"Hamish!" called John as he set the tea tray, "Uncle Mycroft's here!" he carried it somewhat haphazardly to the coffee table which was cluttered as usual with books and other loose pieces of paper. Sherlock hastily gathered as many of these into his arms as he could, eager as ever to help his husband. He carried them to the kitchen table and deposited them amongst his experiments. He then stood, somewhat awkwardly, by the kitchen table, firmly expressing his desire not to be drawn into a conversation with his brother.
Mycroft's upper lip curled somewhat unpleasantly at this. He made no secret of his displeasure at the state of permanent disorganization that was 221b Baker Street. He did however adore his nephew.
Hamish Watson-Holmes came running out of his room and into his uncle's arms.
Sherlock smirked at John, who could not contain his own amusement. Mycroft may have the British government under his control, but he was putty in the hands of eight-year-old Hamish.
"What have you been doing at school Hamish?" asked Mycroft, as Hamish climbed into John's lap.
Hamish didn't answer; he was watching his Dad pour tea.
"Hamish?"
"Your uncle asked you a question Hamish," said Sherlock in a warning tone.
"Nothing much, Uncle Mycroft" said Hamish in a bored voice, still watching John pour tea. He had had a fascination with whether his Dads took sugar in their tea and coffee since John and Sherlock had started telling him stories of their earlier adventures.
"They're studying the solar system," said John, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Mycroft smiled. "Good, and do you find astronomy interesting Hamish?"
"Not really, it's all useless in the end".
"I thought we agreed that wasn't the case," said John sternly, "Astronomy has saved the day once or twice".
Tea with Mycroft always followed this pattern- a few standard questions about Hamish, John trying to be polite to his brother-in-law, Sherlock standing disapprovingly in the kitchen - until finally:
"Uncle Mycroft, Daddy told me to ask: how's the diet going?"
John snorted into his tea; Sherlock's laugh rang throughout the flat's small living area; Mycroft (who had just reached for a second biscuit) smiled dangerously again. "Did he? I don't think I need to ask which of your fathers thought this amusing idea" Mycroft scowled at his brother.
They discussed Hamish's friends, Mycroft's work, and the cases Sherlock and John were managing to fit in around parenting. Mycroft asked after Mrs Hudson and they promised she'd be there the next time they all had tea. Mycroft, tried once again, to get them to agree to Sunday dinner at 'Mummy's' but Sherlock put his foot down.
Eventually, at a quarter to four, Mycroft glanced at his watch.
"I suppose I had better go," he purred, setting his empty teacup down.
John lifted Hamish of his lap. The boy was really too big for this now, but his father persisted, though Sherlock watched, worried from the kitchen.
"It was lovely of you to come over Mycroft," said John, holding out his hand to his brother-in-law. Mycroft shook it warmly.
"A pleasure John, thank you for the tea. You really should think about joining us on Sunday. Mummy would love to see you all again".
"We'll see if we can fit it in" smiled the doctor.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft, "I'll tell Mummy you're eating and warn her that you're corrupting her grandson".
Sherlock swaggered out of the kitchen his hands in his pockets, "I'm not sure it counts as corrupting in this case. And anyway, if John and I wish to corrupt our son that's our business, and I thank you to pass that message along to mother".
Mycroft smiled coldly at his brother.
Hamish pulled on the jacket of his uncle's suit. He didn't understand why Mycroft wore suits; they weren't anywhere near as brilliant as Dad's knitted jumpers, which were comfier than almost anything else, or Daddy's coat, which Dad always told him was one of the most important things to take on their adventures.
Mycroft bent so he was at eye level with his nephew, who whispered (a little fearfully) "I'm sorry I asked about your diet, Uncle Mycroft".
Mycroft smiled at Hamish to say 'that's okay' and stood up.
"Well, best be off".
He headed downstairs, John walking with him as usual. "Try not to start a war" called Sherlock.
They had reached the front door.
"Thanks for coming round Mycroft, I means a lot to Hamish".
"Of course John, thanks again for the tea".
"Anytime".
After John had closed the door, Mycroft stood for a moment on Baker Street. He was particularly fond of his nephew- the boy with Sherlock's intellect, but John's compassion. He was a lovely curious child, in awe of his powerful uncle, who he only saw occasionally (Mycroft frowned at this thought; he would have to visit more often).
He sighed realising he and Greg had dinner with Mummy that night. If only John and Sherlock would consent to come. With them there, acting as buffer, Mummy wouldn't question Greg and himself about when they would be starting a family. As much as Mycroft hated to admit it, Sherlock was, in this instance, the golden child in mother's eyes.
Alas, it could not be avoided. Mummy's questions and intrusions would have to be endured. But even Mycroft had to admit, when he looked at his young nephew, starting a family didn't have to be a disaster.
Another oneshot that just popped into my head and simply refused to leave. This time exploring the family dynamic of the Watson-Holmes household that is 221b Baker Street.