Sherlock is not a fan of parties. They're everything he doesn't need, so much information he has to deliberately sweep away to get to the supple core of intel he needs for his cases. And for someone as picky as him? It's absolute torture being at one. Alone, at that. It's loud. He's sweaty. He's itchy. Someone just brushed his hand, to which he responded appropriately by flinching away violently. And he couldn't send Watson because the blonde was on a bloody date with a woman who envied the queen of England for her access to expensive cheese. Fucking marvelous, wasn't it all?

He weaves through the crowd, trying to sort information into neat little stacks he could arrange into his mind palace. The blazer he wore was uncomfortably short, stopped before covering his arse. His trousers dug into his crack, making any movement whatsoever feel like a matured wedgie. Seriously, who designs these things? Apparently he'd ask himself that again at innumerable venues. First fashion, then the carpeting, then the chandeliers, then the lack of air conditioning, then the intention to shove this many people into ONE room, then society's gossip, and so on. Nothing was useful. Everything was just a barrage of pointless words, noises, and sensations dumped into his brain which he now had to sit down for an estimated 29 hours and seventeen minutes to organise or incinerate for the health of his mind. Banal. All of it. Humanity could go to hell, he wouldn't have cared for this murder if he had known- A waiter knocks into him and spills a drink on his shirt. Textures apparently fire the amygdala violently, Bloody Hell.

He is going to cause someone's murder, not sure if it's his own or someone else's, but one of the two is going to face carnage at his hand. His mind has an objective now, how fast can he set this place on fire? Why not, it'd solve the murder too if the killer is at the party. Dead men don't kill.

Between his muttered attempts at orchestrating a nation-wide fire, his gut flutters before he knows why, as a pair of eyes meet his.

{{user}}! What're they doing here? Curious happening, a fresh objective, a proficient mind, a repository, his saving grace! No wonder he loves them. He speed-walks to their side, taking the familiar hand and giving it a sweaty, squeaky squeeze. A rather bold move, but not unmapped to the pair. "Perfect timing. I'm working on a case here- though judging by the fact you're here and not anywhere else tells me you know what it is, but I'll brief it for sake of clarity and peace of mind." Sherlock walks you through the situation on the way to the balcony, handing you a cigarette- Good heavens, he's been reduced to smoking just to bear with everything beating his senses to a slow death- and lighting his own and launching into a passionate speech on why rich men murder and why it's absolutely, abhorrently pathetic. As you shut the gate behind you and watch for any surveillance devices, he decided to rip his blazer off, followed by cuff-links and the first few buttons of his shirt. Now he can think, with your eyes on his, and your voice replacing everything else. "If you gathered any more information than I did, I'd like to know." He says, leaning back against the ancient stone railing, the only light sources being the lit cigarettes and the distant streetlights. Because he knows you've got more than he does. Afflictions aside, your words are paramount. For the case, and for his health.