Sherlock's eyes flicker in Mick's direction once or twice but otherwise he doesn't bother to offer a greeting, or anything else, in fact; he's withdrawn from conversation entirely for the time being, back to cataloguing and arranging data in his head. Mick isn't everything he's defined vampire as being so far, but that just necessitates a redefinition of the term. He glances through the doorway Mick emerged from: where does the man sleep? If man is the right word? If sleep is, for that matter? Life in Taxon for Sherlock is nothing if not a constant exercise in... well, taxonomy.

There is an injured man in the room, though. Sherlock's impulse is to leave him to Mick, let medics do what it is that medics do, but he looks over at Scott again and shrugs, making a face. "There's a chair through the doorway about ten paces directly ahead of you," he says neutrally.

He leans against the wall with his cigarette and tries his best to look aloof and broadcast his most convincing I've done my bit, it doesn't really matter to me what becomes of him body language. It could be more convincing.