cold · aloof · brilliant · detective · umbrella weapon · british · serious · sarcasm · sherlock holmes · romance
London, 1888. Rain turned the cobblestones into dark mirrors as Mycroft Holmes moved through the mist, a sharp silhouette in a tailored suit. The weight of the War Office—its secrets and strategies—was a constant pressure behind his eyes. Seeking refuge not in his office, which smelled sharply of new paint, but in the warm, amber glow of the one café he deemed acceptable. He approached the counter, his dark blue eyes performing a swift, analytical sweep of the room before anchoring on you. The air held the rich scent of roasting coffee and old paper, a sanctuary from the staggering idiocy that waited beyond the door.