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The crying has already lasted three minutes and twenty four seconds and risen in pitch twice. Mycroft has moved beyond irritation at the night nanny clearly not doing her job, to analysis of the fact that he cannot ignore this sound. Despite having delegated the task, issuing clear instructions on response times and actions to be taken, he is becoming increasingly alarmed and irritated. It’s as if the sound is poking at some deep, previously unaccessed part of his brain, sparking a whole cascade of hormonal and chemical responses.
Pushing back the duvet and swinging his legs out of the bed, Mycroft pauses for a moment to allow his bones and muscles to settle into place before taking on the challenging task of standing up. He had been awake, of course, when the crying had begun, but still is far from leaping into action. He knows without looking at the clock that it is around 2.15 am. He checks anyway.
Crossing the plush, cream carpet to the door and struggling into his grey silk dressing gown from the back of his door, Mycroft sighs; these nighttime emergencies are becoming harder to react to. At least no-one is trying to blow up the country this time.
Out in the panelled hall, Mycroft comes face to face with Nanny Lisa strolling up and down, each step including a little bounce at the knee in an attempt to soothe Rosie. It is clearly not working; Rosie’s face is bright red with the effort of sustained crying, tears and snot pouring down her poor, small face, hair plastered to her head with sweat.
“I’m sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to wake you, Miss just isn’t able to settle.”
“Have you checked her nappy? Offered her a drink? A bottle? Does she have a temperature? What is the temperature in her room?” He strides off, the nanny, with Rosie, in his wake.
“Yes, Sir.” Nanny Lisa works hard to keep the sarcasm from her voice; twenty years of nannying and this first-timer is asking if she has checked the child’s nappy.
Mycroft does a sweep of the room, checking all the windows are still secure with their motion detector alarms in place then confirming the ambient temperature is still exactly 18 degrees. He checks the ceiling for any changes and lays the back of his hand on the indent Rosie has left in the cot for any signs of fever. It is now cold.
“Sir?”
Mycroft ignores the Nanny, oblivious to the way Rosie’s crying has escalated to sobs. He undertakes a perimeter check of the room, looking for anything that may have unnerved the child. At the same time, he goes through the checklist he developed for such an event; nappy, hunger, thirst - check, check and check. He moves to the secondary list; cold, warm, startled, loss of snuggie babbit.
“Sir!”
“Does she have her snug- cuddly rabbit toy?” Turning to face the Nanny, Mycroft finally sees that Rosie is straining out of her tight grasp towards him.
“Nunc! Nunc!” Rosie’s little hands are clenching and unclenching.
“I think she wants you, Sir.”
Mycroft’s analytical gaze flicks from the professional childcare worker to the baby in her arms and back again. Frowning, he raises his arms slightly and steps closer. Rosie leans further towards him, almost perpendicular to the Nanny now. For God’s sake, why does he have to do everything himself?
Sliding his hands in under Rosie’s armpits, he lifts her to his chest. His chin drops to her head as he wraps one arm under her bottom, wraps the other tightly around her back and pulls her in close.
“Sssh, little one,” he whispers awkwardly, turning his back to the Nanny, “It’s Ok, Rosamund, it’s Ok.” They release a collective sigh, Rosie burying her head into Mycroft’s chest as he, in turn, drops a cautious kiss to the top of her head.
He sends the nanny back to her own room before he and Rosie descend to the kitchen. There, he only switches on the rope lighting at the base of the cream cupboards, their warm yellow light reflecting back up off the dark grey granite floor tiles to fill the room with a dim, even glow. Mycroft pulls out his usual high stool at the kitchen island but finds it hard to balance his weight with Rosie at his front. Now that she has calmed, Rosie’s sweat-soaked pajamas are cooling so they wander into the den long enough to collect Rosie’s puppy-covered fleece blanket. Mycroft wraps it around her, making sure she can still reach snuggie babbit.
Their movement triggers security and the intercom by the french windows buzzes. Mycroft presses the receive button, giving the necessary code. “Alpha Omega Kilo,” expanding with, “All well here, just myself and Miss Watson,” reassuring his recently-expanded night protection team.
They open the enormous chrome fridge; Mycroft’s regular night time wanderings nearly always include the fridge. When he finds it inevitably empty, he usually then moves to his well-stocked drinks cabinet. Tonight, the fridge is full of fruit and vegetables to be able to meet all of Rosie’s tastes. He pulls out the platter of small mixed fruit, all cut to a suitable size to prevent choking. Rosie perks up at the sight of the multicoloured fruit and makes a grab for the raspberries.
Pulling out the chair at the dining table, he sits and places the fruit on the table, sitting Rosie on his lap. They take it in turns to share the tastiest pieces; strawberries, kiwi, blueberries and grapes all meeting Rosie’s approval. Each time he hands her a piece of fruit, Mycroft utters a soft but enunciated ‘thank you.’ Manners are so important, he tells her. Rosie smiles up at Mycroft when he hands her the last of the melon with a delighted “oooo”. “You’re welcome,” he smiles back.
Belly full, Rosie yawns and Mycroft wraps her more fully in her blanket. They go through the arch to sit on the couch in the den, the room lit only by the dim glow through the doorway from the kitchen. Mycroft narrowly avoids tripping over the blue plastic box filled with the few toys he had invested in for Rosie’s stay. He sits at one end of the sofa, throws his feet up and leans his head back on the arm, half lying. He draws the sleepy child to his chest and listens carefully to her breathing.
This has gone far better than he had anticipated. He was equally horrified and surprised when John Watson had phoned and suggested that Mycroft ‘get to know Rosie a little better; after all, she’s your family now.’
Family. As if Mycroft was any good at family. He had tried. God, knows he had tried, but look how that had all turned out. He had made an unholy mess of it all. All those years spent trying to protect Sherlock and in the end, he had been the cause of Sherlock being tortured and the death of so many innocent people.
That John Watson had trusted him with his most precious of things, his daughter, was still a source of confusion to Mycroft. It was not as if he had a good record at taking care of girls.
John Watson. Mycroft has very mixed feelings about John Watson. He has always understood that John Watson was, at heart, a soldier, but Mycroft has kept a close eye on this man for years; witnessed the evolving closeness between him and Sherlock, a closeness Mycroft had never experienced with another human being. It filled him with both fear and jealousy in equal parts, both of which he had squashed down and ignored. During those years John had believed Sherlock dead, Mycroft had kept a deliberate distance, unable to witness the grief and heartbreak at close hand. It had been heartbreak, of that he was certain.
John had got his own back though, hadn’t he? Had broken Sherlock’s heart right back in return by marrying that, that viper . John’s taste in life partners had done nothing to make Mycroft any more trusting of the man. He had despaired at John’s stupidity, his self-deceptive blindness to his wife’s true nature. Except it turned out, he wasn’t as obtuse as Mycroft had believed. John had come to understand the utter idiocy of the choices he had made; Mary over Sherlock, one dangerous liar over another.
Of course, as always, it had been Mycroft that had picked up the pieces. That awful day when John had turned in on himself after that wife had died. Turned all his self-hatred and bone-deep, utterly unaccepted relief at her death outwards and directed it all at Sherlock. Mycroft had seen every mark, every cut and bruise the man had left on Sherlock’s face and ribs. It had shocked Mycroft; he had never, ever expected John to see Sherlock as the enemy. It was going to take Mycroft a long time to forgive John what he had done.
Rosie shifts in Mycroft’s arms, her breathing slowing and she gets heavier as she relaxes, pressing down onto Mycroft’s chest. He leans slightly in towards the back of the sofa to oppose the chance of her slipping as she falls asleep. Her face, in repose, looks more like her father’s.
Mycroft contemplates her delicate face. Maybe she will grow to be more like the version of her father that had stood; bravely, patiently, at Sherlock’s side as they were blown up, tortured, drugged and kidnapped. In Sherrinford, faced with the choice between his own life and that of Mycroft and Sherlock, John Watson had calmly agreed that Mycroft was, in fact, right. That Mycroft’s life was more valuable than his own, that Sherlock should shoot him.
As if that would ever happen. Mycroft puffs out a small breath of air over Rosie’s head at the ridiculousness of such an idea.
At that moment, when it had come down to it, the choice had been a simple one for Mycroft. He had got them into this; it was all his fault. Yet again, he had failed to protect Sherlock. Only, this time, he was resigned to the fact that the person Sherlock most needed protecting from was Mycroft; his failure of a big brother. So, the last thing he could do, the only thing he could do, was make sure Sherlock had the one person, possibly the only person, who loved Sherlock for who he was and not for Sherlock’s utility to them. That John Watson loves Sherlock is no longer of doubt to Mycroft. Whether his little brother chooses to see it too, only time will tell.
Mycroft’s own breathing settles. As he drifts asleep for the first time in three nights, squashed under the little body of Rosie Watson, a toy rabbit tucked under his chin, Mycroft Holmes’ last thought is that this has turned out to be rather pleasant, after all.
He wakes with a screech, half sitting as he registers the noise. Captain Evans, his close personal protection officer, is standing next to the sofa, his hand lightly resting on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“Where..where is she?” Mycroft gasps, eyes wide, scanning the room.
“Miss Watson is fine, Sir. The day nanny is with her. I believe she has had a bath and is getting dressed.”
Mycroft tries to control his breathing. Captain Evan has found him like this enough times before to know Mycroft is not checking on Rosie, but neither man feels the need to confirm this.
“Take your time, Sir.” Evans goes down on his heels to study Mycroft more closely. Satisfied his charge is calming down, he stands and takes a step back, moving towards the archway into the kitchen.
Mycroft scrubs a hand over his face and takes in Evan’s jacket, the level of daylight, the volume of traffic on the road outside and the absence of birdsong. His internal clock settles on 10.25.
“You should have woken me.”
“Well, Sir...” Evans stops and turns. He straightens his shoulders. His role as close protection officer is a far cry from his campaigns in Afghanistan, but he and Mycroft have a long and complex history, even if they only met for the first time three months ago. Mycroft had wanted to increase his personal level of security and Captain Evans had come highly recommended from a number of sources. Not a man afraid of conflict, he stands his ground.
“You needed to sleep, Sir. You have the morning off work, what better way to use it than to catch up of some rest?”
Mycroft stares back at him, unaccustomed to being challenged.
Captain Evans decides to chance his luck a little further. What’s the worst that can happen? They can’t send him back to Afghanistan anymore.
“Maybe some breakfast?”
Mycroft mumbles his habitual “I’m not hungry,” remembering the fruit he consumed with Rosie. He can’t recall the last time he ate breakfast.
“Nonsense.” Murray responds, conducting a military turn and heading to the kitchen. “Anna can make you an omelette; even the child ate some scrambled eggs.” He issues the instruction to the chef who is standing in the pristine kitchen wiping down a counter that does not need cleaning. She grins with delight at having something to do. By the time Mycroft has formulated a response, Murray has gone.
Mycroft eats the eggs.
Washed and dressed in his favourite grey suit, Mycroft finds himself at an unaccustomed loose end; he has taken the morning off work in order to supervise Rosie’s care and so far Anthea has, naturally, managed to deal with everything herself.
Phone and e-mails checked, and for the want of anything better to do, he goes in search of the day nanny and Rosamund. He finds them on the floor of his enormous living room playing with the toys he had personally selected for Rosie; problem-solving tasks designed to support gross motor coordination. Mycroft had been particularly careful to avoid anything made of pink plastic. He was aghast at the number of toys aimed at girls that incorporated sparkles .
Nanny is busily sorting all the blocks, giant wooden jigsaw pieces and toy musical instruments into the blue plastic box. Mycroft steps forward in annoyance; how dare she take the toys away from the child? As he does, Rosie leans over and reaches into the box, defiantly removing a block, then a jigsaw piece and throwing them on the floor.
“Oh! You cheeky monkey. Put that back!” The nanny screws up her face in exaggerated annoyance.
Rosie laughs and carries on dumping the toys onto the floor.
“Why is she doing that?” Mycroft’s annoyance dissolves with the delighted giggle from Rosie.
The nanny smiles up from her position of lying on her belly on the floor.
“She thinks she is being naughty. She thinks she is getting one over on me and loves that. It’s all about testing boundaries and learning self-autonomy. When she has everything out, she will start piling things back into the box again, just watch.”
Mycroft does just that, studying the child’s coordination, and her physical strength in standing and reaching over the box to collect an item she has missed. The fun is interrupted by the peal of Mycroft’s phone; a text message from John.
How’s Rosie? Will be there to collect her at 12.00 as agreed.
Mycroft responds:
All is well. No need to hurry. MH
He doesn’t need to be at work until 1pm and is astounded to discover that he is rather enjoying himself.
Rosie and Mycroft share one of the freshly-baked blueberry scones that have appeared on the kitchen counter, followed by a stroll around Mycroft’s immaculately landscaped gardens. Rosie instigates a game of chase by the simple expedient of running away from Mycroft, laughing at the top of her lungs. Chasing after her forces Mycroft to discard his jacket, hanging it on the branch of a tree, and undo the bottom button of his waistcoat. When they return inside, Mycroft observes that the tree would be ideal for a small rope swing.
When John and Sherlock arrive, they find Rosie sat up at the dining table, boosted by a pile of cushions, squishing something between her tiny fingers. Mycroft is sat beside her, solemnly handing her new bits of the mysterious substance.
He assesses his little brother with a single, sharp gaze. Ah, so that is how things are now. About time too. Good.
Sherlock returns the gaze, habitually assessing his brother’s dress and weight, a snipe sitting on the end of his tongue. Something draws him up short, seeing a shift in Mycroft’s eyes, a change in the tilt of his shoulder.
“Da!” shouts a delighted Rosie and John swoops in, scooping her up into a hug, kissing and blowing raspberries on her cheek. Sherlock follows him a moment later, placing a single kiss carefully on her cheek.
“What have you got there?” John takes the squishy stuff from Rosie’s hand.
“It’s homemade playdough. Flour, water and oil,” Sherlock answers for her. He looks steadily at his brother. “Mummy used to make it for us when we were little; it was one of Eurus’ favourites. She liked stirring food colouring into the oil and water mixture and then watching them separate.” Mycroft gives an almost imperceptible nod of agreement.
John and Rosie follow nanny Clare to gather Rosie’s things while Sherlock and Mycroft remain in the kitchen.
“Congratulations, brother mine.”
“Thank you. Of course, you knew what you were doing with your insinuation. John, however, believes we owe you a debt of thanks.”
“You do not concur?”
Sherlock cannot help but grin at his older brother “It’s early yet, but, yes.Thank you, Mycroft.”
He is unexpectedly taken aback by his brother’s easy, open expression of appreciation. He owes Sherlock so much; has so much to make up for that this is but a tiny drop in the ocean. He has a lifetime ahead of him making things up to his little brother.
“How did you get on with Rosie? I see you have slept. And eaten.” Sherlock raises a curious eyebrow.
“Indeed. She does seem to have a way of distracting you from one’s usual concerns.”
Sherlock steps in, closer than they have been in quite some time. He places a careful hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“She is healing, Mycroft. I don’t know if it's just her, I suspect not, it is probably all children, but I know she has a way of making everything seem better. It's her sheer vivacity. She fills spaces in me that I didn’t even know I had. Sometimes, when I hold her, it just seems like something jarring has clicked into place.”
He steps back, anticipating the usual scorn at such sentimentality from his brother. Instead Mycroft just surveys him in silence.
“I am glad things are well again between you and John. I should be happy to take Rosie again if you need some time alone.”
Sarcasm comes to Sherlock’s lips, caustic comments about Mycroft being the last person he would have asked to care for a child, his instinctive alarm at John’s decision. The spite sits on his lip and develops a bitter taste.
“I feel sure we may take you up on that offer. You know, Mycroft, you could do worse than to allow someone to care for you.”
Mycroft snorts derisively “Who on earth would want to take on such a task?”
“Well, Lestrade is still looking for ‘the one’. He asks me how you are doing every time we meet. I could put in a good word for you there? Failing that, you could do worse than to find yourself an army Captain of your own.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
Mycroft’s response is interrupted by John and Rosie’s return, closely followed by Evans chatting animatedly to John.
“Come along, John, let’s go home.” Sherlock heads for the door.
“Do you have snuggy babbit, John?”
“Yeah, and, cheers Mycroft, you know, for having her. Well, for everything actually.”
“The pleasure is all mine. After all, we are family.”
John is heading out the door when Rosie starts shouting.
“Nunc! Nunc!”
John turns, puzzled. Rosie is straining in his arms, reaching out over his shoulder towards Mycroft. He passes her to Mycroft, who gives the child a quick squeeze. Self-consciously, deeply wishing there were not three men stood watching him, he leans down and presses a kiss to her head.
“Good bye, Rosie. Be a good girl now, for your Fathers. Uncle Mycroft shall see you soon.”