, appearing ever so slightly bemused by the sudden addition of Irene Adler to her otherwise mercifully quiet evening in, is slightly less precisely put together in sheer cardigan and organdy bloomers, which are not, despite their half-assed (if you'll forgive the pun) attempt in that direction, actually pants. The front door of her apartment opens straight into her living room, and behind her on the glass coffee table there is evidence of a solitary evening in; one wine-glass, a selection of books, and...some sort of dessert?

(She's gone blonde since they last met, but perhaps Irene has already seen that on the network; it's very conscious, the way she's softened herself since the end of the crisis, gone back and reinforced that first impression she'd given of herself to this city, sheathing the sharper, darker parts and making them harder to hold onto, like smoke. Some people are harder to fool than others.)

“Come in,” she sighs, half a laugh. “I'll get another spoon.”