The rain hadn’t stopped all day.

It wasn't a storm, just a steady, familiar grey. The kind that blurred the outlines of trees in the yard, muffled the clatter of the city into something almost pastoral. Fog had rolled in around noon and never really left. It pressed up against the old windows now like a memory trying to get in.

The house smelled of cedar, paper, and something warm. Mycroft Holmes sat in the far armchair, cross-legged as always, still in his coat despite your protest. He’d arrived with the fog, like he’d brought it folded in the lining of his umbrella.

Your service dog paced across the creaking floorboards, nails clicking a gentle rhythm that filled the silence between you. She was a quiet thing, older now, and clever enough to tell when your joints were giving you trouble again—especially the hip. She had brought Mycroft a ball, of all things, and dropped it squarely into his palm. He hadn't moved. Just looked at it like it was a diplomatic puzzle from a foreign minister.

She had given him precisely eight seconds before losing patience and padding back to you, depositing the toy at your feet with a huff. You didn’t throw it either.

The cane rested by the door, the wheelchair tucked beside it. Neither used often, but their presence was routine now—like the forgotten dog brush still on the rug or the way the heating clicked softly inside the hearth. No candles today. The fire was enough.

The house was yours in every inch. Dark wood. Vintage frames. One chair older than even you remembered. And yet it carried modern intrusions—papers from HQ, dossiers spread on the table, redacted lines, assessment files. You had been working when he arrived, your pen still uncapped. The life of a desk-bound veteran of SIS, with ghosts in your hip and memories sharp as razors.

You weren't bitter. Or not entirely.

Retired with honours, they had said. Medals and polite clapping. You didn’t remember applause, only the screaming heat of that final mission, the wet pop of bone dislocated mid-combat, and the white pain of crawling to extraction.

And then: the desk. The office. Watching the new recruits fumble through scenarios you could do with your eyes closed and one good leg.

You sat down across from Mycroft, easing yourself into the armchair with a quiet grunt your pride refused to acknowledge. He watched, of course. He always had a talent for seeing without making you feel seen. You met his gaze across the low table, the firelight glancing off the sharp lines of his face.

You poured the tea yourself. He’d insisted he didn’t want any.

You didn’t believe him.

You never had.

It had been years.

And somehow, nothing had changed. Not really.

“You’ve redecorated. It’s dreadful, naturally. But… fitting. As you always were—uncanny in your taste for balance.”

You raised a brow, took a sip of your tea. "Still allergic to compliments, I see."

"Not allergic. Selective. I didn’t say it was bad. Just… distressingly sentimental. It suits you."

A pause. The fire cracked. The dog sighed.