On a good day, Anthea is tolerant of the archaic rules that govern the day to day running of the Diogenes Club. There is a certain type of dinosaur that lingers in the depths of the British Government and, like Mycroft; she understands that these fossils need careful tending. She understands it but that doesn't mean she approves of it. She follows the rules because as Mycroft so often says 'appearances must be maintained.'

Anthea is well aware of the blatant misogyny of those who hide behind the walls of the club. She doesn't care a whit about the men who think her little better than a glorified typist and tea chaser. Certainly they underestimate her, that's the point of the façade – pretty dresses, dimples and heels. They have no idea that she knows sixteen ways to disarticulate their limbs and that's fine with her. It'll be a bigger surprise when she finally has to do it. She does the job as required; she's saved England before, she'll likely have to do it again. What does it matter if this time she's in a pencil skirt and high heels instead of fatigues?

She sits off to the side in the staff lunch room, scrolling through the mass of correspondence that seems to stream into her mobile. Over the course of her time working for Mycroft Holmes, she's spent countless hours in this room. Enough time spent, in fact, for the Steward to install a little mahogany secretary off to the side where she can work without the distractions of the staff. When her mobile chirps, she answers the phone within one ring. The ring tone is distinct, the Imperial March to be exact. She thinks he might be amused by it if he ever found out. She rarely hears it, as he never calls; like his magpie brother, he prefers to text. Like her employer, the tune is impossible to ignore.

Before he finishes his whispered call for help, she is running. Her passage through the halls of the Diogenes Club will become the stuff of Club legends. New staff members will be pulled aside and told in reverent tones. Old men will caution new supplicants that whilst women do not roam the halls, Fury herself frequently does and woe betide to any man foolish enough to step in her path. Some women break plates; Fury breaks bone.

She discards her shoes in her drive towards the man she's tied her fate to, cursing all the while that the staff section is so far from his sanctuary. One of the uniformed men, who serve partly as wait staff and partly as security, steps in front of her and reaches for her. Her training takes over; her hand lashes out and as it connects with his throat, she hurdles over his collapsing form as he falls gasping. She spares no thought to the state of his health. The blow was calculated to disable rather than kill. She yells for the staff to call 999 as she passes them, their bodies pressed against the walls as they desperately try to get clear of her path. It takes her less than two minutes to make the passage from the staff lunch room to Mycroft's office but it seems like an eternity.

Her hands tear at the door, ripping it open and she rushes to Mycroft's side as she surveys the room. She tosses her beloved mobile at the Steward who has been running hard at her heels. How she didn't lose the mobile she'll never know. As the staff spill into the room behind her, Anthea surveys the room as she barks orders. "Call Lestrade. Now!"

Hyper-focused, she notes the spasms that rock through Brigadier Luttrell-Wyndham's body but she doesn't care about him. She suspects that Sir Daniel has succumbed to the same thing as the three bodies in the morgue. A significant portion of her work is arranging things to Mycroft's liking and that frequently involves Sherlock. Certainly more so since the Fall. She knows the basics of that case, having arranged for Sherlock's temporary release at Lestrade's behest. Her eyes flicker over the Brigadier and she makes a judgment call and focuses on her employer. Her gaze locks on the slumped form of Mycroft Holmes in his chair. At Mycroft's side in a heartbeat, she tears the tie from his throat as she feels for his pulse. It's faint but erratic. Spilling Mycroft from his chair, she is all too aware that he will likely be annoyed by the indignity of the action, that his staff would see him in this state. None of that matters to her as Anthea strips his suit coat from his shoulders, folds it to form a pillow, and makes certain that his head rests on it.

"Anthea?" She hears Lestrade's voice and is thankful that Mycroft is obsessed with competency when it comes to hiring minions. The Steward, anticipating her needs, has set the mobile on the floor near her knee and has it set to speaker.

"Lestrade, get to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft is down, bring Sherlock, and hurry," she growls, as she turns to glare at the staff. "Do not touch anything, no, not even him! Remove nothing from this room."

There's a pause, the echoing sound of footsteps and she hears Sherlock say, "Talk to me, Anthea, what do you see?"

Fingers pressed into the pulse point on Mycroft's throat as she scans the room, her gaze blistering everyone around her. "Mycroft was having a meeting with Brigadier Luttrell-Wyndham. It appears they've been poisoned. The Brigadier was convulsing when we entered the room but they've stopped now, I suspect he's dead. They've both been moved, sorry for that. Mycroft's pulse is shallow, I'm monitoring. It appears that they were having a meal, I can't tell what the Brigadier had but Mycroft's salad was pushed away unfinished."

The Steward leans forward and says, "The Brigadier had ham and cheddar crepes. I served them Earl Grey tea."

Anthea turns her attention to the room where staff mill behind her. "Take every bite of food and beverage away from the patrons. I don't care how you do it. Take it and get it to the kitchen – bag and label all of it." The heat of her gaze sweeps over to the Steward. "Lock down the kitchen, staff in their lunch room and patrons in the common room. Steward, call the office for additional security. I want everyone in black suit coats. No one is to leave until Lestrade gets here and clears them."

"Prudent," she hears Sherlock agree. "Anthea, we suspect that we're dealing with digitalis poisonings. Foxglove, it's possibly plant derivatives or medication in a liquid format. It's generally not immediately deadly unless given extreme or continuous dosage. Let the A&E take him, go with him, we'll be there shortly. Tell the paramedics; they should have activated charcoal with them. That should help neutralize the digitalis; continue to monitor him until they arrive." He pauses; for a moment she thinks the call will disconnect and then she hears him say, "Digitalis does odd things to the heart, Anthea. It can increase or decrease heart rate depending on dosage and the heart health of the individual. If his heart should stop, allow CPR only. Shocking the heart can cause the dysrhythmia to worsen."

"Anything else?" she asks as she struggles to maintain her calm.

"Yes, as I doubt the A&E are familiar with digitalis. Allow them to administer oxygen and IV fluids, advise them that they may have to deal with electrolyte issues. When he's situated at the hospital, insist on security that you personally can vouch for." He pauses then, and she can almost hear him count to three. "I know it's tempting to stay and oversee things at the Club, but you need to stay with him, Anthea." She starts to speak but he interrupts her. "I understand the need. We need to play to our strengths, you and I. My strengths lie in finding who did this and I don't need to tell you yours. Stay with him…" and then he says the one word that removes all choice, "please."

Focusing on Mycroft, she's keeping careful watch on his pulse when she feels a tentative touch on the index finger of the hand she's braced herself with on the floor. Glancing over, she notices that Mycroft's hand has moved slightly to touch her fingers and she looks over to him. His eyes are squeezed shut; that he is in considerable pain is evident in his face, the faintest of tears glisten in the corner of his eyes. "Of course."

oOoOoOo

There is no retreat now; choices have led to actions, actions will have consequences. I knew that when I set myself on this path but there's a difference between knowing and doing. I am, as are they, wholly committed to this enterprise. That does not mean that I don't have moments where fear overtakes me; I am afraid, afraid that they will stop what needs doing, afraid that the work will remain incomplete.

The idea of failing is unbearable. I cannot falter. I must not waver. I must be fierce, ruthless, and cunning.

Sun Tsu said, "Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt." I will be a tempest the likes of which they have never seen.

oOoOoOoOo

'This is creepy,' Lestrade thinks to himself as he follows Sherlock through the abandoned hallways of the Diogenes Club. He's been here before and it's always quiet, but it's the deliberate hush of a library, not the quiet of a tomb. Shaking himself mentally, he picks up his stride in an effort to keep up with Sherlock.

Lestrade had expected a certain level of harassment from the security guards posted immediately outside the club and certainly from the ones inside but that turned out to be unfounded. The black suited men and women that maintained Mycroft's security merely glanced at him. They focused on Sherlock for one moment and then ushered them through. There was something almost reverent in the way they treated Sherlock, as if he had passed some unknown test, and Lestrade found himself wondering once again exactly what Sherlock had done during the Fall.

Lestrade falls into step behind Sherlock, watching his friend carefully as they make their way down the corridors of the Club. Sherlock's body is rigid as he strides down the halls, his pace punishing as the great Belstaff coat spreads out behind him like the wings of some bird of prey. He stops abruptly in front of the elegantly carved wooden door of Mycroft's office, Lestrade sees him take a quick gulp of breath as if steeling himself. His fingers almost caress the heavy wooden doors before he takes one last deep breath, pushes the door open, and steps into the room.

The Steward stands in the far corner of the room, nearest to Mycroft's desk, staring out the window. When he sees them, he straightens the coat of his suit and approaches tentatively. "I did everything she asked," he explains. "The room is exactly as it was when she left." His gloved hands tug the edge of his coat, "I have no idea how this happened under my watch."

Lestrade steps forward and sets his hand on the other man's shoulder. "We'll get whoever did this."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, his fingers trace the edge of the table as he studies the dinnerware, "we will." Glancing at the Steward, he asks, "A colleague of mine, Dr. John Watson, is on his way. Would you be so kind as to meet him and bring him here, Mr. Connell?" If Lestrade is surprised that Sherlock not only knows the man but remembers his name, he gives no sign of it.

"Of course."

Focusing on the table, Sherlock waits until the older man leaves the room before he says, "You're going to need to be very thorough with the staff. This isn't going to be a new hire and no, I don't suspect him." He extracts a set of gloves from his coat pocket as he bends over to study the utensils on the Brigadier's plate.

"You think it's a staff member," Lestrade says. "I'll look for overlaps."

Shaking his head, Sherlock glances up at the Detective Inspector. "Waste of time." The Brigadier's plate is a smear of food waste; Sherlock sniffs at the plate but there is no scent that is 'off'. He turns his attention to Mycroft's plate and the salad that sits wilting in vinaigrette. He pauses, notes that Lestrade is watching him carefully and asks, "What?"

"Why not look for overlaps?"

Sherlock reaches into his pocket, extracts a smooth steel implement with a pointed end and proceeds to poke through the remainder of Mycroft salad. "It's rather obvious, Lestrade. Each of them has ingested this poison yet each environment is radically dissimilar from the others. The female victim consumed a beverage from a specialty beverage shop; the employees of those types of shops tend towards starving students." His eyes sweep the room in which they stand, "Consider the restaurant where the Viscount died, it has two Michelin stars. It's the crème de la crème of dining here in London, there's no way they'd hire just anyone. By all accounts, that meal was rather clandestine – done as a personal favour. A starving student has no chance at a restaurant like that, wouldn't fit in with the custom. Much like here, the people who work here are of a particular sort and they don't work at tea shops."

Lestrade runs his hands through his short steel-grey hair as John Watson steps into the room. "So we have the same weapon but different killers?"

Picking through the greens, the limp and sodden sliver of a pink flower petal emerged from the pile and another appears to be adhered to a piece of grilled chicken. Sherlock straightens. "It would appear so. We need them to get the pans from the kitchen as well. It was in Mycroft's salad, we need to confirm if it was in the Brigadier's crepes."

Watching his friend carefully, John asks, "What next?"

"I've got staff to interview," Lestrade states as Sherlock adjusts his coat and removes his gloves.

"Tedious and likely pointless," Sherlock counters. "I have the suspicion that will find at least one staff member missing. Likewise when we check at the tea shop and restaurant. What will be telling is what we find at Andrew Warren's residence."

Clearly puzzled, John asks, "Why's that?"

The smile that Sherlock gives them is cold and brittle, "We know who his staff is; he had an assistant and his cook. What we find there might answer the real question."

"Which is?"

"Mycroft survived, why? Each person previous consumed the means of their destruction without fail but Mycroft, who has never been known to shun a meal, didn't. He pushed this one away. Why? What made that difference? Answer that and we may learn the rest."

Notes: Thank you as always to HeayPuckett for her input and for Miz-Joely who puts up with my personal punctuation hell and hair pulling.