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Mycroft had never been more certain of his decision to not have kids than he was today. Today was the first time he had ever babysat John Watson’s daughter all on his own- the most he had ever managed was keeping an eye on her while Sherlock or John ran to the other room for a few minutes. But after spending a lot of time watching Sherlock take care of Amelia he had learned quite a bit about babies, and when the day came that John got called into surgery, his brother had a case, and Mycroft had some rare time off he was confident that he could look after her.
Apparently he was way too overconfident in himself.
Thirteen month old Amelia spent the entire first hour at her Uncle Mycroft’s crying and screaming at the top of her lungs. It took forty-five minutes of walking her around in circles for her to calm down, and they were now seated on the floor surrounded by the toys Sherlock brought. He hadn’t a clue what he was supposed to do with any of them. All she could do with the stuffed animals was hold them (though she seemed to prefer throwing them). There was a toy piano she enjoyed banging on…for all of three minutes. He read both of the books Sherlock brought for her, and though she was happy to climb into his lap and sit with him she finished their last story by knocking the book out of his hands.
He was only three hours into his babysitting session, and he didn’t have a clue what to do with her for the remaining two hours. Nevertheless, Amelia seemed content with squirming around on the floor and making faces at him. It was like she knew he didn’t have any idea what to do with her; she almost seemed amused by him.
“What exactly is it that you do?” Mycroft finally asked her. “You don’t like eating. You don’t like reading. You don’t like toys. You’re just this little…ball of fury.”
She looked around the room innocently, as though saying “but I’m only thirteen months old!” Suddenly she got on her hands and knees and crawled over to the bookcase against the wall. The bookcase was decorated with dozens of books on political theories, along with black and white photographs of his ancestors. Closer to the bottom of the bookcase was a photograph of him and Sherlock that his mother insisted on taking at Christmas and personally made sure it was displayed in his house. To his surprise Amelia picked up the photograph and turned back to him. He walked over to her, picked her up, and sat them down so that she was in his lap again.
“That’s me and Sherlock,” Mycroft explained, as though it wasn’t completely obvious. She dragged her hands across the photograph and his lips turned up into a smile. Then he had an idea. “I think I know what might entertain you.”
He picked her up and carried her down the hall and into the study. It was his father’s study when the whole family lived in the estate, years ago, and it was still filled with family photographs and memorabilia. He took a box of photographs out from a shelf and sat them both down in his father’s old armchair. As he opened the box Amelia grabbed onto the sides of it, and her eyes followed his hands as he reached for an old photograph of him and Sherlock.
“There we are when we were younger,” he said. A smile crossed his face as he recalled the occasion: it was Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday, and his brother had been far from thrilled at the idea of spending the day with his family. Mycroft wasn’t exactly excited either, as it meant he had to waste a perfectly good day off work with his ungrateful brother. They both looked so distraught, so pissed, and yet looking back it was so amusing. He had to admit that since Amelia came into the picture even he had learned to appreciate family more. He was amazed at the man his brother had become and how much he cared for the baby girl. He realised now he had taken those days for granted. “We weren’t too happy there, were we?”
Amelia looked up at him and smiled, as though agreeing with him. He pulled out another picture and laughed when he saw it was a picture of baby Sherlock and a seven year-old version of himself.
“That’s Sherlock as a baby,” he explained. “I wasn’t too happy to have a baby brother, honestly. But when you have siblings you learn to be protective of them, rather they want you to be or not.”
He found another picture of Sherlock at four and him at eleven: they were at an Easter event. While Sherlock seemed happy with the candy he was showing off in the picture, eleven year-old Mycroft’s face made it obvious that he did not appreciate being forced to go to such a ‘childish’ event.
The next picture was of him and Sherlock on Father Christmas’ lap, and Amelia let out a squeal and slapped her hand down over the holiday icon.
“Yes, that’s Father Christmas,” Mycroft sighed. “I know you love him because of the ridiculous amount of toys he brought you at Christmas.”
Amelia giggled. She began squirming in his lap, a sign that she was losing interest, and he had to admit he was a little disappointed she lost interest in the family photographs so quickly. Suddenly she flipped her hands forward, knocking the box to the floor. Mycroft closed his eyes and reminded himself he couldn’t get mad at a baby…he always wondered if she was reaching the ‘terrible twos’ a bit early. Yes as though sensing he was frustrated, Amelia began to cry.
“It’s okay,” he sighed, holding her close as he stood up.
He placed her on the floor while he began picking up the photographs, and Amelia actually picked one up and handed it to him. He smiled as he took it and placed it back into the box. Then, before he could stop her Amelia began crawling toward the door. He chased after her and tried to swoop down to pick her up, but then she did the unfathomable:
She stood up and walked.
Mycroft froze, and his breathing slowed to a near stop. She was…walking! To his knowledge she had never walked before- Sherlock had even told him recently how anxious John was to see her start to walk. She could crawl up a storm and stand up sometimes, but never walk. He actually wasn’t sure what he should do. Did he stop her? Encourage her? Stay behind her or try to get in front of her?
He realised Amelia was heading out the door and he charged forward, hoping to catch her before she ventured out into the great unknown of the corridor. Before he could catch her she lurched forward and fell flat onto her tummy. Screams immediately filled the air, piercing his ears as they grew louder by the second.
“Come here, Amelia,” he said softly as he picked her up. Her little face was red from crying, her puffy eyes were drenched with tears. He let her rest her face against his shoulder and rubbed circles on her back to calm her down. A smile broke across his face as it truly hit him that he had just seen her walk for the first time, and he murmured: “You were brilliant.”
Her screams turned to soft cries, which slowly turned to hiccups. He smiled at her and ran his finger down her cheek.
“I don’t think you’ve walked before, have you?” He asked her. Of course she simply stared at him. “I guess you gave yourself quite the scare.”
Amelia’s hiccups stopped and she reached her hand up to gently swat his face. He laughed, knowing she didn’t mean anything by it: she just wasn’t sure how to act appreciative yet.
Adrenaline pumped through him. Mycroft hadn’t felt this energized, this excited about something in quite some time. He just witnessed someone walking for the first time! And not just someone: John Watson’s daughter. It was…absolutely incredible.
And John could never know.
He knew the doctor usually wasn’t the jealous type, but when it came to his daughter he wanted to be there for her every step of the way. John would be crushed if he knew he wasn’t there to see her walk for the first time.
“You were amazing,” he re-iterated, “but we’re not going to tell Daddy, okay? This is going to be our little secret. You have to go home and walk in front of him like you have never done it before.”
He kissed her cheek and she grinned, like she understood every word he said.
Later that afternoon when Sherlock came to pick Amelia up, Mycroft tried to act cool, like nothing special had happened. Instead of having Sherlock stay for a chat like usual he quickly tried to get his brother to leave. He had Amelia’s things all packed and ready to go so all he had to do was hand her off to Sherlock.
“Everything go okay?” Sherlock asked as he lifted Amelia into his arms. The little girl threw her arms around his neck and planted her cheek against his neck- her way of saying hello. “Hi there, Amelia.”
Amelia looked over to Mycroft, and even though he knew it was impossible that she would spill the beans she had this look in her eye like she was threatening to tell their secret. She grinned at Mycroft before digging her face into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“What?” Sherlock asked her, letting out a laugh. He then looked his brother straight in the eye and demanded: “She walked, didn’t she?”
He couldn’t contain his shock as his eyes went wide.
“Yes,” he admitted in defeat. “Has she done it in front of you too?”
Nodding, his brother replied:
“Yes. I’ve been trying to get her to walk for John for a week but she won’t. I think she’s playing games with him.”
With a giggle Amelia grabbed for Sherlock’s finger.
“If she’s this smart as a baby imagine what she’ll be like as a teenager,” Mycroft sighed.
Sherlock grinned.
“Well, she is a Watson,” he pointed out.
“That she is.”