"Has anyone ever told you that you work too much?"
Mycroft looked up at his assistant. "Anthea, if you want a day off, you can ask for it outright."
She handed him a mug of the best coffee their government office could produce, which honestly wasn't particularly good at all. "Simply stating the facts, boss. Besides, you've already approved my leave. I forged your signature myself."
Sensible. It was good to delegate menial drudgery to a competent assistant. Blainbridge had tried, but he'd never managed the flourish on the H. "Right." Mycroft handed back the mug. "I've changed my mind. Try the bakery across the road, they've obtained a new coffee machine that grinds the beans fresh."
She looked at him like she knew this was an excuse to get her out of his office. Then, because she was exceptionally good at observing, she took his mug and walked out. "Tell your husband I said hi!" she called over her shoulder.
Mycroft sighed. He took the golden Galleon out of his right pocket and set it on top of the pound coin from his left. A few seconds later, Harry appeared in his office accompanied by the sound of someone dropping a heavy book.
"Hullo, Mycroft. Missing me already?"
Harry's hair was damp, but his shoes weren't muddy. He'd been walking through wet grass and had been somewhere magical enough to apparate away from, yet he hadn't bothered with an umbrella charm.
"I wanted to ask," Mycroft consulted his papers, "Was the bombing in Kent from your side of things?"
"Didn't the IRA claim that one? No, it wasn't us. Anyway, Dedalus Diggle has moved to Essex." Harry sat on one of the seats across from Mycroft, then leaned back and propped his feet up in the other.
At least he'd cast a cleaning spell at his shoes first. "It was worth a try."
"I've been thinking," Harry said. Mycroft didn't have to be a Holmes to understand that this meant Harry had been visiting the graveyard in Godric's Hollow again.
"That sounds dangerous." Albeit not as dangerous as motorway bridges. "Don't hurt yourself."
Harry's smile was sad, but real. "You don't need to worry about that. No, I was trying to figure out why Albus hired Gellert of all people, and then I figured I could just stop thinking and ask you."
"Sometimes, I wonder what you'd do without me, dear." Mycroft leaned across the desk and squeezed Harry's hand to soften the blow. "I assume Grindelwald managed to keep his identity secret before the school year began, and once he'd made it to the opening feast it was too late for Dumbledore to back down."
"Well, he's hired worse professors than the Dark Lord. Maybe Remus could—?"
There was a sharp rapping on the door, then Anthea came in bearing three cups. Harry sipped happily from his cocoa while Mycroft stirred the milk foam in his own coffee.
Anthea's was black, and while it smelled heavenly Mycroft didn't understand how she could drink it like that. "I'll leave you to it, then," she said. "Some of us have a country to run."
"Remember," Harry said with a smile, "how Benjamin used to come into your office without knocking? You've come a long way since." There was a thin foam moustache on his upper lip.
"Anthea knows how to choose her moments." For all the money he paid her, Mycroft knew it wasn't enough. "Back to Lupin—I suggest you leave him out of it. Dumbledore and Grindelwald can play their games. You should be happy; we have first row seats to watch the Light Lord try to redeem his Dark Lord lover, or some such rot. I'm sure there's sentiment involved, and a mountain of guilt and regret."
Harry's tongue darted out and licked his upper lip clean. "It might just be that he wants to keep his enemy close. I told you about my first year, right? He's always playing with fire, but Albus thinks that he can win, no matter what game. Hermione used to say I had a saving people thing, can you believe that? At least I'm not playing house with the Dark Lord."
He wasn't, but it was by a technicality at best. "I don't disbelieve it." Mycroft looked at the stack of papers on his desk and stopped his leg before it started jiggling. He was already regretting the coffee. "If your lot's not responsible for Kent, I'll have to do something about this. The IRA are getting out of hand."
"You know how I feel about them."
Mycroft knew. He wasn't yet ready to concede a loss to terrorists, though. Perhaps someday soon, but not today. "Yes, dear."
Harry sighed and climbed to his feet. "Alright, then. I've got work to get back to."
"Work," Mycroft tried not to make it sound pointed. "Tell Arthur Weasley to lay off the rain spells for the day for me. You'll catch a cold."
As always, Harry smiled at Mycroft in a way that was so unbearably fond that Mycroft didn't know what to do with it. "I won't catch a cold, Mycroft," he said. "Trust me."
.oOo.
She walked in with her head held high, with Joan Watson walking beside her.
"You know, I did give you a key. You can stop picking the lock anytime." Mycroft said while he studied the duo. Joan had put on the same pair of shoes from when she'd gone hiking through the Dartmoor countryside. Eurus was wearing a coat that made her silhouette look intentionally intimidating. There was a pen in her pocket which she'd stolen from his office building. "I came home from work early today for Luna," he explained.
"Evidently." Eurus let her eyes wander around the room, catching up on last week's news. Her face looked like she'd been smiling a lot, and her posture was calm. She seemed…happy.
Mycroft turned to Joan. "Doctor Watson, is your arm healing well?"
"Right, you're a Holmes. I forget sometimes, when your Harry's around. Is Harry around?"
"He's at work, Joan," Eurus said. "Why else would Mycroft be here? You see, but you do not observe."
It seemed Eurus still regretted Joan getting harmed while working their last case. Perhaps, she should not have been trying to confront a hitman with only one person for backup, but Mycroft wouldn't tell her how to do her job so long as she didn't tell him how to do his.
"You saw it, of course, on the cameras? They're delightful things, very convenient. I wish you'd spend less of your time stalking me, but—well, you know what they say about making a horse drink water."
"I've lost four pounds."
"Have you and Harry been fighting, then?"
"Eurus." Every time they played, she always wanted to win at all costs.
The silence stretched. Joan cleared her throat. "I'll go put the kettle on, then."
Mycroft gestured to the seating area. Eurus took the armchair that generations of Holmes men had done their best thinking in. Her coat framed her and made her shoulders look bigger. It suited her well.
"I'm sorry Joan got hurt," Mycroft offered.
The mental link that Eurus had always held between them was silent. No condemnation, no anger, no blame. "She's on the mend," Eurus said. "I'll be more careful next time."
They heard something fall in the kitchen, then the sound of Joan cursing.
"You look well, sister. I'm glad."
"Mummy will be thrilled to hear it in your next report."
"I don't report to Mummy. And I don't tell her anything about what you're doing, only that you're still alive." Eurus untensed a bit, so he untensed in turn. "What are you doing, anyway? I keep getting glimpses, but never the full picture."
"I'm a consultant." Eurus smiled so hard that her nose crinkled, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile back. "I've been helping Scotland Yard solve the cases that nobody else can."
"That isn't all you've been doing."
Her smile widened further into a grin. "There was a man called Moriarty, he fancied himself a spider in the middle of a web. He tried to play a game with me, to spare us both from boredom. He lost."
"I heard about that, yes." James Moriarty had left a hole behind, like a chalk outline at a crime scene. Except, someone had swiftly stepped up and filled his shoes. "Are you playing both sides, then?"
"Wouldn't you like to know, Mikey." She was vibrating in her seat. For all her cleverness, Eurus wasn't immune to the need to gloat.
They all paused to listen to the spoons rocking on the china plates as Joan brought in the tray. "I found some red velvet cake in the fridge, I thought we might have some."
"—Mikey's on a diet."
"—A lovely idea, thanks."
Joan looked at them both, then set down the tray. Mycroft took the smallest of the three pieces and didn't add sugar to his tea.
"I don't see," Eurus began once she'd swallowed, "why you should be the only Holmes pulling strings and getting things done. The underbelly needs a ringmaster just as much as the upper crust."
"I didn't say I disagreed." The tea was a bit strong. Mycroft found he didn't mind the bitterness. "And I'm glad you're keeping busy." He looked for the right way to phrase his next idea and fell flat. 'I don't think the nation will survive this,' didn't seem like it'd evoke the right response.
Eurus shifted her teacup to her left and took Joan's hand in her right. "I've learned a thing or two about the value of human life, Mikey. I might not have a built-in conscience, but I do have one at my side."
Mycroft felt his chest surging with warmth, and possibly sentiment. "I'm happy for you, Eurus." He wanted to hug her, but that'd be too much to ask. He offered the next-best thing. "There's plenty more cake if you want another piece."
"Mycroft Holmes, sharing his food? You really are on a diet." Her nose was crinkling again.
"You be careful, alright? I don't want you getting hurt. Nor you, Doctor Watson."
"You worry too much. I'll do my best, like always. It'll have to be enough."
Mycroft saw them out once they'd finished their cake, then went and knocked on Luna's door. "May I come in, sweetheart?"
His daughter opened it and blinked up at him.
"I think your Papa needs a hug. Is that alright?"
Luna wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
.oOo.
"You're late," Mummy said.
Mycroft looked at his watch and set down his umbrella so the lion's head was facing him. "You'll find I'm exactly on time."
She smiled back at him with a hint of annoyance in the deepening wrinkles by her eyes. For some reason, Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to care.
Their waiter appeared and handed Mycroft a menu.
"No need," Mummy said, studying him over her reading glasses. "He'll have the baked fish."
Mycroft smiled and handed his menu back. "Actually, I'd like the ravioli. Soup du jour to begin, and a pot of darjeeling if you would."
The waiter looked between them for a moment, then nodded and left.
Mummy had forgotten to close her mouth. "That doesn't pair well at all. And you'd be much better off with the fish, or a salad."
"I don't feel like a salad. Today, I want ravioli." He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to. Mycroft had been practising these lines in front of the mirror, with Luna before bed, with Harry when they were getting dressed in the morning. For all he'd been dreading the meeting with Mummy, she was at least predictable.
"Your father was so disappointed he couldn't make it. Someone has to watch the house, you see. The chimney sweep is coming today, can you believe it's October already?"
"Mummy, Father hasn't left the house in over a decade. There's no need to make excuses for him."
They received their starters. Mummy sipped her Burgundy red and pushed her duck liver parfait into the red onion jam that was jiggling in a precarious mound on her plate. Mycroft couldn't even taste his cream of mushroom soup, his mouth was so dry. It smelled like chanterelles.
Mummy pretended to chew her parfait for much longer than was reasonable. "Your father really did want to come, Mikey. He really does care about you."
"Alright." Mycroft patted his lips with the serviette. "I believe you."
He watched her purse her lip and continue to chew the parfait. Their plates were whisked away. He rested his elbows on the table because he knew it'd bother her.
"And Eurus, I heard she's been working as a consultant. That's a bit of an embarrassment, isn't it? And why do I have to find these things out from my network?"
"I'm not an owl."
"Pardon?"
"It means—nevermind." He leaned back against his chair and wondered if he should have the crème brûlée for dessert. Mummy had surely ordered something elaborate, maybe even an assortment. She was always especially bitter in autumn. 'Seasonal melancholia,' she'd always called it. Harry had said the technical term for it was, 'Being an arse waffle.'
"Of course. You Holmeses, always thinking you're so clever. I had to have a Doctorate before your father even looked at me, but I'll never be clever enough to understand your little quips. Not an owl, that isn't clever at all."
"No, Mummy." Mycroft sighed. "It's just a wizarding reference. They use owls for post, similar to carrier pigeons."
Her face twisted. "Yes, you and your wizard, raising wizard children and doing all sorts of undignified things. Is it true you'd adopted a daughter now? You might have at least used a surrogate. It's a disgrace, raising another man's children. The legacy of this family," she snapped her fingers, "gone! Just like that."
"That's enough." Looking at the lion roaring on the head of his umbrella, Mycroft let out the breath he was holding.
Mummy was blinking at him, her eyes wide and guileless. "Mikey, I'm just giving you good advice. You have to listen to—"
"No." Mycroft stood. He could see the waiter approaching with their plates. "Mummy, the reason I don't tell you things is because I don't want your bigoted opinions, your hideous advice, or your cruel judgement. I've had enough."
"Excuse me, sir?"
Mycroft looked down at his ravioli, the same ones he'd been talking about for a month. "I'll take this to go, please. I'll be waiting by the cloakroom.
He took his umbrella and gripped it hard enough to feel the lion's teeth pressing against his palm. He ignored the way the other diners had all turned to watch.
"Farewell, Mother," he said. He nodded to the still-waiting waiter, granted himself a final look at Mummy's helplessly shocked expression, and walked away.
The ravioli were cold by the time he got home. Luna tried one, though she decided she didn't like the taste. Harry came and didn't say a word, but his entire face was saying a hearty 'Congratulations!'
"I realised halfway through my family lunch that my family was still at home, waiting for me," Mycroft said, though he wasn't sure why it needed saying. The constant noise in the back of his mind was silent, save for the gentle melody from a single clarinet.
It took until the last raviolo had dredged up the last of the cream sauce for him to understand that it was because he wasn't The British Government in that moment, he wasn't acting for the good of his people or the safety of his nation.
Mycroft Holmes, the husband, father, brother, the man got up from the table and went to do the dishes.
Thank you nathan and Roofuls for beta-reading. Shout out to James Birdsong for reviewing. Your steadfast support is the main reason I'm still posting here.