Summary: In which an already bad situation somehow manages to get worse. Much worse.

Mycroft was not a happy camper. His orderly life hadn't just been turned up side down in the last 12 hours, but inside out and shaken as well for good measure.

Needless to say, Mycroft was not impressed.

In fact, he'd passed that the 'not impressed' station and was rapidly heading for 'somewhat vexed' and its sister destination 'outright annoyed'.

This was not how his Wednesday was meant to go. One of Britain's key allies was the process of having their international reputation imploded across all news stations, politicians were panicking, the head of MI6 kept demanding updates he didn't have, his orderly office was in chaos and his diary was in total disarray.

He was meant to be meeting several senior ministers to impress upon them the need to noy turn off the security features on their work phones so they could play CandyCrush, not dealing with this shitstorm.

To make matters worse, Sherlock had somehow disappeared.

In a highly unusual move, Mycroft had deigned to leave his comfortable office and go to 221B in an attempt to reason with his little brother. Only to discover the rascal had pulled one of his escapologist tricks and managed to vanish from his home without being caught by any of the 46 cctv cameras positioned strategically around the area or the four watchers normally assigned to keep an eye on him.

He'd known then, sitting in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, ruining his diet with digestive biscuits, that his already bad day was going to get worse.

He'd just underestimated just how much worse it could get.

The head of the FBI appearing in his office for a second time, complete with team of well dressed homunculi, had not done anything to change this fatalistic view. Nor had the information he'd brought with him.

For some reason known only to the heads of the FBI and CIA, they'd decided that kidnapping his brother's landlady would somehow help the situation they currently found themselves in.

"And why did the CIA and FBI think it a good idea to abduct an elderly pensioner from her house?" Mycroft enquired repressively, his fingers itching to reach for one of the expensive whiskey decanters sitting temptingly on the sideboard. It may only be five minutes past three, but he doubted even a confirmed life long tea totaler could resist under such circumstances.

"Well, now," Mr Hodgeson stuttered, looking rather bewildered, "our intelligence said…"

"Intelligence, yes," Mycroft interrupted dryly, one sardonic brow raised. "That's certainly one word for it. Abject stupidity is far more accurate though. You do remember the January Incident, yes?" He had hoped his two American guests had at least learned not to even so much as think of involving Mrs Hudson after his brother's rather… creative way of dealing with the CIA operative: but apparently not.

Such a pity.

If Sherlock had been angry before, he would surely be incandescent over this latest outrage. Once he realized, that is. His eyes flicked to the multitude of screens in the main office currently devoted to monitoring his little brother's tantrum and suppressed the desire to cringe as one of the latest developments popped onto one of the screens: the publication of a rather intimate video of one Senator Henley Jordan of the Republican Party, involving a gentleman of negotiable affection and assorted balloon animals. In high definition.

His guest's phone beeped. With an apologetic grimace, Mr Hodgeson fished it out of his pocket with one large, meaty hand, blinked at it repeatedly and flushed an alarming shade of red.

Mycroft took a fortifying sip of tea and stared at his… visitor with displeasure.

Mr Hodgeson swallowed forcefully, his formerly ruddy cheeks suddenly looking rather pale. "We… that is… er," he began, haltingly. Tense fingers pulled anxiously at his tie to loosen it as he looked at the portrait of the Queen hanging on the wall as if in the forlorn hope that it would somehow get him out the mess he found himself in.

Her Majesty had many talents, but Mycroft doubted even her brand of diplomatic brilliance could fix this particular mess.

Mycroft sighed, his fingers tapping on the polished wood of his desk impatiently, as he considered his now empty teacup with mounting irritation. Whiskey, however much he wished to indulge, would not help in this situation. What he needed was tea… and lots of it. Before he could do more than consider the absence of this essential beverage though, his ever efficient assistant materialized next to him with a fresh tray loaded with tea, toast, croissants, and another polite note from the head of MI6 asking if any progress had been made on resolving the diplomatic debacle currently unfolding.

The short answer was no, unless M considered the extraordinary rendition of a harmless geriatric pensioner and the subsequent embarrassment of one of the foremost republican senators to be progress.

Mr Hodgeson, the man on whom any resolution likely depended, still appeared engrossed in his one sided stare off with her Majesty. For reasons that escaped Mycroft. It was a nice portrait, granted, but hardly inspirational and even less likely to have the answer than his American guest.

Mr Hodgeson," Mycroft inquired after five minutes of awkward silence had passed.

At the sound of his voice, the American blinked repeatedly in a bewildered manner as if unaware that he'd spent several minutes staring blankly at Elizabeth II.

"Perhaps some tea."

"What? Yes, of course," he agreed, reaching forwards to take the cup Mycroft was holding out with restrained patience. He took a sip only to glare at it balefully before asking, "Do you have something stronger?"

Mycroft raised a quelling eyebrow, distinctly unimpressed.

If this was the sort of decision making made by his American associates when sober , Mycroft dreaded to think what level of cataclysm would be unleashed upon the world if alcohol was involved.

"Perhaps you're right," Mr Hodgeson conceded, looking rather abashed; "clear heads and all that."

"Clear thinking would certainly be a welcome change." Mycroft couldn't help but observe acidly. He steepled his fingers. "You've yet to answer my question - what did you hope to achieve with this latest act of suicidal tomfoolery?"

Mr Hodgeson was the first to look away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It seemed like a good idea," he volunteered, sounding lost and rather perplexed. "We thought if we obtained the cooperation of his landlady that he might…" he trailed off, mouth pinched like he'd swallowed a lemon.

Well, Mycroft could sympathize with that. His brother often had that impact on people - himself included. Sherlock could be… a lot to take in, even on a good day. And this was definitely not a good day. Still, while it might explain, it didn't excuse, and it certainly didn't help the precarious war his guest was embroiled in. If he knew his brother, this latest act would be like pouring napalm onto an electrical fire.

The result was guaranteed to be… explosive, to say the least.

And creative, if the last few hours were any guide.

With steely resolve, the British Government resisted the fast growing urge to start banging his head against the nearest obliging surface. Now seemed like an extraordinarily bad time to start hemorrhaging braincells, especially as it appeared the joint heads of America's Intelligences Services had already lost theirs.

"Tell me," Mycroft said, drumming his fingers on his desk and leveling his guest with a firm stare designed to make him squirm, "do you like watching the country you are sworn to protect being humiliated?"

"What?"

Mycroft sighed. This was why he had underlings to deal with people. Engaging with "normal" people was exhausting. What it must be like wandering around in those tiny little minds. How on earth did they manage?

"The United States," he explained with exaggerated slowness, "is currently being humiliated on the world stage on the hour every hour. My brother is currently working his way through the alphabet. Twenty-two minutes ago he reached L. He shows no signs of stopping, and his revenge so far has been - creative - to say the least. And that was before you decided to kick the hornets nest by taking another of his friends' hostage. I am attempting to understand the reasoning behind such an idiotic move."

"Mr Hodgeson shifted guiltily. "Well, now, you have to understand," before trailing off uncomfortably.

"Ahh, so it was leverage you were hoping to gain," Mycroft interpreted from the sullen silence. "That was… foolish of you. It has been approximately 20 hours since you… acquired John Watson. If apprehending one of my brother's associates resulted in this mess," he waved an expressive hand at the myriad of screens before them, "I fail to see what you hoped to accomplish by abducting another: particularly his elderly landlady of whom he is incredibly fond and almost pathologically a move is hardly likely to help de-escalate matters."

"You mean he's going to get worse?" Mr Hodgeson looked appropriately horrified and rather shocked, as if the thought had never even crossed his mind. How this could be a surprise to the man Mycroft had no idea. It wasn't like Sherlock had been subtle in showing his displeasure thus far.

Mycroft let out a long, slow breath and leveled a distinctly unimpressed glare at his unwelcome guest. "Of course," he answered, wondering if it was too late to start praying. He'd never been one to believe in the concept of higher powers – far to nebulous and irrational for him – but he was starting to think it might be the only hope they had of sorting this situation out before his brother succeeded in annihilating one of their most important strategic allies. At the very least it might stop him from throttling his unwelcome guest.

"You have now illegally abducted not one but two of his closest associates. If his reaction was to declare war when your tally stood only at Doctor Watson he is certainly not going to cease and desist now you've absconded with his landlady."

This perspective seemed to be virgin territory for the American, who looked positively poleaxed at the logic placed before him.

"Then how do we stop him?" Mr Hodgeson asked, rather plaintively.

Mycroft suppressed the sigh that tried to escape with steely self control. "My advice from earlier still stands," he replied in a waspish tone designed to convey just how moronic he thought the question was. "My brother has been intractable from birth. If you want this… situation to go away then you will first need to return his associates."

"As I suspect that Mrs Hudson is significantly closer geographically than our Doctor Watson, I would suggest starting by returning her to 221B without delay. Otherwise," he cast a baleful eye at the ever growing multitude of screens devoted to his brother's upset, "the situation is likely to become more… complicated."

"More complicated," the large American all but wailed, looking only a few panicked breaths from a full blown nervous breakdown. "How can it possibly get any more complicated?"

Well that was a fair question, Mycroft mused with wry amusement as he considered the chaos of the preceding 10 hours. "Where Sherlock is concerned," he stated with the finality of one one long used to the mayhem and mischief of a genius younger brother, "things can always get more complicated."

"Why is nothing going right?" Mr Hodgeson groaned pitifully. He spread his hands in a supplicating, almost pleading gesture. "This wasn't how it was supposed to go. We just want that damn briefcase found. Is that so much to ask?" The man bemoaned in an echo of how Mycroft often felt when trying to entice, cajole or outright bribe his recalcitrant sibling into helping with something he ought to have just got on with and done in the first place.

"Instead, what do we get? Chaos, humiliation and demonic fiends masquerading as harmless old ladies." The head of the FBI rubbed the back of his neck, pulling at his tie in agitation. "Do you know that old dam has managed to break fourteen of our best operatives. They've had to be sent to lie down after spending time with her, and the rest of them are now refusing to even be in the same room, let alone drive her somewhere."

"Well, now, that is… regrettable," Mycroft commented, vastly amused by the picture painted by the head of the FBI. "But my advice still stands. Returning Mrs Hudson to 221B will – hopefully – prevent any future escalation of hostilities." Mr Hodgeson nodded resignedly, his fingers tapping quickly on his phone in a way the British Government very much hoped signaled that common sense had finally gained a foothold among the American contingent.

"However, the only way to resolve this situation is for my brother to be reunited with Doctor Watson: at which point he will, in all likelihood, lose all interest in making your lives hell."

"There's really no other way?" Me Hodgeson asked at last, sounding rather desperate as he looked up from his phone.

"No."

The head of the FBI fidgeted in his seat, glancing down the electronic device in his hands then back up to Mycroft like he was hoping one or either of them would obligingly change. He swallowed roughly.

"Then we have a problem."

Mycroft had a sudden sinking feeling. The sort of foreboding that the precedes only the very worst news.

"Another one?"

Mr Hodgeson placed his unlocked phone on the desk so Mycroft could read the words illuminated on the screen.

"We appear to have lost John Watson."