Hi! I was inspired and wrote this. Hope you enjoy it, but just so you know, it's like a sequel so I think you would want to read the story first. Let me know what you think!

Mycroft Holmes didn't have friends, he didn't make frivolous connections, he didn't develop relationships. They were a waste of time, a violation of his cognitive space and such memories did little to help him progress in both his career and his own life. Back when he was in elementary school, he would solemn speak to one of the idiots that he was surrounded with; he was a little pudgy so he wasn't an integral member on any sports team not was he extraverted enough to be invited to birthday parties or playdates. Of course, he less than cared about what those juveniles thought of him or if they wanted to be his friend, he was busy trying to make something of himself.

In college, he had slimmed up a little bit but still, that did nothing to make him interested in group activities or dates or anything of the sort. He finished his degree in 2 years, literally a third of the time it should have been and he chose to believe that it was due to his own mind palace being in a constant state of focus, unalarmed by the flippant occurrences around him.

His family was not about touchy-feely, well, naturally his father and mother did try to coddle them when they were young but they had grown to realize that their children were not normal children who needed constant encouragement in order to succeed. Sherlock was always off on his own conducting some grotesque experiments or trying to solve what the police could not and Mycroft was crunching numbers alone in his room, criticizing the news, becoming a master politician and lawmaker. Christmas Eve did not often ensue large family dinners unless guests were over and the Holmes had to put together some semblance of a normally functioning family. Mycroft had grimaced at the memory of going to church on Easter Monday where he spent most of the day rolling his eyes at the prayer and cringing at every kiss given to him by some old lady telling him that he had put on weight.

So, it was safe to say that he opposed developing any emotional connections at almost a spiritual level (as if he believed in such nonsense). There was no point to it and he seemed to have been making it just fine without them.

But then came Grace Everest Holmes; his long-lost niece, showing up at his brother's doorstep three years ago with a ratty bag and not a penny to her name.

Well, not long-lost exactly, he had known of her existence and caught a brief glance of her when she was, perhaps, three days old and he had gone to discuss the terms of her living arrangements with Evie Davis, her mother. But he made no effort to get to get too close of a look because, while he had no sense of family, his sense of responsibility reigned supreme and he may have second-guessed himself about what he was about to do.

For as long as Grace stayed with her, she would be given 500 pounds per month to take care of her plus another 500 pounds to keep from making her pregnancy public. But he supposed that he was naïve to assume that the arrangement would have lasted long enough for Sherlock's accident to have been forgotten. She eventually came back, and upon understanding how terrible her life had been, for the first time in his life, he felt a small burst of guilt. But she seemed to joyous and intelligent and so bright that it pretty much dissipated (or so he would tell himself).

"Uncle Mycroft? Dad said that I needed to come to see you," she said quietly, eyes downturned. She wore a shirt with some restaurant logo on the front and a pair of well-worn flowered shorts that were ill-fitting and inappropriate for the current London weather. Her hair was frizzy and she stood barefoot on the living room floor.

Mycroft physically flinched at "uncle" and "dad" and its now association to him and his little brother especially when he looked at the little wonder in front of him. With her black hair, blue eyes and protruding cheekbones, it wasn't a level eight mystery figuring out who she belonged to.

"Yes, Grace. I just wanted to let you know what our plan will be from here on out," he handed her a large binder, which she awkwardly took into her skinny arms, "You will begin school in September and my associate, Anthea, will get you some supplies and clothes. Please keep in mind that your father will be busy so I advise that you behave and focus on your studies. Should you need anything ask him but otherwise I trust that you can be independent. The adoption papers will be ready in a week's time and I have set up a doctor's appointment for you tomorrow. It's nothing more than a checkup to see whether we need to see to special accommodations"

He said it so brusquely as if she were an employee or a client instead of his six-year-old niece but regardless she looked up. He cleared his throat and pulled out a small stuffed bunny rabbit from his coat pocket and held it out to her. It was a simple gesture really, perhaps to welcome her or perhaps to ease the worry on her face, "with all that being said, I want you to know that I will be around sometimes, you can come to me as well if you so desire."

She glanced up, he eyes brightening when they looked into the eyes of the small, pink, plaything and she balanced the binder in one hand before taking the toy in her other. He could have sworn that he heard her breath hitch in surprise but perhaps that was just his imagination (no, he was right).

"Thank you, Uncle Mycroft, I promise to be good" She then smiled at him and it was the most luminous thing that Mycroft had come to see in his monochromatic life. She then turned around and walked out.

Interesting.

He set her up with some clothing and enrolled her in school, leaving her in the custody of her new parent. He could have sent her to a foster home, but the logical part of his mind could only imagine the scandal that it would cause, plus the opposition that was clearly expressed by John and Mary Watson who had just had their own baby. He thought that everything would have played out itself after that, but he now realized, three years later, that he couldn't have been more wrong.

Looking back, he could visibly see her light growing dim until she became practically a ghost. She grew untrusting, she grew desperate for some kind of attention and Mycroft realized that she was unhappy. But he did nothing.

He did nothing when he found out that Grace would only have dinner once every two or three days and breakfast almost never. She never complained and he never questioned. He did nothing when she showed up to a crime scene wearing a coat that was two sizes too small and boots that were sopping wet. He did nothing when he found her with a large bruise on her forehead after what seemed to have been a particularly difficult day in school, possibly from tripping and falling but probably because of the bullying that she had been enduring having been taken a step too far. He justified his blindness by simply thinking that it was because she never asked for help nor did she ever express outright discontent but he knew he was too smart to fool himself with that ruse.

But then when Moriarty took her. He couldn't do nothing anymore. He had the British Intelligence Services send him all footage from every camera in downtown London and he spent nights working with authorities to find a way to find the international criminal. When she was found, he spared no expense or withheld no threat to get her the top doctors and transfer her to a private room at St. Bart's.

He saw her when she woke up, looking like she had just been to Hell and back, he wished he was exaggerating when he said that that was probably not too far from the truth. She had a concussion, a high, almost fatal fever, pneumonia, PTSD among what the doctors assumed to have been a plethora of other repercussions that had been untreated for so long. He knew that there was nothing he couldn't stay on the sidelines and watch her fall apart any longer and one conversation was more than enough to determine that change will be taken.

Sherlock was still not ready to go see her so Mrs. Hudson had convinced Mycroft to go instead, despite his refusal. One look from John and he had already walked through the door.

"U-Uncle Mycroft?" she looked at him as he entered the room looking as prim as always, "you came to see me?"

He ignored the question, "How are you feeling? Doctors are saying the fever is going down and that the pneumonia is no longer life-threatening. They believe that the IV can be removed in a few days."

She looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy and Mycroft feared that she was about to start crying but she spoke in a soft voice instead, "I want to go."

Mycroft looked at her confused, "you're not ready yet. Everything will be just as you left it when you are healthy enough to be discharged."

"I want to go," she repeated, either not understanding his answer or not getting the one she wanted.

"If you are uncomfortable in this room then-"

"No. I want to go. Disappear. Leave. Can you make me go? Please," and her voice cracked and Mycroft finally understood. He looked down at her hands to see something clenched in her fingertips. The pink bunny was threadbare now but she clearly held it like it was the most valuable thing in the world like it was the only thing holding her together – but much like himself, it was failing at doing so. She sounded so broken and he felt like retching.

"I… I," he didn't know what to do so he did what he did best. He did nothing, he walked away, briskly, leaving the little girl in her hospital bed. But before he could exit, he heard a small, stifled sob and he had never felt so monstrous.

He realized that he didn't see the sun that day.

He tried his best to fix this when her birthday rolled around, exploiting the hospital's higherups to get permission to arrange a little party in the hospital for her. He had no history in arranging birthday parties at all, his source of inspiration being some cheesy movie he remembered watching with his mum nearly three decades ago. He got her some gifts and some food that he knew she liked but nothing could take out that gnawing in his stomach and her words in his mind.

When he found Sherlock with the gifts and cake, he knew that he experienced a similar epiphany and they banded together for that afternoon put a smile back on her face because, for reasons that Mycroft couldn't understand, the smile was something he had longed to see. When she hugged him, he didn't know what to do with himself. All he did know was that the gnawing in his stomach had eased up for reasons that he didn't understand but for reasons that he knew that he needed to come to embrace.

Cut to four months later and he disdainfully acknowledged that she had him wrapped around her little pinky, bending every rule to heed to her every request. Not that she had many requests, she rarely asked for things and the things she did ask for ranged from a new book that she was interested in reading or new pencils for school. She asked for hugs and forehead kisses (and after some practice, he was more than happy to oblige), she asked for homework help (very rarely because she was a true gift in the academic world) and she asked for him to take her on walks in the park so that she could feed the ducks and pet the dogs.

But the sentiment still stood; he would bring her the stars if she asked.

He supposed that he could blame this attachment to one fateful afternoon. It was a simple afternoon really; just dissipating an underground drug cartel and perhaps spending some minutes on the elliptical, that is until he was called down to the main hall, where he was met with two bright blue-green eyes and a look of wonder as they took in the intricate surroundings. Those eyes met him and she gave him a hesitant smile, adjusting the strap of her backpack while doing so. It had been a month since the incident and Sherlock, for the most part, had kept a sharp eye on the girl, even taking a week off from mysteries to help her recuperate, so it was strange to see her without him by her side.

"Hi, Uncle Mycroft. Dad said that there was some level 10 murder and told me that I had to stay with you. I'll stay quiet and if you need help, then I-I can do something for you, otherwise, I brought some books to read," Mycroft didn't know what to say (especially considering his little brother didn't bother telling him this information himself that prick). After everything that he had overlooked, she still looked at him with a face of innocence and blind acceptance. She must have noticed the look of confusion on his face and lost some of her confidence to doubt, "I-if this is a bad time, then-"

"No! It's fine. Come upstairs, I have some Belgian pastries, perhaps you would like to try one?" he said nervously to which she nodded enthusiastically and took hold of his jacket as they made their way to the elevator, he supposed it was her way of ensuring that she wouldn't get lost but he couldn't help but feel as though it were his responsibility to protect her and ensure that she wouldn't get harmed.

In short, by the time Sherlock had come to pick Grace up, he found her curled up in Mycroft's lap as he sat in an office chair, both passed out from what looked like a hectic day of reading books, eating pastries and… making paper dolls (where had they, in this prestigious institution, found someone to permit Grace to use her glitter glue?). Sherlock decided that he would simply leave a text message, grab his daughter and depart to allow his brother to continue his nap. He didn't expect to be met with resistance from the two hands wrapped around her to keep her from falling and Mycroft's eyes snapping open to assess what was trying to take hold of his niece.

"Easy soldier, it's just me. The case ended up being less than a two," Sherlock deadpanned. Mycroft leaned back in relaxation but Sherlock noticed that his grip had not loosened on the sleeping girl in the least, "I take that it was an eventful afternoon and that you happened to survive her glitter frenzy," he noted as he flicked the dried-up neon green glue on his lobule. Mycroft didn't reply and looked down at the child instead. Within an instant, Sherlock realized what he was witnessing.

"You've grown attached. Your eyes are dilated, you're holding on to her as if she kept you from falling off the edge of the world, your hands trembled when I tried to take her away and-"

"Don't be ridiculous brother-mine. I simply knew of the scandal that it would cause if she disappeared again. Simply trying to save face," and when Mycroft said that, he knew that that was the biggest lie that he had ever told.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "and you spent the day making paper dolls with her because it would protect her from an intruder. My, aren't you a Bond reincarnate?" he paused, ignoring the indignant sputters from the other male and glanced down at the raven curls before continuing, "I've encountered a similar debacle actually. I spent three hours in the mind palace determining all of the possible results of leaving her here with you and John had to drag me out of the lobby. I… didn't know I was capable of feeling this but clearly, I never knew myself as well as I thought."

He went to pick her up again, this time being met with no resistance. She shifted and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck while tucking her head into the side of his head, mumbling some nonsense as he adjusted her gently, "anyways. I'll take my leave now. Goodbye, brother," Sherlock made perhaps four meters (exactly three meters and 83 centimetres) before Mycroft spoke up.

"If you have another case, it would probably be best that she not be put in the line of fire until she is old enough to choose to do so for herself. You can… you can leave her here, if Mrs. Hudson or John or Mary are unavailable, of course. It would be better than leaving her with some babysitter or nanny. I can probably adjust my schedule." Drug cartel be damned. Morton could take care of it, he had employed all of those people for a reason, of course.

Sherlock smirked but offered no answer and turned to leave. Before the French doors had completely shut behind him, he saw Grace lift her head from Sherlock's shoulder for a brief second to offer him a smile and wave before she passed out once again and he stood alone in his spacious office, surrounded by glitter glue, paper dolls and a multitude of pastry crumbs.

The next day. he spent an extra 30 minutes on the elliptical.

That brought Mycroft to today, standing in front of the door to 221B Baker Street, holding a wrapped parcel in his hands. He had some work in America and happened to come back from his week-long affair with some news for Sherlock.

Admittedly though, he was more so there to see his little niece's smile (not that he would say that out loud). Within 4.25 seconds of knowing on the door, he heard feet padding towards the door and witnessed it swing open to reveal the raven girl in a pink blouse and dark blue jeans with said feet covered in pink socks. He hated to admit it but he missed this little human quite a bit, usually encountering her every few days if only for a few minutes at a time but a week now seemed too long without her. Even he had a hard time remembering the days when he didn't need to worry if she was eating enough or if she was expecting to do something when they convened at the "office" (actually, he always remembered it but they seemed more and more disdainful the longer that he dwelled on them).

"Uncle My! You're back. How was America?" she inquired enthusiastically as she jumped circles around him as he entered the flat. He let a small smile grace his face as he gathered her into his arms and left a small peck on the top of her head (when she giggled at the gesture, his heart swelled, metaphorically of course). She escaped his grasp and took his hand to drag him further into the flat.

From six months ago to today, the flat had undergone major renovations and changes, changing the overall atmosphere of the building from an evil villain lair to an evil villain playhouse. All of the lab supplies had been reallocated to a spare room underneath the main flat, equipped with its own little kitchenette for any absurd experiments Sherlock hoped to perform out of innocent eyes but the living room had now had a child safe lab in one corner consisting of microscopes, clean equipment and no loose limbs. The rest of the room was covered in Grace's art projects, books, toys and drawings (quite well drawn actually for a child her age… but he may be biased), not a hazardous material in sight.

The kitchen had been refurbished with new, clean equipment fit to cook food as well as a bowl of fresh fruit on the dinner table and a line of packaged snacks covering the kitchen counter. The refrigerator was covered with awards addressed to Grace Everest Holmes and drawing signed with her careful writing in the bottom left corner. He noted her new coats hanging in the closet, her shoes lining the wall next to the door and even some hair supplies on the coffee table. He watched as the child hopped onto the couch and wrapped a soft, grey blanket around her shoulders before patting the space next to her for Mycroft to sit as well, to which he obliged, allowing her to curl up into his side.

One year ago, even half a year ago, the notion that he would have been sitting here, cuddling would have brought side-splitting laughter from everyone who had known him. But with one look at the sweet girl, no one could even question it. Half a year ago, Graco would probably have been alone in her less than standard room, trying to grasp onto some form of warmth as cold air blasted into her room from the broken window, maybe figuring out how to buy a month's worth of food with ten pounds or sitting by herself wondering what she had done to be so alone. She may have been curled up in the sorry excuse for a cot and suppressing coughs and sneezes, knowing that no one would come to check on her. She would be walking home alone in below 20 weather, replaying all the criticism that she did nothing to deserve replaying in her mind like a terrible song.

Five months ago, he would have had to stare at her lifeless body on a slab in the morgue, covered in frostbite and succumbing to an abundance of sicknesses as she sat alone in some cemetery because Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes had failed to save her from a psychopath. She would have had dried tears on her pale skin, and he would have had live with knowing that he did nothing when she needed somebody – anybody to do something.

But now, she was here, snacking on some Hula Hoops while watching some irrelevant nature documentary on amphibians, placing faith in him to keep her safe if anything were to happen as if he had given her any reason to have such trust in him.

He would have to work his whole life to earn that trust and he still may come up short.

"Daddy is in the lab, he should be up any second-," and just as she said that he came bursting in with an annoyed grimace on his face which only deepened when he laid eyes on his brother.

"Hello brother, I wish I had the patience to deal with you but John and Mary are at Adam's doctor appointment so unless this is a level 7 or above, please leave," he stated brusquely brushing nail powder off of his shoulder before discarding his gloves, "and you, daughter, should not be eating those before dinner, I'm going to have to hide those," he said while counterintuitively taking some from her bowl and popping them into his mouth.

"Daddy, you shouldn't be so mean to Uncle My. He might have something important to say for the British government," she chided, putting the bowl of snacks down and packing her homework away into her bag. She was convinced that Mycroft basically owned the whole United Kingdom if not the world and as strange as it was to be addressed as a "supreme leader" once too often, his lips quirked in amusement.

"Well I have no information that cannot wait, but I do have something for Grace from my travels," and for the first time, her eyes gravitated to the box in his hands.

"F-for me?" she asked, clearly confused as she pointed a finger at herself, "why?"

Now he could have said something sentimental to let her know that he thought of her every day while he stayed in New York but instead he cleared his throat and said, "Anthea saw it in some shop window and thought that you would like it so I decided to present it here to you."

"Thank you, Uncle My, but you don't have to lie to me. I missed you too," Grace smiled and took the box, watching her uncle turn red and her father snicker from the kitchen. She sat at the dinner table and began to unwrap the crisp silver wrapping paper in excitement. He watched her expression morph for curiosity to absolute shock as she opened the box and pulled out a small, delicate jewelry box. He watched as she ran her fingers along the porcelain flowers lining the lid. He took it from her hands and turned the knob in the bottom a few times before giving it back to her.

"Open it," he suggested gently and so she did, gasping softly as she heard the lulling tune of Frédéric Chopin's Nocturne in B-flat minor played to overtake the silence in the kitchen. Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock looking at him with a strange look before he turned to look at the wondrous eyes that turned to look at him in shock, causing him to softly smile and give her a nod.

As if to let her know that she deserved something like that.

"I take it that you like it?" Mycroft inquired half-seriously. She looked at him like he had grown a second head at suggesting there was a possibility that she didn't.

"It's absolutely wonderful Uncle Mycroft, more beautiful than anything I could have imagined… but it looks so expensive… you've already done so much for me, this is too much and I don't-," but she didn't make it too far.

"Ms. Grace Everest Holmes, if you are to imply that you don't deserve valuable things, I'm sorry to say that you are gravely mistaken. Besides, if you like it then there's no need to put a price tag on it. Now go put it in your room and come back down for dinner," he glanced at Sherlock and then back at her and with a grin, they both said, "baked ziti" at the same time before he continued, "I have to go.

At that, Grace's face fell, "could you stay for dinner. If you aren't busy, that is. John, Mary and Adam should be here soon and dad always orders too much," it took one reluctant nod towards him from his little brother before he caved and projected it back to his niece who immediately brightened and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before taking the treasure into her hand and dashing to put it in her room. As soon as he left, his brother opened his big mouth an began his deduction.

"When you say that there's no need to put a price tag on it, I think you that you mean that wherever it came from clearly did not seem like the kind of institution that would do so. That's a nineteenth-century Charles Bruguier original and that gold lining is definitely real. Not to mention that porcelain is probably manufactured at least 300 years ago, Chinese ceramic by the looks of it. That belongs came from a museum and definitely not from some random store along 32nd street," he rambled, "that flower style is from Indian clay work in Agra meaning that the box has seen parts of the world. If I had to guess, and I never guess, that box is worth $56 000 and currently is on a dresser next to Hello Kitty hairbrush."

Mycroft smirked, "you are quite wrong brother mine, it is probably worth much more. The inside is lined with sapphires from Madagascar and in 1978 when it was taken to America, they also added Arizonian peridots. Bruguier was likely to have used silk threat for the internal embroidery not to mention that that box had been a stolen Nazi treasure for over 3 decades."

The consulting detective bristled as he listened to the missed details, "Alright but once again, is it best to give to a nine-year-old girl? Of course, I wouldn't hesitate to spend any amount on her but that artifact is a national treasure and while sentimentality is but a nuisance, I'm sure that the American government probably did not feel the same way when you took that as your… ahem, payment."

Mycroft glanced as the wonder came bounding back into the kitchen and he felt his heart melt just a little bit (metaphorically, of course… but at this point, it may be quite literally as well), "Perhaps, but unlike that trinket, the new owner is very much priceless."

So yes, Mycroft Holmes opposed developing any emotional connections at almost a spiritual level. There was no point to it and he seemed to have been making it just fine without them.

But then came Grace Everest Holmes; a little shining light that opened his eyes and blinded him at the same time. When she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, whispering thanks under her breath, he decided that perhaps there wasn't any shame in attachments. Especially when that attachment was to a girl that made the world so much better just by being in it.

Until Next Time!

xoxo,

Everythingisawesome001