Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. This story contains major spoilers for Skyfall, so don't read if you haven't seen it!
You couldn't call it a romance. They both already had one great love in their lives; hers was a man who died some years ago, his was the work. Neither pretended that the other was anything more than a distraction, a consolation prize.
Perhaps that was what he admired most about her; her honesty.
They had more in common than most people would suspect. Both had patrician upbringings, both did mysterious work for secretive parts of the British government, both were fiercely loyal to Queen and Country. Both had one weak spot in the form of a younger associate. Hers was a womanizing secret agent. His was a wayward brother.
They'd chat on the phone in what precious little free time either of them had. They'd exchange emails sporadically. They might've sent each other Christmas cards, except neither was the type to do that. On the rare occasions they were in business meetings together, they'd always arrange to sit directly across from each other, ostensibly because that made their verbal sparring easier.
"Madam, my department needs to know what Britain's operatives are doing in Kazhakstan."
"Or what? You'll tie me to a chair and bore me to death? Even the Prime Minister is not privy to those details, so what makes you think you are?"
"We both know I'm far more important to the country than the Prime Minister."
Occasions like this were as close as either of them came to a twinkle in their eyes.
When he got the phone call that night, at first he couldn't believe it. How could anyone have killed her? The woman made Margaret Thatcher look soft. He was rather disappointed that her murderer was dead too; he would have enjoyed destroying that one.
Her will was read on a crisp, sunny day, and he couldn't help but smirk when they said the Union Jack bulldog that had adorned her desk would go to the double-O she doted on. It would be just like her to have one more playful jab at the double-O, he thought. However, the next item on the will took him by surprise.
"And to Mycroft Holmes, I leave my father's pocketwatch."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow but said nothing. She'd been carrying the watch the first time they met, and he'd complimented her on it. The watch had been the beginning of their unlikely… friendship? Association? Yes, association. Certainly not a romance.
He stopped by her grave later that day with the watch in his waistcoat pocket. He sighed, fingering the watch. He recalled her words at the hearing a few days before.
"'One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.' Fare thee well, Eleanor."
With that, he glided into his car. There was much to be done, and she never approved of dawdling.