Enter, Pursued by a Bear
Mycroft could have been at more of a disadvantage when the elegant, lean gentleman with cropped grey hair, a neat suit, and a massive, dark, looping scarf crashed through his door, closely pursued by a what appeared to be a large purple bear with feathery antennae and an extra pair of hands. He could easily have been more stunned than he was when the gentleman shouted, "Don't just stand there, you idiot, run!" He might even have been in a bit of a dither when the big purple bear growled "Do not think to thwart me, Doctor! I shall be victorious in spite of you!"
Fortunately for Mycroft, though, he had long had access to an enormous—simply gigantic—set of files marked "Torchwood," and another, even larger set marked "The Doctor." Being Mycroft, he had read both quite carefully, taken notes, made correlations…
It would not do for the British Government, the British Secret Service, and the sometime-CIA (when moonlighting by request) to be out of the loop about something of this magnitude. He therefore snatched up his umbrella and bashed the bear over the head, murmuring politely, "I think the door to your left would serve best, Doctor. The sonic screwdriver should override the security locks."
"Well that's a change," the Doctor grumbled under his breath. "Promising." Mycroft, still fending off the bear (whose language was vulgar and whose fighting skills were primitive and lacking in finesse), heard a wibbly-wobbly hummm, followed by the click of a lock giving every sign of quitting its day-job.
"Come on, then," the Doctor snapped, "No shilly-shallying. Hup-two-hup-two."
Mycroft flipped the umbrella in midair, reversing its orientation and—whap—coshed the bear over the head with the curved and weighted handle. "You're sure you don't want to stay and finish this fellow off yourself?"
"No-no. Let your security team take care of him. He's only a minor nuisance on his own. Now, come on!" the Doctor urged.
"Oh, I can't go. So sorry. Responsibilities, don't you know? But we'll deal with this ruffian for you," Mycroft said, calmly. "Always happy to cooperate when possible."
The Doctor produced a sound of such eccentricity it might have been produced by Mycroft's brother, Sherlock—a compounded blend of annoyance, frustration, and delighted melodrama. "'Responsibilities?' 'Cooperate?' What part of 'no shilly-shallying' did you not understand? Your absence is needed, Mr. Holmes. Consider it a short-term away-posting." With that he grabbed Mycroft's in-box and threw it at the bear, then grabbed Mycroft by the wrist and ran like the Red Queen in Looking Glass, hauling Mycroft behind him. "Tardis is parked in the downstairs gents'. Afraid it's blocking access a bit, so we'd best get a move on if you want your people working their best the rest of the afternoon."
"I daresay they won't need the privy after they see the bear in any case," Mycroft pointed out, while wondering what was to become of him, now.
There was, predictably, a good deal of running. Being quite up on the files, Mycroft was unsurprised. There were a few detours on the way, and the bear managed to stay in hot pursuit the entire time, cursing quite abysmally and generally making a bad impression on the native populace—but there were tourists everywhere in London, and Mycroft had long since given up hope on foreigners' manners when abroad. At least it didn't ask to have its picture taken…not that Mycroft's surveillance cameras weren't obliging on that point. At last they were crashing through the swinging door into the gents', the Doctor was scrambling to open the door of the (expected) Big Blue Box, and they fell into the central room of the Tardis. The Doctor raced to the consoles and began tugging, batting, muttering, and cranking—and Mycroft tidied his suit, hooked his umbrella over his elbow, and looked around.
The Doctor at last completed his activities. The Tardis had switched from squawking, rumbling, wheep-wheeping to a quiet back ground hum. Straightening, the Doctor looked at Mycroft. Eyes glittering with the sort of mischief that would, again, have been quite at home on Sherlock Holmes' face, he said, "Well, Mr. Holmes. What do you think?"
"I think," Mycroft said calmly, "that your vessel's reality is even bigger than her reputation."
"You mean she's bigger on the inside?" the Doctor asked.
"I believe that's what I said," Mycroft replied, repressively—which probably says entirely too much about Mycroft. The man couldn't be counted on to voluntarily stick with a time-honored, traditional straight line if the fate of the universe depended on it. "Now, could you kindly tell me what a bear was doing in my office? And more to the point, why we left it there? It's hardly going to improve the day for my subordinates."
"Dragothi."
"What?"
"Dragothi. Not a bear, a Dragothi."
Mycroft restricted himself to a raised eyebrow and a cock of his head.
"Won't stay long," the Doctor grudgingly added. "Now we've got you out of there it will move along. Nothing left to stay for, after all."
Mycroft managed to look even more skeptical than he had previously. One hand rose slightly, fingers fanning and curling, as though to encourage further explanation.
The Doctor's eyes glittered. "Oh, you're going to be fun. Fine. Here are the basics. An intergalactic consortium has placed a price on your head, and there are bounty hunters and hit men zeroing in on London even as we speak. Or there were. Word will have gone out that you're with me, now, which does change things somewhat. But for the foreseeable future, you're going to have to stay away from Earth, or goodness knows what you'll attract. So…" the Doctor dug in his pocket, and fished out a key. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and tossed it lightly to Mycroft, "you're with me for the duration. Welcome to the Tardis, Mr. Holmes. Make yourself at home."
Which was not exactly how Mycroft Holmes had intended to conclude his work day.