[Sherlock scoffs, but is then promptly winded when Irene's knee barely misses his solar plexus. He coughs as his middle buckles and he falls to one knee, but only for a moment. He's suddenly glad it's the dead of night on the beach, and the only witnesses to this are torches from Irene's ship, at least at the moment. Sherlock still has his pride, after all.]

Yes, that shade of kohl is very particular to the region. And the silk of your garter-- [Yes, he'd looked. Sherlock stands properly, wishing he brought his rapier instead of the cutlass. It had a longer range. Still, he swipes forward again.] --Imported from Madras, but clearly dyed with ingredients local to Ceylon.