#uncle mycroft

[discordantwords]

Unremarkable

It's an unremarkable day. John has a date. Sherlock has a case. And both Mycroft and Rosie have just been shoved into the boot of a car.

A 2024 Fandom Trumps Hate gift for @podfixx!

Chapter 1 of 5 is now posted!

[reginaele]

This morning I had this vision that won't leave me be, so here is it for all to read:

Rosie Watson had always screamed, since she started babbling some resemblance of words, "Shey!" at Mycroft upon sight.

John had been very confused from the beginning, and at some point supposed she was trying to mock the way Mycroft said Sherlock's name.

Sherlock had been delighted of the whole ordeal, seeing that every time it happened, an almost imperceptible twitch got hold of his brother's right eye.

Mycroft, for his part, never addressed the matter.

Well, he never addressed the child at all, going so far as to never lay eyes on her, even when she was draped all over John's or Sherlock's lap (or on the memorable episode in which she wobbled over and grabbed one of his knees trying to gift him a spit-covered toy.) (Although, in that occasion, he did hurry up and leave, for the joy of the two remaining adults).

For what John knew, Mycroft never even learned his daughter's name. Which, come to think of it, probably was never used in front of him, with all of those cute nicknames everybody used for her.

So you can imagine how surprised John was when, coming down from his bedroom and about to enter the living room, he heard Mycroft's voice respond softly to some jabber.

John had left him for a moment with Rosie, who was sitting on the colourful playing mat with her illustrated books. And not only she was now paging through one of them, she was also pointing to the pictures and looking at Mycroft, who had sat on John's chair and was bent over his umbrella, describing in French what she was pointing to.

As John watched holding his breath, Rosie pointed to a cartoonish flower and asked "Shey?", to which Mycroft sweetly answered: "Non, ma chérie, ce n'est pas moi. C'est toi. Tu ne vois pas comme il est mignon? Tout comme toi."

John had to hide in the closest room to compose himself. Of course his brilliant daughter wasn't just babbling strange words: she was using back the term of endearment her uncle apparently used with her.

He couldn't stop smiling at what he just found out: for the days that followed, John felt extremely giddy, for the annoyance of his favourite detective.

But he had a great reason for it: after all, for once he knew something those snotty Holmeses didn't. Wasn't that a fun thought?

[starkraivennemad]

Surprise!

Mycroft could not help but admire the young woman as she slept on the sofa. Hair, the same shade as her father’s, a hand pushed away an errant curl that dared to irritate her in her needed slumber.

She was her fathers’ daughter. One cannot separate nature from nurture, with her.

While abroad during her gap year, she fell in love with an army doctor.

That was a surprise. Who does she think she is– my brother?

She then went and eloped with said army doctor.  An American army doctor.

Also, a surprise. But none could deny the joy on her face or the way he cared for their daughter when they met Dr. Hernández last year.

Currently deployed, no one was surprised when their daughter came back home to London. Yes, she had friends and his family Stateside, but her family was here.

Where else would she be while she waited?

He was in the Baker Street kitchen when he heard her call for him.

“Yes, Rosamund?”

“I need to say something, it may surprise you.”

“Nothing you can say will surprise me.”

“Sure?” she scoffed.

“Quite so.” Mycroft said with confidence until he reached the living room.

He was wrong.

“We’re naming him Juan Lockcroft Gregory– yes, they know...” Rosie stood.

“…And call my Dads, my water just broke.”

[alifetimeaheadtoprovethat]

#27: Family

@sherlockinktober

[chiantidinner]

THE UNCLE WORRIES

"Well, as you have the formidability of an Adler and the intellegence of a Holmes, I don't believe these moronic obstructions will interfere with the path you will take on in the future, now will it?"

\\~\\

"Yes, I'm fine- NO! Your father musn't hear about this!" Nero berated loudly to the phone stuck to his ear, hands flinging outwardly and feet rustling about outside the school gates.

The Adler-Holmes offspring had just retired from school for the day and was yearning to be back at the home-y confines of Bakerstreet; just him, his father, occassional (now, more often) visits from his mother, the skull on the mantelpiece, and the ghastly laboratory equipments filling the whole of the kitchen area - but it wasn't until he recieved the call from Rosie, aware of what had transpired between him and a couple of boys their age, who think themsleves as tyrants, and had offered a solution that involved telling John Watson about the matter at hand.

"You know he'll tell father and..." The boy paused, sighing, rubbing his elbow and hissing as he felt a slight sting of the movement, "Rosamund, don't you dare-"

Nero's attempt to dispose his friend out of the idea had suddenly died down his throat, ignoring her cries as he watched a black Jaguar car pull up right in front of him. His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing ever-so-slightly but his expression remained stoic, hearing how the car door clicked and started to swing open. Nero tightened his grasp on the phone and muttered lowly, "I have to go.", then ending the call. He carried his long limbs toward the opening, slowly rasing his chin to imply confidence. Assuming the man inside the car is who Nero thinks he is, he'd have to appear much like his father - though for what reason, he doesn't know.

As he steps closer, a figure of a woman in a suit with light brown hair comes to view - further proving that the man responsible to the mysterious arrival of the vehicle, is indeed his uncle and not wealthy kidnappers trying to take him as bait for his father to willingly catch (which, unfortunately, has happened more than once in his 16 years of life). The boy closed the door beside him as he sat down on the leather seat, sighing before turning to face Mycroft - his apprehension expertly covered by his naturally sour facade.

"Nero." The older man inclined his head to his direction, as a way of greeting, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

"Good afternoon to you too, sir." the boy replied, still with a stoic and blank face.

Mycroft tried hard to hide his grimace as he heard his nephew call him: sir.

Ever since he was shown to Mycroft, it never really deemed him to be called uncle - much less ever being one - but the boy was different. The boy was far too brilliant and belongs to a far more extraordinary family than normal people would suspect. It impressed Mycroft how easily he could start a conversation with adults and then finds chatting with other children boring and annoying, how he could find clues in the most discrete of places at such a young age, and how he could act realistically and would use that against people that were worth the punishment, but he could say he wasn't the least bit surprised; he was Sherlock Holmes' and Irene Adler's son, after all.

"May I ask what could be so terribly important that you couldn't have just called me?" Nero replied pointedly, itching to get this over with and go home.

"I have heard about the shooting near your school and came to pick you up myself."

Nero's blank facade finally came crumbling down when it was replaced with pure confusion, mixed with a bit of shock, his face pulling into a grimace and his eyebrows knit together. The boy searched a reason from his uncle as he bore his eyes into his, but found that he didn't want anything from him and that his actions were from familial concern, apprehension, guilt (he didn't know where that came from), and, as much as he would deny, sentiment. He opened his mouth but no words came out, and the second try was unsuccessfull as well.

When he finally found the breath to reply, he choked out, "...Why?"

Much to the younger boy's surprise, Mycroft's demeanor actually softened; a soft grin played on his lips that spoke volumes, sharp brown eyes losing their sting. He looked nothing like what Nero had ever seen of his uncle, even his assisstant looked utterly surprised.

"Because I don't want my only nephew to become like my brother." Mycroft's eyes now showed signs of sadness and... guilt.

Ah, that's where that came from, Nero thought to himself.

"Really? Because I believe my father is in a good place. He receives inquiries for cases from the Yard, still gets to bring John Watson with him, and as much as he'd deny it.. he has his family. I would rather want to become like my father."

The British Prime Minister opened his mouth to speak, but not before something caught his eye: the scratches on Nero's elbow.

Nero covered his arms with his bag quickly upon realization, but the damage was done; Mycroft knew what happened to his nephew. He straightened and turned to the window - his face now unreadable and dismissive, a sharp contrast to the previous expression he donned.

"Tyrants." He spoke after a moment's pause, "Although they do not hold a single grudge in comparison to our intellect, they are the worst and most destructive enemies, us, Holmes' are destined to face - other than criminal masterminds. They are the ghosts that haunt our every sunny day, scribbled letters we keep in the very back of our minds." Mycroft continued with a dangerous glint in his eyes, his gaze slowly turning to the boy in front of him, a corner of his lips jerking upward knowingly (that somehow reminded him of his father's), "And you, to no surprise, have your own fair share, Nero."

For the first time since he stepped into the car, he allowed a one-sided but warm smile to appear on his face and felt pride fill his body. He wasn't proud that generations and generations of the family were ganged up and hurt, just because of their inexplicably curious nature. No. He was proud of the fact that they simply acknowledge the particular attribute each of them holds, that this experience may wound and scar them, but will always have their prodigious intellect as plaster.

"Well, as you have the formidability of an Adler and the intellegence of a Holmes, I don't believe these moronic obstructions will interfere with the path you will take on in the future, now will it?"

The car came to a halt and suddenly they were at the Bakerstreet pavement.

"Nevertheless," Mycroft ducked his head slightly and glanced upwards to see his brother watching the car from the window, and turned back to Nero, "I hope you take this little conversation of ours as a precaution to not take into account what those babbling baboons imply to yourself."

"You are a smart boy, Nero. Make use of your intellegence for the greater good."

With nothing else to say, the boy merely nodded slyly, grabbed his bag and went out the door. But as he stepped foot on the hard ground, his name was being called from inside the car.

"Nero."

The person donning the name ducked and poked his head inside with an expectant look on his pale face.

Mycroft hesitated and sighed in fustration, his lips pursed together in a thin line, "I-... I worry about you as I do with my brother. I don't want you going through what he did."

Nero ginned once again, this time honest and genuine, his eyes smiling along with his lips, "I am aware.. uncle."

Giving, one tight smile to Mycroft and his assisstant, Nero disappeared from the door and into 221B Bakerstreet.

It was then that Mycroft realized the boy was as much every bit of his brother, and at the same time, not.

\\~\\

First of all, thank you to everyone who read and had actually finished lmao. Second, WOHOO my first fic!!

I got this idea from my own headcanon that generations of Holmes' - from the Holmes parents, to Mycroft, Sherlock, and Eurus, then Nero - were belittled and made fun of, because of their extraordinary intellegence, whether that was in school, or in the world at large. So, I incorporated that into this fic, mixed in with 'responsible-and-protective-big-brother-Mycroft' but instead of brother, we have uncle to Nero because, why not?

I also sort of made this because I had writer's block and read somewhere to write what's inside your pretty little head to bring back your natural creativity...

But, back to the matter at hand, I hope you guys liked it and I would REALLY love if you left some feedback and suggestions as to how I can improve my writing skills.

Much love, R. xx

[thesmartone]

Rosie: Umm.. Uncle Mycroft?

Mycroft: yes?

Rosie: I made a friendship band for you..

Mycroft: I don't wear bands child

Rosie: You don't have to wear it...

Mycroft:

Mycroft: I will wear it till I die, can you tie it up to me?

[elldotsee]

Day Seventeen 

Umbrella, by elldotsee. Rated T, 600 words

Summary: Uncle Mycroft babysits. The world does not end.

[tea-at-221]

The End of Civilization and Other Pitfalls of Domesticity

"I've never been very good with them," Mycroft had said.

"Babies?" Sherlock had asked.

The British Government had wrinkled his nose and clarified, "Humans."

That attitude had been all well and fine and easily maintained while Mary was alive, but afterward...well, John moved back to 221B with his little girl, didn't he, and then any time Mycroft needed Sherlock, the child was always underfoot, like a sticky wad of bubblegum.

And irritatingly, Sherlock answered his phone less and less, necessitating car rides to 221B both day and night if Mycroft wished to get his little brother's attention at all. Because, of course, said attention had to be wrangled away from John and the baby (Rosamund; he had committed the name to memory against his will).

Rosie, as she was affectionately known around the household, was a very small thing who necessitated the use of a chaotic amalgamation of other things, such as diapers and dummies and food stuffs and rattles and creams and it was all just so much NOISE.

And, for some reason, she liked him. Rosie, that was, the child--this Rosamund Watson--liked Mycroft. He couldn't fathom why.

Few things are more stubborn than little girls who have taken an interest in something. She liked to first paw at, and then--as she grew--cling to, and eventually climb him whenever he sat. It was like visiting the zoo to see the monkeys and unexpectedly becoming the tree.

It is impossible to set a toddler aside as one would a tea cup. Again, such a tactic results in a most unacceptable level of noise. Eventually Mycroft, a broken shell of his former concrete self, was forced to admit that any foreign government looking to infiltrate and monitor its enemy country covertly would be wisest to send in its Trojan horse in the form of a tiny blonde Watson.

Mr. All-hearts-are-broken, Mr. Don't-get-involved, Mr. Ice Man, Mr. The-only-one-I've-ever-held-hands-with-is-my-umbrella, made a fatal error one day when he offered the child a sweet (which he most certainly had not slipped into his pocket from the dish in his office with that very intention in mind). The look on the child's face--widening of the already-wide navy blue eyes, taking in his face with rejuvenated adoration--had effectively tossed rock salt onto the ice ball in his chest. It had also proven to Rosie that all her intuitions were not misguided. And thus, civilizations have fallen.

What followed was the most demeaning, degrading, humiliating evolution of Mycroft's character that he could ever have once imagined. He would come away from 221B covered in finger paint and unicorn stickers. (On one particularly memorable afternoon Mycroft, having stepped outside with some foreign diplomats following a tentative but satisfactory meeting to join them for a smoke, opened his umbrella under the afternoon's gloom only to be showered with several cups worth of rainbow glitter. And had laughed!)

One evening John and Sherlock arrived home from a date (yes, that had begun, long before stated evening) and were shocked from their revoltingly amorous attitudes by the sight of Mycroft, who had relieved Molly as the designated sitter. He was seated on a frilly purple blanket on the floor of the lounge, having a tea-and-cupcake-and-feather-boa party with the precocious four-year-old. Both were sipping imaginary liquid from their cups with great sophistication and dignity.

Mycroft didn't even pretend not to be engrossed in the game of make-believe. He shooed the other men away impatiently, telling them they had not been invited. Rosie found the idea of her fathers, who in her mind ruled all of time and space, not being invited to anything uproariously funny. For weeks afterward she uninvited them to all manner of things: dinner, bath time, goodnight tickles.

And so that is the story of how Mycroft "East Wind" Holmes became swept along in the domesticity one Sherlock Holmes and one John Watson created in a little flat on Baker Street, changing him irrevocably from The British Government to Uncle Mycroft.

Which, as it turned out, he was pretty good at being.

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Thanks for reading! I am goingdownin221b on the AO3.