Mycroft being a good Uncle. Anthea watching with amusement.
"Sir?" Mycroft turned around, a baby in his arms. Anthea did her best to stifle a giggle, which ended up with her snorting as she covered her mouth.
"Charming." He said, mouth decidedly formed into a frown.
"I'm sorry," she said, and sobered quickly. "I didn't know you had your nephew today."
"I fail to see how that amuses you."
"You and children rarely ever mix," she stepped further into the office to lay the days newspapers on his desk. "Recall the Prime Minister bringing his children to Windsor?" Mycroft made a disgruntled noise.
"My nephew is hardly comparable to those beasts." Anthea watched, quite surprised, as Mycroft Holmes tucked the corner of the blanket under the chin of his nephew, almost smiling.
"May I ask why he's here and not on Baker Street?"
"I believe I've been known to work from home on occasion, Anthea."
"Yes, but rarely with a baby in your arms."
"As it happens," he carefully turned Nicholas to face his shoulder, clean cloth draped over his well-pressed suit to prevent spit stain. "Sherlock and my sister in-law are called away with the Watson's on a case, and Mrs. Hudson is incapacitated."
"Leaving babysitting duties to sweet old Uncle Mycroft," Anthea said with a grin.
"Don't sound so condescending." The phone rang, so he crossed the room, picking up the receiver. "Yes? Yes I- hold on a moment- here," he bent slightly, nodding her over to take the boy from him.
"Sir I don't-"
"Take him or I'll drop him," Anthea was certain he never would do such a thing, but instinct had her moving to take Nicholas.
"My sources indicate quite the opposite, Prime Minister, if you would ever bother to check your messages-" he covered the receiver with his hand. "(You're holding him wrong, he'll cry-)" he turned back to the mouth-piece. "-do not call my sources inefficient, let us recall who uncovered that plot against the Royal Family last year, and who introduced that wretched woman to them in the first place!"
"I don't-" Anthea began, trying to shift the child in her arms. Babies were not her forte. She was aware of the mechanics of holding one, but it was still something almost foreign to her. The baby squirmed in her arms, mouth opened, ready to bellow.
"I'm afraid I have other matters to attend to, Prime Minister, check your messages and stop fussing with trivialities." Mycroft set the receiver down just as Nicholas began to screech. Mycroft snatched him from Anthea, gently shushing him.
"What's he need?"
"My sister in-law tells me when he cries he must be kept warm, ring for the housekeeper have someone come up and start a fire." Anthea had heard something about the child's condition, something about his muscles not working properly. He had a rare disease, so rare in fact that almost nothing was known about it. The boy must be kept warm, especially as he was so small.
In a little while, Mycroft sat in the chair by the hearth, Nicholas on his lap, facing a roaring fire. Fat tears rolled down the baby's cheeks, his stiff fingers trying to bend to form fists.
"Make my excuses," he said to Anthea, who was nearby. "Put my schedule on hold until tomorrow."
"Sir?" Anthea was more than shocked. Not even his brother's wedding had made him ignore his mobile or endless meetings (he'd scheduled the wedding in-between meetings with the President of Kazakhstan and a conference with the UN).
Hours later, the baby was asleep, and Mycroft, afraid to move lest he wake him, stayed where he was. Carefully, Anthea brought a footstool, easing his feet up onto the cushion.
"Thank you," he said quietly. She returned to her place at his desk, going over filing and rearranging his schedule. In a little while, she heard a soft snore from the chair and looked up, surprised to see Mycroft's head nod, chin against his chest.
On tip-toe, Anthea crept over, quietly slipping the iPad out from his free hand. After a moment's thought, she took out her phone, snapped a picture and then scurried back to her desk, tapping out a text.
Molly saw her phone light up and went to check the messages. Sherlock heard her giggle and rolled his eyes.
"If this has anything to do with cats, Molly-"
"No, you'll want to see this one," she held the mobile out to him, showing him Anthea's text and the photo attached titled "Dear Old Uncle Mycroft". His brother was fast asleep, Nicholas curled against him. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he was quite pleased with his brother that night.
