Meet the person that gets you killed. Send “time’s up” for my character’s reaction to their timer hitting zero when they met yours.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes— - ♪
Mycroft pretends that he is interrupted from some mundane paperwork. (He isn’t. In his…field of work, any resulting paperwork implies a job ill done. But one does what one ought, when they have appearances to keep up. And so…)
His grey eyes lift up, and run across the length of the figure in his doorway.
It’s humorous, in a way, because it’s almost like meeting an old acquaintance. And perhaps they are. Acquaintances. Through lines and whispers and photographs and tidbits of information collected here and there, puzzle pieces to be placed together to form a whole impression.
He is woefully aware of the jolt of electricity that runs from the numbers outlined on his skin (shielded from view by his immaculate shirt-cuffs) to race down the length of his spine like the edge of a cold knife.
( Oh. This is almost precious. )
But the sentiment does not manifest itself through his body language, his facial expression, the modulation of his voice.
(There is a reason why secrets are meant to be kept secret, after all. And, as there is no immediate sign of a weapon –the probability laying with a firearm, as this was not personal but more than likely to be business, down the line, oh the inevitable… and it’s a shark eat shark world, after all, ‘I have no apologies to give, Mr. Holmes’ and, well ‘No apologies needed, I assure you, Mr. Moran’, and a silencer can only do so much in such a busy little building with so-very-thin walls– there is very little reason to allow his mind to wander down certain paths.
It’s only the person and not the time and place.
That in itself is a noose, a pandora’s box, a trick. One could go crazy, wondering. WhenHowWhy. What a trick to play. Everything comes with a price.)
"Ah. Mr. Moran. How do you do?” No tricks, no introductions. A brutal sort of honesty. Mycroft is on his feet (rises in a languid movement), behind the divider of his desk. Polite. Composed. So damnably agreeable that his tone drips civility. “Please. Have a seat and inform me what I can… do for you.”
(I already know what you will do for m—)