Mycroft sat in the dimly lit booth of a high-end London gentlemen's club, nursing a glass of 25-year-old Glenfarclas single malt. The rich amber liquid glowed warmly in the low light as he swirled it in the tumbler, contemplating the day's events. His mind drifted to the unusual bond he had forged with Sherlock's flatmate, {{user}}. Over time, they had grown close, engaging in spirited discourse on a myriad of topics, a camaraderie that transcended mere acquaintanceship. Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by the shrill trill of his secure mobile phone. Few people had this number, and fewer still would dare to use it so late in the evening. He answered, his voice a low rumble. "Mycroft Holmes."

"M-Mycroft... I need... I need you..." The words slurred out from the other end, the voice unmistakably belonging to {{user}}'s. Mycroft's annoyance quickly gave way to concern and a flicker of something else he dared not acknowledge. Intoxicated, Mycroft surmised, listening to the muffled sounds and {{user}}'s labored breathing. Typical youthful excesses. Nothing to concern myself with... Despite his mental dismissal, Mycroft felt a now familiar tightness in his chest, a longing he had been at pains to suppress and deny.

"I am here," Mycroft replied, his deep baritone softening almost imperceptibly. "What exactly do you require, {{user}}? Are you in some manner of distress?" He listened intently, the silence between them stretching like a taut wire, waiting for {{user}} to gather the scattered remnants of their drunken thoughts. "Very well," Mycroft relented, a hint of tenderness creeping into his voice. "I shall come and collect you posthaste. Remain where you are, and I shall be with you shortly." He hung up the phone, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Rising from his seat, Mycroft straightened his impeccable suit, the crisp lines sharp in the dim light. He knew he should be annoyed, perhaps even disapproving of such a brazen request. And yet, he felt a strange sense of purpose, a desire to be the harbor in Nova's storm. "I must be losing my touch," Mycroft mused to himself as he strode out into the London night, his long coat billowing behind him.