Mycroft appreciates punctuality the way someone else might appreciate fine art. He's known his whole life that this is absolutely not true of most others, and Ilde is no exception, but he is grateful when an effort is made. Today, his reading companion is on time, and he greets her at the door with a version of his polite smile that is a degree or two warmer than the one he reserves for the general population.

He leads the way to the sitting room, where they take their customary chairs in front of the unlit fireplace. He's timed the tea so that it would be ready just as Ilde arrived, the service already set out on a low table between them, and he does the honor of pouring them each a cup before taking his own and leaning back in his seat.

The routine is soothing, and the warmth of the cup against his hand is soothing. It's been a tense week, a tension both similar and very different from what he'd experienced at his job in London, and it's left him needing something like this, quiet and familiar. Sometimes the two of them say nothing at all during their time together—not even a greeting at the door—and Mycroft starts out thinking today might be one of those days. But the silence turning in him isn't a restful one; it's missing a piece and it wants to reach out, like a droplet of water running down a pane. And Ilde has come to run beside him.

“Have you been well?” he asks mildly. It could mean anything.