Mycroft Holmes was never the one for babysitting.
Rosie knew that from experience; when she was four, he almost let her play with knives. ALMOST. Then, at the last minute, he remembered she was not a "Holmes child" and decided she'd be better off playing with cardboard farm animals than sharp kitchen utensils.
But now, somehow, she was stuck in his house. Just waiting for the tedious two-and-a-half hours of mind-numbing boredom to end. Because John and Sherlock went out to dinner together ("Strictly friendly, so don't get ideas", John had warned Mycroft), and Mrs. Hudson was on holiday, and Molly was working late. So that was that.
Mycroft's house was not a fun place for a girl of ten. There were no books or DVDs or even little soldier dolls. There weren't even any pencils for drawing, only expensive pens that Rosie wasn't allowed to use.
She highly suspected Mycroft didn't regard her as a proper niece. That was perfectly acceptable because she didn't regard him as a proper uncle either. Technically, even Sherlock wasn't her real uncle; she didn't have one. But still, calling her dad's best friend's brother an uncle- that was going a bit too far.
Another reason for Rosie to hate Mycroft's house (apart from its total boredom factor) was the fact that it was, in all ways, completely unlike Rosie's comfortable home in 221B Baker Street. Mycroft had no ugly wallpaper, sprayed with a yellow smiley face and shot full of bullets (Sherlock had let Rosie try that once when she was eight; they both denied any connection between that fact and the lamp that "somehow" fell from the ceiling). Mycroft had no saggy, soft couches or bouncy armchairs (Rosie had attempted to jump back and forth between the two armchairs in 221B when she was six years old; that resulted in a broken arm and a lot of spilled coffee).
Above all, Mycroft didn't have odd scraps of paper and old photographs and outdated case files littering the mantelpiece and hanging on mirrors. One could not simply make fun of Sherlock's hat by lifting up the laptop and searching the table beneath it; one could not question John's detective memory by casually looking above the microwave; one could not identify a cause of death by opening the fridge.
The lack of all these made Rosie dreadfully homesick and totally unentertained. Mycroft didn't enjoy his babysitting duties any more than she did; in fact, perhaps he was even more uncomfortable with them. So ever since she was seven, Rosie had the habit of bringing books and crayons and playing cards to Mycroft's house, to ease the boredom.
But then she finished the book.
Rosie closed her book with a sigh of content. The story ended so happily, she couldn't wait for the next book in the series. The protagonist, supposed to be in exile, was returning unexpectedly to his dearest friend because a creepy criminal was pranking all of England. Something about the whole story rang a little familiar in Rosie's mind, but she enjoyed the story anyway.
Rosie reached for the second book she'd brought.
It wasn't there.
She panicked, looking for it under every leather couch in the room before realizing she'd forgot it at home- along with all her other amusements.
Rosie smacked her forehead, annoyed at herself. WONDREFUL, now she was stuck in Mycroft's boring house for another hour with absolutely NOTHING to do.
"Mycroft?" she called sulkily. "Do you have any pencils or kids' books?"
Rosie knew the answer was no, and waited to hear Mycroft say it, but a reply didn't come. A heavy silence pressed down on her.
Rosie didn't like silence. Like her Uncle Sherlock, she was easily bored and loved action, which made her for an often-bothersome companion. But now it just supplied her with a new thing to do: Operation "Find Out Why Mycroft Is Ignoring Rosie Watson and Ask Him If He Has Entertainment".
Rosie left the living room she'd been sitting in- she didn't creep along, but walked in a way that seemed to radiate confidence. Mycroft's house was a bit intimidating; she needed to be fierce.
Mycroft was not in the next room. Rosie pretended to be Uncle Sherlock, inspecting the area for clues. There was nothing; it was just an empty guest room with a barren mattress. Rosie guessed the room had never been used, which made sense because Mycroft was not a people person.
The house was too big and quiet. Rosie stomped out of the guest room very loudly, trying to fill in the silence. Where was Mycroft?
The next room was a small kitchen. It was obvious, from the moment Rosie stepped in, that Mycroft wasn't there. She opened the fridge and looked for snacks. There was lots of cake, but Rosie didn't know where Mycroft kept plates, so she left the room empty-stomached.
After the little kitchen was a large parlor. It was old-fashioned and fancy, with ornate décor and elaborately carved wood-and-gold couches. That was quite puzzling to Rosie, because she'd always assumed Mycroft was a very modern-type person.
She was about to leave the room when something caught her eye. In the corner, partially hidden by a tall lamp, was a photograph of a curly-haired child. Rosie knew for certain that there were no kids Mycroft cared about at the least. So who was in the picture?
Rosie edged towards the lamp, peered around it at the little table. To her surprise, there was more than one photo; in fact, she found five in total.
Two were cheaply framed shots of nature views; a desert canyon and a green forest. There was a tiny, crumpled picture of Rosie as a baby (probably given to Mycroft by Sherlock. Rosie didn't know why he kept it). Then there was a photograph of a chubby, freckled teenager standing beside a boat, cased in a black metal rectangle. But most surprising was the largest one; it was framed in carved silver and featured a little boy. The boy in the picture was caught mid-laugh, his mouth open in a giggle and his eyes shut with happiness. He was no older than six and sported a head full of perfect auburn-brown curls along with pale-ish, freckled skin.
Rosie didn't have her uncle's skills, but she could deduce a few things from the photograph. First of all, it was an old one; the colors were faded and the printing un-modern. Rosie also knew that it showed a person since grown up; there was no child this young that Mycroft cared about enough to frame a photo of them.
She gazed closer at the picture. Sand and water took up the background, so evidently it was a beach. The kid was wearing a sweater, though, so it was probably cold out. Rosie guessed that the boy lived by the shore, in that case, explaining the reason for being at the sea in cold weather.
The little boy also held something long and wooden in his hand, and seemed to be waving it around. A pair of child's boots peeked from the left corner, not his; so he wasn't the only kid in the area.
"Who IS he?!" Rosie murmured, scanning the photograph.
"Why don't you ask me?"
Rosie jumped, almost dropping the photo in its frame. Mycroft stood before her, leaning jauntily on his umbrella and looking very calm.
"Mycroft!" she exclaimed, well aware of how sweaty her hands were on the photograph's glass front. "I was looking for you- and- well- who? - what? - I'm so-"
Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose you have questions. Come along, then."
Five minutes later, Mycroft and Rosie were sitting in one of the house kitchens. Rosie still clutched the picture; Mycroft occasionally sipped from a cup of tea.
Rosie blew on her own cup, waiting for it to cool down, and kicked her feet nervously. Mycroft was being scarily quiet, which was worrying. She hoped he wouldn't be too mad at her for looking at those photos.
"So." Mycroft said all of a sudden. "What were you doing in that room?"
"Looking for you. I told you already. I -"
"Why were you looking for me?"
"It's not illegal! I finished my book and wanted to see if you had any kids' stuff! God!"
Mycroft gave her a cold smile. "Feisty like your father, Rosamund."
Rosie shrugged and drank a bit of her scalding tea, instantly regretting it. She wasn't used to being called Rosamund, and was unsure whether she liked it or not.
Silence, then: "Who was the kid in the photograph, Mycroft?"
Mycroft put his cup of tea down and sighed. "It's somebody you know very well."
Rosie thought about it. "Not somebody my age. Is it you?"
"No, I was the bigger child by the boat." Mycroft shook his head.
She tapped her fingers against the table, kicking her legs and staring at the picture. Curly hair, cuteness, high cheekbones, rounded face, crinkled-eye smile-
"Oh my lord… is this Sherlock?"
Mycroft rewarded her with another chilly smile.
"Yes, Rosamund Watson, that is my little brother. He was quite the sweet little lad, if I recall correctly. Very emotional and happy."
Rosie looked over the picture again, running her fingers over Child Sherlock's little face. Frozen in a joyous smile. Still not knowing about John, about Moriarty, about Mary, about whatever traumatizing thing happened at the Ancestral Family Home, about whatever Sherrinford is, about the reason John and Sherlock never tell eachother "goodbye" or "can you do this for me". So innocent. So young. So… unlike what Sherlock became.
"Why do you have a picture of him?" Rosie found herself asking.
Mycroft sighed. "Despite what he himself may think- I do care for Sherlock Homes."
He glanced down at the photo. "But you can keep that. I have no use for it. Show it to Sherlock if you like."
Rosie nodded slowly. She'd planned on asking Mycroft why he had a picture of her as well, but suspected the answer might be the same.
"Thanks, Mycroft." She said, as the familiar sound of John's car was heard from outside.
Mycroft didn't answer as she got up and turned to leave, but only when she was half-way out the door.
"The pleasure is all mine… Rosie."