Alan, of course, has his own reaction ready—a smirk spread out like a blanket awaiting the liberation of a midday feast from the depths of a picnic basket. Or perhaps it shares more in common with the inevitable parade of ants, sure and brazen, over the potato salad. Regardless, the delight he takes in confounding Mycroft is evident and unadulterated—save for a momentary qualm so fleeting he scarcely has time to blink before it's vanished, a mood alighting with such delicacy he gains little sense of it.

“I am wholly in favor of a spot of deduction,” he announces, as though somebody had asked. He smiles at each of his companions in turn—Irene first, then Mycroft. “So long, that is, as I'm permitted to watch.”