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It had been a blissful morning. A normal, ordinary morning, exactly like dozens if not hundreds of perfectly predictable mornings Mycroft Holmes had enjoyed.
He liked his streamlined routine; it freed his mind to cogitate on more important matters when trivialities like what to have for breakfast, the colour of his tie, or at what point to cross the street on his walk to work were already tried and settled. Once his muscles had memorised the route, his mind could step back. In a job like his—one that, in mixed company, he defined as logistics—such skill at multitasking was dearly valued. Mycroft could not be so methodically fortunate every day, he conceded, but it had been a pointed cruelty that such a beautifully rote start should come to see such derailment.
Upon returning from lunch, Mycroft’s acting-secretary (in that Mr. Stein was not technically under his authority but did serve in that assigned capacity) presented him with a telegram.
“This was delivered some half an hour ago, sir,” said Mr. Stein. He was an exceedingly plain man, so unassuming as to almost be memorable for it. “It arrived unaddressed, but via the usual channels.”
With a darkening suspicion, Mycroft read the note.
ARRIVING SOON. I WITH ME. URGENT FAVOUR NEEDED.
He took a measured breath. Mycroft had long ago made his peace with the fact that the majority of the minds around him would move slower and stretch shorter than his own. He had stopped letting such disparities bother him and instead accounted for them in his plans so that, as much as it was possible, he may avoid being asked to retrace his steps for the sake of others’s elucidation. He knew of only one other man with the faculties to match him, and it was this very same man alone who possessed the requisite knowledge—and felt no scruples against leveraging it—to craft a message designed to inflict the utmost annoyance in Mycroft.
“My brother is on his way,” he said, and if he sounded a shade too close to petulant, then Mr. Stein was discreet enough not to comment. “There’s no telling when he may arrive, and he is bringing his ward, a girl called Iris. You may remember her. They’ve blown through here before.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Stein. “I do recall, sir. Would you like for me to wait at the entrance for them?”
“No, I think it would be best that I go myself.” Mycroft put away his coat and hat. “I thank you, Stein, but my brother can be…flighty.”
Mycroft met his visitors as they alighted from a cab. The girl caught sight of him and waved while his brother handled the fare, a small knapsack slung absurdly over one shoulder.
“Hello, Uncle Mykie!” Iris ran up to him. At six years old, she was still rather slight and only the tops her pigtails reached the level of his waist.
“Miss Iris, Sherlock.” He greeted them with a polite nod each. “What brings you to Whitehall?”
“No pleasantries?” Sherlock teased. “Not even going to invite us in before cutting straight to business?”
Mycroft raised a brow. “I gathered from your telegram that you were in something of a rush.”
“Hm? Oh, yes, that.” Sherlock heaved the girl up onto his hip. “Iris here has a burning question she is desperate for you to answer, isn’t that so, my dear girl?”
“Not really,” Iris said innocently. “But Hurley has to go somewhere for a case and I can’t come, so he said I could spend the afternoon with you, Uncle Mykie!”
In truth, he had wondered if this might be the reason. Both his brother and his niece looked at him with identical guileless expressions—though only one of them, Mycroft knew, was genuine. “Hurley said that, did he?” He asked, purely to see Sherlock’s eye twitch. “Well, then, seeing as you’ve already made the trip, it would be rude of me to refuse the company.”
It helped lift his mood a fraction to watch Iris tighten her hold around Sherlock’s neck in delight. She chirped “hooray!” as Sherlock wheezed, “Iris, Iris! Careful, now!”
Sherlock carried the girl inside on his back until they came to the right corridor, whereupon Iris climbed down and skipped ahead of them into the antechamber to greet his secretary. Mycroft took advantage of this moment to corner his younger brother.
“Tell me, Sherlock, where is the young woman whose wages I pay to avoid finding myself in this very scenario?”
“Ah, well, it happens to be Miss Casion’s day off, you see, and this case has quite abruptly come up.”
“And your landlady?”
“Has made it abundantly plain to me that she resigned her post as an ad hoc nanny the moment Iris was out of nappies for good. And also she is visiting her grandson at present.”
Mycroft could only fix him with a look.
“Yes, yes, I live to heap minor inconveniences in the way of your estimable life,” Sherlock exaggerated. “But honestly, Mycroft, if I had any other recourse, truly, I would not be here, throwing myself at your feet, appealing to your kind nature to aid me, your dear brother, a pitiable single parent with no one—”
“If you are quite finished,” said Mycroft. “I have, you will recall, already agreed to watch the girl. Your prolonged dramatics only delay your business further.”
Sherlock’s demeanor sprang back into a good humor. “Indeed. It is heartening to know that your astute wit is as keen as ever even in your advancing age.”
“Sherlock…”
“Fine, yes, I take your point. I suppose we really ought to rescue poor Mr. Stein before too long.”
Mycroft looked into the antechamber to where his secretary sat at his desk attentively listening to whatever story the child was telling him. Even though Mr. Stein appeared fully engrossed, Mycroft could see the man surreptitiously shuffling papers away from her line of sight. Mycroft sighed and stepped into the room to face the rest of his day like a colonel before a court martial.
Never one to be left out, Sherlock followed behind. “That’ll do, Iris, dear,” he said. “Remember, you are under strict orders to pester only your Uncle Mycroft and no other while you are here.”
Mr. Stein politely demurred. “I assure you, sir, that the young lady is no bother at all.”
The girl smiled cherubically at her guardian, then tactfully excused herself to Mr. Stein and ran to join Mycroft and Sherlock in the inner office.
Once within, Sherlock began rifling through the child’s knapsack he had been carrying. “I do believe she ought to have everything she requires—”
“Is that a firearm?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, come now, Mycroft, what do you take me for? It’s merely the shape of the instrument. She’s keen on refining the propellant mechanism for me. And anyway, we each thoroughly frisked for munitions before leaving the flat, didn’t we, my dear girl?”
Iris’s corkscrew curls bounced as she nodded her head. “Projectiles are a shared privilege, Uncle Mykie.”
“You see?” Sherlock said. “All’s well, brother dearest.” He clapped Mycroft on the shoulder then pivoted to take a knee in front of the girl. “Now, before I depart, Iris, would you remind me where it is I’m off to?”
She heaved a put-upon sigh even as the twinkle in her eyes gave the act away. “To Limehouse, Hurley. We were just talking about your case on the way here.”
“So we were. And just what precisely was it that I planned to do in such a place?”
“You really never remember anything. You were saying that you need to find a pub that employs a Belgian bartender in Wellington’s, of course!”
“Of course! I do remember now. As usual, you are quite right. So, in your learned opinion, how long do we suppose this task may take?” He put a hand to his chin, appearing to give the question serious thought.
“Well…” Her voice became hesitant. “There must be a great many pubs in Limehouse…”
“Indeed, but not a significant population of Belgian emigres, as I understand it.”
“Oh! In that case, any Belgians you meet ought to be familiar with all the places you should visit, and that will save you loads of time!”
Sherlock snapped his fingers. “A point excellently made, my dear. You have my word, I shall do my best to return and collect you by 5 o’clock prompt. But, if I am unable to hail a fast enough cab, then I am entrusting you to direct our good, dear, accommodating Mycroft to escort you back to Baker Street. Unless you hear from me otherwise, I promise to join you for dinner and not a clock’s tick later. Do we have an understanding?”
It appeared, Mycroft thought as he observed this scene, that the introduction of Miss Casion’s service as governess had eased his brother’s anxiety over leaving his ward in another’s care. He hoped that, with enough time, the girl would find the same peace.
All goodbyes were soon said and Sherlock at last departed with Mr. Stein dispatched to ensure there were no detours on the way to the exit. The office door was shut. In his mind, Mycroft began counting down the minutes until 5 o’clock.
“You may have a seat, if you like.” He indicated to the only other chair in the room, a large leather upholstered piece that served the scant few who visited him here.
“Thank you,” the girl said, “but I’m alright here.” Ignoring the chair, she flounced down on the floor in front of the chimneypiece, opened her knapsack, and began pulling out books and sheaves of paper. Mycroft stood watching her settle in on the rug with a magazine open in her lap until he felt sure the waters had calmed for the time being. He then returned to his own desk and the welcome embrace of routine.
“Uncle Mykie?”
Just over an hour had gone by quietly, both Mycroft and his guest absorbed in their respective work. Iris had rotated through her various reading material, he had noticed, and he suspected boredom had at last arrived. She now stood in front of his desk, bouncing on her toes to peer over a stack of ledgers.
Mycroft arrested his note taking. “Yes, child?”
“What are you working on?”
“I am reviewing the proposed schedules for future infrastructural projects.” It was tedious work that he didn’t particularly relish, but it was straightforward enough that he was able to continue composing a response to the Chancellor of Germany in the back of his mind. “I take it you are seeking out a new entertainment? Not truly that keen on the…propellant mechanism, was it?”
She prodded the sorting trays out of and back into alignment. It played oddly on his heart to see such familiar mannerisms in miniature. “Oh, no, I do have a few ideas. It’s only that…I should like to run them by Hurley first before I make any changes, you see.” All at once, she perked up. “Do you have anything I could help with?”
Mycroft hummed. He had been afraid this would happen. “Well, now, let me see.” He thought back to when Sherlock had been this age and tried to remember what sorts of tricks had worked then. “Why, I do believe I have thoughtlessly misplaced my pipe. Would you care to track it down for me?”
Her wide blue eyes darted a path across his face, observing him. “But Uncle Mykie,” she said, “you never smoke in your office. And you only have cigars at the club. So your pipe wouldn’t be here, would it? You must have left it at home.”
“How could—?” He caught himself by clearing his throat. It had been a rudimentary deduction, and this girl was being brought up by his brother, after all. He really oughtn’t be amazed. “How could I have forgotten? You are entirely correct, of course.”
She brandished a declarative finger in the air. “Hurley does that a lot, too, forgetting where things are. Sometimes, he’ll be looking around for something for ages and not realise he was holding it the entire time! I like to keep track of how long it takes him to notice. The longest was twenty-seven minutes!”
“Yes, that does seem keeping in character.”
“So…is there anything else?”
“Pardon? Is there what?”
“Something I can help with!”
Mycroft reconsidered the girl. When he was younger, he had had the whole of their family home at his disposal to entertain Sherlock. The stately government offices of Whitehall were hardly the place to stage an elaborate scavenger hunt. At least, not of the type that a precocious six-year-old would enjoy. For his more bothersome colleagues…but no, that old game wouldn’t do in this instance. In his musings, his eyes fell to the open ledger he had been auditing. Divorced from all context, there wasn’t anything in the tables and projections that was strictly classified information. Perhaps…
“How are you coming along in mathematics?” Mycroft asked.
Iris brightened. “I know all my times tables up to fourteen. Want to see?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly. “I trust your word. Would you perhaps be willing to check over these sums for me?” Then, remembering whose child it was he was speaking to, he added, “I suspect that there is something amiss in the line items, but what it could be has eluded me all morning. I should very much appreciate having a second opinion on it.”
“Oh, my!” Iris exclaimed. “I should love to!”
As they rearranged furniture to substitute a side table into the role of a temporary desk beside his own sturdy one, Mycroft recognised a subtle flicker of familiar pride beat in his chest. Iris was soon settled in on the spare leather armchair, bolstered by two volumes of Mr. Stein’s encyclopaedias, and with a pencil and paper at hand should she need them.
Time passed somewhat companionably this way, Mycroft was surprised to discover. He had had years to build and then acclimate to his optimized stringent solitude, so it was a curiosity indeed to find it was not an irritant but still second nature to filter out the background buzzing of a busy child, to field stray questions like what does ‘forbearance’ mean? or, how many numbers are there? with ease.
He was reading over his first draft to the Chancellor when there came an efficient knock on the door.
Mycroft braced. “Yes, Stein?”
The secretary entered and shut the door. There was a light ripple in his placid demeanor. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but…Mr. Wharton is here. He is requesting to speak with you.”
Suppressing a wince, Mycroft massaged the bridge of his nose. Requesting was likely too kind a descriptor; knowing the man, whimpering would be more apt. Mycroft had only just recovered from his brother’s earlier imposition. An unscheduled meeting with Mr. Worell Wharton and his neuroses was likely to consume the rest of the day and then some. “I take it that despite your telling him I am currently indisposed, he remains adamant that his is a pressing matter of some concern.”
“Correct, sir,” said Mr. Stein.
“Of course. Very well, I suppose if he does insist…” Mycroft sighed. Acquiescing in this instance would mean revealing some of his more personal facets, he thought, glancing at Iris, but the matter couldn’t be avoided. “You may show him in.”
Mr. Stein nodded, opened the office door, and said, “Mr. Holmes will see you, sir.”
A brisk man with a severe widow’s peak and a top hat under his arm was admitted in. Mr. Stein passed in his wake, bringing the door shut as he went.
“Mr. Holmes, thank you for seeing me, I—” the man stopped. He blinked. Then blinked twice more. The presence of a small, rosy-haired girl remained in his vision, kicking her feet under the side table, her tongue sticking out as she concentrated on the page in front of her.
Mycroft interposed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wharton. You would be here regarding the Galiardi business, if I’m not mistaken.”
Mr. Wharton startled as if he’d forgotten Mycroft’s presence. “What? Yes, I—I mean, how—? I beg your pardon, but who…?” His eyes strayed back to Iris who at last looked up, curious.
“Hm?” Mycroft feigned. “Oh, yes, forgive me for not being able to offer you a seat. This is my provisional undersecretary and niece, Iris.”
Iris bobbed her head politely. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Oh, indeed, erm…” Wharton worried the brim of his hat. “Well, in fact, Mr. Holmes, you surmised correctly. But, specifically, I’ve come about the, um, matter of Brown and Glendenning?”
“It was my understanding that had been settled some days ago. But, pray, what is it that discomforts you, sir?”
Wharton’s eyes continued to flicker back to where Iris sat working out her long division. “Oh, nothing, really. Yes, I—I suppose you are quite right. The matter has been decided. It’s most likely my nerves getting the better of me, second-guessing and all. Perhaps I can, ah, return to consult you at a later date?”
“If you feel it appropriate, then please do, sir.” Mycroft rose from his desk to show the man out. “Mr. Stein outside has my calendar, if you think I may be of assistance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and I do apologise for the intrusion.”
“All forgiven, sir, I assure you.”
Mycroft closed the door behind Mr. Wharton with a touch more haste than he might ordinarily show, but relief flushed out any contrition. He returned to his desk, feeling as unburdened as any man to have just slipped the gallows. The day must have had some luck still in reserves, for Wharton had never before been handled so swiftly.
And yet, his eyes had not been on his work a minute when—
“Uncle Mykie?”
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry if I got in the way just now,” Iris said, with such uncharacteristic shyness in her tone that Mycroft looked over in concern. She was fidgeting with her pencil and avoiding eye contact. He pursed his lips and considered his next moves carefully.
“As a matter of fact,” he began, “I do believe that I owe you thanks.”
That got her to face him. Her eyes were entirely the wrong shade but the inquisitiveness in them was unmistakably his brother’s. “What do you mean?”
He sat back in his chair. “Mr. Wharton is…an unfortunately well-positioned man, and he has been pushing for his brother-in-law’s firm to be selected over that of Brown and Glendenning in certain contracting negotiations. What is more, though I am not a part of the supervising office, he believes that I have the ability to sway the final decision.”
“But don’t you?” Iris asked.
Mycroft indulged in a slight smirk. “Yes, I do. Therein lies the predicament. And had you not been here to dissuade him with your presence, I would undoubtedly have endured some hour or such of his inconsequential ramblings over details I am already well aware of and have long since seen to.”
“Then why not just tell him so?”
“Like my brother would?” Mycroft said archly. “No, you see, Mr. Wharton has his uses, and it would be unwise to burn his bridge, so to speak.” He cleared his throat. “But that is quite enough talk of bureaucracy. How are you coming along with the figures?”
Iris immediately started into an explanation of what she had tallied up thus far. Mycroft was impressed, though perhaps not entirely surprised, to learn she had corrected four rounding errors and one misprint that would have cost the project an extra two-hundred pounds in Crown funding, for which he commended her for her sharp eye and mentally made a note to have the responsible party quietly rooted out. Maybe, he found himself thinking, this day hadn’t been quite so ruinous after all.
Just a few hours ago, Mycroft had been yearning for the day’s end. Much to his astonishment, when 5 o’clock did come to call, it caught him almost unawares. He was only alerted to the time by the sound of bounding footsteps and a muffled, irreverent greeting from the antechamber before the door to the office swung open.
“Hello, all!” Sherlock sang, arms thrown wide. “Tremendous news! I have returned triumphant—and ahead of schedule—to deliver you…from your…languorous…” His arms and words were left hanging in the air as he observed the scene before him with narrowing eyes. “What the deuce has been taking place in here?”
Mycroft kept his expression carefully composed, elbows resting atop the desk, his fingers steepled before him. It was decidedly the unnaturally tense atmosphere of the room and the expressions of grave concentration on the faces of both occupants that raised his brother’s suspicions as, materially, little had changed in the room since Sherlock had left it save for the spare seat being positioned opposite Mycroft’s own and with Iris now in it.
Iris similarly paid no mind to her guardian’s interruption. She stared, steely and determined, into the middle distance, a clenched fist pressed to her lips. The unyielding stillness held all at bay. The very air about them was taut.
And then, Iris blinked. “Knight…to c 8. That’s a draw, isn’t it?”
A gratified smile spread over Mycroft’s face. He sat back in his chair, breaking the tension that had gripped them. “Indeed, and a timely one at that. Well played.”
“In case it had escaped your notice,” Sherlock whinged, “I am presently returned. Surely some manner of acknowledgement of this great feat is not too much to ask of one’s dearest relations?”
“Hello, Hurley!” Iris leapt from her seat and flew to her neglected guardian like a magnet. He was slow to intercept her and so stood hobbled by her arms wrapped around his legs. “Uncle Mykie taught me how to play chess, and without a board or any of the pieces!”
“Has he, now? It seems I have arrived just in time to rescue you from his corrupting influence.” A smile gave his game away as she snickered. “Collect your things, would you, please?”
While Iris went to fetch her knapsack, Sherlock approached Mycroft at his desk. Mycroft rose to meet him. “Investigations were fruitful, I take it?”
Sherlock folded his arms and squinted at him warily. “Quite,” he said. “And you…enjoyed your afternoon?”
It was Mycroft’s turn to look guileless, and he knew he wore it convincingly. Where else could his brother have learned it from, after all? “It was just as you say. Miss Iris was the very model of good behavior. I would be delighted to host her again should the need ever arise.”
With old, accustomed smugness, Mycroft witnessed the pride in his brother’s face go to war against his contrarian instincts. Before a victor could be declared, Iris announced she was ready to leave, and Sherlock had to accept a stalemate.
Mycroft waved a decorous arm. “Allow me to see you both out.”
“Thank you, Uncle Mykie,” Iris said as the three of them exited the building onto the street of Whitehall. “I had a lovely time today!”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he answered, “though, in the future, I would appreciate greater forewarning, if at all possible.” Mycroft directed this last remark to his brother who pretended to be busy with his strange satchel of chemicals.
A cab soon approached, and Sherlock helped Iris climb into the seat first. Before he could follow her, Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked back with that very same questioning aspect he had never grown out of, only into. “Yes?” He asked.
Mycroft cleared his throat, his gaze sidestepping eye contact. “She is quite impressive, I must say,” he managed and then retreated out of the way of the carriage. “Enjoy your evening, both of you.”
He resolutely did not look to see the gratified expression cross his brother’s face. Sherlock could take whatever he liked from his statement; Mycroft had meant what he said. He had known, passively, that the girl was bright. He would have expected nothing less from any child raised by Sherlock Holmes alone for the first five years of their life. But after a single afternoon, Mycroft could plainly see that Iris was more than merely smart—she was brilliantly gifted. As he returned to his office, he wondered, just for a moment, what fate might have made of her had she not come to land in the care of someone so ready and willing to buck all form of tradition for her benefit, if she had been left in the hands of corralling nannies and corrective schoolmistresses. No, that wouldn’t have done. Sherlock was perhaps improvising fatherhood as he went along, yet, from what Mycroft could now see, it seemed to be going well. Iris may be growing wild, but then again, the most assiduous flowers always do.