"Yes, I'd say that's precisely it." A different kind of smile appears on Mycroft's face when he answers, something reflective and a degree or two warmer than his normal mask would allow.

He's gathered all the data he can on Lyla for the moment, and if her condition changes, he's likely to notice. He looks away from her and toward the Guild Hall, eyes wandering over the grounds in-between. The place really is lovely in the morning light—it reminds Mycroft of the trips his family would take to the country when he was very young, before Sherlock was born.