Mycroft Holmes considers himself to be a man of patience, a man of compromise. He likes to think he is efficient, polite, and very good at handling difficult people, specifically a certain consulting detective. Mycroft believes he works hard and takes his occupation seriously, and today was no exception. He had dealt with painfully bossy politicians, annoyingly dense secretaries, and ridiculously unnecessary piles of paperwork, and he was more than ready to sit down at his desk and enjoy a brandy in five minutes of blessed silence.

Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes' work is never done.

Just as the most powerful man in the hemisphere had accepted his brandy from his darling Anthea, his mobile rang. Upon seeing the identity of the caller, Mycroft groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the damned mobile continue on to the second ring before picking it up.

"Hello, Mummy." Anthea gave him a sympathetic look and set the entire bottle down on his desk before closing the door silently.

"Son," began Amelia Holmes, her voice brisk. "As I am sure you are aware, the annual Holmes Gala is fast approaching. You do remember when I gave you the date in September, correct? June 16th, Mycroft, write that down."

"Yes, Mummy, I remember," answered Mycroft.

"This year, I have decided that our party needed sprucing up a bit. Therefore, for the theme, we shall do an old-fashioned couples' ball, meaning each gentleman will need to bring a lady and vice versa. I want the ballroom used for this event, as the staircases are very necessary to present each individual guest. I'm putting you in charge of setting up the ball, Mycroft. Invitations, catering, decor, I leave it all to you. I shall be much too busy preparing the house for visitors and making the guest list to worry over such small matters."

Mycroft turned grey at the mention of a couples' ball, dreading the inevitable question. "Of course, Mummy. Will you require Sherlock's presence this year?"

"I thought that was implied. Neither of you are exempt from the theme, and I expect you both to attend with those impeccable manners I somehow managed to teach you. Now, I must see to it that your father and I make appointments to be fitted for our formal attire. Good day, Mycroft." Amelia hung up, leaving Mycroft in slight desperation. John will obviously attend with Mary, so who shall Sherlock bring? he wondered. Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer.

ooooo

Sherlock was in the middle of a very intriguing (and quite possibly flammable, therefore even more intriguing) chemical experiment when Mycroft called, meaning that the consulting detective was extremely annoyed and already disinterested when he answered his mobile.

"What is it now, Mycroft?" he snarled, slamming his goggles down onto the worn kitchen table.

Mycroft sighed. "Brother dear, Mummy has just called to inform me of this year's gala."

"I refuse to attend. The event proves to be pointless each and every year, and I will not stand around a clump of self-proclaimed intellectuals who never fail to aggravate me with their political nonsense."

"She has requested your presence this year."

If there's one thing Sherlock has learned over his (almost) four decades on this planet, it is that one does not argue with Mummy. Ever. Such foolish actions can prove to be catastrophic in consequence, and besides, he really hates when Mummy is upset. Plus, the detective secretly loves the occasional tuxedo (don't tell John, he already thinks his flatmate's head is big enough), and the possibility of looking as devastating as he does in front of hundreds? Well, Sherlock wouldn't miss that for the world.

"Fine, I'll consider it. Anything else you care to tell me, brother?"

"Yes, actually. Mummy has decided upon the theme of a couples' ball."

Sherlock eyes widened. "A what?"

"It would seem as if every gentleman attending must bring a lady as his partner."

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft, I know what it means," snapped the detective. "What did Mummy say should I insist upon attending alone?"

"She specifically said you were not an exception. Honestly, brother dear, must we be dramatic about this, too? I think it's a lovely opportunity for you, personally." Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Oh, don't be obtuse, brother," Sherlock sneered. "You know as well as I do that the thought of me at a 'couples' ball' creates some rather horrid imagery."

"Sherlock," began Mycroft. "I believe you are failing to notice a very obvious solution to this entire debacle. A solution which, in fact, may prove to make the night much more enjoyable than you anticipate."

"Out with it, you bloody git, I haven't all day."

"Miss Hooper."

Sherlock froze, his eyes narrowed. "Mycroft," he warned, his voice low and menacing.

"Oh, come, Sherlock, don't be oblivious. She is, after all, one of the only female beings in London who could stand you for any length of time. Besides, I thought the idea of the pathologist in a formal ensemble might-"

"You bastard," Sherlock cut his brother off through clenched teeth. "You absolute bastard." Molly was not the answer. Though the detective did enjoy the company of his pathologist, he could not even begin to fathom the difficulties involved in bringing her to a Holmes Gala. The grandeur of the mansion, being presented in front of hundreds of affluent millionaires (in formal attire, no less), having to act as Sherlock's date - the list seemed to include everything that poor Molly would find terrifying and awkward. He could not - would not - watch her become so embarrassed and shy. And furthermore, that Mycroft would dare to speak of his pathologist in that way...

"Brother, I despise it when you lie, particularly to yourself."

"No." Sherlock made a fist with his free hand.

"Sherlock, you do not have a say in this. Mummy is already in a strop over the entire event, and I would hate to inform her that her son, the hostess' son, is attending as a party of one. What will she tell the rest of the guests? The businessmen? Her social circle? Brother mine, I really must insist. If you do not take Miss Hooper, you will have to face the wrath of our mother."

"Mycroft, you bloody idiot-"

Mycroft sighed. "Just ask her, Sherlock." He hung up before Sherlock could utter the usual witty retort, leaving the detective staring into space in the tiny kitchen while a test tube of chemicals burst into flames behind him.

ooooo

Thank you so much for reading! Updates will be frequent, as I am currently on Spring Break. Reviews are very much appreciated, especially critique - please be picky!

~London Belle