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Greg Lestrade was never sure how to feel when a big black car rolled up next to him as he was leaving the Yard. Sometimes he was simply picked up, to be taken somewhere more convenient to update Mycroft Holmes on the status of a case involving the younger Holmes. Those meetings were usually foreshadowed with warning texts to be prepared. Sometimes he was offered just what he needed, whether a trip home in bad weather or takeaway meal. Those rides were usually late in the evening after a particularly long day.
It was rare that anyone was inside the luxury car, besides the driver. This time, though, when the door swung open, it was the leggy brunette who usually accompanied Mycroft, leaning out to get his attention. It was even rarer to see that she wasn't attached to her mobile. Greg wasn't experienced at reading behind her always-professional facade, but he couldn't help noticing that she seemed a little flustered. That wasn't a good sign. Given what she had to have seen, it would take a lot for her to feel out of her depths.
Without the usual pleasantries, she spoke. "I'm glad we caught you, Detective Inspector. We need your services."
"We? Where's Mycroft?" Greg asked.
The woman leaned back into the car, which revealed a boy curled up, asleep, on the seat next to her. He looked like he'd just been picked up from a posh school, since he was wearing light trousers, a white shirt, a striped tie, and a navy blazer. The horn-rimmed glasses tucked into his top pocket just made the picture more adorable.
"Whose child are you minding, then?"
"You won't believe me when I tell you, but please come with us."
It was the flash of desperation in her eyes that made Greg decide to enter the car. "Yeah, all right then," he said. She looked away and shifted across the seat, scooping the boy against her side to make room for the policeman, but she refused to say any more or meet Greg's eyes. They made the trip in silence until the car pulled up in front of his flat.
He exited, pulling out his keys, and she followed, with the boy in her arms. Greg opened doors for her, building and flat, until finally they were settled in his lounge, with the boy still asleep on one end of the sofa. She sat on the other, with Greg in an armchair. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, ready to find out more.
"So what's this about?"
"Mycroft has always had the greatest respect for you, Detective Inspector. He has often praised your loyalty and your dedication. It's your imagination, balanced by your need for justice, without being unnecessarily bound to the letter of the law, that allowed you to find a way for Sherlock to contribute all those years ago."
Greg ducked his head and ran a hand behind his neck. "Yeah, ok, thanks, but this isn't about me, is it?"
"I think it has to be. Those qualities, and your protective nature, make you the only person I could ask for assistance in this rather ... unusual situation."
"So Mycroft didn't send you?"
"He couldn't."
Greg startled. "Is he ok? Does he need help?"
"Yes, although currently, he's unaware." Her eyes moved back to the sleeping boy, who was beginning to stir.
"How can I help? Do his people know?" Greg was becoming irritated at her unwillingness to answer his questions directly. It was only his knowledge of how much typically went unspoken about Mycroft, his position, and his responsibilities that kept him from losing his temper.
"Yes and no."
"Out with it! This is no time for your usual games. Just tell me what he needs."
"Right now? Someone to take care of him."
The boy opened his eyes. He seemed to wake up all at once, looking around the flat and taking everything in. He settled on Greg and tentatively smiled, sitting up, straightening his clothes, and putting his glasses on. Softly, he said, extending his hand, "Hello, sir. May I introduce myself? I'm Mycroft Holmes."
Greg fell back in his chair, breath leaving in a whoosh. He looked at the woman, then back at the boy. "Nice trick. Don't know why you'd want to prank a copper, but you picked a good choice for the kid. Has the right manners and voice, but Mycroft's hair is brown, not ginger."
"Inspector, I warned you that you would find the situation unbelievable. And he dyes it."
The boy began frowning, since his hand had been ignored. He slid down from the sofa and walked closer to the older man. "Did I say something wrong? Your profession would suggest that you weren't normally rude, since you're used to dealing with all kinds of people, although perhaps rough-spoken."
Greg looked more closely at the child. "Sorry, Mycroft, you said? How old are you? How did you know what I do? And why are you here?"
"I'm eight, it's obvious you're a detective from your coat and your shoes, and I'm not sure. Miss Brown said I needed somewhere safe to stay. It's been a confusing day." He was frowning again, as though he couldn't quite remember something.
She spoke before he got lost in his head. "Don't worry, Mycroft. This is Greg Lestrade, and you're right, he's a police officer. That's why he's going to make sure you're taken care of while I find the right people to help you get back home."
Greg glared over the boy's head at her. She was already standing up and heading for the exit. He hurriedly told the boy, "Just sit here. I have to ask her some grown-up questions before she leaves, but I'll be right back."
He hurried behind her and pushed on the door to keep it closed before she could escape. He hissed at her, "What's the game?"
She stared into his eyes and spoke frankly. "I promise you, Detective Inspector, that's Mr. Holmes. Earlier this afternoon, a cake was delivered to his office. The card mentioned an old nanny hoping he'd find what he needed, he said something about it reminding him of his childhood, and after he took a bite, that was the result. He's been sleeping most of the time since. Magical transformation apparently takes a lot out of someone."
"Is everyone mad? That can't happen." Greg was clinging desperately to rationality in spite of what he had begun to suspect was the truth.
"Yet it did. I need to track down the source of the pastry and work out how we recover him before the wrong people realize he's ... not himself right now. And you're the only one I trust to protect him without taking advantage."
"Of course I will, but..." Greg trailed off as he shook his head. "Does he remember anything? What does he know?"
"Nothing beyond his chronological age. Try not to spook him. We're not sure what effect his actions now might have."
"Can you get me some more clothes for him? Pajamas, at least? What does he like to do?"
"I really need to go, Inspector. What he needs will be delivered here shortly, now that you've agreed to the mission." She slipped out the door after placing a card with her number into Greg's hand. He wasn't paying much attention to her any more, lost in thought about what this meant and how to proceed.
Greg returned to the lounge, with new determination. If this was how everyone wanted to pretend the world worked, he'd play along with the madness. No one here to watch him, anyway, and whether or not the kid was really Mycroft, he was still a boy who needed a safe place to stay. So he'd work on that.
"Sorry about that, Mycroft. Just a few details to work out. Including a delivery coming with some more comfortable clothes for you."
"Thank you, sir," the boy replied, "but I'm fine. Mummy says that being properly dressed means you fit in anywhere."
"Your Mummy has some old-fashioned ideas, kid. But never you mind. What would you like for dinner?"
Mycroft looked a little panicked. "Whatever you have is fine by me, sir."
"Ok, stop that. We're going to be friends, so you should call me Greg."
"Oh, I couldn't do that. Mummy says we need to show proper respect to adults and authority figures."
Greg needed to switch tactics. "It's ok to have an opinion of your own, Mycroft. I know things are difficult right now, so I want to do something that makes you happy."
The child looked blank, as though that had never been a consideration. Trying not to think about what that meant about Mycroft's childhood, Greg instead tried to remember the training he'd had on how to deal with children in a traumatic situation. Something about giving them a restricted choice, so they could make a decision and establish a feeling of control, but within boundaries. "How about this? I can cook eggs and bacon and toast, so we can have breakfast for dinner, or I can have Chinese takeaway delivered. Which would you like?"
Mycroft pondered before quietly asking, "Would the breakfast be ok?"
"Sure, that's grand. Nice and comfortable." The doorbell rang, and Greg returned from answering it with a leather travel bag full of clothes. "I'm going to put this in the bedroom. You can change after dinner. In the meantime, come sit in the kitchen with me."
Mycroft wasn't a chatty child, it seemed, but he appeared to enjoy watching Greg pull together the quick but tasty meal. Greg handed the boy his plate when it was ready, then gestured for him to follow him to the sofa. Greg put his plate down on the coffee table and went back to the kitchen for drinks, lager for him, a glass of milk for the boy. When he returned, Mycroft hadn't touched his food.
"Everything ok?"
"Are you sure it's all right to eat here?" Mycroft looked scared. "What if I spill?"
Greg laughed. "Then you'll be right at home. I've already spilled everything possible out here. Anything happens, we'll clean it up. Go on, give it a try." He nudged Mycroft's shoulder and turned on the match results. He wanted to give the boy some space so he didn't feel watched. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Mycroft was tentatively starting to eat.
Although Mycroft didn't finish everything on his plate, Greg was satisfied that he'd eaten enough. And he'd enjoyed the novelty of company for dinner at home. It had been a while since anyone had come by for a meal. Best not to think about that too long.
After he turned off the telly and took their plates and glasses back into the kitchen, Greg did some minimal cleanup and returned to the lounge. "What do you do to entertain yourself, Mycroft? You've had plenty of sleep, and it's still early."
"I like to read, sir."
"Do you want to look at my books and pick something out?"
Mycroft's eyes lit up, and he almost ran over to the shelves on the far wall. As he scanned the books, he kept looking back over at Greg. Greg knew that expression. It was Holmes deduction at work. Mycroft was drawing conclusions from his random thrillers and local histories, probably checking how well-thumbed the page edges were to find which he'd last read. "See anything you like, Mycroft? Or would you like me to read something to you?" Greg remembered how comforting hearing a caring voice was when he had felt upset as a child.
The boy froze and then slowly turned, barely able to look up at the older man. "Would you?"
Greg shook his head. Explained a lot, if this was the kind of child-raising they grew up with. And then he wondered when he'd begun believing the crazy tale that this was Sherlock's scary older brother as a kid. But he owed him an answer. "Sure, what d'ya like?"
Sadly, that was another question Mycroft had trouble answering. Greg sent him off to get changed while he thought about what the child might enjoy. He didn't own a copy of the book he finally settled on, but it was old enough that it could be found on the internet.
When Mycroft returned, wearing classically striped pajamas, buttoned top and all, Greg had seated himself in one corner of the sofa and dropped a cozy throw on the other. "Tuck your feet up, Mycroft. I've picked something I think you'll like. It's got knights and chess and logic puzzles and imagination."
The boy hesitantly settled himself, pulling the blanket over his legs, as Greg started with "One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it: —— it was the black kitten's fault entirely."
Greg had barely gotten through Jabberwocky -- he'd forgotten the poem came so early in the book, but it was great fun pronouncing the nonsense words, and Mycroft's eyes had lit up at the adventure described -- before the child was drifting off again. Greg carefully snuck back to his bedroom, tidied up a few things, and drew back the blankets. Then he returned and lifted Mycroft, carrying him to the bed and gently tucking him in before grabbing his sleep pants and returning to the sofa for the night.
When Greg's mobile went off at 6 AM, he was glad he'd had a relatively early night. Facing dead bodies fueled by bad coffee was part of the job, but he struggled to cope with them, his team, and the survivors without enough rest.
He blamed the early hour for why it took him too long to realize he had a situation to manage. What would he do with Mycroft? He couldn't leave the boy on his own. Best to hope it wouldn't disturb him too much to be taken along and left in the car. He'd bring the tablet with Through the Looking Glass and let him read the rest of that; he'd seemed to enjoy it well enough last night.
Decision made, he quietly went back to the bedroom to wake the boy, only to find open eyes already watching him, with the blanket clutched up to his chin. "Sleep ok, Mycroft?" Greg asked.
"Fine, sir," Mycroft responded.
"I'm glad you're already awake. I didn't want to scare you but work's starting early today. And I was hoping you wouldn't mind coming with me."
"Really? Is that acceptable?"
Greg wished they weren't back to the question of propriety. "Gonna have to be, kid. I'm not leaving you alone until things are more settled. There should be another outfit for you in the bag. I'll get showered, and we'll get breakfast on the way." Greg scooped up some clothes and hurried into the bathroom.
By the time he'd changed -- thank goodness he'd been awake enough to grab everything he needed -- Mycroft had gotten himself dressed in a jumper and trousers and made them both toast, recalling where everything was from their meal the night before. "Thanks, Mycroft, that's right thoughtful of you," Greg said, in response to which the boy looked astonishingly grateful to have contributed, and to be acknowledged for it.
Greg hustled them out the door and down to the pavement, where a panda car was waiting to pick him up. Sally Donovan was driving, and if it hadn't been so early, she'd have looked more surprised to see her boss accompanied by a child. "Who's the kid?" she asked, as Greg opened the backseat door for Mycroft.
"My cousin's boy Mike," Greg improvised. "Had a little family situation last night, needed someone to take care of him for a day or two." Greg hoped Mycroft's team could work that fast. "He won't be any trouble, right, Mike?"
"My name is Mycr --" Mycroft started to say, but Greg held a finger to his lips as he shut the door. Mycroft nodded back at him and stopped talking.
"Have it your way," Donovan shrugged as Greg put himself in the passenger seat, and she pulled away.
As Donovan parked and got out of the car at the crime scene, Greg turned around and handed his tablet to Mycroft. "Here's the book we were reading last night." After she'd left, he continued, "Sorry for shushing you, but I think we should keep your name a secret for now."
He should have known a Holmes would pick up on implications quickly. "Am I in danger?" Mycroft asked.
"I hope not, but better safe than sorry, until I can find out more today. You don't mind a nickname, do you?"
"Usually, yes, but you say it differently than Mummy does," the child responded.
"That's a good boy. If you need anything, just ask anyone in a uniform to find DI Lestrade for you." Greg couldn't resist ruffling the boy's hair as he got out of the car.
Of course this would happen. Greg sighed as he caught sight of the long coat flapping in the breeze. It would be too early to deal with Sherlock Holmes on a normal day, let alone one where he was hiding his now-younger brother from everyone. Thankfully, the consulting detective was trailed by Dr. Watson, who had his sleeping toddler strapped to his front in a baby sling. John's presence was usually a modifier for calm.
"Sherlock, John, early to see you two. How's Rosie?" Greg asked. If he got them talking, maybe they wouldn't notice anything amiss.
"Fine, Greg," John responded. "This one," he nodded towards Sherlock, who was already skulking up to the bodies, "forgot to go to sleep last night, so when he saw the cars heading out, he decided tracking them would be more interesting than figuring out why his brother wasn't answering his texts."
"Why's he looking for Mycroft, then?" Greg hoped his question would be taken for normal curiosity.
"Dunno. Something about warning him, but I'm never sure what those two really mean when they get into it."
John was cut off by Donovan noticing the toddler and deciding to comment. "Boss, you're not the only one bringing a child to work today. Do we need to start setting up childcare for our murder scenes?"
John pinned a stare on Greg. "You brought a kid? Whose?"
Greg sighed. He didn't like lying to John, but thankfully, the doctor usually believed what he was told. "Unexpected family emergency. A cousin. He's in the panda."
Except Mycroft was no longer in the car. Sherlock had seen him -- Greg blamed himself for looking towards the vehicle more frequently than usual -- and dragged him over to the group, demanding "Graham, explain who this is." Mycroft looked both confused and concerned at being manhandled, an expression too adult for his young face.
John stepped in. "Sherlock, that's Greg's cousin."
Mycroft shook off Sherlock's hand from his wrist and moved to stand next to Greg, slightly behind him, as if seeking his protection from the tall brunette.
"Ridiculous, John. Grant's gene pool would in no way produce a child who happens to have ginger coloring and that nose."
Greg heard the small voice behind him mutter, "Unless there was marriage or adoption or a close family friend involved." Greg should have realized, that if anything would break the quiet Mycroft out of his shell, it would be spatting with his brother. Even if he didn't know who he was yet.
Greg rubbed his hands over his face and in a last-ditch effort at distraction asked, "Sherlock, can you go back to the dead bodies?"
That got Mycroft to speak more loudly, as he peered around his protector. "Sherlock? I thought Mummy came up with that name for my little brother."
Sherlock huffed, affronted. "Your younger sibling must be named after me. I'm often in the papers."
"Oh, no," the boy responded. "Mummy would never do anything so common."
Greg groaned. He wasn't surprised that any Holmes lacked the self-preservation to keep their mouths shut, but it really was too early to have them going at each other directly.
"Boys, can we debate baby names later? Sherlock, why not take John home so Rosie can get back to bed? You can text me the murderer's name."
Sherlock's eyes glittered. "This is a much more interesting mystery than a murder-suicide, Lestrade." Donovan almost did a double-take at that pronouncement, but the detective was going on, demanding of the boy, "What's your name?"
Mycroft at least remembered Greg's warning. "Mike." He inched closer to Greg's side as Greg reached out an arm around him.
"Boring," Sherlock scoffed, although it didn't stop him from turning his most forceful stare on the child. Mycroft may have been shy, but he wasn't scared off, looking up to meet the glare with quiet determination. Sherlock's eyes slid sideways, raking up and down Greg's figure with curiosity.
"Ah, you do know," Sherlock finally said. "And I was too late. Is she working on it?"
Greg had always trusted the brilliant madman when he shouldn't, in spite of everything, and now was no exception. "Yeah. Can you help?"
A brief nod, and Sherlock was again on the move. "Come, John, more work to be done." And they were off to find a cab and annoy Mycroft's team.
Donovan, always one to speak when she shouldn't, smirked. "Good job, getting him to leave us to work that quickly."
Greg couldn't resist. "Glad you approve, because we're off as well. Got to make sure my cousin is taken care of. You can handle everything here. Keys?"
Once Mycroft and Greg were back in the panda, alone, the boy turned to the older man. "I can deduce some of what's going on, but will you tell me the truth?"
Greg sighed, dropped his head to the steering wheel, and gave up. He could rarely resist answering Holmes questions, and he wanted this child to get more of what he wanted, because there didn't seem to be anyone else with that motivation in his life.
"What do you want to know?"
"Let's start with the basics." Mycroft's no-nonsense analysis apparently started early, Greg thought, as he was questioned by the young man. "Who are you?"
Greg knew Mycroft was asking for more than his name and job. He turned to face the boy. "I'm a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard, and for a while, I was the only one who could work with Sherlock Holmes. The shorter guy with him carrying the baby is Dr. John Watson, his best friend."
"Holmes? Who am I to him?"
"He's your brother. You watch over him. Normally. When you're not eight. That's how we met. You wanted to make sure I was good enough to work with him."
"Why is he so special?"
Greg snickered. "We all ask that. He's a genius, sees what no one else does, and although he would never admit it, you taught him most of what he knows."
The boy was quiet for a few minutes. Greg let him have the time to reflect, until he came up with the most important questions he needed answered.
"Why am I ... not myself? And how do I get back?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Greg acknowledged, while clasping the child's shoulder for reassurance. "We'll figure it out. Somehow."
The drive back to Greg's flat was done in silence. Greg knew Mycroft spent most of his adult time worrying -- about Sherlock, about the country, about various schemes to keep things running as they should without anyone knowing. He hated to see the child version already caught up in that.
"Look, your best team is on the problem. Why don't you let it go and see if your subconscious can come up with something once you stop thinking about it?"
Mycroft looked at him quizzically. "No one has ever suggested to me the path to a solution was to stop thinking."
"Then I'm glad to introduce something new to you." Greg grinned and led them into the flat. "Look through that bag you have, and see if you can find some trainers while I change."
Shortly, both were outfitted a bit more athletically. Greg, in shorts and a team jersey, found a bag from last week's shopping and tossed in some water bottles, biscuits, and a couple of apples. Then he rooted a football out from the bottom of the hall closet and grabbed a blanket from the shelf. "Come on, we're going to the park to play."
Mycroft looked horrified. "Sport? That's your solution?"
"Nah, fresh air and running around is my solution. The football's just an excuse. It'll do you good."
Once Greg made enough of a fool of himself chasing the ball around, Mycroft began relaxing, realizing that no one was watching and it didn't matter how well anyone did anything, between the two of them. After running about a bit, once they were nicely winded, Greg led them back to the blanket, where they sat, drank the water, and snacked. Mycroft was playing with a biscuit more than eating it, but he did nibble on an edge.
"Feeling better?" Greg asked.
"Feeling different. I've never done anything like that." Mycroft had a shy smile and a charming flush on his cheeks.
"Played football or played hooky?"
"Either. My time is spent with tutors or alone with a book. I expect that to change now that my brother is beginning to toddle. He isn't quite speaking yet..." Mycroft trailed off, realizing that his brother was now an adult with a father for a friend.
"I know it's all strange." Greg hurried to reassure him. "But healthy mind, healthy body and all that. Gets the blood pumping and lets you stop worrying for a bit."
"You need that, don't you, Greg? I imagine your job is often stressful."
Greg wasn't about to gloat over no longer being "sir". "You're right, Mycroft. A lot to worry about, but sometimes I can help people. Get answers, anyway. That's what your brother and I have in common, even if our methods are very different."
Mycroft lay back, looking up at the trees. "I can't imagine being related to him. I have no idea what Mummy will do."
"Doesn't matter, Mycroft. You worry too much about him and her and everyone else. It's ok to worry about yourself, too, or just take some time out to be."
"Why doesn't he listen more to you, Greg? You sound pretty smart."
"Nah, to him I'm just the idiot who gets him cases. You're both so intelligent that you have your own ranking system, your own games."
Mycroft looked slightly ill. "But... you've been so nice to me when you didn't have to." He started tearing up. "And I don't know what's going to happen."
Greg knew "I don't know" could scare the hell out of a Holmes. "We'll work it through. Do you want a hug?"
The boy gulped and nodded before scooting into Greg's open arms. As soon as they hugged, Mycroft's arms reaching around the older man's back, there was a flash of light. Greg blinked and suddenly found himself with an armful of a re-aged Mycroft Holmes, who was looking incredibly embarrassed, particularly since the boy's clothes no longer fit him.
Greg let go and dragged the blanket up around Mycroft before beginning triage. "Mycroft? Are you ok? Can you talk to me?"
"Yes, Detective Inspector, I'm fine. And I owe you a debt of gratitude for resolving my situation." After only a few moments, Mycroft was already gathering his self-possession around him like armor.
Greg texted the emergency number he'd been given -- "Problem solved. Bring suit to flat." -- before helping Mycroft up. "Come on, let's get back to mine and get you settled. Your assistant's on her way."
"I would be much obliged, thank you."
Mycroft's assistant arrived promptly with what he needed to return to his usual appearance. Mycroft began preparing to leave quickly, rambling a bit about having so much to catch up on and not being prepared to be out of the office for so long, filling the space with conversation to avoid any discomfort. He sent her ahead to the car, promising to follow right along.
Greg stopped him with a hand to his forearm. Mycroft looked down, then up again into Greg's deep brown eyes. He swallowed. Greg said, "It's ok, Mycroft. You don't have to make excuses. I know you need your balance back. But don't forget that I'm still here for you, whatever your age." He smiled, cheekily. "And now I know your real hair color." He looked down at Mycroft's chest, currently encased behind shirt and waistcoat. "Wherever it appears."
Mycroft faked a gasp. "A secret worth millions on the black market, I'm sure." He clasped his hand over Greg's. "Thank you, Greg. There was no one else I would have felt as safe with." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I have been remiss in not acknowledging how good a friend you have been, in spite of what my brother and I have put you through."
"Ooh! I'd forgot!" Greg perked up. "Can I be the one to tell him I solved your problem?"
"Only if you wish him to badger you constantly with texts demanding to know how you figured it out."
"Sometimes it doesn't take logic, mate, just concern and caring," Greg responded. "But let's see how my logic works -- can I take you to dinner for your birthday?"
"Well played, Detective Inspector. Yes, I would welcome that. I really do have to return to the office and tidy up some loose ends. May I meet you this evening?"
"I'll come for you at seven," Greg declared. "And you can tell me what you'd like for your next bedtime story."
Mycroft blushed the lightest pink before clearing his throat. "Don't get too ahead of yourself, Greg. But yes, thank you, my beamish boy." Mycroft quickly put his arms around the silver-haired man, just the briefest of hugs, before spinning on his heel and exiting.
As Greg closed the door behind him, he smiled. What a surprising day, and what an unexpected find, indeed.