50. “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”
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“Tea in the pot.” John nods to the counter, and returns to coaxing Rosie to eat a spoonful of breakfast. “Come on sweetheart. What’s up with you this morning? Mrs Hudson give you too much dinner, hmm?”
Rather uncomfortably, Mycroft hangs his umbrella over the back of a chair and reaches down a mug.
“Actually, Mycroft, could you pour me one too?” asks John distractedly, evading Rosie’s attempt to flick the spoonful of cereal all over him. “This one’s gone completely cold.”
Mycroft lays a long-fingered hand on the teapot. “I shall make a fresh pot,” he says, quietly.
John sighs. “This is taking forever this morning.” He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Barely the morning still,” he adds, to himself. “We were out ’til all hours – well, you know, don’t you – and poor Mrs Hudson had Rosie all day yesterday. Don’t think either of them got much sleep. This little madam’s really grumpy today.”
Mycroft refills the kettle and washes out the teapot. He reaches down two more mugs; places them alongside his own. “I confess I had urgent matters to attend to yesterday evening,” he says. “Was the case concluded satisfactorily?”
“Yeah,” says John, absently, chuckling tightly as Rosie makes a grab for the bowl of cereal. “Oh no, madam, I don’t think so.”
“Crashed out,” says John, shortly. “He’s barely slept the past couple of weeks.”
Mycroft recognises the steely tone in John’s voice – protective. Do not wake him, Mycroft Holmes. He sighs, silently, and pours the boiling water into the teapot. Adding two teabags, he puts the lid on and leaves it to steep. He allows the edge of the kitchen counter to dig into the heels of his hands, staring absently out of the small kitchen window at the grey London day beyond. A ginger cat stalks elegantly along the top of the next house’s scruffy concrete yard wall.
He had hardly slept himself, monitoring the negotiations at the summit in Japan until early in the morning. His eyes feel tight with tiredness, his gaze unfocused.
Behind him, he hears the smile in John’s voice. “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”
Mycroft waits for Sherlock to speak.
“Like the dead,” yawns Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. “Thank goodness. Mornin’ Mycroft,” he adds. “’S’that tea?”
Mycroft’s spine stiffens, and he takes a quick breath in. Nevertheless, his voice is unhurried when he speaks. He does not turn around. “Certainly, Detective Inspector. Am I to take it you would like a cup?”
Mycroft can hear the grin in Lestrade’s voice. “God, yeah. Thanks,” he says. His tone has changed dramatically when he speaks again. “Good morning Rosie posy,” he says softly. “Having your breakfast, hmm?”
Mycroft is horrified to find that he actually likes the adoringly soppy way Lestrade is speaking. Good grief. Baby talk is the very definition of nauseating. Appalling. He stirs the tea with short, tight movements.
Rosie lets out a delighted shriek, and John sighs. “Right, well I s’pose that’s good enough,” he says. “She’s barely eating this morning.”
Mycroft opens the fridge to retrieve the milk, still not turning around.
“I can amuse her for a bit, if you want to get ready,” says Lestrade. “’S’my fault you weren’t allowed in your bedroom last night anyway, isn’t it missy?”
John takes a breath. “Thanks,” he says, standing up and walking around Mycroft to drop Rosie’s cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. “You’re a mate, Greg. Sherlock’s out like a light.” He takes the cup of tea Mycroft passes him and gulps half of it in one go. “Mmm,” he says, appreciatively. “Right. I’ll just take a quick shower. Her toys and all that are in the –”
“– basket in the corner. I know, John, s’alright.” Lestrade’s voice stretches as he picks Rosie up. “Oh, you’re getting so big, aren’t you?”
She chatters nonsense to him as they move away round the table. Mycroft takes a deep breath and picks up two mugs of tea. They are both strong, but one of them has plenty of milk. The bathroom door clicks shut behind John.
Eyes on Rosie, Mycroft walks into the living room and places Lestrade’s cup of tea on the table between the windows, too high for her to reach and spill.
Lestrade, kneeling next to Rosie, looks up at him. His brown eyes are soft. “Ta,” he smiles.
Pyjamas, stutters Mycroft’s brain. Too long for him. Soft white t-shirt. Eyes crumpled from much-needed sleep, but dark circles still. Silver hair ruffled. Bare feet. Dear God.
Lestrade takes a draught of tea and hums appreciatively. “Good tea,” he says, offering Rosie a rounded red racing car. “How about this, lovey, hmm?”
Mycroft takes a seat in John’s chair, and buries his nose in his tea. Lovey.
“Crashed in poor Rosie’s room, after the case,” says Lestrade casually, taking another swig of tea. “Since she was already asleep at Mrs Hudson’s.”
Mycroft gives a short nod. “Indeed. I understand it has been a tiring case.”
“Could say that,” says Lestrade, stifling another yawn. “An’ how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Quite well, thank you, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade turns laughing eyes on him. “How many times d’you think I’ve asked you to call me Greg, now?” he asks.
Mycroft smoothes the fingers of his left hand down the seam of his tweed trouserleg. He watches Rosie become frustrated with the bright, clumsy toy, and look around, as though searching for either her Dad or Papa. “Too many,” he rejoins sourly. Greg shoots him a darkly amused glance. “My apologies, Gregory,” adds Mycroft, more meekly.
Rosie gives a burst of thwarted babble at the toy, and throws it at Greg. It bounces off his arm. He jumps with surprise, though it certainly did not hurt him.
“Rosamund Watson-Holmes,” says Mycroft, seriously. “You do not throw things at people.”
She regards him with wide eyes for a moment, then tucks the corners of her mouth in a private little smile. She stands up and walks unsteadily to Mycroft, putting her tiny hands on his knee.
There’s a short, intense silence. Greg has frozen, cup of tea halfway to his lips.
Rosie giggles as Mycroft blinks at her.
“Has she…is she…?” asks Greg, dazed.
“I…am unsure,” says Mycroft.
The bathroom door opens, and John emerges, towelling his hair.
Greg lowers his cup of tea.
“All alright?” asks John, making for the teapot.
“Mmm,” says Greg, looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “John – um, has Rosie started walking yet?”
“No,” says John casually, bending to put Rosie’s breakfast bowl in the dishwasher. “She’s been doing that –” he nods at her. “Pulling herself up on stuff. But she’s not quite there yet.”
Mycroft sees Greg’s eyes widen just a little.
“Right,” says the Detective Inspector.
Mycroft shakes his head, fractionally, and Greg grins at him. Of course I’m not going to, you prat, practically writes itself over his face. Mycroft presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.
“Well, she’s definitely getting good at standing,” says Greg, the corners of his lips curling. “Won’t be long, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” says John absently. “By the way, Mycroft, you’ll be glad to hear Sherlock’s woken up. He’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thank you, John,” says Mycroft, gravely. He cannot look away from Greg’s dark, dancing eyes.
Rosie loses her balance, and sits down with a thump.
