Mycroft held his umbrella's handle loosely in his hands, twiddling it this way and that. The umbrella's nose nuzzled against the carpet's soft surface. It was a nice change from the hardwood floors and the concrete of the outdoors that the umbrella usually had to face. The dust from the recent explosion was slightly offputting but it was pleasant nonetheless. The umbrella gave a silent inward sigh in content of the sensation.
It wasn't raining. It had not rained since last Tuesday. There was no reason for Mycroft to have an umbrella with him. Only for the sake of presentation did he have it with him. The umbrella also suspected its presence was needed for moral support but said nothing of it.
Mycroft and his brother sat opposite each other, the air tense between them with the unpleasant sound of Sherlock's violin plucking. They had discussed something of the missile plans that had stressed Mycroft for the past day or so. Or rather, more accurately put, Mycroft had presented the problem of the missing plans while Sherlock had made a show of ignoring him and fiddled with his instrument.
The stocky man that Mycroft had met with a while back entered the room, breathless. Worry was written largely on the man's face.
"John," Sherlock said, verbally acknowledging his presence. Yes. John. That was his name. The umbrella remembered it now.
They prattled on for a few seconds, losing the umbrella's attention to feeling of the nice carpet and the nice hand caressing its handle. If the dust and Sherlock and John were gone, and they were in the more familiar setting of Mycroft's home, or even the office, the umbrella might have described the moment as a heavenly one, so lovely were the hands and the carpet.
Only when Mycroft voice sounded again did the umbrella attempt to focus on the conversation once more. Sherlock, being the pain in the nose that he always was, refused Mycroft's offer.
"How's the diet?" Mycroft's grip tightened around the umbrella. This was a sore subject. His love of cake and his desire for a slimmer figure fought constantly.
"Fine," he responded forcefully, lying. Love trumps desire. The umbrella knew from cake frosting that was sometimes transferred from Mycroft's hands to the umbrella, and from the increased pressure it felt when Mycroft would lean on it for support. The umbrella wished Mycroft's love for it, and the knowledge that an increase in weight meant an increase in discomfort for the umbrella, would fuel his desire to lose weight, but that was not the case. And it did not look like it would be any time soon. The truth of this, Sherlock must have spotted in his four pound weight gain.
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" The umbrella's mind had wondered again. Now, it appeared, they were talking of the case again.
"No, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections," he said, gazing intently upon his umbrella. A thrill of excitement ran through the umbrella. The Korean elections had been held several months ago.
"Well, you don't need to know about that do you?" he continued. "Besides, with a case like this, it requires leg work." Mycroft was notoriously lazy. There were few things that would tempt him out of airmchair for very long. Another cause of Mycroft's ever increasing weight.
Apparently John had been sleeping on a sofa and it had been fine and the umbrella really couldn't care less. The umbrella wondered when their wedding, Sherlock and John's, would be. Mycroft had mentioned something about a wedding. Or had he been eating a wedding cake? The umbrella wasn't sure. Its memory wasn't the best.
They soon left, Mycroft dragging his umbrella at his side, to the sound of Sherlock scraping away at his violen. He was childish and annoying, but he was one of the few that Mycroft rose from his armchair for. The umbrella was glad to be going. He could only listen to that violen for so long. Besides, serious work had to be done for those Korean elections.