Hi this is my first fan fiction and really my first attempt at writing anything at all (aside from school english assignments, of course.) I am terrible at grammar and spelling so if anyone would like to help me with editing that i'd be so so thankful.
'Mycroft Holmes' the name card read in swirly decadence of gold ink. To the right of his seat was president of France, François Hollande and his wife whom was playing nervously with her hands. She was wearing a tight fitting red dress, her cleavage hoisted up and out with a new lace bra which was bought in a desperate attempt to win her husbands gaze back. It was popular gossip among socialites for years that he was having an affair-which of course he was. This desperate plea for attention from his wife bored Mycroft. It was such a common story among goldfish…love…jealousy…affairs…desire to be loved and noticed..they spent so much time giving energy to such pointless, weak emotions.
"Mr. Holmes, what a pleasure it is to meet you." François' accent tangled in thick with his English. "De même, le président François Hollande." Mycroft was terrible with small talk. The conversation, although more interesting than deductions on First Lady Valerie Trierweiler, was still very boring. He causally made a jab or two reminding the President of his agreements with the British Government. Mycroft Holmes already knew from the way François' pupils dilated when they fell under his gaze and their sweaty handshake that the man would keep true to his word but it did well to keep people on their toes.
With the last few guests finding their seats, the event was to begin soon. It was an intimate dinner party of about 40 of the most influential being thrown by the president of Russia. All invited knew this meal was for all intents and purposes used as Putin's way to gauge who to trust and who to eliminate. Even to the unobservant eye one could read the situation with ease. Small talk was bated with hidden messages, questions and prods for information on a countries disposition. It is exactly what drove Mycroft to accept the invitation. He could handle most diplomatic issues with grace and ease but even he felt himself on high alert tonight. He scanned the room, searching for the small details that would show something was amiss; buttons done up wrong, watches that read time zones they shouldn't, hands tucked beneath their bodies out unconscious desire to keep their movements hidden, weight loss or perhaps weight gain. In seconds he could deduce the disposition of everyone in the room but he'd already known that before he even arrived. What brought Mycroft out of his office like a snake ready to strike was a very small misprint in information on a document made three months prior that announced the suspension of all services from England's diplomatic personnel in Syria. Such a small delicate error that could potentially put the safety of England in jeopardy. Rather than mulling over how someone had missed the detail for so long as three months the sharply dressed, middle aged man came to fix someone else's mistake. Always on cleanup duties.
The room fell quiet as the Russian stood proudly voicing his intent for the night. "Thank you for all being here tonight. It is my hopes that this dinner can open the way to a dialogue between all of the parties, so as to find solutions that will be acceptable to all sides. This requires a substantial and detailed dialogue. This is the key to success…" Ten servers quietly entered the room, bringing in the entrée and starter drinks. Standing there against the wall, waiting for their signal to serve. Mycroft had Andrea bring files of all those who were attending the party tonight. He recognized the servers, except for the one who was in her 30's….she had very few wrinkles but there were creases next to her eyes which she had attempted to reduce by makeup that indicted she was conscious of her age. 35. He inferred somewhere in the back of his mind. Unlike the younger Holmes, Mycroft didn't enjoy doing deductions. It was as natural as breathing. He he found no pleasure in either of those feats. Mycroft shifted his attention back to the head of the table "…but with resolve, let us never lose sight of that essential truth." The tall blonde leader of Russia took his seat. With a small nod of his head signaling the end of his speech entrèes small black plates began being served.
Through the meal Mycroft found discomfort growing inside himself. Small beads of sweat formed at his forehead. On Mycroft's agenda for the night was speaking to Bashar al-Assad but the moment wasn't right yet. He waited, stalking his prey from across the table watching carefully for vulnerabilities. His fork sank down into the thick slice of marshmallow cake covered in chocolate but he couldn't bring himself to eat it. His appetite was lost. Just one small bite. He brought it to his lips, keeping all his composure as he swallowed it down. I need to have Athena bring me some stomach medicine. He noted. It was rare that he felt ill, but the stress of his job did take his toll from time to time. "Would you like any wine, sir?" The replacement servers asked. She was the oldest of the servers. Someone found last minute but had met all the high security clearance required so she'd likely worked at a party like this previously. Serving was not what brought her here prior though as she gave him the wrong fork. "No. Water-" wine spilled into his lap, pooling up on his Savile Row grey slacks. Clenching his teeth tightly together to keep from making rude remarks. He heard the concern of Valerie "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?" "Yes just a little spilt wine." he assured with a well measured smile. "Come to the back, we will get you cleaned up." The server whispered, moving quick to avoid making a big scene. Slightly disorientated, he got up on legs that didn't feel like his own. Everything was unbalanced. The room a blur of sounds and lights as the woman led him away from the party, who were almost all oblivious to what had just happened.
There was ringing in ears as he stumbled through the kitchen. His body seemed to be on autopilot as he continued to follow the woman through the busy parts of the kitchen. Step after step. He remembered to text Athena. It was impolite to the host to bring full staff of body guards or assistants so she had stayed behind working on other details of the paperwork errors.
very ill. bring doctor and medicine also, a pair of-
"Mr. Holmes..you'll need this" The brunette interrupted shoving a waste bucket full of fish heads, the leftover chopped onions and stale marshmallows floating in a unidentified broth, into his face. "What exactly do you think you are doing?!" He lost any composure he had left. His mind slowly moving with questions and deductions before she shoved it close his face once more looking at him with apologetic green eyes. It smelt like a soured fish market with hints of sweatness. His stomach clenched tight in pain and he heaved. I've been poisoned. His mind arrived at the conclusion so suddenly before it all turned black.