Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognise!

I must be boring you all now with these multiple POV fics! But I did feel a little bad that you might all have to wait for a while for Paved with Love's epilogue and I'm not sure when Rocks of Salvation will be updated so here's my apology fic to anyone who wants it!

Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock have never managed to agree on anything, let alone how to drink tea and coffee. But there are a few rare times when they can put that aside. Side along fic to "Paved with Love" from Mycoft's pov. SH/JW.

You do need to have read Paved with Love for this to make any sense. And possibly the other two...I need to stop writing these fics...

Warning: This does give huge hints about what happened in the last chapter of Paved with Love. It also skips a rather large period of time for those of you that have mentioned seeing a sort of grown up Ava!

Enjoy!

Mycroft couldn't work out.

For months it seemed that Sherlock was playing a rather exuberant game to keep his new lover happy. Stealing carrots and milk from the neighbours so Ava could lay them out for Santa Claus, taking her to McDonalds (Mycroft had needed to read that three times and then see proof from the security camera's before he'd believed that), taking her to and from school and voluntarily spending time with her.

Not until the day John had been shot in the flat and Sherlock had vanished the second the ambulance had driven away. Not until the night when Mycroft had hesitated, wanting only to interfere if Sherlock actually placed the needle to his skin.

Not until the night that Ava Watson had fled from the house and Sherlock, white as a sheet, had torn after her.

From the car Mycroft had watched. Watched his brother, one of the most observant men in the world, ignore the familiar car parked outside and instead pull the tiny child into a desperate hug as if she were the only thing left in the world that he could hold onto.

And as he watched he reassessed.

Ava Watson was the most dangerous threat to his brother that they had ever faced.

March 20th

So it started with coffee.

Sherlock, still shaken, had gone with Mycroft's assistant to finally explain what he had learned during his five years away. His grey eyes had narrowed when Mycroft had offered to wait at the flat and keep an eye on Ava but he had said nothing.

It was unsettling seeing Sherlock so docile.

"Make a card," Sherlock had said, dumping colouring equipment onto the desk.

Ava had stared up at him, "I've made loads already," she whined.

"Then write a letter," Sherlock suggested as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

Ava hadn't looked at all enthusiastic at the idea. "Then I'll have to spell."

Sherlock had paused and glared down at her.

Ava had just glared right back.

Oddly it just made Sherlock smirk. With a dangerous look at Mycroft he had picked up the remote and put something called Cbeebies on before he left.

Mycroft had managed three minutes and twenty seven seconds before he switched it off.

"What's that?" Ava asked, crowding into his personal space where he sat and peering into his mug.

"Coffee."

Ava scrunched up her nose. "It doesn't look like coffee." She said, "It's the wrong colour."

"It has milk." Mycroft pulled it away from her, wary. "Do you not have something to do?"

Ava shook her head, "Does it taste nicer with milk?"

"Yes."

"Can I try?"

It might be the only way to get her to leave his space. "Fine,"

He'd been enjoying that cup too.

He held it to her but she didn't take it. Instead she just lowered her head and lips to the cup and took a slurping sip.

Then wrinkled her nose and spat it back into the cup. Her face was utterly scrunched as she scrapped her tongue against her teeth, trying to get rid of the taste.

Mycroft stared at the cup in distaste. With a heaving sigh he put it down on the side table.

She still wasn't leaving his space.

"We have tea," Ava offered suddenly after studying him. "That's much nicer with milk."

It wasn't worth having tea if Sherlock wasn't around. The only joy he ever had in drinking tea was adding more and more sugar to see if he could finally make Sherlock admit that he hated sugar with his tea.

He debated telling her that he disliked tea before deciding that would be a dangerous amount of information to give to a child that lived with Sherlock. Besides John's daughter had probably been raised to equate tea with a religious experience and such a statement might risk eternal enmity.

"No." He tried to smile reassuringly but, unused to the expression, he had a feeling it was probably more of a grimace. "Thank you."

Still she didn't move.

So he switched the television back on.

It was only when she turned around that he had a fleeting glimpse of a triumphant expression. Stunned, he sat in the chair as Ava happily placed herself down to watch the show.

He could control ministers, prime-ministers and presidents with a few words and pointed looks. He could weave a tapestry of power without anyone noticing the threads were even there. Manipulate parties and outmanoeuvre terrorists months before they even started to think.

Yet somehow he had a feeling he had just been played like a violin by a five year old who had made it up as she went along.

Perhaps he could use more than just tea to continue his feud with Sherlock.

2 May

The next time had been one week after his attendance at parents evening. John and Sherlock had attempted another day away and Mycroft had been forced to pick Ava up from school.

He had people for this. He had legions of people, all more than capable of walking a child into a taxi and then up to the front door at Baker Street.

But Sherlock, growling at him and clearly hating having to ask the favour, had made it very clear that if it wasn't Mycroft himself standing at the gates life would become very difficult.

It wasn't an idle threat. The last time Sherlock had made such a claim he had, in three hours, ruined an election that Mycroft had spent over three years trying to predict and control.

And, with Mrs Hudson at her sisters, Mycroft had no choice but to take Ava to the office.

"Now, when we get in you need to be very quiet." He explained as they pulled up outside.

"Like a mouse?" Ava asked eagerly.

"No," Mice squeaked and scuttled. "Like a silent child."

It never failed to surprise him when she reached for his hand. It shouldn't have affected him as much as it did. All children, in this day and age, were conditioned to reach for an adults hand when close to a road. There was nothing meaningful about the way that she slid her tiny hand into his without even looking and leaned against him slightly as she stared up at the centuries old building.

What did surprise him was the way his hand always tightened on hers.

Biological imperative. The adult instinctively trained to protect the young.

She stuck close to him as they walked in, gazing up at everything with wide eyes and staring as if to try and take it all in at once.

It was a mistake that so many people made when observing.

In his experience Ava had never been shy. Quiet on a rare occasion and hesitant when presented with something new but never shy.

Which was why her sudden urge to press further against him as they walked and to hold on to him even tighter surprised Mycroft.

Inside his office she was quiet. And, despite wishing to have the formula for such an occurrence for months, Mycroft found that he didn't like it.

He had a server bring in hot chocolate for her and a cappuccino for him.

"I don't like hot chocolate," Ava screwed up her face at the cup. "It's too wet."

Too wet? It was a drink?

"Try it," he suggested.

Looking unconvinced she took a sip. It was clear that she was determined not to like it because she looked surprised when she tasted it.

"Well?" he asked, noting Adler's disappearance from the hotel in Scotland had finally been dropped.

"'T's ok," The chin jutted out.

"Read your cartoon then."

May 21st

The call had come in the early hours of the morning from the security team at Baker Street. Mycroft had heard the words ambulance and hospital and promptly rolled out of bed.

By the time he got to the hospital Sherlock looked like he'd attempted to pull his hair out through sheer will power.

John was nowhere to be seen.

"He's in with them." Sherlock stared at the wall as if was to blame.

Mycroft took in the state of his little brother and, with a reluctant sigh handed over the coffee he'd picked up on his way through the corridors.

Sherlock winced at the milk but didn't say a word.

"Food poisoning?" Mycroft asked eventually, taking a seat in the plastic excuse for a chair.

Sherlock nodded and took another sip.

"The other child is here," Mycroft said calmly. "It was chicken?"

Sherlock started to nod again then stopped and turned to Mycroft before darting his eyes down the corridor.

"It will not help her recover." Mycroft warned.

But Sherlock had already stood, dumping the coffee in a plant pot and striding down the hallway.

Mycroft glanced at the doors and then, with a sigh, stood.

Anything was better than sitting and waiting. Even temporarily allying with Sherlock against the fools that had given Ava food poisoning.

1st June

Mycroft had never expected Sherlock's change of heart to last long. In fact it had been stunning that he'd managed almost three months of handing everything involving Moriarty over to Mycroft. Even John had started to look concerned.

No more.

Sherlock had come storming into his office at six in the morning and, while Mycroft was in his first two hours of the day, it was clear Sherlock was still in the middle of his.

His brother thumped open the door, in much the same way he had when he'd finally decided to announce his presence after years of pretending to be dead. This time, when Mycroft looked up to scold him with a glare, Sherlock ignored him, went straight to the filing cabinet and proceeded to yank the drawer open with all the elegance and strength of a tornado.

"Good morning," Mycroft said reading the paper. "And how are we today?"

Sherlock didn't reply or pause or even turn to glare.

Concerned, Mycroft lowered his paper.

"What are you looking for?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled.

"Sherlock-"

His brother whirled, dumping some files on the table closest to him. "Was there a war last night?" he asked mockingly.

"No." Well, none that had directly concerned Sherlock.

"A famine? A plague?"

"Is there a point to this?" Mycroft asked, sipping his latte.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the drink. "Expecting a lazy day?" he asked mockingly, "God knows why I thought you'd take it seriously."

"Sherlock-"

"If it isn't queen and country it's not important," Sherlock sneered, "Duty before all else, Mycroft!" he added bitterly as he turned to the files again and flicked his fingers through, combing for any he'd missed.

Putting the paper down and rolling his eyes, Mycroft stood and walked around the desk. "I assume from your childish display something's happened?" he queried. "Did Mrs Hudson throw away your fingernail collection?"

Sherlock's fingers gripped the edge of the cabinet and turned white with the pressure.

Mycroft felt something uncomfortable shiver through him. "Sherlock-"

"Did you even have a contingency plan for if the security team was shot, or was it all really just to humour me?" Sherlock asked, retrieving the last folder and throwing it on his pile.

"What happened?" Mycroft demanded.

"I'd order something stronger," Sherlock sniffed and nodded at Mycroft's drink as he dumped all the folders into the bag he'd bought with him. "I wouldn't want you to yawn when someone eventually calls to tell you what happened."

"Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. "Have you lost your mind? Put the folders back, they are government property-"

"Believe me Mycroft, compared to John I'm the picture of sanity right now." Sherlock hissed. "Get out of the way."

"What did Moriarty do?" Mycroft refused to move, even as Sherlock strode towards the door that Mycroft was blocking.

The blow wasn't unexpected, but it still surprised Mycroft.

"I trusted you to help, to keep them out of it and safe." Sherlock's voice lashed out a Mycroft touched a hand to his bloody lip. "But I shouldn't be surprised; you always have failed at anything remotely familial."

August 1st.

She was like a ghost. A tiny wraith that floated through the world without touching anything.

Sherlock was struggling. Ava's silence seemed to be a mortal blow to him every single time he heard it and nothing he could do would manage to elicit a response from her.

And the one person who might have managed to get her to talk, to comfort her and show the patience and calm care that she needed wasn't there.

Mycroft had failed them all spectacularly that day.

Even now, as Ava wandered into his home office, pale as paper; all wide dark eyes and matted hair, he failed. He had no idea how to help her, how to stop the nightmares that haunted her and barely allowed her to sleep a whole night.

How could you when she refused to say a word?

So he did what he could. Hanging up the phone mid conversation with the minister and walking over to her slowly, the way the therapist had instructed; allowing her to see his hands and intention before he reached out for her. Exhausted blue eyes followed his every move and let him guide her to the kitchen with a light hand on her shoulder.

At least she ate. Without complaint or interest. It was heart breaking to watch and Sherlock would usually leave within a minute, returning only when she was finished. It was like watching a doll obediently doing as she was told.

Usually by now Sherlock would have appeared. He seemed to have developed a second sense when it came to Ava and just took over silently from Mycroft.

It was amazing how similar the pair were. Frighteningly eerie.

But there was no chance that Sherlock would turn up tonight. Not after the events of the day.

Tea made her eyes well up. Hot chocolate was ignored and coffee was stared at. Water was the only thing that she could keep down and so he busied himself filling the glass.

"Nightmare?" he asked placing it in front of her.

Ava nodded and Mycroft allowed himself to take the small victory. Her nonverbal responses were becoming more and more frequent and every time it happened a tiny spark would light in Sherlock's eyes. His brother would wait; completely alert and desperate for more but so far it hadn't come.

Mycroft desperately and selfishly hoped that tonight wouldn't be the night she chose to say something. Some days it seemed as if Sherlock's sanity was hinged upon hearing her first words in weeks pass her lips again.

Ava's eyes darted to the door in a silent question. That was a progress that had been made only in the past few days.

"He'll be back." Mycroft promised. "I'll get him to come up to you when he gets in."

Sherlock didn't return until dawn.

Mycroft didn't bother to ask where he'd been. He didn't bother to demand or lecture. Instead he passed him a cup of tea; hot and strong and sugarless.

If Sherlock noticed, he didn't comment on it.

"She had a nightmare." Mycroft informed him, knowing it was nothing unexpected. It did however, as usual, prompt the typical response.

"How bad?"

"She seemed calmer than usual." Mycroft admitted, "She looked around for you."

It wasn't meant as a rebuke. Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, taking another sip.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked sounding uncomfortable even to his own ears.

"How do you think he is?" Was the fiercely harsh reply.

Mycroft said nothing and knocked back his third espresso of the night.

17th August.

It was amazing Sherlock had held out this long, all things considered. But with Ava finally talking, using a tiny fragile little voice that was barely audible, Mycroft had been waiting for five days.

Eyes red, Sherlock sat on the kitchen floor, swirling the whiskey around his glass and staring at it as if it were salvation itself.

"You read it?" Sherlock asked hoarsely, his first words in almost an hour.

Mycroft nodded, trying not to think of the psychologist report that he'd scoured for hours that morning. "Yes."

Sherlock's mouth was tight. "A bullet to the brain was too good for him," he said eventually and downed the drink.

Mycroft debated getting Sherlock another glass but dismissed it almost as soon as the thought occurred. Instead he put the kettle on.

"Are you going to tell him?" Mycroft asked keeping his back to Sherlock. It was painful to watch the expressions that played across Sherlock's features these days.

Sherlock was silent.

When Mycroft passed the tea to Sherlock his brother stirred himself back to attention and allowed Mycroft to swap the empty tumbler for the bitter tea.

"What would you do?" Sherlock asked eventually.

"Wait." Mycroft placed the tumbler on the kitchen counter carefully. "Until you can say it all without…" he trailed off not wanting to say the words, and desperately awkward at the sentiment.

He never had been any good with it.

It didn't surprise him that Sherlock ignored him and went out an hour later to tell John.

Embarrassingly it took thirteen years for him to finally say the words out loud.

He sat in a coffee shop in London, one of her favourites and ordered the one drink they both actually liked. The one drink that had Sherlock wrinkle his nose and mutter something detrimental under his breath.

To annoy Sherlock she'd had a fringe cut in as was the fashion at the moment. His brother was right – it didn't suit her but it made her stick her tongue out at them all and grin. In the cool spring weather she wore dark blue jeans and a long wine coloured coat with a snowy white scarf.

No gloves. No matter how many he bought her she always seemed to lose them.

"You summoned" she grinned, sitting herself down opposite him.

Nodding at the waiter Mycroft studied Ava thoughtfully. "I did."

"Gonna tell me off?" Ava asked, sitting back with the challenging Watson look.

"Are you planning on telling them?" Mycroft countered leaning back to allow the Chai Tea latte to be put in front of him.

Ava's eyes lit up at the drink and she started to sprinkle cinnamon, their one point of contention about the drink, over her glass. "I've never managed to successfully hide anything from Sherlock for this long." Her eyes danced with triumph. "I kinda want to see how long I can do it."

"He's going to hit the roof." Mycroft pointed out, stirring in the honey.

"And you?" she asked, spooning up some of his left over honey for her own drink. "Are you furiously embarrassed to have your brother's daughter drop out?"

Mycroft took a sip to cover his thoughts for a moment. "You have your whole life ahead of you. Three years would have hardly made a dent."

"I'm not doing something I have no interest in doing," Ava replied easily, still stirring.

And that was Sherlock's influence all over her.

And it was John's that had her glance over at him, worried despite her bravado. "So, is it embarrassing?" she asked, her calm tone almost hiding the slither of worry that crept into her voice.

"If it upset me I would have banned you from applying." Mycroft took another sip.

"That's not what I'm asking." Ava's chin tilted. "You run the country, Sherlock is…well Sherlock, and Dad's list of professions is ridiculous. Compared to all that my choice is…" she shrugged, "Pedestrian."

"Hardly," Mycroft put the drink down. "At least you will get paid for it, Sherlock seems to be labouring under the misconception that he's won something by not receiving a pay slip."

Ava smiled and nodded, looking worryingly relieved at his words.

"And brother's daughter is rather a mouthful," Mycroft scolded her lightly. "My niece is far easier to say."

Ava blinked at him and nodded with more enthusiasm, "I guess it is." She muttered shyly.

Satisfied Mycroft took another sip. Sherlock would never forgive him for not mentioning that Ava had dropped out of university six weeks ago.

Perhaps it was time to start sweetening his tea again.

And all this was inspired because i'm pretty sure my kettle's broken!