"Sherlock, you've said it yourself; I AM the British government. I do not babysit!"
"Shh, Isabelle, don't worry, Uncle Mycroft doesn't mean it." Sherlock smirked at his brother as he softly bounced his goddaughter in his arms.
Mycroft lifted his chin and gave his brother his best imperious stare. "And I am not her uncle!" he huffed. "Nor are you, for that matter. You are, in fact, no blood relation at all! You are her godfather, Sherlock! And this obsession you haveā¦"
He fell silent as Sherlock abruptly shoved the giggling nine-month-old into his brother's arms. Isabelle stopped giggling and stared up at him, blue eyes round and wide, her expression suddenly rather solemn as the two of them traded looks.
She reached up slowly and patted Mycroft's nose, then smiled her sweetest smile.
And that, Sherlock related proudly to Molly later that evening, was the moment the Iceman finally melted.
