"Whatever I said, it wasn't true," Harry said, scrubbing his eyes as he fell into a kitchen chair.

It was the day after their unintentional sleepover in the Ministry of Magic, and Harry looked like a man sorely in need of more paracetamol.

If Harry were anyone else to him, Mycroft would milk the situation. It wasn't often that such a put-together man talked unfettered by his good sense, and then only had vague memories afterwards. "Interesting statement, that your past self would have been lying. Albeit, I do believe I know you well enough by now to tell."

Harry grimaced. "It'd be better if you could just give me the run-down. It's all bleeding together with a very vivid dream I had about busting you out of a DMLE holding cell, and then Mad-Eye Moody followed us home and promised to help me in return for my first-born child."

"Well," Mycroft said. He licked his lips. "I believe he said he'd be waiting on that favour you owe him now."

"You let Alastor Moody into our flat? Is Sherry alright? Wait, did I at least dream the bit where I asked you to marry me?"

Mycroft stared. His mind stuttered over the words hidden in between the lines: it had been a bad idea to let the Auror talk to Harry, regardless of how much Harry looked up to the man. Moody's visit had endangered Sherry, or perhaps their guardianship of their son; he'd have to draw up more airtight paperwork.

Furthermore, part of Harry wanted to marry him. Was it out of love, affection, convenience, or vivid hallucinations? More importantly, regardless of Mummy's disdain, it'd be important to ascertain that Father approved of their partnership.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Mycroft said, not entirely certain what he was talking about. He'd ask Anthea on Monday, or maybe Eurus when she visited after lunch.

While Eurus had studied emotions and motivations, Anthea experienced them and understood human feelings instinctively.

"Well, it's going to be awkward at work next time I see him," Harry said, tugging his fingers through his hair. "I had been thinking about transferring to another department anyway."

Mycroft stood. "I'll go put the kettle on," he said. By the time he'd returned with the tea tray, they were both quite comfortable pretending that everything was perfectly normal, thanks very much.

Mycroft picked up his pen and the middle page out of the Daily Prophet for the crossword. When Sherry tottered over, Harry set him onto his lap and started to read out the articles that had moving pictures.

The thermos of tea on the table kept its temperature not by magic, but physics.

.oOo.

"What does it mean if a man asks you to marry him?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea looked up from the planner she'd been writing in. She had a steady hand even when the cab went over cobblestones. "It usually means that he wants to marry you."

He reminded himself, for the two hundred and eighteenth time, that he'd hired her precisely because she could communicate 'Are you an imbecile?' with a look.

"What does it mean if Harry asked me to marry him?" Mycroft tried again, because he wasn't an imbecile, and blast it, he wanted to know.

"Oh my, please tell me you said yes!"

"It was phrased as a hypothetical," Mycroft said, rewatching the scene from inside his mind palace. "Coincidentally, I'm not sure if he meant it. Hence the question." Mycroft studied the head of his umbrella. It was shaped like a lion's head, which Harry adored and Sherry was sceptical about.

"Well, when a man loves a man very very much—"

"What is love, Anthea? Can you explain it to me? What does it look like? What does it feel like? Can I touch it? Can I taste it?" Mycroft's parents had certainly never embodied love in their relationship.

"I mean," Anthea said, drawing out the words, "Do you want to taste him? That's lust, but it can be related. Then again, my mom loved my dad lots but I'm still an only child."

From the records Mycroft's people had dug up, he'd learned that there had been a little brother Reyes in the making. Unfortunately, he'd been lost to the chemotherapy that had saved Mrs. Reyes' life. He reached over and patted her hand; it seemed like the kind of thing Harry would do.

"Are you alright?" Anthea asked.

Mycroft returned his gaze to the lion and stroked a thumb across its mane. "I am aware how to interpret what my body wants, Anthea. My question does not concern itself with the physical nature of a coupling."

She covered her mouth, inadvertently drawing attention to the smile creasing her lips.

"I live with the man." Mycroft sighed. "He helped my sister. We have a son." He mentally tallied the points. My mother hates the very thought of him. We work closely together on a professional level.

"Love is something you feel, Mister Holmes."

Before, he had only ever loved his sister, and she terrified him.

"He makes me feel safe," Mycroft said to the lion's head. "Sometimes, I find myself doing things solely because it would please him."

"Yup," Anthea said. She handed their fare to the cabby and got out, holding the door open for Mycroft to follow her. "Sounds like love to me, or however close someone like you can come to it."

The words followed him up three flights of stairs, through his work day, and all the way home. Someone like you.

He'd spent his entire life so far basking in his own extraordinarity, but now, with those words, he wondered for the first time if he was missing out on being normal.

Normal like Susie Whinders, who was having an affair, or even Blainbridge with his four children. Mycroft Holmes had an exceptional font of knowledge and intellect, but normal people would always know more than him about falling in love.

.oOo.

Eurus, miraculously, was doing well. She loved Oxford, perhaps because of the time spent in Nürenberg or because the Holmeses had no alumni there. She came home every weekend with frog spawn in her pockets, chattered about the molecular physics of transfiguration, and told Sherry how Jack the Ripper had never been identified.

Mycroft didn't want the boy to be learning such things. He saw how avidly Sherry listened to her lectures about crime and punishment. "Perhaps you should talk about something else," he occasionally hedged, but Eurus never did anything she didn't want to.

They'd brushed over the incendiary incident almost as if it had never happened, though Eurus only ever got to interact with Henry under supervision now.

Unfortunately, Harry took no issue at the morbid nature of Eurus' conversations. He would merely shrug, citing that his godson Teddy had been partial to dissecting roadkill and he'd turned out just fine. When Mycroft asked him to, Harry did talk to Eurus about it, but he could tell it was to humour him rather than because Harry saw his point. "Children are resilient," Harry liked to say.

Most children might turn out just fine, but Holmes children had a one in three chance of turning out either murdered or murderer. It scared him when he saw Sherlock in his son's mannerisms, and it terrified him when he saw Eurus in Sherry's careful manners.

On the sixth fire-related incident in the Holmes household, Mycroft took Harry out for a walk. His umbrella tapped between them on alternating steps while they worked their way through scrumptious samosas.

"Harry," Mycroft began, "How did you say accidental magic worked?"

"It's very normal, but it'll get better when Eurus gets a properly matched wand. Ollivander's going to reply to my owl soon."

"In toddlers. How does accidental magic manifest in toddlers?"

Harry stopped walking. Mycroft took several steps back, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for Harry to finish chewing. There was something akin to worry in the man's eyes, though they hadn't yet dawned into realisation.

"Usually you'd get a fair bit of it by now. I have a ward on the flat to let me know when I need to obliviate Blainbridge, but…"

"But?"

"It hasn't happened yet," Harry half-whispered. "Only ever on weekends when Eurus is there. You think he's—he's a squib?"

"What?"

"I mean, there's nothing wrong with squibs, I'd just assumed, with him being half mini-me, you know…"

"No, I don't believe our son to be a squib," Mycroft said, and started walking. He didn't turn, listening for when Harry caught up. "You must not forget that we are raising a Holmes, Harry." He took a fortifying breath, watching Harry from the corner of his eye. "I suspect Sherry knows about your wards and is intentionally unloading his accidental magic when Eurus is home."

"The only incidents had her setting things on fire."

Most days, Harry was exceptionally intelligent, but when it came to their son he was stupidly slow. Mycroft threw in a pointed look and waited for the cogs to finish turning.

"You're accusing a two year old of arson," Harry said, tone deadpan.

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "I've seen this before. I believe that, to teach him responsibility and empathy, we should get him a puppy."

Harry threw his head back and laughed, holding on to Mycroft's arm and wiping his eyes.

Mycroft continued walking, leading them out of the path of their fellow pedestrians.

"You're serious," he realised. "A puppy? What, like Johnny?"

"Exactly like Johnny," Mycroft said. It had worked before. Eurus loved that dog, even if she hadn't yet learned to love anything or anyone else.

"Er, alright," Harry said. He didn't let go of Mycroft's arm. "Do you want me to take care of it? I suppose he might want a magical familiar like a Kneazle or a Crup."

Mycroft had considered the benefits of muggle versus magical animals, and he prefered to stick to the evil he knew. "A standard poodle is eager to please, and I already have a reputable breeder. I won't have an animal that's too clever for its own good."

"Also, Johnny doesn't shed." Harry nodded. "Alright, we're getting the toddler a puppy. What could possibly go wrong?"

.oOo.

"What do you mean, you don't have any available?" Mycroft demanded.

He should have known better. He understood perfectly the way puppies were produced via natural methods instead of coming off an assembly line like freshly manufactured automobiles, complete with the smell of leather and vinyl.

Nonetheless, he wasn't expecting to have to wait almost a year for a new puppy. He considered putting in an order for a second dog at the same time. Johnny was getting on in his years; he certainly wouldn't have made it close to twenty if Eurus weren't a witch.

Mycroft didn't have to deduce that the dog's death would devastate her beyond the kind of wound a replacement could heal. One new poodle would suffice, Mycroft's pick of the next litter. He paid up front for the honour, knowing that if a dog could help his son like one had helped his sister, it'd be worth every penny.

Because, the more Mycroft looked, the more he witnessed Eurus' tendencies in his boy. Sherry was often watching them with the same bright, calculating eyes. The rest of the time, he was reading.

Mycroft had been old enough, when his siblings had been born, to understand their similarities and differences. Sherlock had spent his short life reading about facts and figures. He'd enjoyed puzzling out the inner workings of the world, as if khemein, alchymia, or chemistry could help him make sense of the way his family never understood him. The only time he looked peaceful was when sleeping, soft brown locks splayed out across his pillow like an Eldritch beast wrapped around his head.

On the other hand, Eurus knew from the start that the answer lay in humanity. She'd studied history, art, geography, and politics. Whenever Mummy scolded her children, the gardener, or the housekeeper, Eurus would be watching with the air of an anthropologist…or an alien. She learned to copy their facial expressions and she'd learned how to make them understand what she wanted, when she wanted, where she wanted.

Once, on the most heartbreaking days of all, Eurus had wanted to be normal. None of them could come close to giving her that.

Now, with his own son, Mycroft found himself floundering. Even compared to Eurus, Sherry had him floundering.

As a parent, Harry had a knack for normalcy. He came home at the same time every day and he left his worries at the door the same way he shucked off his mackintosh. He sent off Blainbridge with a cheery smile and greeted Sherry like the boy was special not on merit but merely for existing.

The few times Mycroft had been around to see it, he'd marvelled at the way Harry could love so easily, so effortlessly. While Mycroft worried over complexities in interfamilial dynamics, Harry hoisted their son on his hip and asked him his opinion on the day's activities. When Sherry talked about reading bloody history or abhorrent potions, Harry smiled, kissed him on the nose, and told him that it sounded lovely, that Sherry made him so very proud.

Meanwhile, Mycroft concerned himself with the semantics of unconditional love. When he held his son, he asked how the goblin uprising of 1577 had influenced the works of Shakespeare, or how Dante Alighieri's Inferno had been interpreted by Botticelli, Milton, and T. S. Eliot.

He didn't want to hear Sherry tell him about his day when he knew the boy's lies were inevitable. Sherry liked Eurus, tolerated Blainbridge, and secretly enjoyed being carried. His favourite foods were rich, savoury, or crunchy. Sherry didn't need to tell him this; Mycroft simply observed the way so few humans ever did.

This was how he knew for certain that Sherry's day could never be 'alright,' because the boy had no concept thereof. His mood fluctuated between annoyance, anger, ennui, and giddiness, with Mycroft's main efforts going towards pushing the balance in favour of those moments of joy.

They were raising a little psychopath, teaching him how to lie convincingly, how to pickpocket without Blainbridge noticing, and how to mirror all the emotions he would never properly feel.

Nothing was alright.

And in his heart, Mycroft knew a puppy wouldn't fix it. But it'd help, like it had helped Eurus, like having younger siblings had finally helped him. Mycroft hadn't known how to relate to anyone until that first moment he'd held an infant Sherlock in his arms and understood that there was a person counting on him to not bungle it up, ever.

Now here he was, twenty six years later, experiencing something akin to love for three whole people at the same time.

He'd come a very long way. It wasn't too late for little Sherry yet.

.oOo.

When Harry brought home an extra two and a half thousand pounds, Mycroft could have kissed him. Not literally, of course. Exchanging saliva with another person still seemed rather crass. Perhaps a peck on the cheek, or even the lips; Mycroft could picture that kind of kiss.

Now that he had no more reason to hang his head in shame, Mycroft pocketed the cash, changed into the grey suit that Mummy liked, and took the next train out to Henley-on-Thames. He had Anthea call ahead for him and insisted on taking a cab up to the house. He could have asked Mummy to pick him up, but her driving always made him feel unsafe.

He arrived to see the Christmas tree was in the process of being set up. Mummy was giving orders to the gardener, trying to make him understand the importance of mounting the eight foot monstrosity exactly perpendicular.

Personally, Mycroft didn't see the point. It'd have to be adjusted again once the lights were on it, after which it'd get moved farther into the corner. But Mummy was particular about having things in certain ways, so he left her to it and headed into the kitchens. Miss Pennywort always made crème brûlée when she knew he was coming.

He kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the kitchen table, letting the smell of caramelised sugar lull him into a false sense of security.

Mummy would be coming to fetch him soon, but for a few minutes he was just Mycroft, smiling at Miss Pennywort as she asked him if he'd always been this tall, and had he lost weight, because it suited him.

If Blainbridge wouldn't spend an hour every day baking, Miss Pennywort's assessment of his figure might even be accurate. Still, Mycroft had given up on most treats, and home-cooked meals every day combined with so many stairs were moving him towards his future-self's slimness.

"Here you are," Mummy said, collapsing into the chair beside him. "Pigging out on Miss Pennywort's best cooking, and it isn't even tea time. You should be ashamed of yourself."

The caramelised sugar cracked under Mycroft's spoon as he sliced into the crème barely cooled from the oven. At his side, Mummy sighed and tapped her spoon against her own like a hard boiled egg.

Miss Pennywort set down a fresh pot of tea and patted Mycroft on the back as she left to give them some privacy. Mycroft prepared their cups once it had sufficiently steeped, waiting for Mummy to direct the conversation.

"Since you're finally daring to show your face around here, I take it you have the rest of my money?"

Business first. Of course. Mycroft took out the envelope from his pocket and slid it over the table to her. He'd even calculated some interest; next time, he'd rather loan from a bank.

There wouldn't be a next time.

"Good," Mummy said, tucking it away. She sliced into her crème brûlée. "Tell me how your sister is doing. I had to hear from your uncle that she'd started at Oxford. I don't know why you didn't get yourself a good well-paid job in the Secret Service like Rudy has. God knows you have the mind for it. Having someone else to keep a mind on Eurus would be nice, instead you're off galivanting with you homosexual lover."

Mycroft took another spoonful. It melted on his tongue. He closed his eyes briefly, picturing himself as a frozen lake that her words could not penetrate.

"Eurus is doing well. She's started learning magic. Harry helped her get a proper wand."

"Don't lie to me, boy. What you're describing is impossible."

"I do believe that defying the limits of the impossible is a common trait amongst the family, mother-dearest." He didn't smirk at her, but it was a near thing.

"Your pervert is a wizard?" There was shock in the arc of her thin eyebrows.

Mycroft smiled. "Of course, did I forget to tell you? He even holds an influential role in the wizarding government."

"Ah, he's the one paying off your debts, then. Should have known." She patted her pocket with the two and a half thousand quid that Harry had brought home the day after the Crouches' incarceration in the new-and-improved Azkaban was announced.

To answer, he shrugged, knowing how much Mummy loathed the gesture. Mycroft sipped his tea, despite it being a bit too hot.

"I never thought…" Mummy turned away, dabbing the evidence of her emotions from her eyes. When she turned back with the usual fixed smile, he was almost fooled into believing that she didn't have a heart at all. "I'm glad the girl is finally making something of herself. Pass along my best. I'll be sending her a check. I'm sure that dalliance with German education racked up some bills."

Mycroft knew what the semester abroad had cost because he'd already paid for it. Eurus' affection could not be purchased, and she certainly wasn't going to start taking cash from Mummy now when Mycroft had worked so hard to prevent any sense of reciprocal obligation. "Her finances are in order," he said, rather than the bugger off he was feeling.

"Very well. Was that the only reason you came to visit? To tell me you've been looking after your sister rather than paying off your debts to me?"

There was no point in arguing. Her words skated across the surface of his mind, though one of them took the time to do a pirouette. As she was opening her frowning mouth to spew some new insult, Mycroft said, "I'm going to be marrying Harry soon." He knew it was best not to provoke her. Unfortunately, she always did bring out the worst in him.

Mummy let out a small, prolonged groan.

"I'm halfway towards legalising the act. Section 28 is being buried. He asked for my hand just the other day, so I suggested he come to meet Father to ask him. You always were such a stickler for doing things properly."

Mummy whimpered; Mycroft grinned.

"Christmas is such a busy time, isn't it? Imagine the sight of us holding hands down Hart Street, your grandson riding piggyback on my shoulders. What wonderful news, I'm sure the neighbours will be gossiping about it all through Father Dalton's Christmas service."

"Alright," she whispered. "Alright. I'll leave Eurus be. Just…send her my love."

She hadn't raised him to snort. "Excellent," he said instead. "We'll come visiting in spring and we'll arrive on separate trains. Sherry looks too much like Sherlock did, so I'll be bringing him along myself."

"That's a wonderful idea," Mummy said quietly. "I'll break the news to the help in time for your arrival. Perhaps you'd like to bring your assistant, also?"

"Ha!" Mycroft could picture the scandal of a second generation immigrant in the Henley; at least if he brought a man they wouldn't immediately jump to conclusions. "We'll see," he said. "Now, I wanted to see Father."

Mummy left him to find his own way to Father's rooms. The curtains were drawn, with a reading lamp casting sharp shadows around where Constantin Holmes had fallen asleep in his armchair.

Mycroft set the book aside and snooped through the papers on the man's desk; at least the Holmes finances were still in order.

"Is that you, Miss Pennywort?" his voice croaked out.

"No, Father, it's me. Mycroft." He held up a glass of water, pointing the straw the right way.

The burn scars on Father's face twisted into a garish smile.

Mycroft set down the water and clasped his father's discoloured hand. It creaked like vellum. "I don't know if Mummy told you: I have a son now. He's beautiful, and frighteningly clever."

"Is there a Mrs. Holmes?"

Mycroft swallowed, choosing to look down at the sinews holding his father's hand together. "I'm bringing Harry to meet you in spring. We were hoping for your blessing."

"And are you happy?"

Mycroft couldn't recall the last time someone had asked him that. He didn't have to think about his answer, not when his face broke into a wide smile entirely of its own accord.

Yes, Mycroft realised, he had his job, his son, his sister, his almost-fiancé…it was more than he'd ever dreamed of.

"Good," Father croaked, and Mycroft felt himself go boneless with relief. "But your son, is he like she was?"

"He looks like Sherlock did," Mycroft offered. He poured himself his own glass of water, though they both knew he was stalling. "I'm getting him a puppy next year," he admitted.

Father laughed, coughed twice, and laughed again like a crumbling mountain. "You're a good brother and a good son, Mikey. We'll make a good father of you yet."

I'm back on track for weekly updates with the next 3 updates fully ready. Thanks for all your support in the interim, I will be replying to the comments soon.