// closed starter for @mossyretro re: eden.
A single night. Hidden away from worldly plights within the beating heart of Europe, where out of sight, they're out of mind. Venetian drapes cascade along the walls as crimson wine flows past the lips of Eden's patrons - a crowd left wanting, waltzing, down these halls lined end to end with portraits, watching. A hand touched to an arm and white teeth flashing in a smile. A promise of pain, a threat of pleasure? They stand amongst a hundred faces. A hundred cards. A hundred deep, dark, desires.
Revelry without consequence would be the makings of Elysium, but what brings a piece of heaven down to earth, if not a fall?
Say what you will about their esteemed host, "Mr. Marley" (and there were a great many things to say, indeed, half of which have already been uttered, and half which must quite remain at his discretion, so as to not speak of the devil at his sacrament) however - the old man does know how to play a crowd. Might've a quarter of the most prominent people on the continent here tonight, eating straight out of his hand.
Regrettably, as the night draws on and all theatrics take the stage, it is with some semblance of intrigue that the detective takes to sate his curiosity - following the earlier in the eve, ill-advised and rather conflicted spark of well-tempered excitement which had come to him upon his elder brother's reception of an invitation. Out of the question of consideration, of course, that Mycroft should've come here-- and very sensibly perhaps he shouldn't have, either, except someone ought to. And who else but him? Who else to wrest an old skeleton from within the confines of its closet, proverbial or otherwise?
-- Someone else, maybe, yes, perchance is the sudden stream of swift regret which overcomes him as the detective delicately ajars a shrouded door within the further backrooms, only to be met with a candid flash of the - ah - liberally amorous pair at work within; Dark corners. Empty halls devoid of staff, avoidant. Afraid? There's distant whispers. A sudden clatter in the silence and the muffled sound of feet behind closed doors. Not one but two-- It is possible he has miscalculated.
A hot flush of warmth to already burnished cheeks and a stuttered, not quite apology (he moves rather too quick for that--) preceedes the prompt and slightly too forceful clicking of the door being reshut, the unwittingly intruding man in question twisting on his heel a clean half-circle as he raptly vacates the space immediately in front. Only with his back pressed stiffly to the wall somewhere aside does he remain, silent, wide-eyed and with a slight upticking of his pulse, taken to reconsidering his own direction. It might behoove him to search the alleyway outside, instead.
