Oneword: Rainy

Mycroft stepped out of the car and headed in to the meeting he'd been looking forward to all week long, giving a little whistle as he twirled his umbrella in one hand. Only when he was alone, or sometimes with Anthea, did he ever let loose and show a bit of the emotions brewing under the thick layer of ice he held as his well-known facade. Those who were closest to him could sometimes read below it, if they were observant enough to pay mind to his umbrella. The grip he had on it could occasionally belie his state of being; a tight grip at the crook of the curve was worry or impatience, a loose trail along the handle with the fingertips was relaxation or accomplishment.
Mycroft had taken to carrying an umbrella with him when he was a small boy, dressed in the smart spats that Mummy had tucked him into. He'd been ever so eager to keep her pleased, and the umbrella was an easy precaution to keep his clothes (and appearance) prim and proper. Not every day in England may have been rainy, but enough were that an umbrella was a prudent accessory on any occasion. Before long it had become a habit for the prospective young councilman, and soon his habit became a part of his identity. The crook-handled appendage rested patiently by the door of his not-so-humble abode, and a backup kept itself company with the briefcases in the trunk of his most-used limousine. It rarely saw use, but today Mycroft retrieved it.
He waited patiently in the middle of Trafalgar Square, one umbrella extended above himself, the other still twirling around one wrist. Finally, a black towncar pulled up at the edge of the square and admitted one silver-haired detective, who quickly made his way to the tall man in the flawless suit, who graciously handed him the extra umbrella to keep his work suit dry for the duration of their meeting.