They really are, aren't they.

[He glances down at his flowers with a dreamy expression on his face, missing the little rubble exchange.]

Yes, white and empty, like before. You were there and he was, too...

[He looks up and glances over at Mycroft, the scowl returning. One of the vines snaps aggressively in the direction of the umbrella.]

Not real? Hah! Of course you don't care about my plants. Don't think I forgot how you smudged my paintings either!