Work Text:
Mycroft smiled thinly, carefully keeping his teeth behind his lips. One of the occasional problems of being a minor government official was having to deal with people that the supposedly higher up officials couldn't be seen with. Like this pompous self inflated idiot.
If it wasn't for the inconvenient fact that he needed this, individuals, assistance and good will to push through an apparently insignificant but strategically important trade agreement with a country the government most emphatically did not have any dealings with he would have assigned the task to, well anyone. This was the eighth establishment he'd been into and while he had a good appreciation of the finer points of sartorial elegance the apparently endless parade of near identical items was beginning to make him think longingly of concrete blocks and the tidal reaches of the river Thames.
Waste of good concrete, besides knowing my current fortune the body will wash ashore into the hands of New Scotland Yard and Sherlock will take one look and know why I did it. Mycroft thought silently.
Ruminating on if he could afford to take a few days off and try and persuade Greg to strip him of all ability to communicate with the office and lock him in a cell in the company of a few good books for a bit he caught the eye of his fellow suffer. He wondered idly how much longer she would last, the individual at the center of this production was known for going through assistants rather rapidly.
As though summoned by his thoughts the person appeared preceded by a blast of scent that still made him reel slightly, please let this be the one Mycroft prayed to an uncaring universe. The two women engaged in a lengthy and animated debate in their own tongue before the assistant gestured at Mycroft and her mistress turned to face him an inquiring look on her face.
Plastering a smile on his face he said in a voice as fulsome and approving as he could make it "You look astounding madam, the cut, the color they suit you perfectly. You will be the talk of the next official function."
What kind of talk he very carefully didn't think about as the emissaries wife nodded and swept back into the changing room the assistant nodded happily and picked up all the discarded dresses. Mycroft carefully took the selected dress from the imperious hand that thrust it out of the cubical and walked swiftly to the till, texting his drive to come and collect them. Firmly ushering the ladies from the shop and into the car he felt the first stirrings of relief that his enforced helpfulness would very soon be over.