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It takes only two and a half weeks following Mycroft’s reduction in work hours for the stress of a lifetime of politics to take its revenge on his body. It starts at first with a headache that will not shift no matter what he tries: not even caffeine can touch it, and he takes to rubbing at his temples in a fruitless fit to ease the ceaseless aching.
A day later, he is awoken by a burning in his chest, the tingling pain rising in his throat. He thinks for a moment he might vomit, but the pain simply persists, so bad that not even Gaviscon can soothe it. He finds his appetite waning, sending his fiancé off to work with a packed lunch and a claim that he ate as he made it so to not cause suspicion.
Upon given a series of days off, of which he has not been permitted in far too long, he sleeps the whole of the first day, throat parched and eyes dry when he returns to consciousness. Previously, he would collapse after arduous work hours or parenting, needing no routine of sorts to send him to sleep, but it is as if the break has done something to his body, and he spends the next week unable to sleep more than three hours at a time.
His body is falling apart, joints complaining constantly, that headache spiking behind his aching eyes. Vision warbling, back twinging, he wonders why now of all times his body has finally kicked the bucket. The deterioration of his health not only affects his mobility but his emotional stability too, causing irrational irritability that his family begin to notice. His patience is next-to-none, and he has no tolerance for noise or hyperactivity, more keen on shutting himself away in the quiet.
Mycroft bristles whenever Gregory tries to ease his suffering, does not want to talk about what is bothering him, because he feels, aside from his ailing body, that he is unbothered at all. A month in, he can barely stand the sight of anyone, and comes home from work only to hide away whenever he can. He performs his fatherly duties as best he can, not wanting the children to be aware of his testy emotions.
It all comes to a head on a day when he is running on little sleep, his head booming from the moment he wakes up. Following a new routine of swallowing down aspirin and alginic acid tablets to settle his heartburn, Mycroft enters the childrens’ bedroom to find two weepy little boys each prying for his attention, too little to understand that he cannot attend to them both with the same amount of comfort. Greg wavers in the doorway, but he cannot possibly stay home, workforce flooded by a homicide case that may well open a door to promotion for Lestrade.
“I’ll see you soon, okay babies?” He kisses tear stained cheeks and one flushed one. “Be good for papa, please.”
And then he is gone.
“Daddy! I want daddy!” Jawn wails, throwing his body backwards into his cot to screech at the ceiling.
“Geroff! Daddy come back!” Lock shrieks, kicking blindly at papa who just wants to change his sodden nappy.
“Daddy will be back before you know it, sweethearts. Lock, please, don’t kick.” Mycroft cannot believe he is resorting to pleading already, but his nerves have been frayed for far too many weeks now, and he has none of his usual reserves to calm the room down. Lock kicks out one final time before collapsing, boneless, not at all helpful in the process of putting another nappy on. Papa has to haul him into a sitting position, leaving Lock to occupy himself with a baby blanket on the rug so he can take Jawn in hand.
“Papa I don’t want you I want daddy!”
Flinching at a spike of hurt, Mycroft can only sigh. “It’s just me for now. Come on, let’s get you lovely and clean and then we can have some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry! Daddy!” Jawn reaches for the door, struggling in papa’s arms, who nearly drops him.
“Fine, we’ll do it here, shall we?” Papa sends them both down slowly to the floor, and changes Jawn’s nappy where he is. With two boys clean but crying he tidies the room, spending a moment neatening their cots to give himself time to calm down.
Jawn lies on his back crying, not moving from where he was placed, but Lock, concerned for his brother, crawls over to pet his hair, mumbling sweet nothings around his dummy. Were Mycroft in a better mental state he’d find the sight adorable, however right now he thinks practically, and leaves them both to run downstairs to make bottles of milk and toast. He daren’t try to negotiate with them today — is certain that they are too young to understand much speech anyway. Minutes later he returns to the bedroom holding a tray laden with breakfast for them, knowing he must force himself to eat despite his nausea to maintain enough energy levels to handle two infants.
Lock claps as papa enters, his upset forgotten, and reaches out eagerly for his bottle. He spits his dummy out and takes it, clutching the warm milk between both hands and sucking hungrily from the nipple. Jawn is not as interested, but he does not protest when pulled into papa’s lap on the rocking chair. He settles into the warm body, accepting the milk, though stray tears still leak from his eyes. Mycroft chokes down a meal replacement drink and a flask of tea, only to top up his caffeine so he doesn’t suffer withdrawal headaches.
It is the only bit of peace the family will have today, something Mycroft is not yet aware of as he rocks and sips and strokes Jawn’s hair. When breakfast is finished they relocate downstairs, albeit not even that is easy. Jawn is too young to walk and must be carried, whereas Lock is able to toddle ever so slowly down each step with a tight grip on the banister. Planning on a more relaxing start to the day after their initial wobble, papa turns on the telly and cuddles his sons into each of his sides. They have shown no interest in toys and whinge when he distances himself even to the coffee table to grab the remote, so it’s just easier for everyone involved to give in and receive a lapful of babies. The next problem arises when trying to find a suitable program.
Regardless of the multiple children’s channels, neither boy can agree on what to watch, Jawn not wanting to watch anything except baby TV, which Lock is too old for, nor are they interested in a film. Mycroft sighs, handing Lock the remote to flick through one of their many streaming services whilst he sources sippy cups of juice for them, making a nest out of couch cushions and blankets.
When he sits back down, Lock is already watching Bluey, which Jawn seems amenable to, and it is one of the less annoying programs Mycroft has ever had to sit through. Having tackled that, he tugs Jawn to sit sideways in his lap, back facing his brother and feet propped up on the arm of the couch.
“No! Go ‘way!” Lock exclaims, pushing at Jawn’s shoulder.
“Stop that right now.” Papa growls lowly.
“You’re my papa, not his! Make him go away! I want to cuddle!” Lock whinges, his breath hitching.
“You can cuddle me here, like this.” Mycroft tucks Lock under his arm. It isn’t good enough.
“No! I hate you! I want daddy and you’re being mean and Jawn isn’t ‘llowed!”
“Pack it in! Just watch Bluey and be quiet!” Mycroft didn’t expect to raise his voice, and yet it happens, the harsh words spat from his mouth. Lock freezes in shock for only a second before his expression twists into an awful sneer. When Mycroft braces to be smacked, and rightfully so, he is almost relieved that Lock takes his sippy cup and throws it to the floor.
The lid pops up and a nearly full cup of juice spills all over the carpet, soaking in with the pungent scent of cordial. “Uh oh.” Lock chirps cheerfully.
“Lock Holmes!” Mycroft yells, his voice booming in the small space, which happens to be, unfortunately, right next to baby Jawn’s ear. He is startled out of his trance and begins to cry before he can even turn to see what the noise is. “Oh honey, papa’s sorry.”
“Papa is a meanie! Daddy wouldn’t yell!”
“Daddy won’t be happy when he hears about what you did,” papa replies petulantly as he shushes and bounces Jawn, who is now clambering further into his lap and wrapping tight arms around his neck in case papa tries to shift him.
Lock harrumphs, snaking his hand towards Mycroft’s pocket. “I’m going to ring daddy and tell him that you’re HORRIBLE.”
“You will not touch my phone without permission.” Lock presses further in, lean fingers digging uncomfortably into Mycroft’s thighs. “Lock, I swear to god. Stop that right now.”
“No! Deal with the baby you made cry!” Lock shrieks when papa smacks at his hand. “You hit me!”
He begins to cry too, holding his not-so-wounded hand to his chest. “Daddy is working. We cannot disturb him.”
“Papa hit me!”
“I smacked your hand.” He clarifies, frustrated tears pricking at his eyes. “Please will both of you stop crying?”
“Fine, I’ll get Sherlock’s phone instead!” Lock, wiping tears angrily from his face, leaps off the couch and stomps up the stairs two at a time.
“Lock, get back here!” Mycroft, frantic now, heaves him and the baby up, stumbles several steps to the human dog bed, where he gently dumps Jawn on his back, peeling away sweaty fingers from around his throat. Jawn cries harder, too small to sit up but trying desperately to get back into papa’s arms, uncomprehending of the chaos around him. There is little Mycroft can do except leave him there where he is safe and jog up the stairs after his other son, who has stuffed himself in the guest bedroom wardrobe in an attempt to hide.
Mycroft pulls him out by his nappy and spins him around, the surprise of being caught so quickly causing Lock to drop the phone. Resisting papa’s touch, not wanting to be held by the man who smacked his hand, he twists and squirms and flails. He gets a good kick into Mycroft’s shin and elbows him in the face, and papa drops him instinctively to protect himself. Lock lands in a heap on the floor where he screams, trying to crawl away before he can get into more trouble, frightened now by the silence. Papa wordlessly flings the tot over his shoulder, marching them to Lock’s room where he hooks his foot into the car seat and drags it closer. He sets Lock into it, using his own weight to subdue the crying child, forcing taut arms into the straps. He locks him in, safe but furious to unleash his tantrum where he cannot hurt himself or anyone else. He can barely even arch his back, though he tries valiantly, and he screams how much he hates papa as the man collapses on the floor close but out of range of kicking feet to catch his breath.
“It’s alright Lock. Papa’s sorry for smacking your hand.”
Lock doesn’t say another word to him, sobbing into the strap going over his shoulder. There is a plastic cover preventing him from accessing the release button, and he feels too little to figure out how to open it without assistance. He lays back, pulling at the straps as if he can wriggle free from sheer will power, but the car seat doesn’t budge.
“I’ll be back soon, alright? You’re safe baby. Call me if you need me.”
Mycroft needs a moment to himself. He cannot go on like this, and he refuses to disturb Greg, who wouldn’t likely be able to come home unless there was a proper emergency. Misbehaving kids are not that, and Mycroft wouldn’t bring Greg home for a few tantrums, no matter how bad his headache gets. Staving a migraine off seems to be the immediate course of action, but of course, it could never be as easy as that.
“What are you doing?”
Jawn jerks, his head snapping up to look at his papa at the very top of the stairs. “S’uck,” he garbles around a dummy, balanced precariously midway up the stairs on a knee and an outstretched leg.
“You’re stuck?” Mycroft parrots, and the baby nods.
“He’p pa.” Jawn whimpers, glancing over his shoulder at the looming distance behind him. He feels a wave of vertigo and sways, and Mycroft jumps into action, rushing down the stairs so fast he almost slips himself.
“We’ll go slowly, okay?”
“S’ow’y.”
“Slowly, that’s right. Put your hand there, yes, like that, and reach out with your foot. Good boy. And again.” Mycroft holds onto his padded bum to stabilise his balance, allowing the tot to descend the steps on all fours to the very bottom at a snail’s pace. They can still hear Lock’s noisy tantrum upstairs, which is causing Jawn considerable distress, as he wants to see why his brother is so distraught.
Instead, Mycroft guides him to the living room and shuts the door, which muffles the noise just enough that with some soft music on Jawn cannot hear him at all. He is placed on the mat underneath his mobile and handed several sensory toys, dummy bobbing excitedly in his mouth. “You stay here now, okay? You call papa if you need him.”
Jawn coos, not even sparing the man a glance; the usual rejection is missing, relief taking its place as the lack of concern allows Mycroft to slip out of the room and take solace in his office. He knows he is hiding from his problems, that this won’t go away and soon he’ll have to free Lock, but for now a few minutes in the car seat won’t harm him. Greg had told him, long ago, that it was healthy for parents to set their crying children down in a safe area and take a break before they lose their temper, and Mycroft knows if he doesn’t have a breather alone he will do more than yell, and he hasn’t thrown anything in anger since he was nineteen.
Cursing his aching head, Mycroft drops heavily into his desk chair, listening to glorious silence. It rings in his ears like the aftermath of a gun shot, almost painful. His head falls to the desk with a sickening thunk, the impact softened by his own arms. He presses his forehead to the cool wood and allows his emotions to finally best him, tears spilling over. Within seconds he is sobbing uncharacteristically into his hands, a small puddle growing on the desk, warmed up by the heat in his skin to uselessness. The minutes tick by as he cries harder, his breath gasping and eyes swimming, the headache worse now than ever. His stomach lurches, and he eventually tips back, staring at the ceiling in a bid to calm himself down. The tears wind down gradually, and when he can finally take a breath without dissolving into tears again he gets up. First port of call: cleaning the desk, then tidying himself up with tissues.
Once he is more presentable Mycroft steps out of his office. He cannot hear anything, and when he checks on the baby he is playing with his toys as if this morning has not been arduous at all, nor does he notices his father’s presence. Mycroft leaves him there, washing his face in the kitchen sink whilst filling up sippy cups with water. Now that he has collected himself he feels much more equipped to tackle the kids singlehandedly, so begins damage control. He sprays stain remover on the soggy patch of carpet and uses the scrub attachment to get most of it out, intending to rent a wet vac to clean it properly. Jawn babbles at him when he has finished and is lifted up, glad to be back in papa’s arms, his legs wrapped helpfully around the man’s waist as they ascend the stairs to collect Lock.
Holmes is still awake but his head lolls against the head rest of his car seat, limbs weakened by his struggles. His hair is damp with sweat when Mycroft bends to kiss it, the fight drained out of him. Lock waits patiently to be unbuckled, and when free he simply falls forward into papa’s waiting arms, clinging tight.
“Here, have some water,” papa holds the cup for him, so Lock can sip up the cold drink, flashing glassy, grateful eyes. “There’s my good boy.”
Lock climbs out of the seat, crowding into Jawn’s space to hold his sippy cup for him in shaky hands whilst papa shifts his car seat out of the way. “What a day, huh?”
“I don’t hate you pa’.” Lock whimpers in the direction of the floor.
Mycroft sits down next to the kids, removing all of their shirts to cool down. “I know baby. I’m very sorry for shouting at you and smacking your hand. That was out of order.”
Lock shakes his head then presses his forehead to the man’s bare shoulder. “I’m sorry for being naughty. I’m tired.”
“Me too. And my head hurts.” Mycroft admits lowly. “Do you think we could go have a lie down?”
“Yeah. I help?”
“Yes please, sweet boy. Can you look after baby brother whilst I get some new clothes?”
“Otay papa,” Lock mumbles around his thumb, scooting back to give the man room to stand. He’s already leaning over Jawn to play peekaboo with one hand over the babe’s eyes before Mycroft can even cross the room.
The man works quickly, changing the boys on the floor again to save his screaming back from excessive hauling. He wipes their skin down with wipes to rid of the sweat and grime, ties Lock’s hair out his face and puts them both in new nappies, the old ones damp from sweat and urine. Jawn is squirmy when papa lifts his legs to tug the soiled nappy from under him, but Lock holds his legs up and back to help, kissing the tops of the waggling feet. When the pair are in much fresher clothes Mycroft pulls Jawn to his feet and lifts him over his shoulder, unsure if he could bear to sustain his weight any other way. Clapping, the baby squeals as his body bounces across the landing to the big bed. He is tossed down in a fit of giggles, wriggling up to the pillows where he rests his weary head.
“‘Toons, pa’?”
“Okay. Can papa have a shower?”
“Yeah, I look after baby.”
Mycroft barricades the baby in with pillows, ensures he has another gulp of water then kisses them both, turning quickly on his heel so they cannot see the tears springing on his waterline. Steam rises in the small en suit, the door left open so he can hear the children. Though he washes perfunctorily, taking none of his wonted care, Mycroft cannot restrain his second cry of the day, eyes shut as he pushes his face under the spray to wash away the evidence. He dries with his back to the door in case a child toddles in and gets an eyeful, but he finds it was for naught, as his sons are fast asleep, curled together like pretzels. He chuckles despite his sniffling, and when he is dressed in pyjamas, disregarding the day hours, he climbs in behind Lock to spoon him. The pillow feels heavenly against his pounding head, and he too drifts off to the sound of Paw Patrol.
He can’t wait for Greg to come home.