Chapter Text
Mary had almost finished the somewhat messy activity of burping her daughter, a soiled towel on a shoulder, and she was enjoying the absence of noise in her home. She and John loved their little girl and while both were used to prolonged periods of time without sleep, the cries of their baby daughter at night were beginning to fray on their nerves. Mary, being who she was, had done her research and she knew crying at night was just a phase in a baby’s development but she secretly hoped her daughter would be ahead of the curve so they could all get some much needed sleep.
Knock, knock.
Mary jerked, turning to face the door, the arm holding her daughter tightened fractionally as she felt for a gun she no longer carried. She mentally berated herself; she was safe Mary Elizabeth Watson, wife and mother – retired, off the grid and invisible. Despite this she couldn’t quell the thought that she wasn’t expecting any visitors today and unexpected guests almost always came bearing bad news.
Quickly but cautiously she approached the front door, not wanting her visitor to press the doorbell, the shrill noise likely to set her daughter off. Opening the door with her free hand, she looked up and was started at the person who stood on her doorstep.
“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
“Mrs Watson,” he replied in a pleasant but bland tone. Her visitor was clad in his usual business attire, a grey three-piece suit this time, with his customary umbrella and a package in his hands rather than the manila file she might have expected.
For a moment Mary debated the merits of closing the door on the British Government and sharing the tale with John over dinner and laughter that night but quickly dismissed it, instead she opened the door to allow the taller man entrance into her home, her territory. Her keen eyes made a note of the black car parked outside in the street and a second glance confirmed no the absence of sharpshooters. It was only as she led Mycroft into the main living room, she realised that he’d been watching her as she assessed the potential threat level.
“I can assure you that only my driver, a diary assistant and myself in the immediate area. You need not fear the presence of snipers from my end,” Mycroft offered as his eyes flicked to the bundle in her arms. “My apologies, I didn’t meant to interrupt your routine with your daughter.”
Mary was smart enough to be wary of Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, patriot, brother. Unlike John who mostly saw him as Sherlock’s – interfering – older brother, Mary had been privy to Mycroft’s file in her past life. His background file had been light in detail and substance, but held enough for Mary to know what sort of man he was. And he had only become more powerful in the years since. Having spent most of his time avoiding any significant interaction with Mary, the elder Holmes was now in her home and he wanted to speak to Mary. Mary couldn’t help but think she’d be more comfortable being in Mycroft Holmes’ presence with her gun within reach.
“Its fine, so long as you don’t mind while I make sure this little one is burped out,” she replied politely as she paced in a small circle. There was a look in his eyes as he watched with her daughter that she couldn’t quite identify but it disappeared almost as soon as she had noticed it.
Mycroft had also chosen to remain standing although he did take a moment to place the package he’d brought with him on the coffee table. “I realise we haven’t had the opportunity to talk,” he started. “I thought the time right to rectify that now that the situation with Magnussen and its consequences have passed and the Moriarty threat subdued.”
Mary raised an eyebrow as she wiped at her daughter’s mouth and chin with a clean corner of her soiled towel. “I imagine it would have also somewhat unseemly to threaten a pregnant woman a few months ago?”
“I’m led to believe that it’s most unwise to upset a pregnant woman under any circumstance,” Mycroft riposted.
“Although one who’s given birth not six months ago is fair game?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and merely tilted his head to indicate yes.
Mary went for the direct approach. “What do you want to say to me?”
“I have a gift for your daughter, a celebration of her birth and to her health,” Mycroft replied, startling Mary with the sharp change in direction. “Well perhaps it might be more accurate to say it’s something that you and John might find beneficial to use with your daughter until she’s old enough herself.”
Mary blinked. The elder Holmes had taken her by surprise and she struggled to anticipate the man; a deliberate ploy on his part no doubt. Her gaze strayed to the package, sitting innocently on the coffee table. “Excuse me?”
Mycroft smiled again, the bland one, as he waved a hand at the package. “Please,” he encouraged her.
Checking that her daughter had finally finished burping and had fallen asleep, Mary took a minute to make sure her daughter was secure in the small bassinet they kept in the room before she sat down on the sofa. Her hands made quick work of the paper wrapping and she found herself staring at the revealed gift.
“Books?” she asked Mycroft, still standing and who now towered over her. “I know you and Sherlock are … well, Holmes, so you had a pretty skewed development curve but I’m pretty sure my daughter won’t be making use of books for a fair few years to come,” she continued. “Especially Amelia Kipling’s children stories.”
Mary picked up the top book from the stack – hardback, embossed text in gold print, a special edition. The set of books would have looked at home in a Victorian nursery, she realised. With care, Mary opened the book. After all, it wouldn’t do to crack the spine in Mycroft’s company or at all as she glanced at the dedication page.
“This is a first edition,” she said in surprise, as she carefully set the book aside and picked up another. “This one’s a second edition … and this is another first!”
Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on his umbrella. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to procure a full set of first editions,” he replied. “However I assure you this collection still remains enviable in the eyes of collectors.”
“But … why?”
“I am led to believe you’re more than capable of working that out in short order.”
Mycroft’s full attention had turned to Mary, keen blue eyes observing her reactions, read her thought through her minute twitches and Mary recognised this was a test. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to read anything in Mycroft, unless he wanted her to, so the answer had to be in the books. She picked up the first book in the set and looked closely. The Oncoming Storm.
The dedication page.
For Will. To the little boy who dreamt of adventures and then grew up to live them.
Mary gives a short laugh. “For Will. Oh my god, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Remarkable,” Mycroft said, confirming that she was correct in her supposition.
Mary blinked and something cold curled in her gut. “You know.” A statement, delivered in a cold, flat tone.
Mycroft made a noise of derision. “I’ve been aware of Mary Morstan for quite a while now,” he said. “And then I knew everything about you, Mrs Watson, a mere thirty minutes after that.”
Mary took a sharp breath and quelled her instinctive response to threaten Mycroft Holmes. “Why didn’t you tell Sherlock?”
“I concluded that you presented no threat to John Watson,” Mycroft said, but then his voice grew deeper, introspective. “I deeply regret, however, that I did not foresee the threat you posed to my little brother.”
Mary’s eyes flicked to her daughter, still safely asleep. She arched an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”
“I think we can safely say the damage has already been done, don’t you?”
Mary couldn’t think of a suitable response so she turned her notice back to the gift Mycroft had bought her daughter. Her hand traced the dedication before she closed the book and opened another to the same page. For Will. Who proved that who we are isn’t about what we do but what we’re capable of when it’s least expected. “Why expose yourself?”
Mary looked up to see the elder Holmes’ face was impassive, implacable. “As the business with Magnessen no doubt confirmed, Sherlock is my pressure point.”
Mary dipped her head in acknowledgement and waited for Mycroft to continue.
“Sherlock’s always been so … sentimental,” Mycroft continued in a toneless voice. “Were he not, things would be so much simpler, however be that it may, as he has already proven he will protect John and yourself. Even to his own detriment.”
Mycroft’s eyes dropped to the floor, lost in memories Mary supposed, so she waited.
Mycroft finally looked up, focussed on Mary. “Had you actually chosen to kill Magnussen that night, I would have protected you,”
Mary blinked as she processed the non sequitur. “I … what?”
“I want you to come to me if you ever find yourself in a similar position in the future,” Mycroft continued.
“To protect me?”
“To protect you and your family,” Mycroft confirmed much to Mary’s astonishment. “Because it’s the only way I can protect Sherlock.”
Because ultimately that was what Mycroft cared about, and Mary couldn’t blame him for that. “Does he know?”
“That I have come to see you today? No.”
Mary shook her head, ignoring Mycroft’s obvious redirection. “I mean, does he know that you are Amelia Kipling?”
“No,” Mycroft replied, far too quickly in Mary’s opinion. “At least he’s never mentioned it.” The second part of that statement – teased me about it – hung unspoken in the air. “I doubt he’s even aware of the books. Or if he ever was, he’s deleted it.”
Mary smiled, a genuine smile, at Mycroft. “I promise I won’t tell him.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite the surprise, you know,” Mary remarked.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Mary hummed. “Yes. What inspired you to write these,” she asked, gesturing at the stack of books.
The elder Holmes looked as though he was fighting the urge to fidget as he finally answered. “You’ve seen my, our, childhood home. It’s …”
“Beautiful.”
“Yes. And remote,” Mycroft added. “A fertile ground for young boys’ imaginations to grow wild and run free.”
“You’re what? Seven years older than Sherlock?” Mary asked.
“Yes.”
“Bed-time stories?”
“Yes.” Mary didn’t know what else to say on the subject and Mycroft looked as though he’d said more than he’d expected to.
Mary took a deep breath, her stomach twisted but she forced the words out regardless. “If something were to happen … you’ll protect my daughter.”
“What about John?”
Mary’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “We both know that he’d be torn between protecting our daughter and bringing hell on whomever was responsible,” Mary replied. “I doubt anything you or I could do would be able to safeguard either John, or Sherlock.”
The lack of surprise from Mycroft paradoxically comforted her. “You’ve already considered the scenario.”
“I deemed it sensible to consider all the probabilities,” Mycroft confirmed. “And yes I will, although I sincerely hope that it need not come to that.”
“I hope my trust isn’t misplaced.”
“Nor mine, MrsWatson,” Mycroft responded. “I should be going.”
A quick glance at the bassinet assured Mary that her daughter was still sleeping, although it was likely she would once again keep her up during that night. “Thank you for the gift,” she said to Mycroft as she stood up.
“Perhaps something to read to little girls who stay awake at night? I found it worked on little brothers.”
Mary couldn’t hold back a small smile. Mycroft Holmes, British Government, the most dangerous man she’d ever met; a caring, indulgent big brother. The last aspect to the man was something that had never appeared in his background file amongst other agencies, and never would if Mycroft had his way, which he would, Mary knew.
But it didn’t stop it from being the truth.