Mycroft Holmes was not in the business of frequenting cafes without good reason, there was the one occasion with John Watson and the whole Irene Adler business, and a few occasions with Gregory, with their busy schedules it was the easiest way to 'catch up'. However, if the occasion did call for it, he would usually have tea if they had an acceptable brand, but today he was drinking coffee, nothing fancy, a simple plain black coffee, no sugar, made with expensive strong beans.
But even the rich coffee could not distract him from what he had just heard.
Impossible.There was no way.
"I'm pregnant," Claire repeated, raising her voice a little louder than before, but making sure to keep her tone low enough that she didn't disturb the people sat around them.
Mycroft faltered, eyes narrowing and carefully placed his mug back on the table. He cleared his throat, placing both hands on the table, clasping them together as he did so. "Pregnant." He repeated, slowly and surely, eyes flicking over her.
Claire, an old flame of his from university was recently in London for work, still single, Mycroft decided to contact her after his experiences on Sherrinford. It was casual, no feelings involved, purely sex and now…
"Yes," Claire nodded, her own coffee untouched.
Mycroft felt sick. He inhaled deeply and swallowed the feeling down.
The signs were there: pale skin with a slight nervous flush down her neck and chest, fingers drumming on the desk. Mints at the top of her bag, an old remedy for sickness, the hunch of her shoulders from backache and bags under her eyes, clear signs of tiredness.
"I thought," he lowered his voice and He peeled his sweaty palms apart, placing his hands on his knees, and tapping out Frédéric Chopin's Nocturne in B-Flat Minor, a favourite of his when he was younger. He hunched forward on the table, licking his lips quickly, his throat suddenly dry. "I thought that we'd taken all necessary precautions."
"We did. But nothing is certain." She responded
"You plan to keep it," he said, a deduction. There was no way in hell that she'd get rid of it, the urge to be a mother was written all over her. Claire nodded. "And you have a plan, I assume."
"I'll move back to London, at least for the pregnancy, then after I'll move back to Sussex by the sea. I'll work until the due date, of course, and it's completely up to you how involved you are."
"Do you expect me to sit backand let you raise it alone?" He asked, offended.
"Well, you're hardly the baby type." She argued.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. It was true. "I suppose that is correct but the fact remains, it is my child."
"You can stop saying itthen!" she hissed, leaning forward. "It's a baby, not an it."
Mycroft was stunned, he didn't show it. He kept up his mask of indifference, indifference and power. "My apologies."
"So, you want to be involved?"
"Yes." Mycroft said without hesitation.
"I've got my first antenatal class," Claire mentioned over lunch one day, a few weeks later.
"Isn't it a bit early?" Mycroft asked. Of course, he'd been reading up on pregnancy and birth and babies and such in preparation, but it seemed early, even to him.
Claire shrugged and stabbed a piece of cucumber with her fork. "I don't think it will ever be too early to learn how to push a baby-"
"Quite," Mycroft interrupted with a polite smile.
"I'm going to have to make a birthing plan soon." She sighed. "You'll be my birthing partner, right?"
"If you'll have me."
"Well, you're the best person for the job. Not squeamish are you?"
"Remember me." The Governor had sobbed before pulling the trigger. His body falling to the floor, against the now blood-stained blood, the bullet shell clinking nosily against the floor.
He turned away, the urge to throw up overwhelming and choked, bracing one arm against the wall as the other went to his mouth, coughing violently in a desperate attempt not to vomit.
"Me? Squeamish?" He raised an eyebrow.
Claire snorted in amusement and focused again on her lunch.
Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
Mycroft Holmes was not squeamish.
"So, she's pregnant then." Sherlock sniffed, plucking at the second string of his violin.
Mycroft sighed. "It would seem so."
"And you're keeping it?"
Mycroft nodded his head and fingered the handle of his umbrella thoughtfully.
"A child born out of wedlock, how mundane of you, brother mine." The younger Holmes quipped.
"Sherlock." John scolded as he came back into the room. He placed Rosie on the floor.
"Well, accidents do happen." Sherlock said, remedying his comment somewhat unsuccessfully.
"Yes, to us all, and how is domestic life treating you, brother mine?" Mycroft changed the subject, this was not a matter he wished to dwell on.
"No, don't change the subject, your life is far more interesting. Have you thought of any names yet?"
Mycroft sighed and John glared at the consulting detective.
"This has been amusing," Mycroft flashed a fake smile. "But I do have a country to run."
"Do you want to know the sex?" Claire asked. They were sat in his office just before their second scan,Mycroft had been too busy to attend the first, a crisis in Russia that had required his immediate attention.
"Do you?" Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrow.
Claire shrugged. "I don't know, the surprise would be nice but you'll probably be able to deduce it from the screen and well, it's easier if you know."
"We can, not know, if you prefer." Claire shrugged again. Mycroft sighed and continued. "It's entirely up to you."
"Well, this baby is half yours, if you want to know the sex, speak now."
"No, I'd rather not." He admitted.
Claire smiled and nodded.
"Do you see that?" Claire asked. She was reclined on the sofa, top rolled up and round belly exposed, glistening with the latest anti-stretchmark cream she had brought.
Mycroft hummed but didn't look up, entirely focused on the files across his legs.
"Mycroft." Claire called, this time with more urgency.
Mycroft sighed and looked up, to where Claire was gesturing, a spot on her stomach where a foot or hand kicked, stretching the skin. His mouth dropped slightly. "Is that a hand or a foot?"
"A foot, I think."
Mycroft nodded to himself.
"Not long now." Doctor Green beamed, her hands roaming over Clair's exposed midsection, which resembled, to put it delicately, a watermelon. The skin, red and raw from stretching, was smooth and littered with marks.
"I feel like an elephant." Claire mumbled but she was smiling. She enjoyed every part of the pregnancy.
"Well, you'll have your beautiful baby soon, and that's all that matters." The doctor smiled. "It shouldn't be more than a week, baby is already in position, and I think we'll have a quick birth."
"Is that all?" Mycroft asked, he had a meeting fast approaching. The baby was fine, that was all that mattered.
"I'd like to go through some of the risk, because of your age."
"Haven't we gone through that," Claire huffed, pulling her top back over her belly and struggling to get up. Mycroft stepped forward and offered her two hands, one on her back and the other holding her hand, pulling her up into a seated position. She smiled in thanks.
"It's worth going over again." The doctor forced a smile.
"Mycroft, you should go, this is going to be long and boring." Clair said, running a hand over her clothed belly.
"I can stay." He cleared his throat.
"Anthea?" Mycroft pressed the phone to his ear. The lack of an immediate response caught his attention and he looked up, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "What's wrong?"
A pause. "Claire's gone into labour."
"Which hospital?" Mycroft was already up and pulling on his coat, shifting his phone from one ear to the other so that he didn't miss the answer.
"The royal London."
"Something's wrong." He deduced. He strode out of his office, not bothering to close the door behind him, his receptionist, a young woman jerked in surprise and jumped to her feet. He addressed her, "I'm going to the hospital."
The receptionist nodded but Mycroft was already gone, striding down the hallway. The lack of response did not escape his attention. "Anthea, what's wrong?"
"She's been having contractions for almost eleven hours." Anthea admitted to her boss. "She called the hospital an hour ago and is still only two centimetres dilated, she's tired and the labour is putting a lot of stress on both her and the baby."
"Ten minutes." Mycroft said
The hospital was full to the brim of sick and injured people, lined along the hallway and on the cheap plastic chairs provided, all waiting to see medical professionals. Mycroft strode through the automatic glass doors, his eyes flicking over the seemingly endless occupants of the reception area, ignoring the deductions that came along with each person.
He looked at the floor.
A desperate attempt to clear his mind.
Too many people.
Goldfish swimming around in a bowl.
There's not enough time.
Mycroft inhaled deeply, looking up again, his eyes finding Anthea almost instantly. She was stood to the side of the room, where a large hallway lead into the heart of the hospital, leading off in all directions and different departments. She looked out of place in the hospital, her black skirt suit and deep blue shirt standing out against the bright, light colours of the hospital walls and floors. She was on her phone but looked up at her boss, sensing his presence, and was immediately at attention, pushing herself off of the wall and meeting him in the middle of the hallway.
"What's happening?" Mycroft demanded, his body a mere inch from hers, eyes scanning her face.
Pale. Tired. Her nose twitching ever so slightly, a nervous habit of hers, and her eyes, though looking at him, were doing everything to avoid direct eye contact. A sheen of sweat collecting in her hairline.
Nervous.
Mycroft licked his lips and raised his eyebrow expectantly.
"They moved her to the delivery room ten minutes ago. But I'm not family, they won't tell me anything else." She admitted, looking down at her phone as she did so.
Mycroft managed to nod and gestured for her to lead the way. He watched his feet as he walked, his heel connected with the ground first, followed by the ball of his foot, it was a walking style he had adapted after many years of being overweight and decided that everything, even the way and pace that he walked, should be nothing short of perfect. Everything about oneself should add to the overall image, as he himself radiated power and intimidation, his walking style should also. The floor was a light grey colour that reflected the industrial powered hospital lights.
"Should I call you brother?" Anthea asked.
Mycroft looked up, his PA was glancing over her shoulder. He nodded. "Text him, you know how he hates phone calls. Tell him what you know, nothing more, no sense worrying him."
"Sir," she nodded in confirmation and fired off a text quicker than lightening.
The lift was still waiting as they approached and Anthea stepped forward; assuring that people knew that they were intended to get in, a young man, a nurse, put him arm in front of the door with a polite smile. Anthea returned the smile. It was a well-practiced smile, something she was used to in her line of work, liaising with some of the most powerful people in the world. They stepped inside and turned, to face the doors as they closed, sealing them inside.
"Which floor?" The male nurse asked.
"We need maternity." Anthea responded, firing another text.
"Second floor." He said more to himself than anything.
Mycroft tapped his foot.
"Should I call anyone else?" Anthea asked, voice low, discreet.
"My parents have yet to be informed of the situation." He admitted.
Anthea nodded. "Greg?"
Mycroft looked at the ground. It was true that he and Gregory had become close in the months after Sherrinford, sharing the occasional coffee or dinner, he had yet to inform the detective inspector of the events leading him to the hospital. He knew, or at least he guessed, that Mycroft had been seeing someone but had no idea that she was pregnant.
Telling him now would be counterproductive.
"The detective inspector is not an option," he said, angling his face towards her and keeping his voice low. He sniffed and pulled at his collar, gently, realigning it in the metal lift doors.
"Is there anyone else I can call for you?"
Mycroft shook his head. "Has Sherlock responded?"
Anthea shook her head. "Not yet, I'll text him again. Permission to text John if that fails."
Mycroft inhaled deeply and after a few seconds he released his breath, somewhat shakily. "Yes."
The lift ground to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the second floor.
Mycroft stepped out first. The sign to maternity pointed left, he strode in that direction as Anthea walked beside him, texting as she went. She stopped a few moments later and gently placed her hand on his arm, he stopped and turned, facing the doors. "We're not allowed beyond here."
Mycroft nodded and turned to look opposite the door where there were a row of chairs. They both sat down, Anthea placing one ankle behind the other while Mycroft crossed his legs delicately. For the first time since arriving at the hospital he realised he'd forgotten his umbrella, he placed his hands on his knees, at a loss for what to do with himself, and sniffed.
"I left my umbrella at the office," he said quietly.
"I'll get someone to bring it to you." She promised with a small smile.
So, they waited.
A doctor, a middle aged man with grey hair at his temples, and their doctor, Doctor Green came from the doors, stepping into the hallway. Their eyes immediately landed on Mycroft and Anthea who stood as they entered.
Something was wrong.
Bags under their eyes. Tired. Long shift. Long and difficult labour. Flushed. Scrubs clean. Perspiration stains under the armpits. Sweat along the forehead and top of the lip.
Doctor Green was wringing her hands together in a simple but well practices movements, in the way someone would put cream on or antibacterial.
The other doctor had his hands behind his back. His stance strong.
"Doctor Green," Mycroft managed, mouth dry.
"Mycroft," Doctor Green managed a small smile.
"Is the baby ok?" He asked, voice threatening to crack. He placed his fist in front of his mouth and coughed, once, to clear his throat.
"Yes, the baby is fine, it was a long birth." She assured him. Her voice was soft, too soft, eyes fixed on him and expression solemn. "It's a girl, Mr Holmes, you have a beautiful daughter."
Mycroft released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Anthea's hand shot to his arm and squeezed gently. He blinked once and cleared his throat. "Claire?"
Stupid. He already knew the answer.
"I'm afraid that there were complications during the labour." The other, male, doctor informed him. "We were afraid that because of her age and the strain the labour put on her body. Despite our best efforts she haemorrhaged shortly after giving birth and we were unable to stop the bleed, I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft closed his eyes and bowed his head. He breathed in deeply. And out, softly, slowly.
No tears.
He was the iceman after all.
He clasped his hands gently in front of his body and lifted his head, clearing his throat as he did so, he looked at Doctor Green. "I would like to see my daughter, if it isn't too much trouble."
Doctor Green nodded. "This way."
Mycroft turned to Anthea and she looked down, a simple gesture. She was staying here then. He stepped forward and Doctor Green showed him through the corridor, his heart pounding against his chest with each step. They stopped outside a room. The door was open. Inside, a nurse was currently wrapping a baby in a light pink blanket.
The angle was wrong. He couldn't see her properly.
Doctor Green stepped closer to the room and gestured for him to step in.
The nurse looked up and smiled, placing the bundle into the small hospital cot.
"Let's give father a moment," Doctor Green said. The nurse nodded and left the room with her.
Mycroft was left alone. He sighed, the sound was loud in the almost silent room. The only other sound was the soft breathing from the cot. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and took a step closer to the cot. Inside lay his daughter.
He took another step.
The baby, his baby, was beautiful.
She was swaddled in a pink blanket, wearing a white hat on her head and a white baby grow. Her skin was a charming shade of pink, vivid against the white of her clothes, and on one of her small round cheeks was a dimple. Her eyes were closed and her lashes, fair twitched against her cheek. Her skin was still covered in vernix, a thin white coating from the birth, that was flaking slightly and would be washed off in a few hours. Her eyebrows were a similar colour to his own.
"Oh dear," he finally spoke. She had inherited his colouring apparently.
He snorted.
The whole situation was ridiculous.
What has happened? He thought to himself.
He took another step closer to the crib so that he was stood beside it, hovering, craning his back so that he was watching his sleeping daughter from a horizontal angle. Her hand was balled into a fist, resting beside her face. He blinked, letting his eyes close leisurely. He moved his hand. He opened his eyes and reached towards her, using his index finger and the skin of her hand. It was warm. Warmer than he'd been expecting. He let his finger roam gently over her thumb, each finger, and then the small bit of palm that he could reach with her hand balled into a fist. He kept his touches light, feather light, so he was just ghosting the skin, unwilling to wake her.
"Well, what are we going to do with you?" He asked his sleeping daughter. "I suppose, the first thing on the agenda is naming you, your mother had ideas of course but…well, it's just going to be you and me now. And the names she picked were awful." He admitted, snorting at the memory of Claire asking his opinion on 'Margaret' and 'Pamela'. A smile settled on his face, small but sure, a lopsided type of smile that was both genuine and something he wasn't entirely used to. "I suppose, we'll have to come up with something better than that. And then, when we're allowed to, I'll take you home with me."
His daughter sneezed, successfully waking herself up and shocking him in the process. He bit his lip to stop from laughing at her and watched as she blinked sleepily, blue eyes cloudy. "Bless you."
She looked up at him, eyes unable to process at this stage.
"I suppose we should do this properly." He announced. He reached into the cot, with more caution than he'd ever used before, and picked up his daughter for the first time. One hand beneath her head, cradling it gently and the other beneath her small body. He lifted her up and placed her close to his chest, cradling her in his arms. He watched intently, pursing his lips as his eyes scanned over her body, checking that she was unharmed and secure in his arms.
"Right," he said once he was satisfied. He managed a smile. She blinked up at him, clearly fighting the urge to fall back to sleep as her face wrinkled in confusion, a new face, a new world, brighter than the one she had previously inhabited. "I'm your father, I suppose you'll call me that, or dad but never daddy, I insist."
She yawned, fists coming up but not quite reaching her face, eyes closing.
"Yes, you go back to sleep."
Mycroft remained like that for thirty-three minutes, undisturbed. He has sat down on a chair not long after picking her up, one leg crossed over the other and his daughter, a phrase he would never be quite used to saying, cradled in his long arms as she slept. His arms were rather stiff from holding the position but it was worth it, every ache and pain would be worth it for her. He watched her as she slept, each flutter of her eyelashes, or slight jerk as she slept.
There was a soft tap at the door and it opened. He didn't have to look up to know that it was Doctor Green that stepped in, followed by a nurse. The perfume was a dead giveaway. She managed a small smile in greeting. "Mr Holmes."
"Doctor Green." He returned, looking up.
"We're just going to check her over, if that's okay," the nurse announced.
"Of course," Mycroft managed a small polite smile.
"May I?" the nurse asked, gesturing to the sleeping baby.
Mycroft didn't answer, instead he pulled her away from his chest slowly. His heart panged at the loss but he didn't show it. The nurse manoeuvred her hands around his arms and lifted her up onto the examination bed, slowly she unwrapped the blanket.
Mycroft cleared his throat. "What happens now?"
"We're just going to check her temperature, we need to make sure her temperature remains the same and then we'll give her a bath, for now though, we're just going to give her a look over, check everything ok, and let her sleep. We can move her to a nursery if you need time to yourself or we can leave her in here with you, either is fine, it's completely up to you. We'll get a bottle prepared for you soon, a nurse can walk you through it, if you like, and feed her when she's hungry, you'll know when she's hungry, she'll let you know." Doctor Greene explained. "After that, when we say so, you can go home, if you're prepared?"
"I am a little…unprepared." He admitted, standing up.
"I'm under the assumption, and I mean no offence, that Claire was going to be taking baby home."
"Yes," He nodded, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "She was going to be the primary carer. There will be some…adjustments to make."
"And you haven't got a partner?" Doctor Green asked. Her cheeks turning pink. "I'm sorry it's just-"
"No, its fine," he said honestly. "I live alone."
"So there's stuff that you'll need of course but Claire had a bag prepared that has everything you'll need for the first night." She pulled some leaflets out of her pocket and handed them to him. "These should help, stuff that you'll need to buy tomorrow and things you definitely need to know and about the arrangements for Claire."
Mycroft took the leaflets, his eyes flicking over each of them. "Thank you."
"Everything looks good, Mr Holmes." The nurse said. Mycroft turned to face her. "Have you got a name in mind?"
"No, not yet." He admitted, placing the leaflets on his chair and placing one hand on his hip.
"Well, baby Holmes here is ok. She's very responsive and her temperature is exactly where we'd expect it to be. She doesn't seem hungry yet, but I'll bring you the things you need to make her a bottle. And if it's ok with you, we'll give her a bath, clean her a little bit. So we won't bother changing her." She glanced over her shoulder at him smiled. She was young and obviously enjoyed her work. "I'll just wrap her in the blanket and you can hold her again, if you like."
"Please." He said with his polite smile.
"Also, I'm not sure how aware you are of the 'skin to skin' contact routine that most mothers do."
"You place the newborn baby straight onto the mother's chest, ensuring bonding through skin to skin contact." Mycroft summarised.
"You are well informed," the nurse smiled and picked up the baby. "Well, we encourage most mothers to do this with their babies but also fathers, it's completely up to you, of course, but it does encourage bonding with parents." Mycroft frowned. His eyes flicked over her, attempting to read her intentions. There were none. He nodded. She continued. "So, I'll keep the blanket over her for now, so that she doesn't get cold. You don't have to take your shirt off, you can just open it and I'll place her against your chest, we'll leave her for about twenty minutes and I can come back and clean her for you."
"Thank you."
"It's my pleasure Mr. Holmes." The nurse nodded.
Mycroft pulled of his jacket and folded it, placing it over the back of the chair, along with his tie and waist coat, then he undid his buttons. He looked at the nurse and asked, "Where do you want me?"
"On the chair is fine," she smirked.
Mycroft nodded and sat down. The nurse cautiously turned the sleepy infant around and placed her gently in his arms, against his exposed chest. His daughter stretched out her arm and yawned.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes."
The nurse showed Mycroft how to give his daughter a sponge bath and he helped with large and somewhat cautious hands, running the sponge over her pink skin, carefully avoiding the umbilical cord that was clipped, still attached to her belly button. When they were finished, he dried her off and dressed her in a white onesie with a small bee logo on the right side, it was one from the bag that Claire had prepared. It was full of spare clothes, a hat and coat included, nappies, wipes and clean, sterilised bottles, cream and everything that would get him through the night, at least. The rest could be brought tomorrow.
He picked her up and cradled her in his long arms.
"If you have any ideas about the names or need anything, don't hesitate to call for me. I'll be just down the hall, it's a quiet night, and you'll be doing me a favour."
"Thank you." He smiled, his voice sincere.
The nurse left the room and Mycroft breathed out.
"Just you and me," he said to his daughter. "I will have to name you soon though, I can't keep referring to you as 'baby' it's frankly ridiculous."
She sighed in response which he took for an affirmative.
There was a knock at the door. Anthea, his mind supplied. The door opened.
"Sir," she greeted with a smile and stepped into the room slowly.
Behind her, Sherlock stepped into the doorway, his blue eyes flicking over the room in half a second before resting on his brother and the newborn baby in his arms. His expression didn't change. Indifferent. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"Mycroft." He greeted, nodding his head. "Has she got a name?"
"Not yet," Mycroft answered.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and flicked over the baby in his brothers arms in more detail, taking longer and more detailed observations before flicking over Mycroft who was still not wearing his jacket, waistcoat or tie. If that wasn't unnerving enough, the sight of him with a baby in his arms was enough to make him go into shock, he didn't show it. His lips tightened slightly.
Biting his tongue, so to speak.
"Apologies about Claire." Sherlock said quietly.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly but he nodded, accepting the small remorse from his brother.
"And this is my niece," the younger Holmes declared. "She looks…fully formed."
Mycroft chuckled, recognising the comment and sighed. "Hilarious."
"She's got your hair colour." Sherlock observed, stepping closer and tracing the line of her scalp with his leather covered finger, a millimetre or two above her skin, as not to disturb her. It was fair, light brown with a reddish tinge, auburn. "Not quite red though."
"A blessing," Mycroft responded.
"Quite." The younger Holmes agreed.
"Is there a reason you're here?"
"You are my brother," Sherlock sniffed. "Familial obligations and well," he sighed, and levelled his brother with a look, eyes twinkling with emotion, "nobody should be alone at a time like this, I've taken the liberty of bringing Rosie's old car seat for you, it should suffice until you get your own."
"Thank you." Mycroft frowned slightly.
"Can I hold her?" Mycroft nodded and stood up. He watched his brother take off his gloves and put them in his pocket, then pause, and look up at Mycroft through his lashes. He cleared his throat. Mycroft handed him his niece. Sherlock repositioned her slightly and stared down at the baby in his arms, after a few moments he looked up at Mycroft, making eye contact. "She is rather fetching."
Mycroft hummed.
"When are you taking her home?"
"When the doctors give us the all clear." Mycroft sat back down and ran both hands down his legs. He was tired. Worn out from the day.
Sherlock was watching his niece thoughtfully.
Anthea cleared her throat. "So, I've made some calls. The house is being, prepared somewhat for your visit, a bottle steriliser, some bottles, nappies and stuff, just to get you through the night. We can organise the rest tomorrow. I've called ahead to the office, a stand in will be in place, if anything critical comes up, we can sort it from home."
"I should call my parents," Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's expression shifted to a frown. "What?"
"Nothing." Sherlock answered.
"Tell me."
"It's nothing."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft warned.
"Boys." Anthea said in a bored tone, not bothering to look up from her phone.
Mycroft looked down at the floor like a scolded child and Sherlock shot her a look somewhere between surprise and amusement. "I was under the impression that our parents were unaware of the situation, so that phone call will be…interesting. They were rather under the impression that you were going to stop keeping secrets, brother mine."
Mycroft sighed and sat back in his seat, placing one arm on the back of the chair and crossing one leg over the other. "Yes, I'm rather hoping that the addition of a granddaughter will outweigh my omitting the truth, it's guaranteed in fact."
Sherlock frowned and his eyebrows raised, he looked vaguely impressed. "True. Rather hard to stay mad at the son that's given you your first grandchild."
"The odds will be in my favour." He agreed with a small lopsided smile.
"A fool proof plan." The younger Holmes grumbled and looked back down at the small baby asleep in his arms, she was snoring softly, her mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering against her cheek.
"I believe a name is the first order of business."
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, any ideas?"
"Many." Mycroft admitted, lips pursing slightly.
"A familial name."
"Possibly."
"Did Claire have any names planned?" Anthea asked from the corner of the room.
"Nothing I would feel comfortable naming my child." Mycroft admitted, glancing over his shoulder at his PA, she was smiling at her phone.
"Will you be inciting the family tradition of 'strange' names?" Sherlock asked.
"Your name is William." Mycroft reminded him, raising his eyebrow. Sherlock shot him an 'I know that' look. "But I accept you point."
"Sherlock...Mycroft…Eurus…"
"Yes, quite." Mycroft forced a smile.
"Alternatively, you could pick something mundane, like Chloe or Amy."
There was a pause.
Mycroft watched as his brother shifted instinctively from side to side, rocking his niece with every small movement as she slept. He sighed, "Evelyn."
Sherlock frowned and looked up, eyebrows raising at his brother. He repeated carefully. "Evelyn."
"Life." Mycroft defined.
"Also: uncertain." Sherlock added.
Mycroft nodded. "A gender neutral name. Also meaning, little bird."
"Evelyn." Sherlock repeated.
"Evelyn." Mycroft said decidedly, nodding his head.
"You've just named your daughter." The consulting detective smiled and stepped closer to his brother, he crouched down and handed him the sleeping baby. Evelyn stirred but didn't wake. She settled into her father's arms with a content sigh, small hand curling into a fist beside her face.
Mycroft watched her. "Evelyn."
Sherlock tilted his head. "Eve."
"Really, brother mine?" He asked in a weary tone.
Sherlock hummed. "Yes, I think so."
"You've already given my daughter a nickname." Mycroft shifted slightly so that he was holding Evelyn with one hand and used the other to push his hair back away from his face.
The nurse left the room with a smirk on her face. Sherlock was sat on the chair Mycroft had once occupied, his brother was now sat on the examination bed, back against the wall and legs dangling off the end. Evelyn was perched on one of his long arms with a blanket around her.
"You do know how to feed a baby, don't you?" Sherlock asked.
"I am quite capable." Mycroft sighed.
"If you're sure…"
"I am." He picked up the bottle. It was the correct temperature, the nurse had checked and he had done so afterward, memorising it for future use.
"Have you ever fed a baby before?" Sherlock's lips pulled into a thin grim kind of smile.
"Are you going to watch and criticise me for the next eighteen years?" Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, raising one eyebrow and then back down at his daughter, offering her the teat of the bottle. Her mouth parted around it and she started drinking the formula.
"It depends, are you planning to get everything wrong?"
"Sherlock." He warned.
"I'm just trying to help." The consulting detective said petulantly, clapping his hands together.
"No, you're being exceedingly annoying."
"Have you ever fed a baby before?" He asked again.
"For Christ's sake Sherlock. I fed you and Eurus when you were babies."
"That was a long time ago."
"Yes, but one of you turned out ok."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in consideration. After a moment he shrugged and announced, keeping his voice soft. "I suppose you did you best."
"I always do."
"When can we leave?"
"You," Mycroft's eyes flicked up to him, "are free to leave whenever you desire to."
"Don't be dense Mycroft." Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft frowned. "I'm coming home with you." The obviously went unsaid. "How else am I to know if you're doing this correctly?"
"By 'this', I'm assuming you mean parenting."
"Of course."
"And how long am I…privileged with your company?"
"As long as necessary." Sherlock answered, sinking further into the chair.