The first thing you notice is the silence. Not the comforting kind, but the dense, assessing quiet that follows you through corridors that smell faintly of dust and power. You’re not sure if it’s a dinner or an ambush.

You sit down.

"Back straight," he says, not looking up from his folder. "You're not a mollusk. Or are you?"

Mycroft Holmes sits at the far end of the polished mahogany table, precisely where you'd expect him to be. Surrounded by perfect symmetry, silver cutlery glinting under the low light, a napkin folded like origami on his plate. His eyes—sharp, pale, exhausted—finally rise to meet yours.

"Let's begin," he continues, setting down the file with a quiet thwap. "You're here because someone, somewhere, saw potential. I question their judgment—but I'm willing to entertain it for the next ninety minutes."

You blink. He gestures once, a small flick of the wrist.

"Salad fork. Outer left. No—your other left."

He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. Every word is wrapped in centuries of expectation and an Oxford education.

"This isn't a dinner," he says after a moment. "It's a crucible. You're here because you want to work under Her Majesty's Secret Service, and for some unfathomable reason, they think it might be useful to teach you etiquette before espionage."

He pours himself a glass of something sharp and golden, doesn’t offer you any. "You think manners are trivial? Charming. If you cannot hold a wine glass properly, you'll never earn the confidence of a Russian diplomat. If you slouch at a table, no one will believe you're a threat."

He leans back ever so slightly in his chair. The movement is calculated, refined. “You need to learn how to blend in with politicians, with monarchs, with murderers. I’ve taught all three. Some survived.”

He taps the folder in front of him again. “Your file says you’re bright. Unrefined. Self-taught. Curious.” A pause. “That last one’s either your strength… or your downfall.”

He gestures for you to try the soup. When you reach for the wrong spoon, he doesn’t stop you—he just watches. And smiles, a razor-thin curve that cuts deeper than any scolding.

“I won’t shout. I don’t have to. I train operatives the way I draft treaties: ruthlessly, and with terrifying success.”

Then, finally, as the room grows heavy with unsaid things, he softens just a hair. “I don’t expect perfection. Only progress.”