AN: This is my first fanfiction ever, so go easy. I have had my friends fix any grammar mistakes.
A cold bitter wind blew through the streets of London as its citizens rushed to their homes, seeking warmth and shelter from the December cold. Children complained as their parents shepherded them inside, promising cups of hot cocoa and threatening that 'Ole Saint North would not visit children whom did not listen to mummy or daddy. Distant music of all sorts could be heard from people's houses as they celebrated the Holidays. The Christmas bustle was the perfect disguise for a shadow that slipped through the alleyways unseen by the jolly folk. Whoever did turn an eye would look away almost immediately, thinking it was a drunkard stumbling this way and that; though in truth, this shadow walked too fast for a drunken oaf.
The shadow slipped its way past cars as it approached Pall Mall. On a closer inspection, the shadow was a woman hunched over herself, cradling something in her arms. She paused in an alleyway and frantically glanced around, before proceeding across the street towards a large estate surrounded by a 7 foot tall black iron fence. A security guard patrolled the perimeter, but didn't seem to notice the lone figure slip through the bars and into the back yard of the large house. Looking over her shoulder, the figure slipped the package she was holding into a back pack and set to climbing one of the bare-branched trees that stretched over the red tiles of the roof.
Before the figure could drop down, her package emitted a loud whimper which earned it a hasty 'shut up' and a light swat. These actions only seemed to make the 'package' louder and, giving up on shushing it, the figure dropped down onto the roof and, as quietly as possible, dashed to a skylight. It wasn't large enough for her to slip through unless she took off her back pack, so after wrenching the skylight open, she did exactly that; slowly lowering it through the window into what looked to be a library. The bag swayed side to side as its occupant writhed inside, making garbling noises as it did so. The figure hissed and dropped the bag, which landed with a dull thud that to the figure's worry, had silenced the occupant inside.
She took this chance to drop down herself, landing quietly. She searched through her pack and pulled out an infant of what looked to be no more than a few days old. The child seemed to have sustained no damage from the drop and though its silence was worrisome, it was warmly welcomed. Cradling the child in her arms, she tip-toed out of the library and into a large hallway littered with paintings. The figure walked briskly down the hall and up a grand staircase, which groaned in the silence. Reaching the top a clock chimed midnight, startling the child in her arms who wailed in fright. The figure swore harshly and smacked a hand on top of the child's mouth and muffling its cries, but a light flickered on down the hall and an eerie shadow was cast against the wall. Seeing the shadow and knowing whom it belonged to, the woman dashed down the stairs, keeping her hand firmly on the infant's mouth as it continued to wail.
Seeing as no matter where she went her position would be compromised by the crying child and finding herself in what appeared to be a small reception area, the figure paused, then briskly walked towards the nearest armchair and sat in it. She composed herself and waited, quietly hushing the child and awkwardly bouncing it on her knee in a soothing gesture. It quieted the infant down, but not completely.
Heavy footsteps could be heard, getting louder and louder as their owner neared the woman and the child seated in the chair. When a dark figure came into view on top the stairs the woman looked down, refusing to make eye contact. There was silence until the large figure flicked a switch on the wall and they were bathed in artificial light that blinded the infant, which cried out in displeasure. A strangled noise could be heard from the top of the stairs as the figure, who was dressed as if they had just attended a funeral, heard the unpleasant noise. Smiling, the woman looked up, shielding her eyes from the sudden light and clicking her tongue.
"Don't you think it's past your bed time, Mr. Holmes?"
The figure now identified as 'Mr. Holmes' blinked in confusion. He was a tall man, with neatly combed auburn hair and a set of piercing blue eyes. He stood as straight as a board and held himself with pride and dignity. Glancing about, his eyes eventually landed on the sobbing child in the woman's arms. Seeing the man's confused look, the woman stood and walked slowly over to the man, who took a quick step back in response when the child's wailing got louder as she advanced. The woman smiled warmly and tilted her head to the child.
"Sweet thing, isn't he? It is a pity that I can't keep it."
The man snarled in disgust. "A pity indeed, but I digress. Might I ask why you are here, Miss Adler? And with that?" The man glared at the infant.
"Oh, Mycroft. Just call me Irene. It's not like your dear baby brother is here." Irene hummed.
An unsettling blanket of tension fell upon the room at Irene's words, seeming to lace icy chains around Mycroft's legs and bolt him where he stood. He glared daggers at the woman as he clenched his fists until he could feel his nails digging a bit too deep into the palms of his hands.
"How da-" He began.
"As for the child? I am merely dropping him off." Irene cut in.
"Excuse me?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You will not be leaving that here. Now, GET. OUT." Mycroft turned away and began to march back up the stairs, which he seemed unaware of having just slowly finished descending.
Irene pouted. "And here I thought I had the best of intentions. I am in no position to care for a baby with people still out to kill me; it would compromise my safety, and the infant's also. Besides, the child deserves to be with family."
Mycroft halted and stood in place. "What did you say?" He said, his words barely above a whisper.
Irene smiled. "The child deserves to be with his family."
Mycroft turned around and stared for a moment before striding back towards Irene, who stood her ground as he leaned forward, their noses nearly touching.
"What are you implying, Miss Adler?" He hissed.
Irene, not liking her space invaded, walked back to the seat and placed the child onto it. The child seemed to take a liking to the chair and flailed about in it. Mycroft watched the child curiously.
"It's sad when a child hears their parents call them an accident, or a mistake. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Holmes?" Irene continued before Mycroft could respond. "Since this child is too young to understand me, I can tell you now Mr. Holmes that he was indeed an accident. He wasn't supposed to happen. I had your brother where I wanted him. It was, as they call it, a one night stand. I surely enjoyed it, though not the 9 months that followed."
The oxygen around Mycroft seemed to have high-tailed it out of the room, as he suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. He could only listen and swallow whatever bile crept up his throat as Irene continued.
"Oh don't worry! Sherlock never knew. It's quite a tragic tale this child has now, y'know… what with Sherlock's suicide."
Mycroft closed his eyes, not opening them until Irene spoke again.
"I can't take care of the child, nor do I even want it. Seeing as you, Mycroft dear, are all he has left of his family… well, you get the idea. You should know that he's three days old and no, I haven't named him. I couldn't care less what you do with him, as long as I don't have to deal with him anymore." Irene turned and began to walk towards the large elegant doors that she assumed were the exit to this place, while all Mycroft could do was watch.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes! I'm sure Sherlock won't mind you putting his son into an orphanage." Irene called.
Mycroft didn't know how long he stood in place, or how long he had been staring at the infant writhing about on the chair. But, eventually, he shook his head violently, turning on his heels and sprinting up the stairs. He didn't want to be here right now, he didn't want to be awake, he would much rather be asleep, or possibly dead and Mycroft struggled to claw his way out of the sea of confusion that he found himself adrift in. None of it made sense. None of it. Irene and Sherlock? No.
Mycroft was on the top of the stairs when a dull thud sounded from the hall and a high pitched cry followed. It rooted Mycroft, and his world tilted sharply as he suddenly felt the walls of his mind crumble. The cries of the child raked hot claws against his brain and Mycroft recoiled, leaning into the wall and shutting his eyes.
"How's the diet?"
"Fine."
The walls were on fire in his mind. The walls that made up the mind of Mycroft Holmes were ablaze.
"I worry about him, constantly."
Cracks broke out onto the polished marble floor as his mind split apart with the single piece of knowledge it was rejecting as more cries echoed around him.
"Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock."
Blue eyes snapped open and gazed down the hall. What was he doing? What kind of man was he? There is a child crying, but not just any child… his nephew and he was just standing here, letting the cries of his brother's child ring out like a siren of despair.
Mycroft straightened himself and strode quickly down the stairs to where his nephew was on the floor screaming. The screams felt like an invisible barrier, pushing Mycroft back as he neared the infant and knelt to scoop him up. Mycroft held his nephew close, hushing him and getting no results. Seeing his options were limited, he decided to call an old friend. He shifted the baby in his arms in order to pull his mobile out of his pocket and then dialed frantically. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Mycroft patted the child's back in hopes of quieting him as he waited for the line to pick up.
"Hello?"
Mycroft released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Dr. Watson."