Summary: in which the FBI and CIA decide the kidnap Mrs Hudson, only to discover that this was not a sensible thing to do.

Mrs Hudson - widow, horticulturalist, amateur bridge player, and landlady extraordinaire to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson - was used to odd things happening. Indeed, when one is landlady, and surrogate mother, to an individual like Sherlock Holmes then either one gets used to the weird, the whacky and the downright odd, or one goes mad and dives into the sherry bottle. As Mrs Martha Hudson had always had a strong dislike of sherry, she had gone for option number one and learnt to bend in the breeze, to roll with the punches and otherwise to beetle along quite happily with her unconventional tenants.

It helped, of course, that she really was incredibly fond of Sherlock. If he could learn to keep explosions to a minimum and to stop leaving dead body parts next to the milk in the fridge then that would be a bonus, but considering the horror stories her fellow landlady friends had about their residents, she felt that she had got off lucky all things considered.

No matter what anyone might say about her genius boy, he was a darling in her eyes, and had been ever since he had helped convict her terrible husband and ensure his execution. It had been one of the happiest days of her life when she had finally got rid of – in a permanent sense – that terrible man, and she had very much enjoyed her years of widowhood since.

Sherlock was an odd duck - she had seen that almost immediately upon their first meeting. The poor boy was like a fish out of water – brain the size of a planet, but his intellect had developed so fast his social skills hadn't had a chance to catchup – and that alienated people. She had seen it time and time again where people were put off by his gifts and it had made her poor heart hurt to think of how alone he was. Then John came into the picture, and that was that.

She didn't mind admitting to considerable surprise when Sherlock had told her he was bringing a potential flatmate along to view 221B. The last seven hadn't exactly worked out, and Mrs Hudson had been on the verge of saying some rather unpleasant things to Master Mycroft about his ridiculous edict regarding Sherlock having to have a flatmate in order to access his trust. It wasn't as though Sherlock needed help paying the bills, but for reasons best - and only - known to Mycroft he had decided that his little brother needed companionship, and so the stipulation had been made – and she'd been left to deal with the fallout.

So yes, it had been a surprise, and not a particularly welcome one as it coincided with her weekly bridge night, and she had been reluctant to give up on the chance to beat Mrs Banford who lived on Cornwall Terrace Mews for the third week running. Still, like a good landlady, she had put Sherlock first and had been on hand for option number 8 to view the property. She had liked John and thought him a polite, nice young man with lovely manners, but hardly a good fit for her Sherlock. Like his meddling older brother, Mrs Hudson had quickly been proved wrong.

With John by his side, Sherlock had blossomed, and they'd had such fun over the following years. Of course, there had been a few hiccoughs along the way - the mess with that Adler woman and the debacle with that Moriarty fellow, to name just a few – but 221b was a happy place, by and large.

Then this had happened. The first Martha Hudson had known about it was Sherlock shouting at the top of his voice about meddling Americans and incompetent civil servants who were so incompetent and useless they didn't know how incompetent and useless they actually were. In and of itself such an outburst wasn't that unusual. Sherlock was known to insult countries, people, animals, minerals and vegetables when frustrated.

People were forever popping in to see Sherlock, so she hadn't thought much of it and had gone back to her baking.

10 minutes later she had been disturbed for a second time by the heavy footfalls of angry men thumping down her stairs and making the house shake slightly, and she had thought that to be the end of it. Sherlock clearly wasn't in an accommodating mood – not surprising given it was curry night – and had sent the group of heavy-footed mastodons away.

Sadly it wasn't the end, it was just the start.

Eight o'clock came and went without Martha Hudson paying much attention. At that particular point in time she had been locked in a ferocious battle of wits with Mrs Cardamon of 3 Briar Hill Gates, Pickering, in an online poker tournament. Given her distraction, she thought it perfectly understandable that she had missed – or rather not noticed – that John had not returned. The first she knew of it was a horrified howl from the upstairs flat, which would have put the hound of the Baskervilles to shame, and which had the unfortunate consequence of making Mrs Green's cats yowl next door in feline sympathy. The next thing was the sound of pounding feet, and then her door had been thrown open to admit a ghostly white Sherlock, who could have been auditioning for the job of recently reanimated corpse he was so pale.

Things had quickly degenerated from there.

Three things were quickly ascertained:

1) John had missed curry night;

2) John had missed curry night because he had been kidnapped; and

3) John had been kidnapped by the black suited, elephantine footed, incompetent morons from earlier who apparently didn't take 'no' for an answer.

The next thing to become apparent was this: Sherlock was not pleased. Neither as it turned out was Mrs Hudson – these morons and their ill-advised adventure had cost her a royal flush and lost her the poker tournament. Now she would have to wait until Christmas to beat her bête noire, Mrs Cardamon.

Marshalling the troops took a lot less time than even Mrs Hudson had thought, and within half an hour her kitchen had been overtaken by Sherlock's Baker Street Irregulars, three hackers that Sherlock knew from somewhere, and half a dozen other people who kept making a general nuisance of themselves as they cleaned Mrs Hudson's flat for her. There were two noticeable absences from the army Sherlock had assembled: the police… and his brother.

When questioned about these glaring omissions, Sherlock had merely scowled and muttered something about tiresome rules and red tape, so Mrs Hudson had quickly dropped it. Best to let her boy get on with it. Mycroft would find out sooner or later, after all.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and now, looking back on the mess that was the last 24 hours, Mrs Hudson wondered if perhaps she ought to have taken a more active interest in what had been going on in her kitchen.

The Irregulars had left to go do whatever it was Sherlock wanted them to do, taking the cleaning team with them, and the hackers had taken themselves off for, as one so nicely put it, to have a "shit, shave and a shower," before they returned to complete the next stage of Sherlock's nefarious plans. Of Sherlock himself there was no sign. He had left in a dramatic whirl of his coat just before 8 o'clock with the words that he needed to see a man about a dog, and she hadn't seen him since.

She had seen Mycroft though, looking somewhat displeased – or possibly constipated, it was difficult to tell with him – who had been even less pleased to discover that Sherlock had absconded out the back door and over the garden wall in order to avoid being spotted by the increasing number of CCTV cameras in the vicinity of Baker Street. Mycroft had stayed for a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit before finally deciding it would be a more productive use of his time to monitor events from his office rather than sit around waiting for his baby brother to return and explain things himself.

Mycroft's exit was as different from his brother's as could be – and not just because he used the front door rather than the back – the man just sort of evaporated out of Martha's kitchen and reappeared in the black town car, parked quite illegally, outside her house. Sherlock, on the other hand, always left with style and pizzazz – and usually accompanied by a fair amount of noise and disruption as well.

Now with a once more empty kitchen, Mrs Hudson had settled herself in for a quiet morning, content that John would be back soon and all would be right again. And so her day continued, until that is, the doorbell went at 09:50.

Later Mrs Hudson would feel unaccountably embarrassed at the lapse in judgement that had her opening the door without first checking who was on the other side. In her defence though, she hadn't expected to be kidnapped, or for her kidnappers to ring the bell in order to kidnap her. So, all ways round, the events of the next five minutes came as an unpleasant and unwelcome shock to the old lady, as she was bundled out of her door and into the waiting SUV – also parked illegally on the double yellow lines – and then driven off.

Her last thought as consciousness fled was that she hoped Mrs Green – that perpetual busybody – had not chosen this moment to break the habit of a lifetime to not spy on everyone through the net curtain in her living room window.

Consciousness, when it finally returned, did not improve matters much. She was still in the car, and the vehicle was hurtling at stomach churning speeds around corners, roundabouts and down what could only be bumpy country lanes. There's a little known fact about Mrs Hudson, and one of the main reasons why upon her return from Florida (sans husband) she had chosen to settle in London – Martha Hudson hated cars. Even sedately driven ones with excellent suspension made her travel sick; a fact which was once again rearing its ugly head, and at a particularly inopportune moment, as the man in a black suit and sunglasses sitting next to her asked her a question. Ten seconds later and the occupants of the car were now part of a privileged group of people who had first hand knowledge of Mrs Hudson's hatred of any and all motor vehicles.

Blushing slightly, Mrs Hudson patted the arm of the man next to her who was staring balefully down at his no longer pristine trousers, "never mind, dear," she said, "I'm sure it'll come out in the wash."

Whatever the man might have said in response to that piece of advice was thankfully lost as the car slowed and the satnav helpfully chirped up to tell them that they had reached their destination, the USAF airbase at Barford St. John.

Mrs Hudson blinked silently for a moment. "Should I have heard that?" she asked her kidnappers politely, "I know I'm new to this kidnapping business, but I didn't think it was standard practice for kidnappees to know where they were being held hostage".

The driver turned to exchange a loaded look with the man in the front passenger seat for a moment before they both turned to frown at the offending satnav, which chose that moment to say in the tone designed to annoy all drivers, "off course. Do u-turn if possible to return to the USAf airbase at Barford St. John.

The frown became a scowl.

"I'll just forget I heard that then, shall I boys?" Mrs Hudson blinked innocently at the four sets of outraged eyes that had swung round to hers.

"If you wouldn't mind, ma'am," the man in the passenger seat said, sounding very put upon.

"Right you are, my dear," the old lady nodded agreeably. Then sat looking puzzled. "Are we going to get out at some point?" she asked after a few minutes sitting in the rather crowded silence. "I'm sure you know best, but I don't feel very threatened or kidnapped at the moment, and I was so hoping to get the full experience. This will definitely beat Mrs Bullsworthy's news about her son turning out to be a murderer. Honestly, the way that woman goes on about him you'd have thought he was Dennis Nilsen; poor Patrick only offed one postal worker and that was completely by accident."

"Ma'am," the driver said slowly, "we didn't kidnap you and you're not a hostage."

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Oh," she asked sharply, "then it must have been another set of American's who propelled me out of my house and into this car this morning because I don't remember volunteering to come." She crossed her arms, disappointed frown firmly in place, "certainly feels like a kidnapping to me."

The men looked at each other again, a bit lost. So far nothing about this mission had gone to plan or stuck to the well-trodden script. They had thought that at least this would follow the usual pattern, but it was becoming increasingly clear to them that it wasn't and wouldn't.

"You're our guest," one ventured after a moment, clearly uneasy about the tricky water they found themselves in. "We've brought you here for protective purposes."

Mrs Hudson sat back and looked at the boys in consideration, "who's exactly?"

The men gulped, "ours."

"Ahh, this is about Sherlock then."

A tap on the window stopped the conversation there, much to the relief of the black suited men trapped in the vehicle, as a higher ranking black suited individual demanded in a strong American accent to know why the security team had not brought the prisoner into the detention centre as planned and were instead still sat in the car some 15 minutes after parking.

Mrs Hudson sniffed, looking faintly pleased as she was escorted by 8 men in ubiquitous black suits and ear pieces across the road and into a squat concrete building. 8 men, just for her, she was going up in the world.

Sadly for Mrs Hudson things got progressively more boring as the hours ticked past. Having started off so promisingly, what with her being escorted by her own battalion of fit young men into what was clearly an interrogation room, nothing more had happened.

The chair was uncomfortable, the tea deplorable and no biscuits had been offered. Mrs Hudson was not pleased.

To make matters worse, the four large minions stationed in the room weren't nearly so nice as the ones who had escorted her in the car. They wouldn't even talk to her.

She drummed her fingers on the table, watching with semi-interest as minion 1 flinched at the out of time clacking. She did it again. This time minion 2 twitched, trying to hide it by shifting his feet as if he just needed to stretch. Sherlock, the dear boy, always did like to say repeatability was the key to any scientific experiment. So she did it again, this time adding in a happy little hum, deliberately out of tune. Minions 1, 3 and 4 twitched this time. Minion 2 scowled.

"Stop that," he snapped, before resuming his affronted silence.

Mrs Hudson sighed, making sure to add in the disappointed tone perfected by parents everywhere. All four minions shifted this time.

"This isn't really much of a kidnapping," Mrs Hudson mused, apparently to herself. "I'm very disappointed," she sighed again, "and it started off so well as well. The snatch and grab this morning was expertly done…" she trailed of.

Her comment met silence.

Unperturbed, Mrs Hudson ventured once more into the verbal arena, "do you have much experience of this sort of this, dearie?" she asked minion 4 who looked at her blankly for a moment before scowling and crossing his arms.

The silence continued.

"It's okay if you don't," the old woman continued in a soothing tone, "everyone has to start somewhere, I suppose – a bit like trainee nurses and doctors – I know they need to be trained and the only way they'll get better is to practice, but I always hope to get the experienced ones when I have to go in. At my time of life you don't want to be saddled with amateurs. Are you on work experience?" she asked, blinking innocently at the four outraged faces looking back at her.

"No!" Minion 4 said loudly before looking abashed at his outburst.

"Really?" the disbelief in Mrs Hudson's voice came through strong and clear. "Oh, dear."

"This isn't at all like it is on the TV," Mrs Hudson continued, a plaintive note entering her voice and plucking deliberately at her audience's heartstrings like a pro.

"Ma'am…" minion 1's protest trailed off in the face of their 'guest's' visible disappointment.

"What about water boarding?" the irrepressible Mrs Hudson asked, now fully in her stride.

Minion 3 turned pale and the rest seemed to find the ceiling suddenly fascinating. "We don't waterboard pensioners, ma'am," one of the henchmen replied looking for all the world like he was rethinking his choice of career.

"The US doesn't condone waterboarding at all," Minion 2 hurriedly stepped in with a quelling look at minion 3.

Instead of being pacified this seemed to annoy the elderly lady who whacked his arm demanding in a shrill voice, "A pensioner? How old do you think I am young man?"

Minion 3 shrunk back, an impressive feat given his large, athletic build. "Umm, 80?" he ventured cautiously.

"80!" the shriek ratcheted up several decibels, startling a pair of amorous woodpigeons who had been perched in the tree next to the interview room. "I'm not 80," the old woman exclaimed. "I only turned 71 last week!"

The minions turned to each other. They were starting to see why team sent to retrieve the old lady had gone for a lie down - and why the Commander had put an embargo on speaking to their… guest.

Silence returned.

Mrs Hudson sighed in disappointment, well there went her afternoon's entertainment. These boys weren't a bad sort, just terribly misguided and rather stupid. Baiting them was like shooting fish in a barrel – far too easy and not sporting at all. She settled in to wait for the boss – he would have to turn up at some point.

Mrs Hudson's afternoon stretched on. She was starting to sympathise with Sherlock's unconventional approach to dealing with boredom: shooting something was looking increasingly tempting.

Lunch had come and gone, and minion 2 had been kind enough to keep her cup filled with tea, substandard though it was. Things didn't get interesting again until just after 17:00 and she had been their guest for over 6 long, interminable hours.

At ten past five a man with an enormous moustache and a strong Texan accent came barrelling into the room, attendants flapping about after him like a gaggle of hens. She also recognised him. He was one of the pair who had approached Sherlock the day before and kicked this whole shenanigans off. "You!" she shouted, pointing a finger at him in outrage. "You're that horrible man from yesterday, the one who wouldn't take no for an answer. You should be ashamed of yourself young man!" the pointed finger started wagging, emphasising the Mrs Hudson's displeasure. Had he been one of her boys, he would have known that this was the moment to stop and adopt a studious expression of absolute contrition.

The moustached man stopped and blinked, confused at the onslaught from the little old lady before him. It has been many years since Mr Bloomsbury was last called young man, and even more since he's been publicly rebuked in such a manner.

He bristled and pulled himself up to his full height.

Mrs Hudson stared back distinctly unimpressed, her raised eyebrow radiating disapproval.

The room held its collective breath as they awaited the imminent explosion.

Mr Bloomsbury deflated like a popped balloon.

"Madam," he began in his most patient tone of voice, "I think we've got off on the wrong foot."

The second eyebrow rose to join the first and Mr Bloomsbury's heart sank. Would nothing in this thrice damned operation go as planned?

20 minutes later and the situation had not improved. Indeed, it like they had somehow swapped sides in the room. So far Mr Bloomsbury had got very little of use from their guest, while the old lady on the other side of the table seemed to now know how many children he had, their names, ages, jobs, pets and that his wife liked marigolds. It was a perplexing state of affairs - and not one the head of the CIA was used too.

"Madam you do not appear to be taking this seriously," he said using the voice which sent recruits, generals and senior politicians alike quaking in their boots.

"Should I be?" The old lady replied in surprise looking for all the world like this was news to her.

The head of the CIA stared at the ceiling, praying for patience. He tried again.

"This is an extraordinary rendition - a government sanctioned abduction," he clarified when Mrs Hudson continued to look at him in bemusement.

"I know what an extraordinary rendition is, dearie, I do live with Sherlock after all." She smiled, it was not a nice smile, "this just isn't a particularly good one."

Silence fell.

"And you were building up the menace so beautifully." She tutted, and looked around the room, smiling absently at the assembled might of the American Secret Service. "I was very impressed with the kidnapping this morning – much better than the last time one of you boys dropped in – but since then…" she shrugged eloquently, "it's all been a bit of a let down."

"Buhwhat?" Mr Bloomsbury spluttered incoherently.

"Well, young man, it's as you said; you've already kidnapped me – presumably because you need something from me or my person as leverage. I know I'm new to the ins and outs of this realpolitik threatening game, but how, exactly, do you escalate from here? If you're hoping to use me as leverage, then you need me alive and in one piece. I've already checked with that fellow over there," she nodded in the direction of the minions who were huddled together in one corner, "and he said you don't use enhanced interrogation methods on old age pensioners, so I really don't see what I have to worry about this point. My Sherlock will be along in a bit to get me home, I just hope it's in time for my weekly game of Bridge."

Mr Bloomsbury shuddered. He'd thought he was getting the easier job that day in interrogating the terrorist's landlady and had been only too pleased to leave finagling the British Government to Mr Hodgeson. It was a decision he was now regretting. The large Texan had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been weighed, measured and found severely wanting. Whoever this woman was she was not just refusing to play by the same rule book, she was rewriting the rules as she pleased. Clearly the intel was wrong. This wasn't some harmless, half batty old lady, but a criminal mastermind in disguise. She was probably in cahoots with the person at the top of American's most wanted list, Sherlock Holmes, and they'd brought her here to the nerve centre of the counter operation. What had they done?

Things got steadily worse from there. The team who had collected Mrs Hudson that morning were now on medical rest with cold flannels on their head after spending two hours in a vehicle with her. The second team assigned to guarding her were starting to look punchy and vacant eyed, which probably meant they were going to go the same way as the first, and the head of the CIA was on a high-speed train to a nervous breakdown.

This was not the plan. By this point the last 24 hours didn't even vaguely resemble the neat, orderly plan he and his compatriots had set out from Washington with. Two hours into what should have been a nice, easy interview and the only thing the interviewing team had to show for it was a collective headache. The FBI were never going to let him live this down.

Pushed beyond his limit, Mr Bloomsbury demanded, "there must be some way to stop this," his voice definitely on the wrong side of pleading as he waved an expressive hand in the air.

His adversary frowned, "well, dears, I don't know what you expect me to do about it. I'm not his housekeeper or his nanny, just his landlady."

"He clearly cares about you, values you," The Texas goon said desperately, "not that long ago he repeatedly dropped one of our best agents out of a first storey window because…" here the man floundered, not sure how to put what happened into words without reigniting the hostilities with which the old lady had greeted them.

Mrs Hudson nodded, "because your man kidnapped me, tied me up, and tried to use me as a bargaining chip to corral Sherlock, you mean?" she enquired mildly, "yes I do remember that occasion. Still, I think it was more the black eye that Sherlock took exception too, that and finding his home had been invaded."

"He dropped the man out of that window nine times," Mr Bloomsbury repeated, feeling like he hadn't just entered the twilight zone but zoomed through it into its weirder, uglier sibling.

"The poor boy always has found it difficult to express himself," Mrs Hudson sighed sadly. "Still, you ought to be pleased, so far he's been asking nicely."

"Nicely?!" Mr Bloomsbury demanded, torn between outrage and horror at such a statement.

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson nodded sagely, "take it from someone who knows – this is Sherlock asking nicely."

The head of the CIA scowled, "and how did you come to that conclusion, madam?"

The old lady blinked owlishly in surprise, "why," she said, "because nothings been blown up yet."