A/N: I'm so glad that I got a such a positive response on chapter 1! I'm just winging this thing, but I have an idea of where we're going, and yes, there is a plot, so I'm not just giving you one shots here. I hope you guys realize how many photos of the Holmes boy I have saved, ready to go on Tumblr.
He'd been quite certain that he was in love with her—the child's mother.
There was no way to tell, of course; he didn't quite know what love felt like for one's significant other. Nevertheless, he reasoned that his prospects for his future with her were evidence that he was, indeed, in love with her. There was no constant desire to be in her presence; or uncharacteristic public displays of affection; nor an overbearing need to know of her well being and location at all times. But when she first brought up the notion of having a child with him, Mycroft did not flinch. In fact, it was only a matter of days before he informed her that, yes, he would be amiable to producing an heir with her.
She was no average woman, clearly. Though hers was minimal compared to his own, she possessed a great intellect, unlike any he'd seen from any other "goldfish." She was an American, a spy (she wouldn't tell him as much, but he'd deduced) stationed in Britain on standby, during what threatened to be a contentious time between the two nations. He'd known, very well, that the "contention" would amount to nothing. He'd also understood that he would be hardpressed to find another woman as suited to bear his child—Irene Adler could never be part of the equation, for obvious reasons. There was no true yearning on Mycroft's part to bring a baby into the world; he did not care about whether or not there would be anyone clever left behind once the Holmes' were gone. But his mother constantly pestered him for a grandchild, and women would throw themselves at his feet every once in a blue moon, both of which he hoped would stop once he finally had a child (neither did).
Mummy Holmes had not been too impressed with the fact that Mycroft's child would be born out of wedlock, but he staunchly held that he would not marry and seldom wavered. The entire Holmes family, excluding Eurus, had known about the pregnancy and participated in their own ways. Mother and Father had decorated a room in their home for their grandchild and kept in touch with the unborn child's mother on a more consistent basis than Mycroft himself did, which he noticed when they showed up to a small baby shower held at his flat, unbeknownst to him; and Sherlock had largely avoided speaking on the matter, unless he could use it to ridicule his brother ("Says the man who is so pitiful with people that he had to outsource a pregnancy," for instance). Anthea was made aware halfway through the pregnancy, as she had to accompany the spy on the rare occasion that Mycroft expressly requested her presence. She had suggested a number of baby names to both of the expecting parents; her boss tuned her out every time.
When the child was born, Mycroft and his parents were at the hospital, the former of whom had had to procure a jet from Manchester to arrive in a timely manner. The sex of the child had been confirmed at the baby shower, so when Miles William Jayden Holmes was brought into the world, no one was particularly surprised. A warmth threatened to overcome Mycroft in that moment, one that he just barely tapered down. In the coming weeks, the child's mother was around less and less, leaving him in the care of his father, his paternal grandparents, his paternal uncle, and Anthea. Eventually, she left the country altogether, and only once Mycroft had gotten into the routine of staying up all night and changing nappies and humming bedtime lullabies (as he had done with Sherlock) did she return to retrieve the child.
She'd made a weak case as to why the child should return to the States with her, and Mycroft had not challenged her on it. This, of course, led to the deepening of the rift between Mycroft and his parents, and, to an extent, his brother—Sherlock had taken a liking to Miles, and he'd often offered to watch after him. In time, mentions of the child by the Holmes family and Anthea were few and far between, until they were nonexistent. At the center of the Holmes' boys world became John Watson, Jim Moriarty, Eurus. There was no time to think of Miles, though Mycroft did so fleetingly every day.
There was never any update on Miles from his mother, not that Mycroft had expected anything of the sort, not in his logical, thinking mind. He'd come to accept quite quickly that he would never see Miles Holmes again, at least not in person, but he was still contented with the fact that there was a Miles Holmes out there, somewhere.
Yes, there was a Miles Holmes out there, somewhere.
And that somewhere was his father's home.
Mycroft had recognized him almost instantly; yet, he knew that, whatever trick his mother was playing at, it would end disastrously for the both of them. After all, Miles would be old enough to remember now, if he was taken from his father again. And Mycroft was not particularly keen on feeling whatever he had felt when they'd been torn apart the first time around again.
It was more difficult than he'd imagined, turning his own son away when he was so obviously alone and lost and clever, just like his father.
He'd invited Miles in, with every intention of their meeting lasting for mere minutes. Yet, here they were: Mycroft, seated on the same loveseat from before, his work now forgotten; and Miles, dwarfed by the sofa across from his father, trying not to spill the mug of hot chocolate in his hands.
Mycroft sighed, heavily, and held his face in his hand. When he spoke, he sounded quite tired. "Miles, let's go over this one more time, shall we?"
The boy groaned, in apparent frustration. "For what? I keep telling you the same story, and you never believe me." Miles lolled his head to the side, dramatically. "What's the point?" Mycroft didn't' recall his mother having such an emotional palette—where had he learned that, then?
"The point is that I have an inkling you are, mistakenly or otherwise, leaving important details out of your narrative that could help me determine your mother's current location."
Miles pouted, and Mycroft frowned. "We came here together. She put me in a car, and she got on another plane without me. And now I'm here."
That helped with absolutely nothing. The child was clearly irritated with the line of questioning, and he'd be of no more assistance, at least not tonight. "Your mother knows where I live, then?"
"Nope."
"Then how did you wind up at my house?"
"Ugh." He took a messy swig of his beverage. "Mommy put me in the car, and she told me to find you myself. It wasn't hard—you're not a mystery or 'nigma, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft ignored the surge of…pride?…in his chest and quirked a brow. "Is that so? I find it very difficult to believe that a five-year old could figure that out all on his own."
At that, Miles scoffed. He hopped off of the sofa and set his mug on the table in between them, sending chocolate milk all over the place in the process. Miles dug into his backpack, which was lying on the floor in front of the couch, and walked over to his father to hand him a binder.
"I've been looking into your files," the boy said.
Mycroft examined the contents of the binder, as the boy returned to his seat. He shut it, impatiently. "This is a coloring book, Miles."
The boy shrugged. "It helps me think."
"Very well, then." Mycroft said, the corners of his lips upturned into a smile that was more agitated than anything else. "That's enough for you tonight."
The contents of Miles' backpack were as follows: one stuffed tiger, one pair of black trousers, one pair of blue basketball shorts, two long-sleeve shirts, a Yankees jersey, a binder, a 24-pack of crayons, and an unopened (and warmed) juice pouch.
Miles chose to wear the shorts and jersey as his pajamas for the night. He would be staying in the guest bedroom, which was virtually bare and, thus, had no real need to be childproofed. His irrational fear of sleeping alone, as he had done for the past three years of his life, was minimized when Mycroft informed him that he had no bedtime and could explore the house, including the kitchen, all throughout the night, as long as he did so quietly.
Once Miles was dressed for the evening and seated on top of his bedcovers, coloring, Mycroft wished him a good night and made to leave the room.
But Miles called after him.
"Daddy! Is this my room?
Mycroft shut his eyes and breathed in, deeply. He'd never imagined that he would hear that word directed at him; Miles couldn't have, either, for the word sounded foreign on his tongue, but he'd clearly been waiting for what felt like an eternity in his young life to finally say it. While endearing, somehow, it only made Mycroft's job harder. He composed himself and turned around to face his son.
"This is the guest room," he said, slowly.
"Yes, but it's my room now. Right?"
Mycroft took a tentative step toward the child. "Miles, you have to go home. As soon as possible. You understand that, yes?"
Miles rolled his eyes. "I don't have a home. Mommy's gone off somewhere."
"Well, wherever she is, I will not rest until I find her."
Miles looked downtrodden, then, but he said no more. He muttered a half hearted "Good night" of his own and resumed his coloring.
Just down the hall, his father resigned himself to a restless sleep.
