[It's difficult to say how the change occurred. A straightening of the posture - the softening of the hard gleam in his eyes - there's subtle hints foretelling the transformation but the actual moment where Sherlock Holmes ceased to be the detective can't be pinpointed. Without any trace of his earlier irritation, he warmly smiles and takes "Angelina's" gloved hand.]

I beg for your forgiveness, dear Angelina. My temper is poor on the waves, for the ship's rocking riles my stomach. It doesn't excuse my brutish treatment of you, goodness no! I shall make it up to you, beloved.

[So saying, he'll bring up that hand to kiss it.

FUCK YOU. HE'S GOING TO OUTPERFORM YOU.]