Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The door closed, slammed close basically, as Mycroft came in.

He looked distressed, quickly taking off his coat without considering his roommate, Eliza, that was currently laying on the couch sipping her coffee. “Bloody hell,” He mumbled, fighting to put away his scarf.

She looked up from the smoking mug to look at him, and in a slightly sarcastic tone she said “if you keep that up, you’ll strangle yourself”

Mycroft just stared at her for a moment, before realising what she meant. He quickly untangled himself from his scarf. “Just had a bad day at work, Eliza.”

"Yeah, I gathered. What happened?" She tilted her head in a questioning manner as she moved to sit crossing her legs and leaving him space on the sofa near her

Mycroft approached the sofa and sat down, leaning on it and sighing deeply before speaking. "I had an argument with Sir Henry, futile as always " he sighed, "He seems to believe that my new reforms are illogical when he simply doesn’t understand them."

She nods "Did you get them through anyway?"

“Indeed” Mycroft answered, “but he still believes he knows best. It just gets so exhausting working with a man with such a God complex.” Mycroft looked down at the floor for a moment, before his eyes quickly shot back up at Eliza as he changed the subject abruptly. “How have you been?” He asked, glancing at her.

Leaning against the plush backrest of the sofa, she paused before answering, her blue eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and fatigue as they studied his posture. The room was bathed in the soft amber glow of a table lamp, its light casting long shadows that danced gently on the walls. She exhaled slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as if to gather her thoughts. “I’m fine,” she began, though the weariness in her voice betrayed her words. “Just... awfully tired. I had to perform an operation today—one that stretched on for nearly five hours.” Her gaze dropped for a moment, as if replaying the events of the day. “Thankfully, it went well for the patient in the end, but it was... exhausting.”

She was a surgeon, and often she worked uninterruptedly for days, sleeping in the few breaks she managed to have in the hallways. Got a job in her early twenties she worked hard for the past six years to obtain a respected an high working position in the hospital and she loved it, even if she ended up with sleep deprivation pretty often. But it was finally the Christmas break and she could enjoy two weeks of peace, listening to Mariah Carey on loop and eating marzipan cookies.

Mycroft nods, an almost invisible smile curved his lips “Congratulations”

It wasn’t common that Mycroft acknowledged Eliza's personal successes, mostly he listened to her without any particular interest, just for polite conversation, so she stared at him surprised a few seconds, but smiled quickly in response.

“Thanks. By the way dinner is ready”

“Brilliant”

As they walked in the dining room Eliza looked over at Mycroft. In spite of the difficult day he had, he seemed relaxed, or at least less stressed than usual. As they started eating, he even engaged in some small talk about how the people of the city were acting in the new holidays’ atmosphere. She quickly dismissed that, considering it just as ‘Christmas spirit’ that had possessed him, but still couldn’t avoid the thought that he was acting in a really weird way that evening.

---

Mycroft, for his part, was at a loss. He didn’t quite know what he was doing or why. The day had been nothing short of dreadful, and during the drive home, he had made a conscious effort to avoid the cheerful faces of holiday shoppers outside the car window. Their merriment only served to deepen his disdain for the season. His plan, meticulously formed, was simple: retreat to his study, lock the door, and shut out the world for the entirety of the compulsory Christmas break. Yet, despite his resolve, here he was—engaged in conversation with Eliza. He couldn’t fathom how it had come to this. Mycroft prided himself on his ability to avoid unnecessary human interaction, particularly in the evenings when all he craved was the solitude of his home office, accompanied by a steaming cup of tea and a slice of cake. And yet, inexplicably, the memory of how Eliza had entered his life began to creep into his thoughts, unbidden but vivid. Four years ago, it had started out of pure necessity—or so he had told himself. At the time, Eliza had been caught in the chaos of home renovations and had resorted to sleeping in her office. The thought of it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. With characteristic brevity, he had offered her a temporary room in his house, intending it to last no more than a couple of weeks. But, as was often the case with plans, the arrangement had taken on a life of its own.

Thus at the end of the renovations, after almost half an hour of talking, Mycroft had hinted that he would have liked a roommate and she moved in with him in that wide lonely place.

She was a... friend. A term he never thought he would use, but that now was the only possible one. And that evening he decided that he would tried to be nicer than usual, Eliza loved Christmas after all and, in a way, it made him feel... satisfied to see her happy.

As the evening drew to a close, the soft clinking of cutlery on plates faded into silence. The faint glow of the chandelier illuminated the dining room, casting long shadows across the table. Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet with a deliberate air of finality. “Tomorrow, I will be absent all day,” he announced, his tone curt and unyielding, breaking the quiet like a dropped glass. He lingered for a moment, his eyes briefly scanning the room, as if daring anyone to question him. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode towards the door, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind him.

"Good night then" Eliza replied at the empty room, before placing the plates in the sink and leaving as well

Chapter Text

The first thing that Eliza’s sleepy mind registered was the smooth, crooning voice of Michael Bublé filling the quiet morning air—a stark contrast to the cozy warmth of her bed. She groaned, blindly reaching across the mattress for her phone, fingers fumbling in the sheets, before she managed to pick it up. Half-awake, as she realized it was an incoming call and not her ringtone, she pressed the answer button, her voice groggy.

“yeah?”

The response came instantly, shrill and energetic, like a bird that had consumed one too many cups of coffee.

“Lizzieee, good morning! Quick question: do you have plans for Christmas? And do those plans include running away from our family? Have you bought all the presents? Or do you plan to stay in your Downton Abbey house again? And if so, will you mind my presence in your closet for two weeks?”

One too many slightly corrected cups of coffee.

Eliza sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. She barely had the energy to process words this early, let alone an entire monologue spoken at supersonic speed. Seriously, she should suggest apnea competitions to Meryl—her sister would be undefeated.

“Good morning to you too, Meryl. Breaking news: you can sleep on holidays! But since you've woken me up, I might as well answer you”

She tried, with difficulty, to remember and reorder the questions asked by her sister. “No, I'm not planning anything. I’m going to pretend I’m dead so Mother won’t nag me. I’ve already bought gifts for everyone—including yours, so don’t worry—and I’ll probably spend my holiday watching Doctor Who in my house for fifteen days straight. You’re welcome to claim my closet as your temporary residence.”

Meryl let out an excited cheer on the other end. Eliza groaned but leaned forward to prop her phone against the nightstand, switching to a video call. The screen flickered, revealing her sister sprawled on a bed covered in a chaotic array of clothes.

Eliza arched her brow. “Did you rob Forever 21?”

Meryl scoffed. “Very funny. I’ve been buying Christmas presents.” She shifted on her bed, searching for a more comfortable position, before her expression turned sly.

“So… how are you doing, Lizzie? You know, with that handsome man… in that lonely house?”

Eliza immediately knew where this was going. She sighed—loudly.

“For the last time, nothing is going on between me and Mycroft. We are just friends, roommates, pals. sidekicks. buddies”

Meryl rolled her eyes so hard Eliza wouldn’t have been surprised if they fell out. “Right. Sure. Because all ‘friends, roommates, and pals’ live together in a grand estate straight out of a Victorian novel and exchange lingering glances over tea.”

Eliza let out a frustrated groan. “You really have nothing better to do than trying to play matchmaker?”

Meryl grinned. “Now that you mention it, I do have something to do. I need to buy the gift for you—because I’m an angel and you love me so much. I’ll call you later.” And with that, she hung up, waving dramatically at the screen before disappearing.

Eliza set her phone down and swung her legs out of bed. Sleep was officially ruined, and going back now seemed pointless. She shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and brushed her hair lazily before heading downstairs. The house—her home for the past few years—was quiet, grand, and still bathed in the soft light of morning.

It was a place of order, of carefully curated furniture and polished mahogany floors, which made it all the more amusing that Mycroft Holmes had chosen to live with her—a woman who had zero respect for symmetry and frequently disrupted his perfect world with Christmas decorations and radio sing-alongs.

And speaking of which, it was officially time to start her Christmas decorating—much to Mycroft’s inevitable dismay.

Eliza padded into the kitchen, humming to herself as she made breakfast. The scent of coffee filled the air, blending with the slight bitterness of burnt toast. She had been too busy dancing—twirling in the curtains, using the spatula as a microphone—to notice that her banana toast had turned into charcoal. She sighed, scraping off the worst parts before taking a bite.

"She was halfway through her mediocre breakfast when the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent.

Eliza frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Mycroft certainly wouldn’t have visitors at this hour, not when he was away for the day. Still chewing, she wiped her hands on a napkin and made her way to the door.

"Coming!" she called.

When she swung the door open, she had expected to see a colleague from work, maybe a neighbor stopping by for some holiday cheer. Instead, she was met with the sight of a tall, thin man with wild curls and piercing eyes that seemed to take in everything about her in a single glance. His navy coat was dusted with the cold morning air, and he stood with an air of impatience, as though standing still was a waste of time.

“Hello,” she said witha polite smile “Can I help you?”

The man barely gave her time to finish before he spoke, his words rapid and clipped. "Morning. I assume you're Mycroft's new caretaker. I'm Sherlock Holmes, his dear little brother. Is he at home? I need something.”

Before Eliza could answer, he continued, his eyes darting over her shoulder into the house. “No, of course he isn’t. Otherwise, he’d have answered the door himself. If there’s one thing that makes that fat bastard move, it’s the doorbell. No idea who he expects it to be—the Queen, maybe.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I know where he keeps his things. I don’t need him around.”

And just like that, he swept past her, barely acknowledging her existence as he strode into the house like he owned the place. Eliza blinked, momentarily stunned, before snapping out of it and following after him.
She knew of course about Sherlock, and John, and the little Rosie, but she never actually met any of them. And she was not gonna let them think to be Mycroft's caretaker, for sure.

“Excuse me? Who exactly said you could just walk in?”

Sherlock ignored her, heading straight for Mycroft’s study. The room was as pristine as ever, with bookshelves lined in meticulous order and a large mahogany desk that, up until now, had been undisturbed. That changed the moment Sherlock started rifling through it, flipping through papers, opening drawers, and creating a storm of chaos.

“What are you even looking for?” Eliza demanded, arms crossed as she watched him toss documents aside. Sherlock barely glanced up. “Does Mycroft know that you’re eating his food, using his TV, and leaving all your things here? He’s going to fire you if he finds out.”

Eliza scoffed, quite annoyed at his refusal to listen “Oh, he’s more than aware. I live here.”

That got his attention.

Sherlock froze mid-motion, his head snapping up to look at her, his sharp gaze scanning her face like she was a particularly difficult puzzle.

“Don’t be absurd. Mycroft lives alone. Always has, always will.” Eliza shrugged. “And yet, here I am. Roommate, not caretaker. We’ve lived together for years. Surely he’s mentioned me?”

Sherlock’s expression darkened slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“No. He hasn’t.”

Now that was interesting. She had known Mycroft wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his personal life, but never mentioning that he shared his home with someone? That was odd, even for him. Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion because he slowly straightened, tilting his head as he studied her with renewed curiosity.

“Prove it,” he said.

Eliza scoffed. “Prove what?”

“That you live here. Answer a few questions.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned against the desk. “Fine. Hit me.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “What does Mycroft eat for breakfast? What show does he secretly rewatch at least once a month? And what tea does he drink in the late afternoon?”

Eliza smirked. “A sad, dry waffle topped with despair—despite the fact that there’s perfectly good syrup in the fridge, which I bought, by the way. He drinks coffee with enough sugar to put him in a coma. He rewatches Gilmore Girls when he thinks no one is paying attention, and he prefers Assam tea in the late afternoon.”

Sherlock blinked. For once, he seemed genuinely caught off guard.

“That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

“Told you.”

“That’s very interesting,” he murmured. “You live here, you know him well, and yet, somehow, I never noticed your existence.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “That’s on you, detective. I’ve been right here.”

“Sherlock hummed in thought, before nodding to himself. “When will Mycroft be back?”

“This evening.”

He pushed away from the desk. “Then I’m staying.”

Eliza’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

“I’m staying until he gets back,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, already pulling off his coat as if this was his own home. “Because I need to know why Mycroft has been keeping you a secret.”

Eliza groaned, rubbing her temples. She had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

The sheer audacity of Sherlock Holmes knew no bounds.

Eliza stood rooted to the spot as he made himself at home, shrugging off his long navy coat and tossing it over the nearest chair—a chair that, judging by its meticulously angled placement, Mycroft had undoubtedly adjusted that very morning. He then strode to the sitting room with the effortless confidence of a man who had never once considered the concept of personal space, his sharp gaze sweeping over the grand yet tastefully restrained décor.

“I don’t recall extending an invitation,” she remarked, following him, as he sat on the couch, reaching for the TV remote

Sherlock, already inspecting the selection on netflix, barely spared her a glance. “You didn’t. But I’m staying nonetheless.”

“Obviously,” she muttered.

The Holmes brothers. Mycroft had a penchant for secrecy so profound he had managed to successfully obscure her existence from his own brother, while Sherlock, on the other hand, had no such reservations about intruding upon the private lives of others with the grace of an oncoming storm.

He settled onto the tufted leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He observed her with a calculating air, as if she were an anomaly in need of classification.
“This arrangement is most irregular,” he finally mused. “Mycroft does not abide company, much less prolonged domestic entanglements. The idea that he would voluntarily cohabitate with someone—” He paused, tilting his head slightly, as though recalibrating his own certainty. “It’s inexplicable.”

Eliza smirked, perching herself on the arm of a nearby chair. “And yet, here I am. Flesh and blood. Living proof that your brother has, in fact, tolerated my existence for several years.”

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose, something just shy of amusement flickering across his expression. “Curious.”

“Is it?” she challenged. “Or is it simply that Mycroft enjoys a modicum of normalcy outside of his government machinations? That he values companionship—even if he would rather perish than admit it?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “An interesting hypothesis.”

“And what’s your hypothesis, then? That I’ve somehow bewitched him into allowing me residence in his grand, lonely estate?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said smoothly, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “But it is a statistical improbability that Mycroft would willingly share his space. Which leads me to conclude that there must be something exceptional about you.”

Eliza blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected sincerity laced within his words.
Sherlock Holmes was a force of deduction, a man who saw the world in probabilities and patterns, stripping away artifice until only truth remained. And here he was, gazing at her as though she were an unsolved equation—one that refused to conform to logic.
Before she could formulate a retort, the rhythmic click of the front door unlocking echoed through the house.
Both of them turned toward the sound.

And then, there he was.

Mycroft Holmes, ever composed, ever immaculate, stepping into the grand foyer with his signature umbrella in hand, his expression impassive—until his gaze landed upon his younger brother.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face, subtle yet unmistakable.

“Ah,” Mycroft drawled, setting his umbrella aside with practiced elegance. “I see our quiet holiday has been compromised.”

Sherlock grinned, all sharp edges and barely concealed delight. “Indeed, brother mine. And I do believe we have much to discuss.”

Eliza sighed, sinking deeper into her chair.

Mycroft set aside his umbrella and removed his gloves, and nor sherlock or eliza missed the telltale tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his gaze—tiny tells that, to the untrained eye, would seem imperceptible. He was displeased.

“Mycroft,” greeted Sherlock, stretching his legs out as he lounged on the sofa, entirely at ease. “Good of you to finally return. It seems you have news.”

Mycroft exhaled through his nose—long, slow, measured. “I highly doubt whatever dramatic accusation you are about to levy at me is of any real significance.” His gaze flickered toward Eliza, who remained perched on the arm of the chair, arms crossed, watching the unfolding scene “Though I can only assume you have made an absolute nuisance of yourself in my absence.”

“Your dear brother broke into your office, ransacked your desk, and then insisted on interrogating me about my very existence" quickly prompted eliza

Mycroft’s attention snapped back to Sherlock, his eyes darkening with quiet displeasure. “You went through my office?”

Sherlock shrugged “You keep an impressive collection of encrypted files, brother. But oddly, no evidence of your roommate.” His lips curled. “One might call that suspicious.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “One might also call it ‘not your business.’”

Mycroft, to his credit, merely smoothed his cufflinks with a practiced flick of his fingers before sinking into the wingback chair across from his brother. “Your theatrics are exhausting, Sherlock. State your point and be done with it.”

Sherlock’s fingers steepled once more beneath his chin, his gaze narrowing as he studied his brother with that insufferable intensity that had surely driven countless criminals into premature confessions.
“Why,” he mused, “has my own brother never mentioned that he shares his home with another person? Why, in all my years of analyzing your habits, your routines, your tedious little preferences, did I fail to detect her?” He gestured toward Eliza with a small flourish. “Why the secrecy? Why the omission? What, dear brother, are you hiding?”

A silence settled between them.

Mycroft leaned back, his expression carefully neutral. “I fail to see why my domestic arrangements warrant such excessive scrutiny.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, please. You micromanage everything. You loathe disruptions to your personal space. And yet—” he gestured at Eliza once more “—here she sits. Unbothered. Unhidden. Completely at home.”

Mycroft’s gaze flickered toward her once more, assessing, unreadable. Eliza simply lifted her teacup—when did she even made tea?—and took a slow, deliberate sip.

“Would you like me to leave?” she asked sweetly. “So the two of you can continue your ridiculous, testosterone-laden battle of deductions without an audience?”

Sherlock ignored her entirely. “Why, Mycroft?” he pressed. “Why her?”

“Her is right here, you know.”

Sherlock barely spared her a glance. “No offence.”

“Some offence taken.”

Mycroft sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “This is insufferable.”

“No, what’s insufferable is your refusal to answer the question.” Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes glinting with something far too sharp to be mere curiosity. “You don’t do this, Mycroft. You don’t let people in. You don’t allow attachments. And yet, she’s here. why?.”

A flicker of tension tightened Mycroft’s posture.
Sherlock had drawn blood.

Eliza set her teacup down with a delicate clink, eyeing Mycroft with a curiosity of her own.

She had often wondered, in the quiet moments between stolen glances and shared silences, why he had allowed her to stay. Why he had let her carve out a space in his pristine, meticulously curated world.
It had never been discussed. Never been defined.
It simply was.
And now, under the sharp, unrelenting scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes, she found herself wanting to know, too.

Mycroft exhaled, slow and controlled. “Must you always be so dramatic?”

Sherlock smirked. “Must you always be so avoidant?”

A muscle twitched in Mycroft’s jaw. He adjusted his cuffs once more, taking his time before finally—finally—speaking.

“Eliza,” he said, his tone clipped but even, “is a friend.”

Sherlock’s brows shot up. “A friend?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said smoothly, “a friend. It is not such a foreign concept, dear brother. Some of us are capable of forming connections without turning them into sordid affairs or unnecessarily melodramatic inquests.”

Sherlock, however, was unconvinced. “A friend who happens to live with you?”

Mycroft leveled him with a cool stare. “as your dr. Watson”

Sherlock hummed, clearly dissatisfied but unable to immediately refute the answer. “Fascinating.”

Chapter Text

Eliza retreated silently into the kitchen, as she muttered under her breath about insufferable brothers with insufferable egos and their insufferable ability to derail an otherwise perfectly peaceful holiday.
With practiced ease, she gathered ingredients, rolling up her sleeves as she set about the task of baking—more for the sake of distraction than necessity. It was either this or allow herself to spiral down the maddening path of wondering why Mycroft had never mentioned her to his family.

Not that she cared, of course.

Absolutely not.

It was merely an intellectual curiosity.

As she closed the oven she couldn’t help but overhear the brothers. They were speaking in low, sharp tones.

She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she had already abandoned all pretenses of being a woman of restraint, so she leaned slightly closer to the doorway, ears trained on the conversation.

“…you care.”
Sherlock’s voice. Not quite accusing, but not entirely neutral either.

A pause.

A long, measured inhale.

Then—

“Caring is not an advantage.”
Mycroft.

Eliza’s stomach twisted at the words—not because they were surprising, but because they weren’t.
Because of course Mycroft Holmes would say something like that.
Of course, he would wrap himself in layers of detachment, pretending his careful orchestration of everyone’s lives was simply an intellectual exercise rather than an act of quiet devotion.

"You say that," muttered sherlock "but then you do things like—oh, I don’t know—allow a woman to live in your house for years without complaint, despite the fact that she disrupts your precious solitude, despite the fact that you’ve never let anyone get that close before.”.

It was utterly untrue, Mycroft tolerated her. That was all, he wasn’t attached to her in any way.

“…I’m having Christmas dinner at my place.”

Mycroft made a noise of displeasure. “How unfortunate for you.”

Sherlock ignored him. “John and Rosie will be there, naturally.” A pause. “And so will you. And Eliza.”
Eliza’s breath caught.

Oh.

He was inviting them. Together.
As if they were some kind of package deal.
As if—

“Well,” Mycroft drawled, “this should be spectacularly insufferable.”

Sherlock’s voice sharpened. “You will come, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll propose it to Eliza”

A beat of silence.
And then—

"Speaking of which, how is your hopelessly unrequited love for John faring?"
Mycroft was shifting to a direct attack, he wanted Sherlock out of his house, out of his carefully built world
The room went completely silent.

"Go to hell, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, followed by the distinct sound of Sherlock leaving the room, footsteps brisk with irritation.

Chapter Text

Eliza had just finished tidying up the kitchen when she heard the measured footsteps approaching. She didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him right away, If Mycroft Holmes wanted something, he would make it known.

Sure enough, after a long, deliberate pause, his voice drifted into the room, crisp and composed as ever.

“Eliza.”
She finally looked up, as she leaned against the counter. “Mycroft.”
They regarded each other in silence.

He, ever the picture of refinement, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. She, still flour-dusted from her stress-induced baking, crossed her arms, tilting her head just slightly. It was a familiar dance, predictable, measured.
Mycroft sighed—theatrically, as if he had already resigned himself to the burden of what he was about to say.

“Tomorrow evening,” he began, “we have been invited to my brother’s Christmas dinner.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “We?” she prouded herself in sounding so composed, as if she didn’t overhear him talking.

“Yes, we,” he confirmed, his voice perfectly even, though his face betrayed something more elusive. “Sherlock has insisted on our attendance.”

She sighed, absentmindedly brushing off the flour from her hands “Well, I suppose I should at least know who I’ll be dining with. Were I to accept the invitation, of course”

Mycroft inclined his head, almost hesitant to reveal that side of his life, his relations, that he clutched to his chest so tightly, less he ended up exposed “Very well.”
He turned slightly, as if distancing himself from the conversation even as he continued. “Aside from Sherlock, of course, there will be Dr. John Watson – a former army doctor, Sherlock’s closest confidant, and his daughter, Rosie. Moreover Dr. Molly Hooper–”

Eliza straightened slightly, interrupting him. “I know that name.”

“A forensic pathologist,” Mycroft supplied. “One of the few people who has ever been able to tolerate Sherlock’s particular… disposition. She wrote articles”

Eliza filed that information away, indeed she knew what articles he was talking about, used them very often for research.

“And lastly,” Mycroft finished, “D.I. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sherlock’s landlady?”

“His mother, in all but name,” Mycroft corrected. “One of the few people on this earth whom Sherlock truly respects.”

She nodded, before studying Mycroft carefully. She wasn’t going to let the previous conversation drop, forgotten, as if the fact that she never mentioned her existence to his own brother –the only member of his family he cared about, as far as she knew– wasn’t an issue worth discussing

"You kept me compartmentalized."

His expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

Just like that. No denial. No excuse. Just a fact.

Eliza let out a slow breath, turning away, bracing her hands against the counter. Should she have been angry or disappointed? Not really, she just felt… empty. As if he didn't mention her because she wasn’t worth the effort, the commitment

“…Why?”

The word was quiet, barely more than a murmur, as if she didn’t want to scare him away, to let the moment fall, forgotten. Behind her, Mycroft was silent. For so long, in fact, that she thought he wouldn’t answer at all and just leave.

“It was simpler.”

Eliza turned to face him again, searching his face for any sign of what that was supposed to mean, but his face was blank, hands clasped in front of him in apparently full control and calm. He wasn’t going to elaborate.
She sighed loudly, collecting herself, easing the tension, brushing off flour from her clothes more out of nervousness than from any real need

“Tomorrow evening, then.”

Chapter Text

Eliza stood before her mirror, staring at herself with a quiet, contemplative expression.
Her black dress—a sleek, understated thing—hugged her figure in a way that was almost too deliberate, toeing the line between elegance and provocation. The neckline dipped just enough to be considered tasteful rather than scandalous, and the sleeves clung to her arms like ink against parchment. She had taken her time curling her hair, letting her dark locks cascade over her shoulders in a way that was just a touch softer than usual. A dusting of subtle makeup accentuated her sharp eyes, the red stain on her lips a single declaration of boldness in an otherwise reserved palette.

Stunning, by any reasonable standard. Not that she expected Mycroft Holmes to say anything about it.

She smirked at her own reflection. No, if she had learned anything from living with the man for years, it was that Mycroft was a master of restraint. Whatever thoughts stirred behind those sharp, calculating eyes of his would never pass his lips—especially not when it came to her.
Not when it came to anything that could possibly be considered personal.
Still…

A small, traitorous part of her wanted him to notice. Wanted to see that flicker of something—some sign that, for all his intellect and control, he was still human.
Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

With one last glance at herself, she turned away, grabbing her coat as she made her way down the grand staircase of their shared home.

Mycroft was already waiting in the foyer, ever the picture of composed indifference. He was clad in his usual three-piece suit, dark and impeccably tailored, the rich navy of the fabric offset by the sharp contrast of his crisp white shirt. His umbrella—always within reach—was in his hand, though he wasn’t leaning on it. He stood with the kind of poised ease that made it difficult to tell whether he was truly relaxed or merely rehearsing relaxation.

As she descended the last step, she noted the almost imperceptible way his eyes flickered over her.

There it is.

A single second—half a second, really—of hesitation. A ghost of a glance that skimmed the curve of her waist, the line of her collarbone, the unruly softness of her curls.
And then—
Gone.
Buried beneath layers of practiced neutrality.

Eliza smirked. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Mycroft didn’t blink. “About what?”

Oh, he was good.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps about the fact that I look like an actual person rather than a vaguely sentient pile of knitwear for once?”

“Your aesthetic choices are none of my concern.”

She let out a scoff “Which is Mycroft for ‘yes, I noticed, but I refuse to dignify your vanity with an answer’”

His expression remained blank. “If that is what you choose to believe.”

Infuriating man.
- - - - - - - - - -
The car ride to Baker Street was silent.

Not uncomfortably so—no, she was used to Mycroft’s brand of quiet. It was a silence laced with thought, with calculation. It wasn’t the absence of conversation so much as it was the presence of unspoken words, heavy and waiting.

She wondered what, exactly, his thoughts consisted of right now.

She turned slightly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring out the window, his profile perfectly composed, a picture of unshakable control. And yet… there was something about him tonight, something tense.
It had been there since their conversation in the kitchen. Since he admitted, so simply, that he had compartmentalized her away from the rest of his world. She wanted to pry. To dig into the mind of Mycroft Holmes and see what, exactly, had made her an exception to his carefully ordered life.
But she knew better.

So instead, she shifted her gaze back to the city lights outside the car window, letting the moment settle between them.

“Are you anxious?” she asked, breaking the silence

Mycroft’s brow arched. “Anxious?”

“About dinner.”

A pause
“Of course not.”

Liar

She hummed, not calling him out directly but making it very clear she didn’t believe him.
Another silence fell between them, this one heavier than the last, but Eliza didn’t mind, she had all the time in the world to untangle Mycroft Holmes.
And tonight, surrounded by the people he had so carefully kept from her, she intended to do exactly that.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was radiant.

That was the first, most undeniable thought that crashed through Mycroft’s carefully constructed defenses the moment Eliza descended the staircase.
He had expected her to dress well—she always did when the occasion called for it—but this?
This was… unfair.

The sleek black of her dress curved around her in a way that was both effortless and devastating, elegance woven into every deliberate detail. Her dark curls framed her face with an almost deliberate softness, a stark contrast to the sharp wit that always lingered on her tongue. And then there was the red of her lips—bold, confident, a statement in itself.
She was the sort of beautiful that demanded attention, not by force, but by sheer inevitability.

And Mycroft Holmes—who had spent years mastering the art of not caring—was dangerously close to faltering.
So he did what he always did: he locked it away. Eyes forward. Expression neutral. Words measured.

Aren’t you going to say something?

No.

Because if he did, if he allowed even a fraction of his thoughts to manifest into words, it would be a catastrophic unraveling.
So he gave her nothing, nothing but the cool, impassive restraint that had kept him safe for so long.

"Your aesthetic choices are none of my concern," he replied, his voice as even as ever.
Eliza, naturally, saw right through him

Which is Mycroft for yes, I noticed, but I refuse to dignify your vanity with an answer

His lips pressed into a thin line. "If that is what you choose to believe."

And with that, he turned toward the door, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of watching him lose.
- - - - - - - - - -
The car ride was… difficult

Mycroft sat rigid, his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape, his mind a battlefield of thoughts he refused to entertain.
This was a mistake.

Allowing her to come tonight—bringing her into that world—was a mistake.
He had spent years keeping Eliza compartmentalized, carefully tucked away from everything and everyone that posed a risk. Not because she was fragile—far from it—but because he was.

He had not meant to care.

It had happened slowly, insidiously, creeping into his life like an unavoidable tide.
At first, she had been a mere inconvenience—a roommate by circumstance, an obligation. But then she had settled in, with her infuriating smirks and her unshakable ability to see him, and suddenly, she was more.
More than an acquaintance. More than a colleague.

More than was safe.

So he had done what Mycroft Holmes always did. He had controlled the variables.
He had kept her separate. Neatly filed away in a private compartment of his life where she could not be leveraged, where she could not be used against him. Where she could not matter too much. And yet, despite all of his efforts, here he was.
Trapped in a car with her, his control fraying at the edges, his thoughts screaming even as he remained perfectly silent.

You are being irrational. You are not a fool. She is simply your roommate. Nothing more. Nothing.

His hands curled into fists in his lap.

Eliza shifted beside him, turning her head slightly. He could feel her eyes on him.

“Are you anxious?”

Mycroft inhaled slowly.
"Anxious?" he echoed, voice smooth.

"About dinner."

A pause. Careful. Measured.
“Of course not.”

Liar

He could feel the disbelief in her silence.
Eliza was perceptive. Too perceptive. And it was dangerous.
For so long, he had told himself that keeping her compartmentalized was about her—about keeping her safe, keeping her out of the mess that was his life.
But that wasn’t the truth. Not really. The truth was far simpler.

Far more terrifying.