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Were there flavors of quiet?
Mycroft had to wonder.
His manor house was nearly always quiet, of course — he lived alone and had never been one to need background noise to fill the void.
But this afternoon’s quiet felt different somehow. There was something… not quite unsettling, more anticipatory, as if the manor itself were holding its breath.
Oh.
Mycroft was not a parent, of course, but he had grown up with Sherlock, so he recognized that particular kind of “too quiet” when he heard it. What was his dear niece up to?
As he walked upstairs, he called cautiously, “Rosie?”
A squeak, the click of a hastily closed door, and a muffled, “Eek, don’t come in yet, it’s not finished!”
What’s not finished? He wondered. He tried again, “Rosie? Are you ready for lunch?”
“Five more minutes!”
“Very well. What has you so covertly occupied?”
“It’s a surprise! Now go — oof! — go away please, and no peeking!”
Mycroft allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Her intensity reminded him fondly of a younger Sherlock, but he heard the good doctor’s presence in the automatic “please” as well. He could only hope John had also been present to help her pack for the weekend, so ideally the chemistry set had been omitted from her overnight case this time. He had only just gotten the smoke stains off the ceiling…
Five minutes later, Mycroft heard his 7-year-old niece scamper down the stairs, then come to a sudden halt just outside the parlor door. The rub of little hands smoothing course fabric was followed by a soft knock on the doorjamb.
“May I come in, Mr. Holmes?” she asked in her best grown-up voice as she peered around the corner. A smile played at the edges of her lips as she fought to maintain a gravely serious facade. From the pocket of the oversized white lab coat she wore, she pulled an old stethoscope and inserted its tips into her ears. The adult-sized device barely stayed in place, the lab coat fell well below her knees, and she had to push its sleeves up to uncover her hands as she reached for the disc at the end of the stethoscope. Mycroft had to stifle an uncharacteristic giggle at the contrast between her outfit and the intensely professional look on her small face.
“Good afternoon,” she said in that same exaggeratedly adult voice as she came to stand directly in front of his chair. “I’m Dr. Rosie and I’m here to examine you.” She held the stethoscope up to his chest and instructed him to breathe, then looked at the grandfather clock as she held his wrist for several seconds. She produced a — mercifully clean — popsicle stick from her coat pocket and asked him to say “awww” while she inspected his throat.
“Hmm, just as I suspected,” she said gravely as she tossed the popsicle stick into the nearest rubbish bin and hung the stethoscope loosely around her neck. “Fortunately I have just the thing. If you’ll follow me, please.”
She spun on her heel and took a few steps toward the parlor door before turning to look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised expectantly. Mycroft stood to follow her. He really wasn’t sure how one little face could look so imperious and yet so close to letting that smile escape at the same time.
At the top of the stairs, her patience broke and the smile won. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward her guest room door as she said gleefully, “Come on, come on, it’s in here!”
When they reached her door, she opened it to reveal…
Well if chemistry or medicine didn’t work out, this girl clearly had a future in architectural engineering. She had arranged what appeared to be every cushion and spare blanket in the manor into an improvised tent large enough for two people to sit comfortably inside. The “ceiling” was a sheet suspended by a broom handle which was securely cantilevered over the bureau. What in the world…?
“It’s a pillow fort!” Rosie’s expectant eyebrows told Mycroft this should have been obvious.
“Clearly. But for what purpose?”
Rosie’s eyes suddenly softened as she made contact with his. “Because you… you looked sad. Last week when you came to our flat, you looked sad. And whenever I get sad, or whenever Dad’s shoulders get tight like yours are, Daddy helps us build a pillow fort and we play Chinese Checkers and eat peanut butter sandwiches inside and it makes everything better. So…” She tugged once more on his hand as she lifted the tent flap, revealing a plate of gooey triangular sandwiches and a dented game board already set with marbles.
“But I don’t own a Chinese Checkers set.” Mycroft’s brain was sputtering. How had they gone from playing dress-up to a Holmes-worthy deduction in just a few seconds? He wasn’t sure whether to feel fond or dangerously exposed.
“I know, silly,” she said, tugging on his hand once more to get him to follow her inside the tent. “I brought mine. And I made the sandwiches at home because you never have proper grape jelly. This is why I asked Dad to find a case this weekend while Molly and Nana Hudson were away — so I’d have to come stay with you. Because I could tell you needed a pillow fort day. This is Dr. Rosie’s prescription to cheer you up.” She bit her lower lip slightly as she smiled up at him.
Instead of his brain re-engaging, Mycroft felt an unfamiliar warmth prickling his eyes and a wordless glow spreading outward from the center of his chest. How had this child seen what even he himself had missed during all these weeks of international crisis?
As he settled himself into the surprisingly comfortable “fort” — she had even thought to arrange a second pillow against the wall behind his seat cushion so he would have back support, bless her — and looked into her wide, loving eyes, he realized the answer. It was obvious. She had seen it because she was Sherlock’s child, and had known what to do about it because she was John’s. Goodness, the skill with which she had timed her maneuver and orchestrated every adult in her life to follow her plan? Maybe even a little of Uncle Mycroft was in there somewhere too. If doctor or architect didn’t pan out, this girl could have an impressive future in international relations…
But this afternoon was not the time for politics or idle speculation. It was the time for Chinese Checkers and gooey sandwiches with proper grape jelly and spending some precious time with one of the only people in the world who could make Mycroft Holmes feel seen and heard and truly loved. As he settled in and reached for a sandwich, that increasingly familiar warmth spread gently through his entire being again, and he resolved not to wait for another international crisis before arranging his next refill of Dr. Rosie’s “prescription.”