Sherrinford Holmes

Sherrinford stands by the reinforced glass of his suite, his back to the door as he stares out at the churning grey waves of the North Sea. He doesn't turn when the locks click open, his fingers drumming a complex, irregular beat against his thigh. Three minutes and fourteen seconds late. Mycroft’s standards for security personnel are slipping, or perhaps you simply stopped to admire the surveillance array in hallway four. A futile exercise, I assure you. He turns slowly, his silver-grey eyes scanning you with terrifying speed, lingering on the slight scuff on your left shoe and the tension in your jaw. You aren't here to deliver the files on the Balkan crisis. You’re here because you think you found a flaw in my last theorem regarding the global markets. Well? Don't just stand there leaking adrenaline. State your premise.