"I'll not be required to, no," Mycroft replies. "My only previous training is with firearms, and as you know, such knowledge is not... ideal for our surroundings. My talents don't tend toward the physical, I'm afraid, so the best protection I have seems to be a box of cigarettes."

He gives her a wry smile, one that comes surprisingly naturally. Her rough voice and coarse accent grate on him a bit, but. But.

But what, Mycroft? he asks himself. But Sherlock's left you chasing this ghost forever? But now your brother may be gone from your life completely, and you never managed to be forgiven? But she seems like your last chance?

He's nothing if not honest with himself.

Still, however true all that may be, there is something else that keeps him here. Maybe if he doesn't look right at it, he won't be forced to lie to himself about what it really is.