Chapter Text
She was never completely surprised to see Mycroft Holmes in her sitting room these days. Most people believed Sherlock was dead, but the two of them knew the truth, that he was alive and well and on a mission to rid the world of as much of Moriarty's influence as he could. It was a terrible burden of a secret, they both realized that, and so the unplanned visits from Mycroft were almost expected these days.
What was not expected, however, was to find Mycroft in the room as it was dark, the moonlight the only light in the room, and a bottle of expensive scotch whiskey that she knew didn’t belong to her next to him.
She’d gone on another dead end date with a bloke who had only really wanted to get in her knickers, but he wasn’t even worth a goodnight kiss. Typical of her luck, really. Or maybe her taste. Her crush on Sherlock had faded long before his fall, she’d realized a few months after he was gone, and it was time to put herself out there in the world again. She couldn’t always fall for sociopaths or psychopaths, after all. But it turned out the third type of men she was attracted to were wankers.
It was rather a huge letdown.
Mycroft was honestly the only decent man in her life that wasn’t already married or seeing someone else. At least she thought he wasn’t. There was the matter of the ring he wore, but he never said anything to indicate it was a wedding or engagement ring. And long ago, the topic of their conversations had been less about his brother and more about themselves. If he was in a relationship with someone, she was sure she would know by now. Especially considering they'd gone on a few...not quite dates, not exactly, but they had spent time together in public, and it had been rather nice.
She set her handbag on the table near the chair closest to the foyer and looked at him. “Did something happen?” she asked softly, not turning on the light on the same table.
She saw him shake his head. “I just thought you would want a drink and a friendly ear after...the date.”
She had to smile at that and she dropped into the chair, holding her hand out for the glass she knew he would give her. After a moment spent pouring a hefty measure of the scotch whiskey into a glass, he handed it to her and she took a sip. “My taste in men is abominable. Your brother, Moriarty, the blokes now...”
“I could have told you he was a womanizer,” Mycroft said, having a sip from the glass he’d poured from himself.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, tilting her head.
“It’s not my place to meddle in your personal affairs, at least any more than I normally do.”
“This time I wish you had. He took us to a micro food restaurant so I didn’t even have a proper meal. And the glass of wine just tasted like grape juice.”
“Abominable,” Mycroft said. “I knew he was a prat but you deserve better.”
She had another sip of the drink and then smiled at him. “Let’s bake.”
“What?” he asked, surprised.
“Like I don’t know you have a barren refrigerator at home and you count all your calories before you come see me so you can have the chocolate dipped biscuits I make every week just for you,” she said.
“You are astoundingly perceptive,” he murmured.
“Years spent around your brother will do that to a person. But also, he told me the bit about your kitchen and your fondness for baked goods.” She stood up, glass in hand. “Well, come on. Bring the whiskey and follow me into the kitchen. Tonight we’re going to blow our diets.”
A small smile etched itself on his face as he stood, glass in one hand and bottle in the other before the two of them left the darkened sitting room to head deeper into her home to the kitchen. She wasn’t quite sure where this evening with Mycroft was heading, but she rather thought it was off to a better start than her date had been.