Mycroft surveyed his brass umbrella stand. 46 umbrellas. He took his current favourite, a slim black one, with a particularly sharp spoke. It matched his personality.
But as he took it up in his hand, he realized something felt wrong.
He balanced it carefully on his fingertip, closing his eyes. It balanced fine. What was wrong with it?
Carefully, he opened it. At first glance, all seemed fine. He looked closer and saw a tiny rent in the fabric.
Unacceptable.
He briefly considered not going to work.
On second thought, he would be able to take his frustration out on the stupid politicians on Downing Street.
He took his second favorite umbrella off the stand and unceremoniously tossed the ruined one in the bin.
He'd have to purchase a new one immediately.
Breakfast was brought to his office at nine AM exactly. So when it was four minutes late, Mycroft knew he was going to have a bad day.
He hated having bad days, because he always did something he'd regret later.
Sherlock sulked on his bad days. Mycroft very often did something particularly evil.
Like the time he fired that French chef.
He still sort of regretted that, actually. The man had been good at pastries.
Not, of course, that Mycroft ate many pastries. He needed to stay tall and thin in order to stay sufficiently imposing.
Luckily the new chef that had been hired recently was particularly good at low-calorie cooking.
But that, of course, was as classified as information got. Imagine the humiliation if an enemy found out.
Or worse, Sherlock.
When breakfast finally arrived, at 9:04 AM, Mycroft was hungry and annoyed.
So when the Prime Minister came into his office with documents for him to sign, Mycroft made sure to carefully confirm some nasty rumors about him.
When he logged onto the Downing Street message board to post the rumors anonymously, he noticed a thread that he'd overlooked.
The Power Behind the Government was the title.
What now?
He clicked the thread, making doubly sure was logged in anonymously.
It was full of rumors about the power behind the government. Namely, him.
The day had gone from bad to worse.
Mycroft deleted the thread and tracked down the original poster. He sent a message to have them executed.
His favourite umbrella was broken, his breakfast had come late and someone had uncovered him.
He actually felt like going to bed again. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.