Needless to say, social gatherings were not Mycroft’s ideal haunt. He was quite the misanthrope. However, despite being man that far preferred his own silent company that that of his peers, it was not uncommon to see him at some kind of event. As tedious as they could be, they were good for two purposes: access to useful contacts, and maintaining his reputation.
Today it was a charity event. Nothing too complicated - just one of those fancy excuses for the wealthy men and women of London to get together and show off about how much money they had. And why shouldn’t they? After all, most of them had nothing more to show for themselves than the depths of their wallets. God, they were so dull.
Or, then again, perhaps not. Mycroft had been in the middle of a conversation with an old friend of his mother’s when the loud crashing sound of glass smashing against the floor had caught his attention. After politely excusing himself, he had turned to assess the situation.
There seemed to be some kind of commotion going on. A guest - clearly drunk, though that was unsurprising at this kind of thing - had stumbled into one of the waiters and sent his tray of drinks falling to the floor.
“Well, I think that is the most exciting thing to happen this evening,” Mycroft dryly commented to the woman he had ended up standing next to. She wasn’t somebody he recognised which, considering the company, was odd. The English upper class was a world that Mycroft knew well, especially within London. A new face among it was certainly worth investigating.
“We haven’t met before,” he then added, turning to the woman as he offered out a hand to shake. “Mycroft Holmes, and you are?”
