A/N:
I forgot to add in the previous chapter's author note that the names Tavernier and Greuze are French artists ACD mentions in two separate adventures. I just wanted Bob and Justine's real identities to be connected back to the original Sherlock Holmes stories in some way and chose those names because they were French-sounding. :D
Chapter 114 – You Were Always the Grown-up
Mycroft bristled. Didn't these half-wits get it yet?
"I don't care about the double-glazing," he said, emphasising each word. "Just make sure it can't be removed this time!"
As he about-turned in front of the fireplace, he was startled to see that woman and her… offspring entering the living room, cup of tea in hand. His chest tightened.
"Yes, text me when it's done, thank you."
Disappointed he had to finish on a rather dull note, he watched as she set the tea down onto a side table, bending at the knees because of the way she carried her child in front of her, no doubt.
"Sorry for interrupting your phone call," she said.
Mycroft gave her a brief smile. She may mistake it for being one of polite acknowledgement and mild forgiveness, but Mycroft meant, 'Yes, you did.' He could've given the project manager an earful for another five minutes at least.
"Here's your tea. Sherlock made it for you," she said, her expression pleasant, her eyes, though showing obvious signs of recent emotional distress, demonstrated a certain… agreeableness.
Mycroft's eyes flicked towards the door leading into the kitchen.
"Thank you. And where is my brother?"
Her smile twitched wider. How absolutely irritating. But her eyes… they moved… searchingly.
"He's… probably hanging out the washing."
She maintained eye contact with Mycroft after making that statement. He longed to raise an eyebrow, letting her know there were obvious tells she was lying, but a tiny laugh then followed her words. Dammit. She knew it was a blatant fabrication. A far-fetched notion—Sherlock and domestic duties.
"Most amusing," Mycroft replied. He almost appreciated the humour, if it wasn't for the fact that Sherlock's purposeful absence meant her presence in Mycroft's company was planned. He internally shuddered.
"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the armchair nearest his cup of tea.
"I prefer to remain standing."
"Oh, I'll have to insist, I'm afraid," she said. "I'd prefer you to be seated for this."
Of all the…!
A power play? But of course, someone of her stature would need an advantage over him. Was she going to make a little speech about that minor disturbance of the peace in broad daylight? Sherlock had already made his thoughts known on the matter. And the nearest neighbour consisted of a little used Tennis and Lawn Bowls centre that had been closed for repairs for months. Surely this was overkill.
"Ladies first," Mycroft said, gesturing towards the armchair opposite, ingratiating her with one of his deadly smiles. He was nothing if not a gentleman, after all.
"She won't let me sit when she's like this. She'll think I'm going to feed her and she doesn't need it right now. I don't want her to fall asleep at the breast. I'm pretty sure she's using me for comfort and it does hurt after a while."
The foreign words hit Mycroft's mental Hansard recordings and were duly redacted. He understood the gist of her response, though. She was not going to sit, and he was required to. The rest was meaningless white noise.
But what harm would befall him if he acquiesced to her request?
Mycroft cleared his throat, then took to the armchair. He glanced at his tea. He longed to take a sip—ruling his brother's universe often left him parched—but he thought he'd find out what this little meeting was about first.
The infant scrunched up her legs and let out a squawk in protest. Mycroft furrowed his brow. Were they supposed to carry on a sensible conversation with such random distractions? The gentle shushing that accompanied this infantile outcry brought back memories of Mummy and her not-so-quiet and desperate attempts to calm baby Sherlock, which often left a young Mycroft exasperated in her wake. But the mother in front of him didn't demonstrate the same incompetent air. She seemed to know what she was doing.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes, his auditory senses honing in on the cry. He almost... recognised… the cadence—the prolongations, the intervals.
"So… I wanted to ask you something," she said, rearranging the baby on her shoulder. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow, but took this moment to reach for the tea cup. "A few people have said Grace looks like Sherlock."
Grace? Ah, that's what the child's name was. Mycroft had received a copy of the paperwork from Anthea, but that little detail skipped his attention.
"How can they tell?" he asked, slightly amused. The interest people took in the trivial. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. The tea warmed him immediately, a familiar comfort drizzling through him. Damn. Sherlock had steeped it to perfection on purpose. Two and a half minutes. Two sugars. Just a small splash of milk.
"Her eyes," she replied. "Or at least the shape of them. They haven't quite got their colour yet. They could always turn brown, like mine. But the shape is definitely his." She moved closer. Mycroft's early warning system went from green to orange.
He gulped another sip before replacing the cup onto the table.
"Ms Sulford. I don't see what—"
"Rose," she said.
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Please call me Rose."
"Why? That isn't your name."
"What?" she asked, with a tiny laugh in her voice. "Yes, it is."
Mycroft instantly retrieved the relevant record. Rosemarie Sulford. Oh, dear Lord, she was one of those. Like Mummy and her annoying quirk of calling him 'Myc'. And that's how his brother had referred to Ms Sulford in the past as well. No wonder it sounded like Sherlock was speaking gibberish half the time.
"You want me to abbreviate your name?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes. If you don't mind. All my friends and f… family…" She cleared her throat. "Um… call me Rose."
Curious her hesitation on the word family. Mycroft duly highlighted the word in his mental Hansard transcript to analyse later.
"Very well."
"And… may I call you... Mycroft, instead of Mr Holmes? I already did, anyway. Thought I should ask."
He knew this was coming. Damn Sherlock and his entourage of ordinary people. 'Mr Holmes' put some distance between him and the goldfish, while lending him the distinction he deserved. But now John Watson had set the precedent.
"If you must."
He gifted her with one of his rare smiles. Sherlock often remarked it made him look like a lizard, but the insufferable child would say that.
"So, here, have a look." She had breached his personal space now. Indicators changed from orange to red. Mycroft straightened up in his seat, his skin prickling. "This is Grace… Sherlock forgot to introduce her to you. So, what do you think..." She seemed completely oblivious to the space she had invaded, stooping over him, "… as someone who knew him as a baby?"
Ms Sulford… Rosemarie… Rose… held out the bundle in her arms at Mycroft's eye-level. He almost spluttered with her close proximity, but what was worse, she lowered the baby, hovering inches above his lap. Mycroft Holmes froze.
"Here," she said softly.
Here…? What… what was she asking?
"Arrange your arms like this."
Mycroft's arms slowly moved of their own accord. A curious reaction when someone hands you something. Ordinary people just take whatever is proffered. What in God's name was he doing?
He received the full weight of the squirming bundle. His heart began to pound, making him aware of its existence.
"Just move your hand," Rose said encouragingly. She placed Mycroft's hand beneath the baby's head. "To support her neck." She was actually touching him with no permission sought or reservations experienced. "That's right." Mycroft was beyond feeling. His arms felt rather foreign to him. "Don't be afraid—" afraid? "— to bring her in closer to your chest. She'll prefer the security of a firm hold."
Mycroft's head began to spin as he looked down at this life he now literally held in his arms. All kinds of vaguely familiar scents tickled his nostrils.
"So…" she began, straightening up. What was the woman doing? Leaving her baby entirely in his care?
Mycroft had forgotten what she wanted to know. State secrets? She hadn't signed the Official Secrets Act yet, surely.
"Oh," Rose exclaimed. "She's looking at you."
Mycroft refocussed on the individual that was gazing up at him. Dull grey pupils locking onto his antarctic blue ones.
"It's your Uncle Mycroft," Rose whispered to Grace.
Uncle…?
Mycroft?
Those two words had no business being spoken side by side. Uncle - Mycroft. They swirled about him, two words dancing as one, taking on a life of their own.
As the infant maintained her unwavering gaze, her pupils large black pools within a grey concrete disk, Mycroft's jaw slackened. He felt a familiar pang in his heart looking at the cherubic face. So oddly familiar. Could it be?
"Sherlock," he murmured, his heart expanding.
He was a big brother at last! No longer alone in this world, negotiating around adults and their naïve expectations. A comrade for life. His baby brother lay contentedly in his arms, staring at Mycroft with no judgement or mockery in his eyes. A warmth flooded through him, and he felt a fierce surge of protectiveness.
"You think so?"
He blinked, not realising where he was and that he'd spoken out loud. The rest of the world came crashing back in. His heart shrank back into its hidey-hole.
He gave a light cough, and said, "No. She's too fat."
When Rose laughed lightly, he suddenly flushed.
"My apologies," he rushed to add. "I mean… Sherlock was slimmer, but there is some… resemblance."
"She does feed a lot," Rose said.
The baby wrinkled her forehead before tiny fists waved in the air. She scrunched up her face and emitted a squawk. Mycroft automatically knew what that protest meant. A little used module in his brain had kicked into gear. He slid forward in his chair.
"Oh," Rose said, "She probably wants—"
"To move around," Mycroft finished for her, rising. "Sherlock was the same."
As he padded across the rug in front of the fireplace, the squirming child in his arms, Rose said, "Sherlock always does that. Paces."
"It's the natural rhythm," Mycroft said, not lifting his gaze from the child. "It's soothing." When he reached the wall, he slowly turned around and headed in the opposite direction.
"I do that, too," Rose continued, with a tiny sigh, "But as soon as I put her down, she wakes up, or she doesn't sleep for very long."
"Mmm," Mycroft replied. A familiar story. It took him weeks of explaining to Mummy that Sherlock didn't like the stillness of the air. Mummy had dismissed his advice as poppycock. Quiet and stillness were what babies needed, she said.
"Your nursery is probably too quiet for him," Mycroft told Rose. "Sorry… I mean, her."
"Too quiet?"
Mycroft about-faced once more, revelling in the strength of his arms now. She felt as light as a feather. Sherlock had weighed him down, although Mycroft was only seven at the time. He remembered the pain in his arms, the stiffness in his neck and shoulders.
In the still of the night, he'd often steal into the nursery, plucking his baby brother from the cot just as he began to stir and before he woke Mummy. The young Mycroft carried Sherlock through the hallways of their house, up and down, through the kitchen and living area, and back again, for hours, it seemed, just so he'd stay asleep. A sleep-deprived Mummy was not a woman you would want to be around. Besides, Mycroft came to love the quiet bonding time he had with his new sibling.
"Laboro… laboras… laborat… laboramus… laboratis…"
"Pardon?"
Once again, Mycroft emerged from his trance, the heat of embarrassment creeping across his cheeks.
"Latin," he said, with a sheepish smile. "First conjugation verbs. I work, you work… etcetera. I had to learn them by rote. I was home from school, but I still had to keep up with my studies."
Memories flitted past. Disturbing memories.
Professor Robinson—perpetually moody and cranky after injuring a leg, some said, after chasing down a man who he'd caught having sex with his wife—would thoroughly punish those boys who couldn't recite their verb tables on command. While Mycroft Holmes never had any trouble remembering the various verb endings, nor the rules governing latin grammar, when confronted with a cantankerous old professor, he'd stall and stammer.
On one such occasion, the professor had hoisted a hefty Mycroft Holmes onto a coat hook by the door to set an example to the other boys. When the hook broke, the entire classroom descended into raucous laughter. Mycroft had never lived it down. Back then, his weight was a problem, even though he'd later lose quite a few pounds because of his nightly walks with Sherlock. Not that anybody noticed.
These were the days before Mycroft learned how to manipulate those with lesser minds into becoming something resembling his minions.
Immediately dismissing those unpleasant thoughts, he continued.
"Chanting latin verb declensions seemed to soothe Sherlock. A regular rhythm, you see, and some noise to break the silence."
"Sherlock thinks out loud as he paces."
"Yes. I suppose that works wonders for her, too."
On the periphery of his vision, he noticed Rose settling into the armchair opposite the one he'd previously occupied.
"We don't have any trouble getting her to sleep," she said. "It's the staying asleep that's the problem."
He turned again at the end of the rug.
"Try an electric fan," he suggested, "not that you have to point it at the cot. It's the noise you need. Or perhaps a radio that's not tuned properly… an old-fashioned unit, obviously. The digital ones…" He trailed off. Grace's blinks were growing slower. A smile grew on Mycroft's face. He knew he had her.
"A fan?" Rose mused, almost to herself. "What about running water? A waterfall? Or other sounds of nature? There's these apps you can download…"
But Mycroft wasn't really listening. As he moved across the room, he had eyes only for one.
Eyelids pressed to slits, lips slightly parted, the almost imperceptible increase in weight in his arms. She was asleep, an innocent in repose. Trusting in him completely.
Uncle Mycroft.
You may call me Uncle Myc, if that's easier, and if you so desire, he thought.
My-cwoft!
The call echoed through his mind. The arms of an excited toddler wended around his neck and held fast as Mycroft sat on the picnic rug at the beach.
My-cwoft!
Unconditional love. Admiration for a hero. Mycroft Holmes meant everything to Sherlock.
And vice-versa.
"…her cot?" Rose was asking.
"I'm sorry?" Mycroft said, jolting himself out of his memories, dragging his eyes from the infant to her mother.
"Her cot, upstairs. Do you want me to take her up?"
The hold the infant girl now had on his heart meant he'd be in freefall if he relinquished her now. Mycroft blinked, startled at this revelation.
He cleared his throat.
"She's still restless," he said. "Perhaps if I sit and hold her for a while." He indicated his armchair with a nod of his head. "My close proximity is what she needs now. A heartbeat. It's a steady sound. And I'll stand up again, if she stirs."
Mycroft couldn't quite interpret Rose's smile as he took to his seat.
"And besides," he said, striving to create an indifferent air about him, "I haven't finished my tea."
"Oh! I left my tea in the kitchen," Rose said, vacating her chair. "I'll be back in a minute."
Mycroft took another sip from his cup and grimaced. A bit on the cold side now, unfortunately.
He regarded the precious bundle in his arms and watched as her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
They'd have to get Sherlock's name on the birth certificate of course. She was a Holmes, after all.
Or should they? What trouble would that cause?
Perhaps Scott Williams, then. There ought to be a father's name recorded and one that would secretly link back to Sherlock and therefore the protection of the Holmes name. What precautions did his brother take to ensure her financial security should anything happen to him? Mycroft would set up a trust fund, naturally. Of that there would be no doubt.
Now, as for schools…
A school in England not Scotland, definitely. And there may be a waiting list for—
"Better make sure she doesn't trick you into buying sweets from a shop in Scarborough."
Sherlock was casually leaning against the door frame, with his hands thrust into his pockets. Pushing off from his position, he added, "An entire bag can't be good for tooth development."
"You threatened to scream down the whole shop."
"I did scream down the whole shop," Sherlock said, making his way towards him, "and not because I wanted the sweets. I thought the shop was owned by a wicked witch."
Sherlock stopped in front of the rug and regarded his daughter, a light twinkle in his eye.
"Rose didn't want me to put her down," Mycroft quickly explained. "She said she's too restless."
"I don't doubt it," Sherlock responded, in a tone and slight curling of the lips that suggested he did doubt it.
His brother was still wearing that ridiculous outfit. Did he really want to blend in with the natives?
At that moment, Rose re-entered the room carrying her cup of tea. She ran a hand down Sherlock's arm as she passed him. Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid at the gesture, merely looked at her and gave a tiny smile. Mycroft looked away, not knowing how to process the fact that his brother was in something as ordinary as a relationship with this woman.
"Sherlock, do you mind?" Rose asked. "Justine left the laundry in the machine, but she's upstairs with Rosie. Could you hang it out?"
"Hang it out? What is this… Yorkshire?"
"Well, put it in the dryer then."
She fixed Sherlock with a look Mycroft couldn't decipher. When Sherlock tutted and made for the door, Mycroft struggled to understand the meaning behind their exchange. That his brother had just agreed to undertake a domestic chore was a puzzle in itself.
Rose took to her seat once more, placing her cup down on the table beside her.
It was in that moment that Mycroft realised the effect his little afternoon raid had on Rosemarie Sulford. Her current appearance contrasted strongly with how she had looked in the garden. Obviously, she'd had a strong emotional response after the fact. Her complexion had suffered, not to mention whatever psychological effects the afternoon's event had made on her.
Mycroft gave a dry cough.
"I must apologise extensively for my reaction over a case of mistaken identity earlier… or rather, an accurate analysis of identity, but a poor interpretation of motivation."
Rose's brows lifted.
"You apologise the same way Sherlock does," she said.
"I'm sorry?"
"It doesn't matter," she replied, with a brief smile. "But I'm not sure what you thought you were doing, but you do know there were babies out there, including your niece," she said, dropping her gaze to the precious bundle in Mycroft's arms before continuing, "when your special forces people were running around with guns?"
"A careful observer would have noticed the firearms weren't loaded. The clips were safely—"
"I wouldn't have noticed."
"No. But Sherlock would have. And I daresay Doctor Watson knew, too."
Rose ruminated on this detail for a moment. Perhaps his brother hadn't reassured Ms Sulford on the precise level of danger they had faced.
"And Justine and Bob would've known," she said, "so what was the point?"
"We were rather hoping they would've been too pre-occupied to notice. In the event that my officers couldn't neutralise them at a ratio of three to one, then the sharpshooters by my side were instructed to take them out."
When Rose blanched, Mycroft realised he'd misspoken.
"So… so you still had armed weapons out there."
"Ms Sulford… Rose," he said, lowering his voice. "It was a necessary precaution. The reputations of Tavernier and Greuze were such that—"
"I don't see them like that. They're Bob and Justine to me."
"Yes. I see, but—"
"I'm so close to accepting your apology," she said, with a slight narrowing of her eyes. "Don't spoil it."
Mycroft bit back his response. In the diplomatic world, sometimes knowing when to stop speaking was the best strategy.
"My apologies," he said, with a tiny bow of his head.
"I accept your apology."
Well, that was over rather quickly. But which apology had she accepted? For his misspoken words or his raid by Special Forces?
"With that behind us," Rose began, "or…. I guess, not quite behind us… not me, anyway… it's actually first and foremost on my mind."
Contradictory words. Curious.
"I wanted to ask you a favour. You as a… as… whatever you are."
Mycroft sat just a little bit taller and raised his eyebrows.
"I merely occupy a minor position in the British Government," he recited.
"Yes," Rose readily agreed. "Of course you do. It's just that…" She paused and glanced at the door before lowering her voice. "I don't want Sherlock to know. He might not approve."
Mycroft found himself straining to listen. This almost sounded… interesting. And now he knew why Rose had sent Sherlock away to complete a domestic chore.
But when someone asks a favour, it puts them in the awkward position of owing one in return. Mycroft's mind ticked over.
"Although, he might approve," Rose went on. "You never know. But I'd rather keep this between us."
"Do go on," he replied.
Now this was something worth listening to, he mused, while Rose gathered her thoughts. Rosemarie Sulford had particular skills Mycroft Holmes would find useful. He would listen to her request, most likely grant it, and then he'd submit one of his own. Surely she wouldn't say no, not when he reminded her of the skillset she possessed?
A/N:
How did Uncle Mycroft fare? Did he live up to your expectations? I was actually surprised when Mummy Holmes said to Sherlock that he was always the grown-up. I would've thought that role belonged to Myc. Mrs Holmes, in my opinion (and in agreement with Daddy Holmes), is a bit of a flake.
And can you guess what these favours are that both Rose and Mycroft want to ask of each other? :D
Thank you, thedragonaunt, for your Brit advice as usual. x
