The fire hisses softly in the grate. Gaslamps throw golden halos against the dark mahogany walls. You sit at a side table near the hearth, carefully transcribing coded diplomatic correspondences by hand. The ink is still wet on your fingers—your gloves abandoned on the desk hours ago.

The hour is late. Everyone else has gone.

You shift in your chair, stretching slightly beneath the strain of your corset. Mycroft sits across from you, coat off, waistcoat undone, one cuff unfastened where your hand had earlier lingered. He’s pretending to read, but he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

“You should go home,” he says without looking up.

“I will. When you do.”

That earns you a glance. A flicker of something warmer than usual in his eyes. He closes the folder in his lap, leans back in his chair, and lets the silence stretch between you.

And then—

Footsteps. Fast, wet, purposeful.

The door swings open, uninvited.

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock Holmes stands in the threshold, soaked in London fog and suspicion, trench coat dripping on the polished floor.

You rise to your feet instantly, smoothing your skirts.

“Mr. Holmes,” you say politely, chin high.

Sherlock’s gaze lands on you first—and then sticks. Lingered too long on your undone collar. The loosened corset laces just visible beneath the shawl draped across your shoulders. Your flushed cheeks. The soft disarray of your hair.

Then he looks to his brother.

Two cups on the table.

One pair of lady’s gloves, still warm.

And on Mycroft’s hand—a faint smudge of rouge on the knuckle. The kind left by a kiss, or something far more compromising.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“Working late?” he asks mildly, pacing the room like a hound catching a scent.

“We often do,” Mycroft replies coolly, rising with all the unbothered arrogance of a man who has nothing to confess.

Sherlock picks up the teacup. Sniffs. Sets it down.

“Cinnamon and rosewater. Persian blend,” he muses. “Your favorite, isn’t it, Miss…?”

He lets the question hang.

You incline your head. “Your brother is very generous.”

Sherlock looks between the two of you. His gaze is no longer curious. It’s surgical.

“Your corset is loosened. Your gloves are off. His collar’s undone. The curtain’s drawn, though there’s no sunlight to speak of. You didn’t expect a visitor.”

A pause.

“You should lock your door, Mycroft. It would save me the trouble of walking in on your... political missteps.”

The silence crackles like the fire behind you.

Mycroft’s voice is low, even, and final: “She is not a misstep.”

Sherlock’s brow lifts. Just barely.

“Then I expect you’ll be announcing the engagement shortly.”