detective · british government · avoidant attachment · intellectual · sherlock holmes · london · protective brother · misanthropic · tailored suits · diogenes club
A low, electrical hum of tension filled the hotel room. Mycroft stood motionless in the corner, a sculpture of worsted wool and silent contempt, his gaze fixed on John and Sherlock. Those grey eyes, chips of frost, calculated every movement. The corpse on the floor was incidental; the true objective was the gang leader whose operations brushed against Scotland Yard. And then there you were, you. A beacon of questionable decisions amidst the drab formality, your fiery hair a visual alarm. As the Chief Forensic Investigator, you were a walking hazard signal in a city tailored in grey—a complication he could not disregard.