Archive of Our Own

Standing in the doorway, Mycroft surveys the new and improved 221b. It looks nothing like it used to, but give it a little time and a lot of dust and maybe it will start to resemble its old, unsanitary self again.

Sherlock and Dr. Watson are out, probably risking both their own and the child's lives (Mycroft has them under constant if discreet surveillance nowadays), and they aren't expected to be back anytime soon. Which is precisely why Mycroft chose this moment to drop by. He reminds himself that the purpose of this visit wasn't to spy on his brother's living arrangements, and, feeling unwelcome as well as uncomfortable, he turns around and walks back down the stairs. Not letting himself hesitate, he knocks softly on Mrs. Hudson's door with the handle of his umbrella.

She opens almost immediately, and Mycroft can see her face harden just a little when she recognises him.

"Mr. Holmes," she says. "Sherlock is out at the moment, I don’t know if –"

"That’s all right, Mrs. Hudson," he says, "I was in fact looking for you."

She regards him for a moment, then nods.

"Oh. Yes, of course. Well, come in, then."

She shows him in, sits him down at her tiny kitchen table, on a narrow, uncomfortable chair. She doesn’t offer him tea.

"I came to apologise," Mycroft says, forced to look up at her since she hasn’t sat down. When she doesn’t answer, he continues: "For being rude to you. Repeatedly. I can only–"

"No," she says sharply, startling him.

"I’m sorry?"

She regards him with something that looks like pity, or condescension.

"No, dear, you didn’t come here to apologise. Apologies are for the benefit of the wronged party. You came to ease your mind. You came here for you, not for me."

Mycroft considers this. Then he nods slightly, conceding her point.

"Lucky for you though," Mrs. Hudson continues, "I can and will help you. And it will involve you apologising to me."

Mycroft doesn't understand what she's implying. Reluctant to admit this, but at the same time intrigued, he says, "Pardon?"

She sighs, walks over to stand next to him, and to his surprise, puts an arm around his shoulders.

"I think it’s been a long time since anyone taught you a lesson, hasn’t it?" she asks, stroking his cheek with the back of a finger. "I think people let you get away with almost anything."

Mycroft doesn’t know how to respond to this. He sits up a little straighter, grips the handle of his umbrella a little tighter.

"Mrs. Hudson," he says sternly, "I am truly sorry–"

She puts her hand over his mouth. Hard. The other rests on his shoulder, half gripping, half caressing it.

"Understand that I’m offering something to you, Mr. Holmes," she says. "I can help you ease your mind. You can either stay and let me do that, or you can walk out of here right now. But I will not accept your apologies if you do, and I think you know I will have no respect left for you. Not that there was much to begin with," she adds, patting his shoulder.

She lifts her other hand from his mouth. He swallows.

"I’m waiting."

"I want to stay." It comes out shaky.

"Good choice. Now, would you like some tea before we start?"

"I’m going to assume that you haven’t done this before," Mrs Hudson says, putting a plate of biscuits on the table and, finally, sitting down. "But you just tell me if I’m wrong."

Mycroft purses his lips and shakes his head.

"No. Well then. It’s not very complicated. I’m going to ask you to do things, and you’re going to do them. You’re probably not going to want to do them, and that’s all right."

She pauses, waits for Mycroft to process this.

"I will also do things to you, things that you may very well find uncomfortable or upsetting. Do you accept these terms?"

He nods.  

"I’m going to give you a safeword – do you know what a safeword is?"

"Of course I know what a safeword is! Mrs. Hudson, I’m not—"

"Stop talking."

He stops talking.

"You do not want more to apologise for, Mycroft Holmes. Understood?”

He nods.

"Just for that, your safeword will be ‘Sherlock’."

Mycroft groans.

"Oh, don’t pout. You probably won’t have to use it. I will be tough, but I won’t be cruel."

She puts one warm, small hand over his, which is cold, even though he’s holding on to his cup of tea almost hard enough to break it. He has to hold back a shiver at her touch.

"Mycroft? Look at me. I told you, this is for you. It will be good for you."

Reluctantly, he meets her eyes.

"It will?"

"Yes." She lets go of him and stands up. "When it’s over."

Mrs. Hudson’s bedroom is unremarkable. It has wallpapers with a flowery, blue-green-yellow print, bare floors, one window with several potted plants on the sill. A double bed presides in the middle of the room. There is, like in Sherlock’s bedroom right above this one, a narrow door leading to an ensuite bathroom. Mycroft is standing in the middle of the room in his socked feet since Mrs. Hudson asked him to take his shoes off in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson went to "get some things we might need, you just make yourself comfortable". Mycroft has never felt less comfortable in his life, perhaps discounting the nightmare hours at Sherrinford.

He stays where he is, wondering how he got here, until Mrs. Hudson returns, carrying a bundle of things that she puts on the dresser. Mycroft doesn’t try to see what they are.

"There we go," Mrs. Hudson says, pulling the curtains closed and then turning toward him. "All ready now. I can see you’re a bit nervous, so it’s probably best we start right away."

There is a tightness in Mycroft’s stomach. His mind is churning, trying to create scenarios for him to test, tweak and push at, the way he’s used to handle new challenges, but nothing emerges. He doesn’t know how these things go. Or how he will react to them.

Nervous, yes, maybe that’s the word for it.

"Why don’t you start by taking your clothes off," Mrs. Hudson says. It sounds like a suggestion, but Mycroft is fairly certain it’s not.

Mrs. Hudson sits down in an armchair by the dresser. She crosses one leg over the other and waits.

Well, Mycroft takes his clothes off every day, doesn’t he. It shouldn’t matter that there’s an audience.

He takes off his jacket and waistcoat, tie and shirt. He folds them, looks for a place to put them, finds none. He puts them on the foot of the bed. He starts to unbutton his trousers next, but stops when he remembers that he’s wearing his sock suspenders.

"Go on," Mrs. Hudson says.

He does, but he can feel a first, faint blush creeping over his cheeks as he pushes his trousers down and off.

"You keep those on," Mrs. Hudson says, looking down at his legs, a hint of a tease in her voice. "But the underwear goes."

He needs to stop and take a couple of breaths before he can bring himself to take his pants off. He wants to turn away, just a little, to preserve a tiny bit of his modesty, but he doesn’t allow himself. He folds his trousers and his pants, puts them with the rest of his clothes on the bed. Then there he stands, naked and ridiculous in his sock suspenders and socks, and allows Mrs. Hudson to look at him.

He knows he’s not much to look at. He’s tall, yes, but his straight back and long legs only look good when dressed in a good suit. Naked, he’s just big and ungainly, with pale skin, sparse hair, and freckles all over.

"Relax," Mrs. Hudson instructs him. "Close your eyes. Lower your shoulders."

Yes, his shoulders are tense, he notices. He rolls them, pulls them back a bit, drops them.

"Now your jaw."

He complies.

"Better. Now, relax your stomach."

His eyes fly open.

"What?"

"You’re sucking in your stomach, dear. Relax."

He is so used to his controlled posture that it takes him a moment to even feel the tension in his abdominal muscles. He breathes in, trying to force them to relax.

Mrs. Hudson tuts.

"You’re not fooling me, Mycroft. Remember, you do as I tell you, and I’m telling you to stop holding your stomach in."

Her voice brooks no argument. Mycroft tries again. It takes an effort, but he lets his stomach expand, softening into the rounded belly that won’t go away, no matter how much exercise he makes himself do.

He doesn’t realise his eyes are closed until a small, warm hand settles on his stomach. Mrs Hudson is looking up at him.

"Isn’t that much better?" she says. "You need to breathe with your stomach, not your chest." Then, "You did good, Mycroft. Now lie down on the bed."

He does as he is told, lies down on his back on the neatly made bed. Mrs. Hudson unbuttons her cardigan and takes it off, then peels off her tights.

"Oh, don’t worry," she says when she sees his expression. "I’m just getting comfortable."

She walks around the room, turning off a couple of lamps, leaving only the reading lamp on the bedside table on. Then she sits on the bed next to him. In the soft light, in a simple blue dress and bare legs, Mrs. Hudson looks younger.

"We agreed that we’re doing this for you," she says. "To make you feel better about yourself. Part of that will be earning my forgiveness for how you’ve treated me."

She pauses, and he nods, agreeing.

"Well," she says, "I think you need to understand that I am a person. I can handle the boys thinking I’m just their old lady housekeeper who stops existing the moment they don’t need her, but I will not take that from you, do you understand?"

Mycroft nods.

"I am a person, I have a life, I even have a sex life–" she pinches his leg playfully, "–and I deserve respect."

"Therefore, until we’re done here I think you should call me by my first name. If you have any requests, you may voice them. I may reject them. If you need to stop, you use your safeword."

"Understood. Martha."

Martha moves closer on the bed. She pulls one leg up under herself, wincing a little as, presumably, her bad hip protests the move.

"You’re going to lie still for this," she tells Mycroft. Then she leans over him and slowly trails her fingers down the inside of his left arm.

It’s vaguely sexual, unbearably intimate. He closes his eyes against it.

She does it again, to his other arm. He turns his face away.

"When was the last time someone touched you?" she asks, in a low voice, her fingertips on his palm three warm, firm points of contact.

When he can’t answer she pushes her nails in just a little, making the contact sharper.

"I think it’s been a while. Look at you, I’ve barely touched you and you look like you’re about to break."

Her hand moves to his collarbone, over his chest, back and forth.

He can’t stand it. He doesn’t even think about it when he pushes her hand away and puts his arms around his chest, protecting himself.

Martha stays still for a moment. Then she stands up, straightening her dress.

"Do you need to use your safeword?"

It was only touch. Only his naked skin, and a gentle touch. He sucks in a breath.

"No."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

"In that case, you just earned yourself a punishment."

Mycroft forces himself to look up at her and meet her eyes.

"You did something completely unacceptable. You do not shove me. You do not touch any part of me unless I specifically tell you to, do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"If this wasn’t your first time, we would be done now."

She pauses.

"I am going to leave you for a bit, to let you calm down and think about whether you’re really ready for this."

Mycroft feels an unexpected pang of anxiety. He hasn’t enjoyed any of this so far. In fact, Martha has pushed him far beyond his comfort zone in only a few minutes using nothing more than words and soft touch — but the thought of this being over, of having to leave like this, vulnerable and unsure and unfinished, fills him with dread.

"I am," he says. "I won’t… I am sorry."

"I will tell you when it’s time for your apologies. Now, get up."

Warily, he gets up from his lying position and stands up.

"How are your knees?"

"I’m sorry?"

"You’re not that young, do you have any trouble with your knees?"

"No, not really – "

"Good. Then I want you to turn towards the wall, and kneel. My floors are both cold and hard, so you can put your clothes under your knees. If you don’t mind getting them wrinkled, of course."

Mycroft does mind.

"For how long…"

"Long enough. It’s your choice, but I would not choose vanity if I were you."

Compromising, he takes his folded trousers and jacket and puts them down on the floor, leaving shirt and waistcoat on the bed. Then he gets down on his knees. Should he sit back or remain upright? No direction comes, so he relaxes back on his heels. Martha comes up behind him. He expects more touching, but what he gets is a blanket draped over his shoulders. Thankful, he grips its edges and wraps it around himself.

He feels her hand on his head, ruffling his hair. He can’t tell if it’s a gesture of comfort, or perhaps affection – but before he can decide the hand tightens on the back of his neck and pushes his head down.

Then the touch disappears and he hears her move away, and he hears himself say, "Don’t leave. Please."

Silence. Then the bedroom door closes and he can hear her moving away down the corridor.

The flat is silent. Mycroft thinks he would have heard the front door if Mrs. Hudson had gone out. Besides, he thinks it’s unlikely that she would go very far in the middle of… this, so presumably she’s still in the house. Nevertheless, she left him alone. Stripped (quite literally) and abandoned.

These feelings are foreign. Being alone is something Mycroft normally associates with safety, and peace. There is nothing peaceful about this. He is supposed to reevaluate his choice to be here, but there is no choice. Now that he's been promised ease and forgiveness he cannot bear to leave without it. He needs to be here, and see it through.

Lying naked on the bed has left him cold, his hands in particular, but he is slowly warming up under the blanket. He is grateful for his socks, even if the suspenders are pinching his shins and the clasps are digging into his thighs.

The position gets uncomfortable quickly. His neck is stiff, and his back is getting tired. He is unsure of how much he is allowed to move. After a while he experimentally rolls his shoulders, small, tentative movements, then rolls his head before letting it drop back into its bent position. He stands up a little on his knees, relieving the tension in his calves and thighs for a moment, then sits down again, quickly, feeling like he misbehaved, even though Martha can’t see him.

In a couple of minutes he has to repeat the procedure. Then again, and again.

He practices deep breathing, realises his stomach has tensed up again.  

He is unaware of how much time has passed. It’s probably not nearly as long as it feels.

When his legs start to cramp, and lifting his weight off his calves no longer helps, he starts to panic. He will fail again, he can’t see any other way this can end.

Then he remembers that he is, in fact, allowed to make requests.

He calls out.

"Martha." It comes out weak. "Martha!"

Within seconds the bedroom door opens.

"Yes?"

"Please let me up. Please…don’t leave me again." He cringes at the way it sounds. He wants nothing to do with the desperation in that voice.

"I am going to give you a choice," Martha says. "You can either get up, and I will leave you alone again. Or you can stay on your knees for five more minutes, but I will wait here with you."

Mycroft’s legs scream in protest when he says, "Stay."

His back hurts. His left leg cramps horribly. He can no longer feel his feet. Now that Martha is here he doesn’t dare risking the small movements to ease the tension and pain. He counts the minutes, biting down on each second. When the last minute starts to count down, Martha puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his neck with her thumb, soothing him through the blanket. He focuses all his attention on that hand, discarding the distress calls from the various other parts of his body. Only her hand on his shoulder is relevant.

With four seconds to go he collapses, falls to his side against the bed, relief flooding him and bringing back his body parts into one, aching whole again.

Martha brings him a glass of water. When his hand shakes too much to take it she holds it up against his mouth for him so he can drink.

He stays sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed and stretching his legs out before him. Martha sits on the bed. After a while, he leans his head against her knee. She lets him rest for a while before she tugs the blanket off him and orders him up and back on the bed.

She goes over to the dresser and returns with two pieces of fabric. One is a small silk scarf, the other looks like a tea towel.

"This is because of your reaction before," she explains. "I’ve got Sherlock’s handcuffs here somewhere, but I would prefer not to have to restrain you. Instead..." She lifts his right arm and winds the scarf around his wrist, then arranges his arm on the bed, bent at the elbow with his hand level with his head. "I want you to pretend that this is rope. This is holding you down until I remove it." She twists the tea towel and does the same thing to his left arm. "It’s the best I had, sorry. I’m not using my good scarves for this sort of thing. I’ve had… accidents, before."

Mycroft doesn’t care what she chooses to pretend to tie him down with. He wishes she had tied him down for real; it would be easier if he was allowed to struggle. In his mind, he turns the fabric into unforgiving rope that secures him to the bed.

Martha sits down at the foot of the bed. She puts a hand on Mycroft's foot while watching his face closely. Her touch, which was comforting a moment ago, is unsettling again now that he’s back on the bed.

"I think we’re ready to take these off now, don’t you?" she says, indicating his socks. He says nothing. She opens the clasps, pulls both socks and suspenders off. Then she rubs gently at the impressions left on his skin. When her fingers move up a little higher he can’t help a twitch. Her hand pauses, then moves down and around, to the back of his knee.

"Martha," he says, "Just to let you know… I am very gay."

She smiles a little, pulling one of his feet into her lap and starts massaging it. "That’s fine, dear. And you’re very handsome, Mycroft, but you’re not really my type either. I'm not seducing you."

His body, however, responds to her touch, unconcerned with either gender or intent. Every time her fingers stray from his foot up towards his knee a tingle of desire runs through him. It is something he has never been comfortable with, and it's been a very long time since he last experienced it. He can feel himself hardening.

Suddenly, her hands on his foot still and she exclaims, "Oh! Sherlock!"

Shocked and mortified he opens his mouth to apologise for his body's unwanted reaction, but before he can speak she says, "No, dear, that's your safeword. I meant, your brother is home."

She gives his foot a squeeze before setting it down on the bed.

"I'm sorry, I have to go talk to him about something. I shouldn't, really, it's not the done thing to stop because of outside circumstances, but I'm afraid he'll come down here when he discovers I binned his mould cultures. And that wouldn't do at all. Will you be okay for a couple of minutes?"

"Yes."

He is actually not sure, but having Sherlock walk in on him when he is naked, half hard and pretending to be tied down on Mrs. Hudson's bed does not bear thinking about.

"Good. Don't move."

She leaves. There's a distinct lack of raised voices from upstairs, which can mean either that the binned mould wasn't all that important, or that the baby is asleep and Sherlock is forced to sulk in silence.

As promised, Mrs. Hudson returns in a few minutes. She looks him over (he hasn't moved a finger) and nods appreciatively.

"All right," she says. "Now, where were we? Oh yes – getting you ready for your apologies."

She stands by the foot of the bed, her scant hundred and sixty centimetres towering over him. "Will you spread your legs for me?"

For the last half hour or so, Mycroft's razor sharp attention has been limited to this room and what is happening inside it. A tiny universe where he is being pushed and deconstructed. Sherlock's return has brought awareness of the outside world, and with it the unwelcome notion that what happens in here may not be undone when Mycroft walks out.  

He shakes his head forcefully. "No. I'm sorry, I can't."

"Are you refusing?"

"No, I just… can't."

"Do I need to remind you, again, that you have safeword that you are free to use?"

"No, I don't want to…" (give up) "I just need a break. Martha, please."

She looks displeased, or maybe disappointed, but then she sighs and shrugs.

"All right. If you really need it. But Mycroft, you're just dragging it out now. It would be easier to just get it over with."

She unwraps the scarf and the tea towel from his wrists. The second she releases him he is on his feet and fleeing (there is no other word for it) into the bathroom. He sits down on the floor, on the bathmat next to the tub.

Mrs. Hudson gives him five minutes, then she knocks and comes in. She sits down on the lid of the toilet.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Weak."

"Why weak?"

He pulls his legs up, rests his head on his knees.

"When… my brother was away, he was captured and tortured. It went on for days before I was able to get him out. And he… I know his coping methods are less than advisable, but he walked away. He survived torture, Mrs. Hudson. And… I can barely..." He trails off.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson says. "First of all, dear, don’t compare what we’re doing to torture. It’s distasteful. Secondly, what happened to your brother was that he got his control of his own body taken away. What is happening here is that you’re giving your control away of your own free will. You're choosing to let me control your actions and temper your reactions, and I’m using that power to make you access parts of yourself that you’re uncomfortable with. You're the clever one, Mycroft. Can you tell me how that is weak?"

He understands the reasoning, but he still feels so very useless. He shakes his head.

"Are you ready to go back?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"I'll take that as a yes. But listen carefully, Mycroft. I know this is hard for you. It's meant to be hard, but you need to stop fighting me now."

"I'm not fighting–"

"Shush. You are. But this is not a game that you can win by being obstinate or tiring me out. You either let me lead you through this, or you give up. But if you do want to keep going, we need to move on. So you do not get to make any more requests. You will do what I tell you. You need to trust me, and if you don't, you know how to stop it.”

She pauses.

"Shall we?"

"Yes."

He gets back on the bed and into position without prompting. Martha repeats the procedure with his wrists. When she motions for him to spread his legs he does that too, even though the embarrassment makes his face burn. In the privacy of his mind he conjures up more rope that wraps hard around his thighs.

Martha sits down and starts massaging his feet and legs again.

"Let yourself enjoy it," she murmurs. The harsh tone is gone from her voice. "See? This is a lot more pleasurable for you when you don't fight."

It is and it isn't. The foot rub feels good, but he is also getting aroused again. His penis, which had softened when Mrs. Hudson went to talk to Sherlock, is growing hard again. He hates the feeling of it, first heavy and insistent against his thigh, then rising towards his stomach, broadcasting a desire he doesn't want to acknowledge. A desire, no less, brought on not only by human touch after so long without, but also by the shameful relief of giving up his agency.

Martha tells him to pull his legs up. He does, planting his feet against the mattress, the imaginary ropes pulling hard on his thighs. Martha leans up against one of his knees, puts one arm next to his waist, lets the other wander lightly, slowly, up and down the inside of his thigh. Invading the very last inch of his personal space. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, but she says, "Oh, no no, look at me," and he has to.

"Now," she says. "Now, you apologise to me."

He does. Naked, aroused and overpowered he enumerates the instances when he has snapped at, insulted, ignored or, on one exceptionally bad day, yelled at Mrs. Hudson. For each one, he asks for her forgiveness. She says nothing while he speaks, just stays where she is, her fingers still trailing up and down his thigh.

"It's all right," she says when he is done. "I forgive you." And then, surprising him, "Thank you, Mycroft."

He closes his eyes for a bit, concentrating on the warmth of Martha's body still leaning against his knee, and her hand, which has come to rest at the crease of his thigh. In his mind, he gently tastes her forgiveness, the softness of her words. His actions towards her are by no means the only thing weighing on him, but being forgiven does bring a sense of peace.

Eventually Martha eases off him. She unwraps his wrists, places his hands along his body. Lets him stretch his legs out again.

Then she sits down next to him on the bed.

"That's it," she says. "You did very well. There is only one more thing, but I think you prefer to take care of that yourself." She nods at his erection. He scans her face for hints of mockery or teasing, but finds none.

"Yes," he says. He would prefer not to do it at all, but the tenuous peace in his mind is threatened by the insistent thrum of arousal through his body.

"Do you want me to leave you alone? Or do you want me to stay?"

She has already seen him weak, heard him beg, learned secrets he doesn't share with anyone.

"Stay. If you wouldn't mind."

He moves over to make room on the left side of the bed. Martha lies down next to him.

"You can turn off the light if you want," she offers.

"It's all right."

He hasn't done this before, brought himself off with another person lying next to him but not touching him, dressed when he is naked.

"If it helps, you can pretend I'm someone else," Martha suggests. "I won't touch you unless you want to, but maybe you could just… think of someone special?"

Mycroft shakes his head.

"I don't… do that," he says. "And… there is no one special."

"That sounds a little sad," Martha says.

He takes a slow breath, tuning out everything around him, keeping only the sensations inside his own body before he takes himself in hand. It usually works. It's harder today, even though it isn't quite as awkward as he would have thought. Maybe it's that he can't quite ignore the warmth of another body next to his.

On a whim, he cautiously lets in another sensation - that of the imagined ropes around his feet and thighs. It surprises and scares him when it helps.

When he approaches climax he can feel Martha's fingers nudging the back of his left hand in a silent offer. He doesn't take it, but he doesn't move his hand away, either.

After, Martha gets him a flannel to clean himself with, then she makes him move over, untucking the covers from under him and wrapping him up in them instead.

"I should go," he says, but he's exhausted and oddly sleepy.

"Rest for a bit. I'll wake you up."

He is just going to rest his eyes for a second. But the next thing he knows he's waking up, and he is alone. The bedside lamp is turned off. He is warm; it feels like he's been sleeping for hours.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom. Gets dressed. His clothes are a mess; he thinks Mrs. Hudson may have sat on them at some point. It almost doesn't bother him.

He finds her in the kitchen.

"How long was I…"

"Oh, not long. Twenty minutes, maybe. Are you all right?"

"I think so."

He puts on his shoes and coat. She watches him but doesn't say anything else.

He is about to leave, but stops at the door. There is a question he ought to ask, but he cannot bring himself to utter the words How was it for you?

Turned away from her, he asks instead: "Was it… what you expected?"

When she doesn't reply, he makes himself turn around and look at her. She's not smiling, per se, but there is warmth in her eyes.

"It's never quite what you expect."

Is that the nice way of saying he disappointed her?

"I see."

"I know you better now."

"Yes. Well, let's keep that knowledge between us, shall we?"

Now she does smile.

"Oh, there he is. It's good to know there's still some of that snark left."

He allows a tight-lipped smile back.

"Good bye, Mrs. Hudson. And… thank you."

"It was my pleasure, dear. But, Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I think you should talk to your brother. About Serbia."

In the hallway, Mycroft can hear voices drifting down from 221b. Sherlock and Dr. Watson, living their new life. Together, it seems – Dr. Watson appears to have moved in permanently, baby and all. He still has the house he shared with his wife, but he hasn't been seen there more than three times in as many weeks.

This isn't the time for a brotherly chat about torture (if there is indeed any such time; Mycroft seriously doubts it), but it might do to go up and say hello.

Mycroft finds his brother sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with the baby and for all intents and purposes looking like he's enjoying it. Dr. Watson is in Sherlock's chair, looking at them fondly until he notices Mycroft, when the fondness turns into pre-emptive annoyance.

"John," Mycroft says. "Sherlock. Rosamund."

With demonstrative reluctance, Sherlock turns away from the child to look at Mycroft over his shoulder. It takes him a couple of seconds at most to notice the rumpled clothes and various other signs of what has just happened – but he clearly doesn't arrive at the right conclusions. He is up from the floor in no time, circling Mycroft and giving him that look of frustrated bewilderment he gets when Mycroft outsmarts him. It warms Mycroft's heart – despite all that Sherlock has been through, he is still, in some respects, an innocent.

Dr. Watson, though – he sees and deduces. Blushing slightly, he clears his throat and looks away, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Had a good day, Mycroft?"

"I won't complain."

Sherlock looks back and forth between the two of them, suspicious.

"Just dropping by to say hello," Mycroft says. "I see the renovations are nearly finished."

"Nearly, yes," Sherlock replies, but his focus is still on Mycroft's appearance, trying to force what is, to him, unrelated data into a cohesive whole. "There's still some work to be done upstairs."

"You were here earlier," he adds, slowly.

"I was, yes."

"And now you're back, looking like… that."

Mycroft straightens his sleeves, as if what Sherlock implied was merely that he looked a little wind-blown. It's clear as a bell he hasn't been outside for at least an hour, but Sherlock, bless him, still can't make the connections.

"Sherlock," Dr. Watson says. "Be nice. It's good of you to check in on us, Mycroft. Do you want to stay for tea?"

Mycroft thanks him, but declines. He really prefers not to be around once Sherlock makes his painfully slow deductions. Or Dr. Watson explains it to him.

He says his goodbyes to Dr. Watson and pats Rosamund's head, since showing interest in the child has been proven to ingratiate him to Dr. Watson and Sherlock both.

"It's always good to see you, Sherlock," he says before he leaves. "As always, I'm here if you need me."

It takes a visible effort, but Sherlock stops his narrow-eyed scrutiny and nods, once. "I know."

There is a brief moment when Mycroft thinks Sherlock is about to hug him, but he just stands there, and Mycroft takes the decision out of his hands and leaves before it gets awkward.

11.12 pm:

You are aware she has had four different lovers just this year. – SH

11.13 pm:

You're still not getting it, brother dear. – MH

03.04 am:

If you used my handcuffs I'm telling mummy. – SH

[The End]