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The security which surrounds Mycroft’s office has been subtlety elevated to art. It has proven itself effective in the past when challenged by disguised members of the press, suicide bombers, a friendly-looking elderly woman wielding a tea trolley bearing arsenic-laced sugar lumps, a flock of angry parrots (he is still convinced Sherlock was behind that incident, though he cannot, frustratingly, prove it), over-ambitious girl guides, over-ambitious agents of the FSB, and on one memorable occasion an extraordinarily determined American film actor bent on ‘researching’ his upcoming role. Various other scenarios have presented themselves, both great and small.
What it seems this work of art is not attuned to is a welder from Hackney who is wildly swinging a croquet mallet and raving incoherently about closures on the Jubilee Line.
Mycroft regains consciousness after only a few short minutes, but he has been out long enough for the intruder to have secured the forearms of himself, Dr Watson, and Sherlock, each man to his own chair, using various pieces of clothing. He notes with distaste the sock biting into the fabric of his jacket on the left and the matching shoestring on the right. Across from him, the good doctor looks resigned. Sherlock, he notes sourly, is positively gleeful.
“You should probably secure our legs as well,” his brother points out.
“Yes,” Mycroft responds bitingly, “do let him know where I keep the cable ties.”
“Bottom drawer on the left,” Sherlock instructs. “All the way in the back,” he adds as the intruder begins rummaging through the indicated drawer.
Mycroft grinds out, “I will tell you where the duct tape is kept if you promise you will gag the gangly one.”
“Why should he gag me?” Sherlock asks cheerfully. “I’m being helpful.”
“Yes, you certainly are, brother dear,” sneers Mycroft as his ankles are secured to the chair’s legs. “Your government thanks you.”
Sherlock has the gall to look affronted. “As it rightfully should. Your government claims to be interested, no, invested even, in the rights of its citizens. This man’s demands are therefore lent grandiose importance by the very existence of your government. He has the right to be heard," his brother finished piously.
“He has the right,” Mycroft bites out, “to line up with the rest of his kind and wait his turn in Hyde Park if he’d like to be heard. He certainly has no right to make hostages of government workers.”
Sherlock snorts. “Please.” He turns back to the intruder. "What are your demands? I should review them before the authorities arrive.”
“I just want to get on the bloody tube when it suits me!”
“Oh, we can do better than that,” Sherlock assures him.
Mycroft cuts off this exchange ruthlessly. “My dear man, I assure you that we in this office have nothing to do with Transport whatsoever.” The word transport is intoned as if it were something nasty he had stepped in, recently enough that the unpleasant scent still lingers in his nasal passages, making him curl his nose in distaste.
Sherlock dismisses this statement with a brisk tsking noise. “Don’t believe him. Nothing goes on in England without first being approved by this office. Now, how would you feel about being knighted, or perhaps elevated to a peerage? You should demand money as well, especially if you take a peerage; upkeep is expensive,” he advises sagely.
“Sherlock. If you continue in this vein I will make you regret it.”
“If you’re really married to the tube, you should demand your own personal locomotive. Our lives are definitely worth at least that.”
“Oh, for – no one is going to believe that this man is prepared to beat the three of us to death, one after another, with a croquet mallet. Be sensible, Sherlock!”
“I shouldn’t think he’ll beat me to death; I’m being helpful. Do pay attention.”
Finally, John bursts out, “Shut up! Both of you just shut up! I honestly cannot take it any more. You are never allowed to be in the same room together ever again, do you hear me? If I find myself with the two of you again I’m going to shoot one of you. I'm going to just walk up to one or the other of you, whichever of you happens to be nearest, and shoot you dead. No questions asked. Have you got it? No. Questions. Asked!”
In the startled silence that follows, which is punctuated only by John’s harsh breathing, the intruder walks over to him and regards him solemnly. He asks, “Are they always like this, mate?”
In a tone of flat resignation, he responds, “Yes. Always.”
The intruder nods thoughtfully, then unties him. “You can go,” he says. “I’m really sorry about this. I hope the rest of your day is better.”
John blinks at him, startled. “Right. Okay. Erm, thanks.” He hastily leaves the room.
The intruder turns to Mycroft. “Where's the duct tape?”
There is no chance for him to answer, because at that moment the intruder is felled by a crossbow bolt to the right shoulder. He collapses onto the ground, clutching his shoulder and moaning in pain.
Anthea steps through the door decisively. “So sorry, sir, I was on a tea break.”