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Sherlock Holmes was largely immune to the effects of a confrontation with his older brother, seeing as how frequently they occurred, and, more specifically, he was experienced with resisting Mycroft’s manipulations in the latter’s St. John’s Wood study. But that winter evening, just a few days into the New Year, he found himself distracted by a sense of unfamiliarity with his surroundings. Changes that had occurred in small increments over the past couple of years had accelerated during the run-up to Christmas and lingered in the days since to the point that Sherlock now felt disoriented.
The soft light of the desk lamp and the warmth and flickering glow from the fireplace created a cozy inner sanctum and helped push back the cold, foggy gloom pressing against the mullioned windows. Such warm ambience on a winter’s evening wasn’t uncommon for Mycroft’s study despite being antithetical to the Ice Man who occupied it. But the fact that the room’s usual sources of illumination were augmented by festive touches - white fairy lights glistening among fragrant fir boughs intertwined on the mantelpiece and, more surprisingly, twinkling multi-colored lights on a Christmas tree set in a bright red bucket-like stand on the corner of Mycroft’s immense desk - was enough to cause Sherlock to lose focus. Then add to that the large fir tree in the sitting room, the decorated garlands wound around the staircase handrail, the over-sized, bell-jingling wreath on the front door, and so many other seasonal signs of a home close to bursting with cheerful domesticity and ... well. It was all a bit too much even for Sherlock’s superior mind to process - and was, he thought gloomily, unquestionably ascribable to Mycroft’s baffling inability to resist the charms of Molly Hooper Holmes … a/k/a The Molly Effect. With continued exposure to Molly’s optimism, whimsy and light-heartedness, it was likely only a matter of time before she could have Mycroft willingly watching internet kitten videos with her … god help him.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft ground out, teeth clenched, in an attempt to pull his brother back into the moment before he got lost in his so-called “Mind Palace.” Mycroft grimaced at the thought.
A flicker of amusement crossed Sherlock’s features and his eyes shifted to his brother as he considered just how far the high and mighty British Government had fallen. His coolly detached gaze held Mycroft’s even frostier one and they fought a silent battle across Mycroft’s desk, eyes narrowed, until the younger man finally spoke, curtly. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Mycroft countered, remorselessly.
“I don’t have time.”
Mycroft dismissed his brother’s usual divertissements with a wave of his hand. “This is of national importance, brother mine.”
During the subsequent pause, a faint, steady, slapping sound caught their attention. Both men glanced toward the door, then Sherlock turned and met his brother’s cold, expressionless gaze with a quirked brow. As the gentle padding came closer, Mycroft’s eyes flicked back to the doorway and lowered toward the floor. Sherlock’s eyes followed his brother’s gaze and thus missed the sudden thawing of Mycroft’s expression.
Sherlock watched, bemused, as his almost eight-months-old nephew crawled through the open door and made a beeline for his father. He paused momentarily to give his uncle a gurgling, open-mouthed smile, flashing pairs of tiny white teeth centered in both bottom and upper gums, then continued crawling determinedly along the side of the desk, at which point Sherlock lost sight of him.
“Michael!” Molly’s alarmed shout came down the hall.
“In here,” Mycroft calmly called back, swiveling his chair sideways and leaning forward as he propped his elbows on his knees. Michael rounded the desk, babbling unintelligibly to his father, and plopped onto his bottom, his steel blue eyes sparkling in the glow from the lamp and tree lights, his head tilted so far back he was in danger of falling over. He grasped Mycroft’s trouser leg in one little fist, then the other, and pulled himself slowly to his feet, legs wobbling. Mycroft hovered, ready to prevent a fall, but let Michael steady himself before reaching to pick him up.
Molly, clad in jeans and red snowflake-flocked jumper and socks, slid to a stop in the doorway, ponytail swinging. “He’s getting too quick. I turned away for five seconds …”
Mycroft sat back and, to the baby’s delight, swiveled in a full circle before stopping and getting to his feet. Michael’s damp palm smacked Mycroft’s cheek just as the baby lurched forward and mashed their faces together, his little pink lips leaving a trail of drool across his father’s chin. Mycroft hitched Michael higher in his arms and kissed the baby’s forehead, smiling at Molly as she came around the desk … and quickly catching Michael before he could fling himself at her.
Once the transfer was made more carefully, Molly gathered the baby closer and turned toward Sherlock, leaning lightly against Mycroft, enjoying the warmth of his body along her back, secretly thrilled when he rested a discreet hand on her hip. “I didn’t hear you come in, Sherlock,” she said with a warm smile and then lowered her head to blow a raspberry against Michael’s stomach.
Sherlock’s lips curved in response to Michael’s gurgling laugh. “Brother dear summoned me,” he said, sounding duly annoyed.
“Oh?” Molly half-turned, arching a brow as she looked up at Mycroft. “Work?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he said, lifting a hand to free a lock of her hair from Michael’s grip. “Just a minor bit of business I need little brother to handle.”
Molly made a face and sidled around the desk with Michael on her hip. “We’ll leave you to it then.” She turned back at the door. “Would you like me to make some hot chocolate?”
Mycroft glanced at his brother, then inclined his head with a brief smile. “Thank you, Molly.” Once she’d vanished down the hall, Mycroft’s mouth firmed and he turned back to Sherlock. “I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. It should require very little of your time.”
“One of the most useless hereditary peers in the House of Lords chooses to jump to his death and that’s of national importance?”
“Frankly, little brother, I wouldn’t care if there’d been ten lords a-leaping off Tower Bridge,” Mycroft paused, a rueful smile lifting the corners of his lips when Sherlock huffed a mocking laugh. “Yes, well … Molly’s been singing Christmas carols ad infinitum.” He rolled his eyes, then continued more soberly, “But the death matters to a very old friend of mine.”
“So how is Her Majesty?” Sherlock asked flippantly.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft chided. “We both know it was suicide, the public knows it was suicide, even the –” He broke off with a long-suffering look, then sighed. “However worthless he may have been, the man was a peer of the realm and a blood relative to some of the highest in the land, so give it a quick look, would you, so I can assure … others that nothing untoward contributed to his death.” He paused, then his lip curled in a sneer. “For some unfathomable reason, and despite certain irrefutable evidence to the contrary, Her Majesty believes you to be reliable, and your confirmation of an unassisted, unprovoked suicide would settle her mind.”
“And she couldn’t ‘rely’ on you?”
“To the highest extent possible, while making allowances for any potential internal or external crises that may arise, my attention is to remain focused on enjoying my first family Christmas, right through to Twelfth Night,” Mycroft said evenly.
“Ah,” Sherlock said, lips pursed as he rested his chin on his steepled fingers and studied his brother more closely. He slowly smiled as he realized that that privately issued royal command - if it had indeed been such - hadn’t fallen short of his brother’s own personal inclinations if he’d been given the choice.
“Right,” Mycroft said briskly, deliberately breaking eye contact as he got to his feet. “The hot chocolate should be ready by now. What say we join Molly and Michael in the kitchen?” As he rounded the desk and started toward the door, he paused briefly. “Besides, your nephew has a new skill to show off.”
Sherlock followed Mycroft out of the study and down the hall, then stopped short, wincing, when the jarring clang of a wooden spoon striking a pot rang out. Mycroft glanced sideways, suppressing his own flinch. “Pity you didn’t bring your violin,” he said drily, then waggled his finger. “Come on, little brother.”
Molly was pouring hot chocolate into three Christmas-themed mugs when the brothers walked in. Sherlock dropped onto a stool at the kitchen island, wincing again at the cacophony of drumming clangs and a happily squealing nephew, and watched as Mycroft stooped and in one smooth move swept Michael off the floor and spun him in a circle while avoiding being hit by the wooden spoon he continued to wave in the air. Sherlock snorted, but was secretly impressed by his brother’s deftness and grateful for the relative peace that resulted from it.
Molly looked up with a smile when Mycroft leaned against the worktop beside her. She carefully pried the wooden spoon from Michael’s grip and then, without thinking, lifted onto her toes to give Mycroft a kiss … and jerked back, blushing, when Sherlock gagged dramatically behind them. For a moment she’d forgotten her brother-in-law was there and assumed Mycroft had as well since he’d done nothing to avoid the kiss. He was now staring at Sherlock as coolly as ever, just as if the tips of his ears weren't red. He didn’t flinch when Michael suddenly patted his cheek, but instead took the little hand in his own to press a noisy kiss against the palm, all the while holding Sherlock’s gaze.
Like two dogs getting ready to fight, Molly thought, rolling her eyes as she put the mugs and biscuit barrel on a tray and carried it to the island. “Sherlock,” she said lightly, sliding his hot chocolate toward him and offering him the biscuits. When Mycroft followed and sat on the stool next to hers, Molly set his hot chocolate in front of him and took Michael, who’d begun to fuss. She excused herself and returned after several minutes carrying the baby chest-to-chest in a colorful ring sling, its long, loose tail of material tossed over his head and her shoulder, which provided privacy and allowed her to keep at least one hand free while nursing. She sat on the stool and lifted her mug, eyeing her husband and brother-in-law as she sipped. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
Mycroft’s lips twisted as he looked at her. “Sherlock is showing his usual intransigence in response to a simple request that he utilize a small amount of his valuable time –” He broke off at the rude noise his brother made and raised his brows at Molly. See?
Molly looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and sighed. “You usually end up agreeing to take Mycroft’s cases in the end. It would be a lot easier on all of us, Sherlock, if you’d do so now and get whatever it is over with.”
Sherlock studied Molly as he bit into a Bourbon cream, chewed it slowly, then swallowed. “I need another hand. Left preferably.”
Molly stared back at him, thinking, as she took another sip of hot chocolate. “I’m not on duty again until Wednesday.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t drop in at Barts before then,” he countered, holding her gaze.
“So if I get you a hand, left preferably –”
“I’ll look into Mycroft’s leaping lord.”
Molly glanced at Mycroft, who’d kept his expression blank during their negotiation, then back at Sherlock. “Fine.”
Sherlock finished the rest of his drink and set the mug down with a click. “Fine.” He rose to his feet, took two more biscuits from the barrel, bit one in half and turned away, calling over his shoulder. “Laterz.”
Molly’s eyes widened when she suddenly realized what he’d said. She cupped her hands under Michael’s bottom and quickly got up to follow Sherlock. “Wait a minute,” she called, hurrying down the hall as he opened the front door. “Was that ten lords a-leaping?”
Sherlock returned her wide grin as he pulled on his gloves. “Nope,” he said, going out the door with a swirl of his coat. He leapt down the front steps and added as he turned around, walking backwards, “Just the one!”
Molly pushed the button to open the front gate and watched from the threshold as Sherlock strode down the drive. When she returned to the kitchen, she picked up her half-filled mug, raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, then crossed to the cooker for the last of the hot chocolate. Once she returned to her stool, she uncovered Michael’s head, hitched him higher, and gently patted his back until he burped obligingly. She grinned at Mycroft, who was watching them with amused eyes, then offered Michael her other breast to see if he was still hungry. He rubbed his nose and cheek against her, then latched on and started sucking with enthusiasm.
“He’s certainly hungry tonight,” Mycroft observed thoughtfully.
“I think he’s in a growth spurt,” she said.
“It seems to me he’s in a continual growth spurt,” he said, getting up to put his and Sherlock’s mugs in the sink. He checked the pot she’d used and put that in the sink as well when he saw it was empty, then leaned against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other. “How about an early night?”
Molly finished her drink, then got to her feet and met his eyes as she walked toward him. “That sounds good.” She held the empty mug out and his fingers deliberately rubbed over hers as he took it. She felt her face slowly flush as their eyes held and she stepped closer, slid an arm around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest while being careful not to squash Michael. “Are you ready to go up?”
“Hmm, why don’t you get Michael settled while I lock up and have a quick shower,” he murmured against the crown of her head. When she tilted her head back, he leaned down to kiss her, then straightened. “Do you want to get a bath?”
“A shower would be quicker,” she said, smiling slowly.
“Quicker is good.” He gave her another brief kiss, then turned her toward the door with a hand on her back. “Go on then.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes, sir,” she said, giving him a teasing side-glance as she left the kitchen and headed for the stairs.
~~~~~
“… piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine …,” Molly’s singing faded away as Michael’s mouth fell open and his eyelids stayed shut. She brought the rocker to a stop and rose to her feet, smiling when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She carried the baby to the cot, then smiled more broadly when Mycroft came to stand behind her and rested his hands on her hips. She bent to place Michael on his back and smooth the covers around him, then picked up the baby monitor.
Molly glanced up at Mycroft as they quietly shut the door behind them and crossed the hall to their bedroom. “I thought you were taking a shower.”
“It seemed a waste of water not to wait for you,” he said as he closed their door and leaned against it. He lifted a hand to smooth some hair off her forehead and silently studied her face before pulling her to him and dropping his head to her shoulder with a deep sigh.
When Mycroft started nuzzling her neck, Molly’s breath caught and she slid her free hand around his back and pressed closer against him. “Your shower or mine?”
“Yours,” he murmured against her throat. “It has more shower heads.”
“Works for me,” she murmured back, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. “What are we waiting for?” Mycroft abruptly straightened, and Molly squealed and clutched the baby monitor to her when he swung her into his arms and quickly strode across the room and through her dressing room door.
~~~~~
“On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me …”
… not ten lords-a leaping, but Mycroft and Molly had no complaints.