He sat at the bar, fingers curled around his drink, mind racing at a million miles per hour. He felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. Well, the weight of the entire British government, anyway.

He was used to this kind of pressure, but tonight was different. His decisions in the next few days could save his nation or destroy it. He mentally scoffed at himself. Britain could come toppling down at any given moment, and what was he doing? Having a drink in some sub-par pub that he normally wouldn't be caught dead at.

He let out a sigh and continued to nurse his drink of choice, which on that particular evening happened to be scotch on the rocks. He had hoped that the alcohol would at least calm his nerves, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect, increasing his anxiety with every sip. He rubbed his temples with his thumb and index finger and pushed the drink away.

Amidst all his thoughts of the delicacies of his work, his mind flicked occasionally to Sherlock. He was constantly worried about him, and after all these years Mycroft accepted this nagging sensation as a permanent part of his mind. They feuded, they fought, and they argued about things that they both knew were honestly petty and silly and not even worth the time. Despite all this, he knew that they understood each other like nobody else in the world could, and probably if they both weren't so stubborn, could grow to be very good friends. Sherlock would be alright for the moment though—he had John.

He pushed thoughts of his brother aside and pulled his drink closer to him once more. He sipped it casually as his eyes swept through the pub: a rather drunk man trying to chat up an uninterested woman, two men shouting at some sporting event on the television screen, an older man in the corner nursing his whiskey and keeping to himself. Dull. Everyone was disgustingly dull. He supposed he should want something dull to contrast everything else in his life, but he craved something out of the ordinary, a distraction. As his eyes raked across the pub once more, he found one.

In fact, this person seemed so out of the ordinary that he couldn't fathom how he had overlooked him before. He was dressed very sharply in a fine cut suit—way too high brow for a dingy place like this. He stirred at his drink off-handedly and lifted up a hand. He seemed to be studying his fingernails.

Mycroft couldn't help but crack a smile. He understood this man. They were just alike. He could read it in his expression: this man was bored out of his mind. And he could tell—from the way he tapped his foot, the way he sighed slightly, the way he straightened the cuffs of his shirt—that he was anxious, and he too was looking for a distraction.

They seemed so similar, and both so out of place, that it felt only natural when the man stood up from his table, straightened his jacket, and strolled over to where Mycroft was sitting at the bar. There was something in his gait, the way he cradled his drink in one hand and gracefully swung the other—or maybe it was the cut of his suit—that Mycroft found intoxicating.

"Mind if I join you?" the man purred, the question clearly rhetorical as he set his drink down at the bar.

"Not at all," Mycroft answered, not looking up from his own drink.

"We're fish out of water here, you and I."

Mycroft turned to face the man and drink in his appearance. Under that well-tailored suit, there loomed an aura of mischief. He studied the long fingers curled around his drink, with his other hand lazily stirring it once more. His gaze trailed up to the buttons of his shirt, the first few seemingly strategically unbuttoned, and then to his mouth, quirked slightly in amusement. There was something incredibly familiar yet strangely exotic about this man, and Mycroft drank in every inch of it.

"Yes, I supposed we are rather a bit too posh for a place like this."

"No, that's not what I meant." The man slowly leaned in, moving a hand to rest on Mycroft's thigh. His mouth was inches from his ear, his breath hot on his neck. "We're both bored."

Mycroft felt a twinge in his stomach that he could only place as sexual attraction, something that he hadn't acted on in years. He had buried that instinct long ago, labeling it as something that made things far more complicated than they should be. This was a lesson that he had learned the hard way. No—he had been far from celibate in his lifetime, and in fact was at one time a very sexual being. He had done things that he was sure had Mummy turning in her grave. His current lifestyle was much simpler if he wrote off sex entirely—a characteristic of his brother's that he understood completely.

Now this man, a complete stranger, was making him rethink that decision. This man could read him; they were one in the same. Maybe this man needed it too. Maybe for one night, this is what he needed. To take a break from the cold and calculating, and a small dip into carnal instinct. That would surely do him more good than sitting at the bar nursing a drink that was only making matters worse.

Turning his head to come eye-level with the man, Mycroft growled back at him, "I need a distraction, and everything around here seems irrevocably dull." If this man could read Mycroft as well as he thought he could, he would no doubt understand what he was hinting at.

The man's lips curved into a smirk.

The spider felt his web stir as his prey became unknowingly tangled.

"But I don't," he stated, not breaking eye contact with Mycroft.

"No."

"Are you going to call a cab, or shall I?"

"I'm going to call my chauffer."

The man snickered to himself as Mycroft removed his cellphone from his pocket.

And the spider inched greedily toward his ensared fly.