Chapter Text
Mycroft pulled his legs up onto the chair and folded them underneath himself. Grand-Mère was sat next to him, chatting with Mummy about the baby and cooing over him. Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes. It was ridiculous, really, their doting over him.
The Holmeses had decided to have a home birth, much like they did with their firstborn. Unfortunately, that meant everywhere Mycroft turned, there were people asking him about the baby, and quite honestly, he didn't care whether it was 48 centimeters long or eight pounds seven ounces or any of the other ludicrous questions they asked. What did it matter? It was a baby, a boring old baby that had, until now, only cried, fed, and slept in its short life. Mycroft hardly expected it to do much else for the next year. He was already dreading hearing its cries in the middle of the night and having to change its nappies when Mummy and Father weren't around. Mycroft wasn't fond of children his own age, so why would he care about some baby?
It--because his parents hadn't chosen a name yet, and Mycroft refused to refer to the creature as he--stirred, and the adults started tutting and making a fuss. Mycroft rolled his eyes again and climbed out of the large chair, hoping to sneak down to the library to get a book to make the whole ordeal somewhat more bearable.
"Myc, come here and see," his mother called wearily. "You haven't even looked at him."
Mycroft snorted. He thought it was obvious why, but, then again, his mother wasn't nearly as bright as he was. He slowly walked over to the bed, eyes focused on the mass in his mother's arms. It had the strangest eyes--wide and discomfitting, a piercing ice blue that might have been intimidating if they didn't belong to a baby.
He stood next to the bed for a few moments, looking at it with distaste, then turned toward his mother. "I've seen him. Now may I please go get a book?"
Mummy smiled tiredly. "Here. Hold him."
Before Mycroft could protest, the baby was transferred from her arms to Grand-Mère's to his, and he was face-to-face with it.
It was heavy, much heavier than he thought an eight-pound baby should be. He had halfway expected it to cry, to demand to be returned to their mother, but it simply looked up at him with wide eyes. A black curl stuck out from the hideous hat on his head, and Mycroft stuffed it back up inside.
If their mother had expected Mycroft to have a revelation, a sudden rush of emotion for the baby, she would have been disappointed. Mycroft held it until it closed its eyes again and then handed it to Grand-Mère without a word. He snuck out of the bedroom quietly and went down to the library, where his father was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Mycroft entered.
"Shouldn't you be upstairs with your mother?" he grumbled.
Mycroft leveled his eyes. "Shouldn't you?"
His father covered his face with his hands and sighed. "I have to go to Paris tomorrow, Mycroft. This new foreign policy..."
There was a silence in the library. Mycroft knew what this meant. He and Mummy would have to take care of the baby until he came back. And Mummy wouldn't be thrilled about that arrangement, either.
"Oh," Mycroft said. There wasn't much else to say.
His father rounded the desk, standing in front of his eldest son. "Don't tell your mother. Not yet."
Mycroft nodded. He understood, of course. Father was doing what he had to. Mummy wouldn't, though. She'd yell, and there'd be an argument. But Father had a duty; queen and country and all that. Mycroft couldn't entirely grasp the concept, but he thought it was...decent. A good cause. Something to fight for. Very much had his father written all over it.
"Good." Father smiled, then patted his back. "Pick something out, and then we'll go back upstairs."
Mycroft grabbed the first book he saw and followed his father up the staircase. When they entered the bedroom again, Mummy looked much more lively and even smiled at them. Mycroft saw his father force a grin as he walked over to her.
"Do we have a name yet?" he asked, gently petting the side of the baby's face as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"What do you think about William?" Mummy looked up at Father tentatively. "I know you wanted his middle name to be your father's."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving the baby. "Perfect."
"Myc?" Mummy called, holding out a hand toward him. "Could you come here?"
Mycroft did as he was told, holding his oversized copy of Treasure Island in front of him like a shield. She grabbed one of his hands once he was close enough.
"I know you're not fond of him yet," she started, "and I realize it'll take you some time, but I know you'll get there. And, well...we want you to give him a name, too."
Mycroft blinked. What was wrong with his parents? Didn't they see how stupid they were being? He looked up at his father for support, but he only raised his eyebrows and gave him an expectant look.
He turned his gaze back to his mother. "Go on," she smiled. "Anything you like."
The baby suddenly opened its eyes and wiggled in his mother's arms. She fussed with readjusting him while Mycroft's brain fired on all cylinders.
A name. Any name.
Not something boring. Mycroft had an interesting name; a good name. They'd already chosen boring names for it. The baby needed something interesting--
"Sherlock."
His parents turned to look at him, their faces a mixture of curiosity and surprise. "Where did you hear that name?" his father asked after a moment with a chuckle.
Mycroft shrugged. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," his mother said contemplatively, looking down at the baby. "I think it's perfect." She smiled and looked up at Mycroft's smile, who nodded his approval and matched her grin with his own. "Little William," she sighed happily, brushing the baby's cheek with a finger.
In that instant, Mycroft decided he would never call the baby William.