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The crying had passed the point of irritation and crossed firmly into something structural. Something is wrong with her. It must be. This couldn’t be normal.
Sherlock noted this with a the part of his mind that was still capable of detached categorization as the rest of him unraveled. Rosie’s wail had settled into a strong rhythm that suggested a structural capacity that had never been seen in science. Lungs. Jaw strength. Volume… It was all intolerable. She was determined to continue until her needs were tended to. Whatever those needs were.
Sherlock had no idea what to do.
He adjusted his hold again.
Wrong. Definitely wrong. Her spine stiffened in protest, her face purpling as though personally offended by his incompetence.
Sherlock pivoted, paced three steps, then stopped short when his foot struck something squishy and plastic.
A nappy. Used.
He stared at it for half a second longer than necessary, then kicked it aside and resumed pacing.
Variables. There were too many of them.
He’d already ruled out hunger. The bottle remained untouched, slapped away with surprising force for an infant. This left discomfort, fatigue (she refused to sleep), boredom (cuddly toys were unamusing), or pain. Pain was entirely unacceptable. He ran through her limbs again, gentle fingers probing for heat, swelling, asymmetry. Nothing. Perfectly healthy infant. Unfortunately.
“Rosie,” he said, experimentally. The sound of her name did nothing to improve matters.
He bounced her. Worse.
He stopped bouncing her. Worse still.
“Rosie!” he tried in an embarrassingly sweet high-pitched voice (that he was glad no one could else could hear). Nothing.
Sherlock scrubbed his free hand through his hair, leaving behind a smear of something sticky he refused to identify. The room smelled faintly sour. Milk, he thought. Or vomit. Possibly both.
The sitting room had ceased to resemble a sitting room at all. It had become a staging area for failure. Blankets draped over chairs, toys scattered with no discernible logic, an overturned cot in the centre of the room like evidence from a poorly executed crime scene.
He turned in a slow circle, searching for inspiration.
YouTube had been unhelpful. Conflicting advice. Too many smiling parents, all of whom appeared suspiciously well-rested, beautiful skin and makeup, good-looking, plastic expressions. None of them explained why an infant could scream like this and survive it.
Rosie’s cries hit a higher pitch, sharp enough to make his temples throb.
“All right,” he muttered, not sure to whom. “All right.”
He had contemplated just giving in and calling John. He would know what to do, he would tell him the answer. But Sherlock had been trusted with this task. A task that he hadn’t yet been trusted to do on his own yet. So, he didn’t call John. Sherlock wanted to be trusted.
Maybe it was like an experiment, or a case. He thought maybe, maybe he could deduce the answer.
Examine and observe.
Rosie wailed as if she knew she wasn’t a puzzle he could just solve.
And he tried the bottle again. She rejected it with impressive coordination, knocking it aside and immediately resuming her protest. Milk splashed across his shirt. He looked down at himself, then at the infant in his arms, then at the spreading stain. He felt something unpleasant tighten in his chest. Fear and incompetence shrouded him.
This should not be this difficult.
John would be back eventually. Sherlock looked at his phone for the time. Six hours. He couldn’t keep up with a screaming baby for six hours. It was impossible.
John knew what he was doing. John had lists. John understood things like schedules and cues and instincts Sherlock seemed to lack entirely. He felt like the baby was a bomb and he didn’t know how to disarm it.
Rosie screamed. And screamed.
Sherlock bounced again, faster this time, panic eroding precision. He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t register the presence in the room until a shadow fell across the kitchen and a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock.”
Mycroft set aside his umbrella and attaché case, took off his overcoat and suit jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and straightened the knocked-over cot in the centre of the room as he made his way over.
After the forty minutes of crying, Sherlock’s face flooded with utter relief, and he didn’t argue as Mycroft took the screaming Rosie into his arms.
“Just as I suspected, brother mine,” he said, feeling the baby’s bottom as he cradled her. “She is wet, not hungry. Go change your shirt and I will get her tidy.”
Sherlock was about to protest, he wanted to protest, he knew he should protest, he should do it himself… but as soon as Mycroft had her in his arms, she stopped wailing. He also really wanted out of the shirt that was now reeking of vomit and sticky with baby saliva and milk. He just nodded and dashed into his bedroom.
It only took him a couple minutes to wash and put on a new shirt (something more easily cleaned seemed like the better choice). He made his way to return but paused at the doorframe to watch before entering. Mycroft had started a gentle dance around. Just a little bob and sway, a calming gesture to harken the baby back to the comfort of the womb. Logical. Rosie was only a few months old after all. The sense memory would still be there. Sherlock made a mental note.
In a moment, Mycroft had located the bag of nappies and powder and creams, then simply did the job. Mycroft changed her with mechanical precision. Efficient. Economical. No wasted motion, yet somehow still comforting. She even had a little giggle as Mycroft poked gently at her tummy. Once she was clean and the offending nappy disposed of, he took her in his arms once again, holding her close, inhaling deeply.
Sherlock knew he should probably relieve his brother of the task, so he took some steps to take her back. Mycroft waved him off. A tiny hand was holding his thumb, so he continued his cuddle. Sherlock understood and stepped back.
“Where’s John?” Mycroft asked casually, looking out the window to the bright afternoon. The sunlight made Rosie’s hair glisten like gold.
“With the lawyer. Mary had many hidden accounts which require a lot of signatures to get liquidated,” he drew a nervous breath.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. “He thought you were ready for this, then?”
Sherlock hung his head, defeated, “Molly was unavailable and Mrs. Hudson is still recovering from that slip on the ice during her trip to Inverness. He even called his sister… I was the last one he had on his list.” He indicated the disaster of the room with outstretched arms. “Look at this, it has only been an hour. She was crying and crying, and I couldn’t think of how to make her stop and you do it in twenty-seven seconds.”
“It just takes practice.” Mycroft was cooing and mumbling mild and meditative sounds. Rosie had begun to settle, looking tired from her extreme fussiness. Sherlock felt the same, and took in the sight fondly. His brother looked content and peaceful.
“How’s Briony?”
“You know we don’t talk, Sherlock.” His words were matter-of-fact, and Mycroft’s expression didn’t change. It was if he’d said he didn’t talk to the Wizard of Oz or Father Christmas. Clearly not possible.
Sherlock knew it wasn’t so simple. To others, yes. Grief archived, sentiment discarded. That was how he’d survived. He suspected his brother’s Mind Palace had an entire wing closed off. He left the subject for a moment.
Rosie had fallen asleep, so Mycroft laid her down in the cot. Sherlock was relieved and plopped himself down on the sofa. Mycroft took the seat nearby.
“What are you doing here? I dropped off the files for the Lisbon affair with your assistant yesterday,” Sherlock asked, “I’d found the second alias of the operative from the coded files, he was playing for both sides, you know this.”
Mycroft hummed in acknowledgement but said nothing. He was protecting something close. The scent of orchids still clinging to his hands was a dead giveaway. A little pollen on his knee. Knowledge of the detour due to roadworks that would have taken his car through Westminster. Just a minuscule reminder, but it was clear now.
“Ah, February fifteenth,” Sherlock said softly, then looked over to his brother, “I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.”
“Quite alright,” Mycroft said. He sighed. “I don’t know why I continue to go.”
“Sentiment?” Sherlock said, but with no spite, and was meant as genuine. Mycroft shrugged absently.
The name Eleanor hovered unspoken between them.
Mycroft’s eyes shifted away from the cot and the baby, as if he couldn't stand to look at her any longer.
Sherlock catalogued the behaviour immediately. Detached. Disinterest? No. Self-preservation, most likely. He knew Mycroft was better at withdrawing than confronting pain.
Sherlock and his brother had always rejected traditional methods for processing grief. No need for consolations, sympathies, or meaningless well-wishers. Oftentimes they’d preferred business as usual, no comfort at all. Sherlock frowned. That strategy didn’t feel right today. Mycroft had never spent February fifteenth with him before, so Sherlock knew something was different this year. And Sherlock certainly understood he was just as bad at relating to his brother as he was taking care of the infant in the cot.
“Of the two of us,” he started, after a time, “I’m not sure many would imagine that you’d be the one who can calm an infant.” Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face. “Not that they’d think me any more capable.”
“Yes, I can see how that could come across,” Mycroft nodded. He pointed at the messy onesie on the coffee table. “You need to put a bib on her when she takes her bottle so she doesn’t ruin every garment she has. Also, a towel for your shoulder, I should think.”
Sherlock nodded and accepted the information. He did really needed the help, “There is only so much Youtube can tell me, and I don’t seem to have the necessary intuition.”
“It will come, with time.”
That comment was more than he’d ever said about his new relationship with John and Rosie. It implied trust in its longevity. Sherlock was touched. But Mycroft has remained unchanged and guarded, so Sherlock matched his tone.
“I should hope so, I’d hate for John to lose another babysitter from his list.”
“A parent is not a babysitter. A parent is a parent.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but words would not come out. The idea that his brother would imagine him a parent both terrified and warmed him.
Rosie shifted in her cot, and the sound of a little fart escaped. They looked at her and chuckled.
But soon Mycroft stiffened.
“I should go.” He adjusted his cuffs twice and rose from his seat. Sherlock expected that. Retreat was Mycroft’s preferred tactic in the case of emotions, after all.
“John won’t be back until after seven,” he blurted out. The significance of Mycroft’s visit was making him uneasy, and he felt an obligation to make it better. He grasped at a thin excuse. “Look, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to traumatize her for the next six hours.”
Mycroft chuckled. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Briony always screamed when Eleanor held her,” he said. “I was always the one who could calm her down when she was small. I adapted to her fairly quickly.”
Sherlock nodded. “I do remember that, for the few times I was there.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around much when she was small.”
“You were… let’s say you were discovering yourself.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “That’s surprisingly charitable of you.”
Mycroft stood and went to the kitchen. He set the kettle to boil and took two mugs. “Well, today is quite nostalgic for me. Perhaps I’m feeling charitable.”
Sherlock said nothing.
Mycroft clinked and clanked around the kitchen, unusually noisy, but not disruptive. To the untrained eye he would be normally making tea.
“How old would she be now?” came Sherlock from the living room. Mycroft rarely spoke of this so he wanted to see where it would go.
“Hmm? Who?” Mycroft said, not turning around.
“Briony. She got that job in Barcelona with the university?” Sherlock feigning his own nonchalance.
“Brussels.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Sherlock was watching his brother’s back as he made the tea. The spoon rattled against the sides of the mug. Mycroft paused a moment, shoulders hunching, inhaling a deep breath. Then he turned abruptly, fully composed, with the two mugs of tea. He walked them to the sofa and gave one to Sherlock.
“She’ll be twenty-four this autumn,” he said, taking his seat. “I heard from Mim and Walter last November that she wasn’t going to go into the post-graduate program like she had planned. But the translator role is a good fit for her. She does have a gift for languages.”
“You’re still in touch?” Sherlock asked, Mycroft nodded. Sherlock smirked. “Who would have thought that old Walter would still be around. I thought that miserable bastard’s cigars would have taken him out decades ago.”
Mycroft smiled too. “Yes, well, Eleanor didn’t inherit her father’s vigour and hardiness. And of course, Mim will outlive us all.”
He trailed off and soon the light snores of the baby were the only sound in the room. Mycroft appeared miserable and raw. Sherlock knew he was not making this better. Mycroft had fallen silent, as he normally did when the subject veered too close, too personal.
Sherlock’s brain insisted the silence meant there was nothing left to say, even though his gut knew that it wasn’t the case.
“I could—" Sherlock started, treading in cautiously, “I could reach out to her, check in to see how she’s doing. She’s my niece, I haven’t seen her in an age, I could introduce her to John, to Rosie, it would make sense to reconnect.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Mycroft said, evenly.
Sherlock heard a kind of finality in it. A door closed, long ago, and now merely acknowledged. He shook his head.
”Mycroft, we all were devastated when Eleanor died,” he sighed.
Mycroft wouldn’t look Sherlock in the eye. He examined his trousers, noticing the pollen. He started to brush it off, but hesitated and eventually left it in place.
Sherlock continued. “She was kind to me when I didn’t deserve it. She was patient when I showed up strung out and manic when you bailed me out again and again. Did you know she sat with me during that detox in France?” Mycroft looked up, mildly surprised. Sherlock nodded. “She held my hand when I barely knew she was there, when nobody else wanted to deal with me.”
Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock carried on. “I wasn’t the kind of person you needed to get through that at that time. I could barely keep myself alive. And, well, we don’t do this, I didn’t know what to do or how to do it, and I still don’t, but I’m—“ he took a breath and collected himself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. For you, and for Briony.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes again, “Sherlock, this is my burden, you mustn’t—“
“No, Mycroft. It has been your burden for nine years, four hours and what, thirteen minutes? You go to the plot every year with the orchids you get from that same shop she loved. You shouldn’t have to shoulder that alone. You should have the joy of your daughter to get you through each day, and each February fifteenth.”
“Sherlock, you are not in a position to tell me what to do with my family,” Mycroft snapped.
“Look,” Sherlock said, gesturing to little Rosie in the cot, sleeping contently. “Look at her, I’m trying to have a family too. I’ve got John, I’ve got Rosie. I’m rubbish at taking care of her, and I’m terrified every day that John would change his mind, pack her up and leave. But for now? I’m genuinely, actually happy. And she is only six months old! This all happened in six months! I can’t imagine how distressing it would be for you after all this time.”
Mycroft went very still. His breath hitched. Just once. Sherlock noted the blink that came a fraction too late. He filed it away and said nothing.
But Mycroft composed himself and looked directly at Sherlock with a painted-on smile. “As I said, I’d best be going.” And he stood. Sherlock rose quickly to stop him. He placed a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“No, I’m… I’m sorry Mycroft. Don’t go,” he said, and Sherlock realized he really meant it. “I’m sorry, please don’t go.”
Mycroft looked at his feet, but after clearing his throat, and with a small nod, he reclaimed his seat. He took a sip from his tea. Still too hot. He set the mug down.
“When we last spoke, she still held onto her anger,” Mycroft said, looking out at nothing, just staring into the room.
Sherlock shook his head. “Eleanor had an aneurysm, that is nobody’s fault, it wasn’t spotted early because they hardly ever are. Whatever Briony thinks, you couldn’t have prevented it.”
“No, she never blamed me for the cause,” Mycroft said. “Once she understood the science and anatomy, she understood that there was nothing to be done. You’re right, an aortic dissection due to aneurysm is often unforeseen and typically fatal. My priorities, however, were inconsistent and unpredictable for her. Eleanor died suddenly and I wasn’t there. I was abroad with an ‘international situation’.”
He scoffs and picks up his mug. He frowns deeply as he takes a sip of the tea. Still too hot. “I didn’t make it to her side for three days because two diplomats had an affair and I was busy covering it up.”
Sherlock knew this. He knew about the diplomats, and that Mycroft’s efforts had been wasted. They had resigned their posts and came clean to the press later that year. They even got married (with exclusive photo rights for Hello magazine) and wrote that popular series of kid’s books together. Their pet dogs have an Instagram account. Mycroft’s family was destroyed for nothing.
“The very least she could have stayed with Mummy and Dad. They had a house in London at the time. She would have been closer,” Sherlock mused.
Mycroft shook his head. “No, it was better. She was a fifteen and angry. She needed her mother. With Eleanor gone, Mim was the closest thing. She was only supposed to be there a few weeks, but when I went to collect her, she wouldn’t even see me. Walter and Mim had to tell me she wanted to stay there permanently.” His face fell grim and grieved.
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “And they still talk to you regularly?”
Mycroft nodded. “Mostly e-mail. They don’t hold resentment she does, and it is the closest I get to her. I savour it.”
Mycroft’s gaze became unfocused, settling on nothing in the room. Sherlock recognized the look. Memory, nostalgia. Unchecked and unguarded. He didn’t ask what Mycroft was thinking.
His reputation was solid. Mycroft was bulletproof. Mycroft was sturdy, solemn, unbreakable. At least to the untrained Mycroft-watcher. Sherlock acknowledged the other side of his brother. The stability he showed held his secret melancholy. Sherlock had long suspected it was easier for him to pretend he didn’t have a heart at all. Sherlock had experience with that too, he realized.
Rosie stirred in her cot, a small, disgruntled sound escaping her before she settled again. Mycroft looked over immediately.
It was reflexive. A parent’s reflex. Too fast to be calculated.
Sherlock noticed.
Mycroft didn’t rise or reach for her, though. He only watched her shoulders easing, mouth softening at the corners.
It was as though the simple proof of her continued existence was enough. The tension that had been sitting between his shoulder blades since his arrival loosened, just slightly. Sherlock leaned towards his brother as Mycroft changed his vantage to take her all in.
“She will probably make that noise just before she wakes,” he said. “If she cries after, it will be brief. She only needs reassurance. Try a simple touch to her cheek or rub her back if that isn’t enough.”
“You seem certain of this.”
“Yes.” Mycroft paused, then added, almost absently, “Briony used to do the same. Always protested first. As though the world had personally offended her by continuing without permission.”
This time, his memory is wasn’t forced. It hadn’t been extracted. It had arrived unguarded, riding on the back of something fond.
Sherlock didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on Rosie, tracking the rise and fall of her chest. “I don’t remember her like that.”
“You wouldn’t,” Mycroft said. Not unkindly.
The statement should have carried weight. Accusation, perhaps. Regret.
It didn’t.
Mycroft smiled instead. It was small. Fleeting. The sort of smile Sherlock associated with memories that didn’t hurt. Or didn’t hurt all at once. Nostalgia, then. Not grief. Not the sharp-edged misery that had followed Eleanor’s name earlier.
Something warmer.
“Eleanor used to say she’d grow out of it,” Mycroft continued. “She never did. Even as a teenager. She had opinions about everything.” A pause. “I imagine she still does.”
Sherlock risked a glance.
Mycroft’s eyes were bright, but steady. Focused. Not distant. Not lost. He was anchored by memory being instead of dragged under by it.
That was new.
Sherlock’s mind adjusted course.
This wasn’t the posture of a man who had accepted permanent loss. This was the posture of a man who remembered joy and had hope.
“You imagine?” Sherlock said carefully.
Mycroft inclined his head. “I do.”
Sherlock made a decision.
He stood and crossed to the side table, picking up his phone. He didn’t look at Mycroft as he spoke. “She’d be older now. More like Eleanor than you, I expect.”
“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said dryly.
“And with time,” Sherlock added, “and under the genetic influence of her mother’s good grace, she may have become less inclined to cling to anger for its own sake.”
Mycroft finally turned his head. Just enough.
Sherlock met his gaze then. Openly, deliberately. No challenge. No pressure. Just fact.
“You’re remembering her with affection,” Sherlock said. “Your communications are only with her grandparents and you haven’t tried in years. But you still have hope. That means it isn’t over.”
Mycroft’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Sherlock thought he’d pushed too far. But Mycroft exhaled. A slow, controlled breath, then looked back at the cot.
“She was still very small, the last time she held my hand,” he said quietly.
Sherlock said nothing.
He only unlocked his phone.
“There’s a flight that will get you to Brussels in two and a half hours if you leave immediately.”
Mycroft glowered with familiar sarcasm. “First of all, Sherlock, if you think I’d get on a commercial flight, you are sadly mistaken.”
Valid point. “And second?”
Mycroft paused and looked at Sherlock with a resigned smile. “I’m afraid.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re afraid.”
And Sherlock knew he shouldn’t press it. He shouldn’t make his brother do anything, since he already did something. He planted the seed.
Mycroft pursed his lips into a controlled smile, and he stood once again.
“I’d better be going, really.” He was looking down, looking away, but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder once again.
Sherlock smiled. “You can come back when you like, any time,” he said earnestly. And he meant it, which surprised him. He never meant it before. “Unless you are busy umbrella shopping or whatever you do to occupy your time.”
Mycroft laughed and looked to face his brother.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock nodded and let his brother pass. Mycroft retrieved his discarded items and made his way to the door. He paused and turned back.
“Do remember about rubbing her back. It will help.”
Sherlock tapped his head. “Yes, I’ve got that locked in now.”
Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “And try to tidy, I’d hate my niece being raised in a pigsty.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he turned.
And he left.
-------
John came back around six thirty. His appointment with the lawyer had taken less time than expected. The rerouted traffic had actually made the cab ride faster. He’d had time to picked up dinner on the way.
The flat was quiet when he stepped inside.
Sherlock was on the sofa, Rosie asleep on his chest. He was rubbing her back in slow, careful motions, as if afraid that even breathing too loudly might wake her. John smiled despite himself. John stepped over quietly and pressed a kiss on his daughter’s head, and then one on Sherlock’s.
“Looks like you two got along rather well,” he said softly.
Sherlock looked up at him and gave a small nod.
The flat was actually tidy. Probably more tidy than when he left. Rosie looked clean and cared for. The mess John had half-expected, evidence of a long day alone with an infant, was nowhere to be seen.
John felt a wave of relief loosen something in his chest.
“To be honest,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’d expected a bit more to straighten up when I got home.”
Sherlock smiled faintly but didn’t move. When John offered him a sandwich from the bag, Sherlock shook his head. John followed his gaze back to Rosie and understood. He went to the kitchen instead to get some plates for the food and put the kettle on.
When he turned back, he noticed the coffee table.
“Was someone here?” he asked. “There are two mugs.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said quietly, “her uncle stopped by.”
John leaned toward the living room, eyebrows lifting.
“Uncle?”
“Mycroft.”
John paused, then snorted softly. “We’re calling him her uncle now?”
Before Sherlock could answer, his phone pinged. He reached for it with exaggerated care, lifting it from the table as though it were made of glass. He looked at the screen and something in his expression shifted. Subtle, but John caught it. His mouth curved, eyes lingering.
“Yes,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I think so.”
John came closer, curiosity winning out. He leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the phone.
It was a selfie. Mycroft stood in what looked like an airport. Somewhere European, maybe the Netherlands? Belgium? Beside him was a young woman he didn’t know. They were standing close together, shoulders touching. Her hand in Mycroft’s. Both of their eyes were red, as if they’d been crying, but they were smiling.
John straightened slowly and looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock was blinking more than necessary.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.
“I think,” John said gently, “you have a story to tell me.”