Three weeks had gone by since the events at Sherrinford. They had been characterized by the reemergence of Eurus into the Holmes family, and the continued, but honestly anticipated, grilling of one minor government official. An overwhelming sense of guilt threatened to permeate his conversation at times, but never succeeded, as he truly believed that he had done everything in his power to protect his parents and younger siblings. At least, he wanted to believe as much and convinced himself that he did.

Still, there was evidence that Mycroft Holmes was…discomposed. As discomposed as a man of his stature could manage, that is, but that was beside the point. He hid it well—not that it was difficult, considering, well, humans; nevertheless, it was there. It was there, in the bitter taste of his afternoon tea, polluted with regret, and self-reflection, and the basic, stupid, "what-ifs" that riddled the entirety of human nature; in his daydreams, the ones he drifted off into when life was dull for a brief moment, the ones of a girl and a boy who'd turned into remarkably terrifying creatures, right before his eyes ; and in the haunted looks he gave himself in the restroom mirror before bed. He pretended not to notice it, not that it worked, as the possession of the "Holmes" name all but guaranteed unmatchable perception.

Sometimes, he forgot all about his inner skirmishes, his apprehension, if only for a stint. And, if he fooled himself, there was no question that he fooled all others. Sad to say, in the eyes of some, yet a rather neutral fact for him—there was no one alive in the world closer to Mycroft Holmes than the man himself.

Throughout the visits to Eurus at Sherrinford, his parents and Sherlock in tow, and the government duties that occupied him regularly, day-to-day, he remained impenetrable. As for his family's part, and Anthea's, they had no reason to question after him, and he seldom gave them reason to. Eurus was the center of attention, for the first time in a long while, and Mycroft found himself strangely grateful for the distraction.

Things were getting back to normal, depending on one's personal definition of "normal." Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had returned home just two evenings prior, having occupied Mycroft's guest bedroom for the extent of their stay; and Mycroft was seeing Sherlock much less frequently as of late (in person, of course; he kept tabs on his younger brother at all times, giving a literal meaning to the Orwellian "big brother"). There was the occasional text from either of the aforementioned, sometimes inquiring as to why he never seemed to answer his phone, always asking about Eurus.

How is your sister faring?

Mother.

He was exiting his car, trading crisp goodbyes with the driver, when his cellphone screen lit up in his hands. With a sigh, he tucked the phone into his coat pocket—she'd get a reply tomorrow, perhaps in a few hours, when he was up to it. (In fact, he replied as soon as he got himself settled in: She's perfectly fine, Mother. Sherlock and I visited with her yesterday. Haven't taken my eyes off of her since. It was embellished, an exaggeration, but humans found solace in that sort of thing, for some reason.)

Mycroft set his phone on the kitchen counter, where it would be far enough away to warrant his neglect for the next few hours or so. He retrieved his laptop from his briefcase and sat down on the loveseat in the living room. He turned on the news, but muted it, as was his habit; there was no real need for a man to watch the news when he practically orchestrated it himself. The chyron popped into his head as he worked: MP Yates arrested on drug charges. Heathrow flights delayed due to weather (it wasn't weather, but best the people thought as much). Vivian Norbury sentenced to life imprisonment on a whole life order.

Really, he should indulge in some other form of mindless entertainment sometime.

At some point, Mycroft rose from his seat to prepare himself a meal of vegetables and tofu. He checked his phone, found nothing of importance at first glance, and returned to the living room. Just as he lowered himself onto the sofa, a headline about MP Yates glaring at him from the screen, there was a knock at the door. Yes, that knock at the door—the one that somehow changes one's life forever because, well, the person hadn't used the doorbell, and the doorbell is known to be far less controversial.

Heaving a sigh, bemusement accentuating his movements, he approached the door, his umbrella clutched a bit too tightly in his fist. He wasn't expecting anyone, and he hated not knowing what was going on, especially when it had to do with him. Mycroft looked out through the peephole, yet he saw no one. His eyebrow arched, higher than ever before, he unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob. There, wedged between the door and the doorframe, staring straight ahead of him, he saw no one.

"Hello!"

Mycroft did not jump, necessarily, but he was unpleasantly surprised at the tiny voice that rang in his ears. He mentally rolled his eyes at his own stupidity—he'd been about to close the door without looking down, leaving himself perfectly susceptible to an attack from a small person, or, in this case—a child.

A child of no older than seven years, to be exact. He wasn't tall, but he wasn't short, either, and the faded scrapes and bruises visible on his arms and face made it clear that he was not only rough at play, but also very well accustomed to bullying, in both roles. His hair was mussed, tousled, unkempt, just recently dried all the way (although, it hadn't rained anywhere within an 100 mile radius within the last 24 hours; no, the snow alone plagued Britain at this particular hour). He was alone, then, Mycroft reasoned, glancing around, in search of an adult; or, at the very least, he had only a father, for no mother would allow her son to leave the house looking that way. His clothes—a white, long-sleeve undershirt; a red sweater vest; a pair of dark jeans; and fairly worn sneakers—were far too new for an orphaned child (he had to have a caretaker, then), and yet even they were wrinkled and largely unpresentable, as if he'd put the outfit together himself with the intent to…run away.

Clearly. Mycroft kicked himself for not noticing the minimalist cartoon bookbag the boy was dragging along behind him. The edge of a pair of trousers was sticking out, and, if he wasn't mistaken, part of the foot of a stuffed tiger. How the boy expected to live off of lint and, he was assuming, dry cereal and candy bars, he did not wish to know. Such explanations lowered the IQ of the entire street.

The boy was a runaway, then, and an American, judging by his accent—Southern, to be exact, although there was only a hint, seeing as the child was young and still learning. There wasn't much of a story here, nothing Mycroft Holmes would be interested in, so why, pray tell, had the boy shown up at his doorstep, of all those there were in the whole of England?

"Hello," Mycroft replied, smiling thinly, very tellingly annoyed, though such a thing was only telling to adults, he presumed, and the few smart ones, at that. "Wrong address, I assure you. Now, shoo, before I phone the police and have them alert your Mummy." He was going to do it whether the boy stayed or not; he wasn't a monster.

"What would you do that for?" The boy frowned, worry lines creasing his brows, and was Mycroft mistaken, or did he detect a familiar hint of…petulance? How endearing.

"You are a runaway, are you not? You're an American, which means that you are very, very far from home."

"I'm not a runaway, Mr. Holmes." The boy was pouting now, just barely noticeable, but Mycroft was more engrossed by the fact that the child knew who he was—or thought he did. "My Mommy sent me to run to you. She's in trouble, lots of trouble, and she says she trusts you."

Mycroft all but glared, less out of anger and more out of frustration that he hadn't the slightest clue as to what was going on. Even under that menacing gaze, however, the boy did not waver. "Does she, now?"

The boy nodded, profusely. "That's what she said at the airport."

Running a hand over his face, disturbed, to sum it up in a word, the British Government grit out, "And who, exactly, is your mother, child?" His hand slid down to his cheek, where he let it rest. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft made it a point to interrupt him, if only to give himself the illusion of having the upperhand—it would be crushing, really, to be duped in a game of logic by a schoolboy. "Never mind that. How do you know who I am, hm? What am I, of all people, meant to do for you?"

The boy rocked back and forth on his feet. And then, he shrugged.

"I don't know. Mommy just said you're my father."