NOTE: Inspiration struck me for a little bit of an epilogue to The Science of Weaponry story. Enjoy!
It had been some time since Sherlock had carried Rose up to her room. Mycroft knew that it was likely the two were both asleep, snuggled together in one of their beds as had become their habit. Rose was what Mother called a 'cuddlebug' and it was an apt moniker, even if it wasn't actually a word. The littlest Holmes craved cuddles and smiles, soft looks and fingers run through her hair combined with soothing words. Her need for such gentle ministrations and physical contact was never more evident than post-spanking. In fact, Mycroft couldn't remember a time when Rose hadn't cried herself out, had her cuddle and promptly fall asleep. That was just her way and, well, it was sort of adorable. Alright, maybe it was particularly adorable but he would never admit that, even under torture.
As much as he hated to disturb her slumber, he couldn't let her sleep the day away and it was getting to be supper time. While Sherlock was free to eat or not at his own discretion, Rose was required to eat three good meals a day. With the need to wake her in mind, Mycroft went up the steps to the second floor and peeked into her room. Sure enough, there were his siblings, sound asleep. Even in his sleep Sherlock held onto Rose protectively with one arm, little partners in crime that they were.
Crossing the room, Mycroft went to bed and for a moment couldn't help standing there and watching them. Well, not watch Sherlock, but watch Rose. Her curls, abundant and wild like Sherlock's, were sticking out every which way, her sweet little face looking so angelic in sleep. Which was about the only time her face, or anything else about her, was angelic it often seemed. Unable to help himself, Mycroft carefully leaned over Sherlock, making certain not to jostle him, and pressed a soft kiss to Rose's slightly chubby little cheek.
"Don't you dare kiss my head," Sherlock spoke suddenly. "Unless you want me to hit you."
Mycroft rolled his eyes and stood up, giving his brother a look. "Not sore enough, are we brother?"
Sherlock scowled darkly at him and opened his mouth to say something when Mycroft raised his hand in a gesture of silence. "Don't wake the baby with angry words," he ordered.
Moving ever so carefully, Sherlock took his arm from around Rose and began to slide out of bed, completely unsurprised when she made a murmur of protest. The murmur was followed by an adorably tiny "Nooooo," the vowels drawn out in a sleepy tone.
The eldest Holmes took Sherlock's vacated spot on the bed and gently rubbed her back. "It's time to wake up Rose and have some supper. If you sleep any longer you'll be up at three or four in the morning and that's much too early for little girls to be out of bed."
Rose opened her eyes and shifted over closer to him before somehow attaching herself to his person, leaving Mycroft little choice but to wrap his arms around her. Not that it was much of a trial. "Can I come down in my pajamas? I don't want to put real clothes on."
Mycroft chuckled. "I suppose I can bend the rules just this once." He really didn't think it was decent to eat a meal at the table in pajamas, but wasn't entirely certain he could resist her pleas just then.
"'kay." Rose made no effort to move, continuing to hold onto him. She smiled when Mycroft stood up with her in his arms, sighing heavily.
"You think just because some people consider you cute that you may do as you wish, hm? And have others do your bidding?" He rolled his eyes just a bit when she nodded. "Demanding little thing," he chided gently as he carried her from the room.
"Horrid, mean old Mycroft," Rose replied, even as she nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck. "Can we eat in the sitting room so I can lay on the couch on my tummy?"
"Absolutely not! We are not heathens, Rosenwyn Holmes. We will eat at the table like civilized human beings. If you ask me very nicely I will let you have a pillow, but only if you ask nicely," he warned.
"My, may I please have a pillow so I can eat supper at the table and not be a heathen?" Rose asked, echoing his words back to him.
"Hmm, no," Mycroft replied, shaking his head. "I think not this time."
Rose looked positively stricken and gazed up at him with very sad little eyes. "But My! I asked nicely and everything!"
"You asked very nicely indeed. But just before you asked nicely you called me horrid, mean and old," he pointed out.
"Oh I never mean that when I say it," Rose told him with a huff. "And you know!"
"Do I? I'm not sure I do." They were entering the kitchen where Sherlock was setting the table without even being asked. Will wonders never cease, Mycroft thought to himself. Suddenly he was attacked—by a very loud and wet kiss on the cheek and half choked by overly enthusiastic tiny arms trying to hug him.
"You're going to kill him," Sherlock snickered. "But that has my approval so keep going."
Rose drew back from Mycroft a bit, only to rest her forehead against his. "I love you, you old Mycroft," she whispered.
Mycroft turned his head just slightly so he could whisper in her ear. "And I love you, poppet." He then set her down on her feet. "Run and get pillows for you and Sherlock both."
"Yay! My bum will be very happy!" Rose squealed as she ran back to the sitting room with a bright smile on her face.
Oh yes, Mycroft thought to himself as he watched her. That little girl was going to be the very death of him, if not from mischief than by a sheer overload of cute.