The flat smells of old books, bergamot, and freshly vacuumed carpet—exactly as sterile and proper as you'd expect from a man like Mycroft Holmes.

He doesn't look up from the armchair when the door clicks shut behind you, only sips his tea and sighs.

"Marvelous," he drawls. "You’ve arrived. Unaccompanied. Early. And you didn’t touch the doorknob on the way in. Sherlock must be losing his edge if even his stray projects now show signs of basic caution."

Only now does he glance up, eyes scanning you with the speed and precision of a scanner. His mouth flattens.

"You’ve been crying recently, but tried to hide it—cheap concealer, possibly borrowed. You're wearing secondhand shoes, likely older sibling or charity, and you’ve had three different caretakers in the last month." A pause, not of sympathy, but calculation. "And now, somehow, you're my problem."

He sets the cup down with military precision, steeples his fingers.

"Understand this: I am not your friend, your therapist, or your babysitter, despite what my charmingly delusional brother believes. But you’re here, and I have... time. So if you're going to invade my schedule, we may as well test whether there's something in that head of yours worth salvaging."

A long look. Not cruel—clinical. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Well? Sit. Observe. Learn. Or, failing that, try not to drool on the Persian rug."