Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The principal’s office was quiet except for the soft scratch of crayon on paper. Aoife, utterly unbothered, sat cross-legged in the corner, carefully coloring in a picture of a cat. Mycroft, on the other hand, sat across from the school principal and Aoife’s mathematics teacher, his fingers steepled, his expression one of supreme displeasure.

“She didn’t show her work,” the teacher repeated, as though Mycroft had not already heard the absurdity the first time.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said dryly, “and I fail to see how that constitutes an accusation of academic dishonesty rather than a testament to her intelligence.”

“She must have cheated,” the teacher insisted. “No child her age can solve these equations mentally.”

Mycroft exhaled sharply, barely concealing his impatience. “So your theory is that, rather than being naturally gifted, my daughter—a child raised by myself and Elise Holmes—has somehow managed to devise a sophisticated method of deception to fool your institution’s entire academic system?”

The principal shifted uncomfortably, while the teacher pursed her lips.

“She’s seven years old,” Mycroft continued, his tone cool and clipped. “Her deception skills have not yet reached my level.”

The teacher crossed her arms. “She had to have had outside help.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, straightening. “Aoife.”

The little girl glanced up from her coloring, her bright green eyes full of curiosity. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Put down the crayon for a moment, darling,” he said, motioning her over. She hopped off her chair and padded over to his side. “Your teacher believes you are incapable of solving these math problems on your own. Would you be so kind as to demonstrate otherwise?”

Aoife blinked at the teacher, then at her father. “With what?”

Mycroft plucked a fresh sheet of paper from the principal’s desk and slid it toward her, along with a red crayon. “This should suffice.”

Aoife giggled and sat on the chair beside him, swinging her feet. “Okay!”

Mycroft turned his sharp gaze to the teacher. “By all means, ask her whatever you like.”

The teacher frowned but relented. She gave Aoife a random multiplication problem—one far beyond her supposed grade level. Without hesitation, Aoife scribbled down the answer in bright red crayon.

The teacher’s frown deepened. “Alright, then. Let’s try something harder.”

She continued listing increasingly complex problems, introducing division, fractions, and exponents. Each time, Aoife, humming softly to herself, jotted down the correct answer, her small fingers clutching the crayon as though it were a royal decree.

By the time they reached algebraic expressions, the teacher had gone pale.

“She’s… doing it in her head,” she murmured, astonished.

“Yes,” Mycroft said flatly. “As I told you.”

The teacher looked genuinely baffled. “How—”

“She thinks differently,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly. “Which is, I suspect, the real issue here. The expectation that she must fit into the rigid structure you have designed, rather than you recognizing that the structure itself is flawed.”

The principal cleared his throat. “Mr. Holmes, we—”

“My daughter will not be accused of dishonesty simply because she outpaces the limitations of your curriculum,” Mycroft continued, rising to his feet. “I trust you will ensure no such baseless allegations are made again.”

Aoife beamed up at her father, then at the teacher, holding out the sheet of crayon-covered equations like a prize.

The teacher, still speechless, took it with slightly trembling fingers.

Mycroft smirked, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “Come along, my dear.”

Aoife giggled and skipped out of the office at his side, leaving the two school officials in stunned silence.

The scent of garlic and rosemary filled the air as Mycroft and Aoife stepped into their home. Elise was at the stove, stirring something in a large pot, her hair loosely pinned back, and an amused smile already forming on her lips as she caught sight of them.

“Welcome back,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen. Aoife, go change out of your uniform and wash up.”

“Okay, Mummy!” Aoife chirped, dropping her backpack by the door and rushing up the stairs, her little feet thudding against the steps.

Elise turned to Mycroft, her eyebrow arched. “So? How did the meeting go?”

Mycroft removed his coat with deliberate ease, draping it over the back of a chair before taking his usual seat at the dining table. “It went just fine,” he said smoothly. “We scientifically proved that Aoife is simply gifted at mathematics.”

Elise let out a short laugh, rolling her eyes. “Ah, yes. The gift she gets from her father.”

Mycroft smirked, stretching out his legs as he leaned back slightly. “Indeed. Though I should mention, the reason I had to make an appearance in the first place was due to the rather… peculiar gift she inherited from her mother.”

Elise turned, giving him a questioning look. “Oh? And what gift would that be?”

Mycroft picked up a stray apple from the fruit bowl and inspected it with an air of amusement. “Her inclination to take the metre stick from the whiteboard and use it to trip her teacher.”

Elise nearly dropped the spoon she was holding. “She what ?”

Mycroft took a deliberate bite of the apple. “Apparently, she was displeased with the accusation of cheating.”

Elise groaned, rubbing her forehead. “Oh, for the love of—” She exhaled. “Of course, that would be from me.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said, smug.

Elise turned back to the stove, shaking her head. “I swear, between the two of us, that child is going to be an unstoppable force of chaos.”

As Elise plated the pasta, the rich aroma of her homemade sauce filled the air. She reached for Mycroft’s plate, twirling a generous portion of spaghetti onto it, when he cleared his throat.

“A small portion for me tonight, dear,” he stated with an air of restraint, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “I must be mindful of my weight.”

Elise’s lips curled into a knowing smile as she continued serving. “Of course, darling,” she said sweetly, giving him exactly the amount he would normally eat.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Elise.”

“Yes, love?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“I said a small portion.”

Elise hummed as she set his plate down in front of him. “And I heard you, Mycroft.” She placed her own plate down before turning to Aoife, who was already swinging her legs under the table, waiting eagerly for her meal. “Alright, sweetheart, here you go.”

Aoife took her plate with a delighted “Thank you, Mummy!” before she immediately dove into the warm pasta.

Mycroft sighed as he picked up his fork. Elise was impossible to argue with when she was determined. He might as well accept his fate.

As the family ate, Aoife’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Mummy, today I read a book about whales !” she announced.

“Oh?” Elise smiled, twirling her spaghetti onto her fork. “What did you learn?”

“Well, did you know blue whales are the biggest animals in the whole world? And they can talk to each other really far away!”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “How far, exactly?”

Aoife’s brows knitted together as she thought. “Um… thousands of miles?”

Elise chuckled. “That sounds about right.”

“And they eat tiny shrimp things called krill!” Aoife continued, stuffing another forkful of pasta into her mouth. “They open their big mouths and just scoop them all up.”

“Fascinating,” Mycroft mused, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “A creature so massive sustained by something so minuscule. Nature is remarkably efficient.”

Elise leaned her chin on her hand. “I think she’s got your curiosity.”

“I should hope so,” Mycroft said smoothly. “It would be a shame if she weren’t inquisitive.”

Aoife beamed, proud of herself, before eagerly launching into another fact about whales. Elise and Mycroft shared an amused glance as their daughter animatedly recounted her latest discoveries, her enthusiasm filling the room with warmth.

As the dinner continued, Mycroft subtly reached for a second helping of pasta. Elise said nothing—she simply smirked to herself as she passed him the bowl.

The bathroom was filled with the sound of splashing water and Aoife’s endless stream of whale facts. Elise stood by the sink, brushing her teeth, half-listening and half-marveling at how their daughter spoke like she’d been studying marine biology for decades.

“And did you know , Mummy, that humpback whales can sing really long songs?” Aoife babbled, swirling the bathwater around with her hands. “And they don’t even need words like us—they just make noises, but other whales know exactly what they mean! And also, also—” she paused dramatically, her wet curls bouncing as she leaned forward, “—sperm whales have the biggest brains of any animal! Even bigger than Daddy’s!”

Elise nearly choked on her toothpaste, biting back a laugh. She rinsed her mouth before responding, “Sweetheart, I don’t think Daddy would appreciate that comparison.”

Aoife giggled, kicking her legs in the water. “Well, it’s true! But don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

Elise smiled as she kneeled beside the tub, rinsing the shampoo from Aoife’s hair. The soft cadence of her daughter’s voice, filled with endless curiosity and excitement, was soothing in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It was comforting, grounding—proof that life, despite its chaos, still had these small moments of wonder.

Once Aoife was clean and warm in her pajamas, Elise tucked her into bed. “Alright, my little marine biologist,” she murmured, brushing damp curls from her forehead. “Time for sleep.”

“But I have more whale facts,” Aoife whined, her big eyes pleading.

“You can tell me more tomorrow,” Elise promised, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Aoife yawned, snuggling under the covers. “Okay… Night, Mummy.”

Elise turned off the bedside lamp, whispering, “Goodnight, my love.”

When she finally made her way to their bedroom, she found Mycroft already in bed, snoozing softly. His breathing was slow and steady, his normally sharp features relaxed in deep sleep. The generous helping of pasta had clearly worked its magic, lulling him into a carbohydrate-induced slumber.

Elise slid into bed beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. He was warm, solid—comforting in a way she never took for granted. She nestled closer, feeling the slight softness around his middle, and smirked to herself.

He wasn’t wrong. He had gained a little weight—probably fifteen pounds if she had to guess. But she didn’t care. If anything, it made him even more endearing.

With a soft sigh of contentment, she closed her eyes, letting sleep take her as she curled against him, perfectly at peace.

The morning started slow and warm, just as Elise had intended. The golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on their bed. Mycroft had been sleeping peacefully, but she had other plans.

Elise trailed gentle fingers down his chest, pressing light kisses along his jaw, coaxing him from slumber. Mycroft stirred slightly, humming in approval, before blinking his eyes open.

“You’re relentless,” he murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“You love it,” Elise whispered back, shifting closer, pressing herself against him in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.

His arms came around her automatically, pulling her flush against him as he captured her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Elise sighed into it, savoring the warmth of his embrace, the way his fingers tangled in her hair.

They were just beginning to let the morning slip away into something far more intimate when—

BZZZT. BZZZT.

His phone vibrated sharply on the nightstand.

Mycroft groaned, pulling away, his forehead resting against hers as his entire body stiffened with reluctant responsibility. Elise let out a quiet, frustrated sigh, already knowing what was coming next.

“I have to get that,” he muttered.

“No, you don’t ,” she countered, pressing another kiss to the side of his mouth.

But Mycroft, ever the dutiful one, sighed and reached for the phone. Elise rolled onto her back with a dramatic exhale, throwing an arm over her face in irritation.

“Go on, then. Answer your oh-so-important call,” she huffed before slipping out of bed.

Mycroft cast her an apologetic glance, but she was already grabbing her robe and making her way out of the bedroom.

Elise made her way downstairs to get Aoife up and ready for school, shaking off her frustration. It wasn’t long before the sound of little feet pattering against the floor filled the house, followed closely by Aoife’s eager voice.

“Mummy, did you know that blue whales have tongues that weigh as much as an elephant?” Aoife announced as she climbed into her seat at the breakfast table.

Elise smiled as she placed a plate in front of her. “No, but I had a feeling you were going to tell me.”

“And sperm whales sleep vertically ! It’s so weird !” Aoife continued, stuffing a bite of toast into her mouth.

“Fascinating,” Elise said, amused.

But just as quickly as the whale facts had come, Aoife pivoted mid-chew. “Also, did you know that beans are one of the oldest cultivated plants in the world?”

Elise blinked. “We’ve moved on to beans now?”

“Yes! Beans are so interesting, Mummy.”

Before she could delve into an in-depth analysis of legumes, Mycroft finally joined them, dressed impeccably in one of his finest suits. His presence was always commanding, always effortlessly refined, and Elise’s gaze betrayed her lingering irritation from their interrupted morning.

He looked good —almost annoyingly so.

As he adjusted his cufflinks, Aoife barely spared him a glance before launching into yet another fact about beans, utterly unaware of her mother’s mild exasperation.

Elise, on the other hand, watched Mycroft settle into his chair with quiet intensity. Her morning frustration had yet to fade, and he knew it. The way her eyes lingered on him, the way her lips pressed together in that subtly unimpressed way—he could feel her discontent.

Mycroft met her gaze, arching a brow knowingly. Elise huffed, shaking her head, and returned to her breakfast, ignoring the way he smirked ever so slightly.

Oh, he owed her for this.

Chapter Text

Elise navigated the familiar halls of Whitehall with effortless confidence, the security detail barely sparing her a second glance as she made her way to Mycroft’s office. She had done this enough times that they knew better than to question her presence.

With a neatly packed lunch bag in hand, filled with a carefully curated selection of nutritious foods, Elise felt quite pleased with herself. Mycroft had been complaining about his weight lately, but she knew if left to his own devices, he’d sooner opt for tea and biscuits than something actually beneficial to his health.

She pushed open his office door without knocking.

Inside, Mycroft was exactly where she expected him to be—sitting behind his massive desk, papers spread out in front of him, his fingers steepled as he read something with a deeply furrowed brow. He barely looked up at her intrusion.

“Elise,” he greeted, his tone dry but familiar. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Elise smirked as she strode toward him, placing the lunch bag squarely in front of him. “To the fact that you are undoubtedly skipping meals and treating your body like a machine.”

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose. “I hardly think—”

She held up a finger. “Before you say anything, let me enlighten you on today’s menu.”

That made him pause. He sighed, leaning back in his chair as she began listing the items.

“A salad—fresh greens, no dressing because I know you’ll complain about the calories.”

Mycroft’s lips pressed together.

“A protein-packed vegetarian dish with tofu, since I know you would never willingly cook tofu for yourself.”

He gave her an unimpressed look.

“And finally, a green smoothie. Kale, spinach, ginger, lemon, and apple. Very refreshing.”

Mycroft blinked at her. “You are trying to kill me.”

Elise rolled her eyes. “It’s good for you.”

Mycroft eyed the lunch bag like it was a bomb he needed to carefully disarm. “I appreciate the effort, truly. But did you have to include tofu?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to eat the more caloric intensive meals I make at home…”

He exhaled, clearly resigned to his fate, and opened the bag. He pulled out the salad first, inspecting it with mild dismay before glancing back up at her.

“You truly went out of your way for this, didn’t you?” he asked, something softer in his voice now.

Elise smirked. “I did. Because I love you. And I’d like you to live long enough to torment me for at least another few decades.”

Mycroft scoffed, but there was warmth in his gaze as he picked up the smoothie and examined it suspiciously. “And if I refuse to drink this?”

“Then I’ll sit right here and watch you until you do.”

His expression twisted into one of exaggerated suffering. “You are insufferable.”

“And you are stubborn,” she shot back, planting her hands on her hips.

Mycroft sighed, but then, much to her surprise, he lifted the smoothie to his lips and took a slow sip. Elise watched with bated breath.

He swallowed, his face unreadable.

“Well?” she prompted.

“…Not entirely revolting,” he admitted, though the way he set the cup down a little too quickly suggested otherwise.

Elise grinned in triumph. “See? You’ll be so healthy in no time. That’s what you want right?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose but said nothing more. Instead, he sighed and pulled her closer, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

She softened at that, letting her fingers trail over his knuckles. “Always.”

And with that, Elise took a seat across from him, watching with satisfaction as Mycroft begrudgingly took another sip of the smoothie. They ate together, and Elise recanted the odd facts Aoife was now spouting about beans. When they finished. Mycroft gave her a simple kiss.

Their lips lingered in the final brush of their goodbye kiss, the taste of pomegranate seeds and bitter arugula still fresh on their lips. Mycroft Holmes straightened, adjusting his tailored suit jacket with a practiced ease, his posture as immaculate as ever. Elise stood before him, her gaze sharp, her lips curved into a knowing smile. 

“You left me unfulfilled this morning,” she murmured, her voice low, almost purring. “And you owe me.”

Mycroft’s brow twitched, a rare crack in his otherwise impenetrable composure. “Elise,” he began, his tone measured, but she stepped closer, cutting him off with a single finger pressed to his lips.

“Don’t,” she said softly, her eyes locking with his. “You look far too good in this suit for me to let you off the hook. I’ve been thinking about you all day. About how much I miss you on top of me. How much I miss your weight, your hands, your mouth . ” Her words were deliberate, each one designed to chip away at his control, and they were working.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and her smile widened. “Elise,” he tried again, but she silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he groaned into her mouth. Her hands slid up his chest, smoothing over the crisp fabric of his shirt, and she pushed him back until his thighs hit the edge of his desk.

“You’re going to be late for your cabinet meeting,” she whispered against his lips.

He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, not when her hands were on him, her body pressing against his with a heat that made his thoughts scatter. She was relentless, her lips trailing down his neck, her teeth nipping at his skin in a way that made him shudder. “Elise,” he gasped, his hands gripping her hips, but she pulled back, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

She kissed him gently, her lips brushing against his in a way that made him shiver. “I expect you home for dinner.”

He reached for her, his hands lightly trembling as they settled on her hips, but she stepped back, her smile knowing, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You have a cabinet meeting,” she reminded him, her voice light, almost teasing. “Don’t be late.”

He watched her go, his heart still racing, his body still trembling, and he knew, without a doubt, that he was completely, utterly hers.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes, each one dragging longer than the last. Mycroft sat at his desk, the faint hum of Whitehall’s evening quiet enveloping him. Papers were strewn across the surface, his usual meticulous order disrupted by the weight of the day. He leaned back in his chair, loosening his tie with a weary sigh. The cabinet meeting had been taxing, and though he’d managed to keep his composure, his thoughts kept drifting back to her—to Elise, to the way she’d left him trembling, utterly undone.

He had promised he’d be home hours ago. And he had broken that promise. 

A sharp knock at the door of his office broke his reverie. Before he could respond, the door swung open, and there she stood, framed by the dim light of the corridor. Mycroft’s breath caught. Elise was a vision in a lacy black negligee, the delicate fabric clinging to her curves, leaving little to the imagination. Her sharp gaze locked onto his, and her lips curled into that knowing smile that always set his pulse racing.

“Elise,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “What are you doing here? There are cameras in the hall!”

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The sound echoed in the quiet space, and Mycroft felt the tension in the room shift, crackling with unspoken desire. “I thought we had unfinished business,” she purred, her voice like velvet. “You left me… wanting this morning. Promised you’d make it up to me. Promised you’d be home on time.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, his eyes trailing over her form as she approached. He knew better than to argue. When Elise set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. And tonight, it seemed, she had set her mind on him.

She stopped in front of his desk, her hands resting lightly on the edge as she leaned forward, the neckline of her negligee dipping just enough to tease. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you, Mycroft?” she asked, her tone playful but with an edge that made his stomach tighten. “All day, I’ve been thinking about you. About how you looked when you came undone for me.”

He shifted in his chair, his breath hitching as her words washed over him. “Elise…”

“Shh.” She silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips, her touch sending a jolt through him. “No excuses tonight. I don’t care about a rigged election, or a terrorist threat. I came here for one thing, and one thing only.” Her finger traced the line of his jaw, down to his chin, and then she stepped around the desk, her hips swaying with every step. “Stand up.”

It wasn’t a request. Mycroft obeyed without hesitation, rising to his feet as she closed the distance between them. She was so close now that he could feel the heat of her body, could smell the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating, just like her.

“You owe me,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “And I intend to collect.”

Her lips were on his before he could respond, her kiss deep and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation. Mycroft’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer as he surrendered to the heat of her mouth, the press of her body against his. She moaned softly against him, the sound vibrating through his chest, and he felt a surge of desire so strong it nearly knocked him off balance.

Elise broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, quick gasps as she looked up at him, her eyes dark with need. “You look so good in this suit,” she said, her fingers plucking at his tie. “But I think it’s time we got you out of it.”

“You know how I feel about nudity in the office,” Mycroft whispered.

“You know how I feel when you come home late.” Elise replied.

She worked quickly, her hands deftly loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, her touch lingering on his skin as she went. Mycroft’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps as she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands roamed over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his torso, and he shivered under her touch.

He felt her hands on his shoulders, gently pulling him towards her. Her hands slid down his back, over his hips, and then she was undoing his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking in the quiet room. His pants fell to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and then her hands were on him, her touch igniting a fire that threatened to consume him.

“Take me,” she commanded, her voice soft but firm.

Mycroft didn’t need to be told twice. He lifted her onto the desk, the papers scattering as he pushed them aside, and then he was between her legs, his hands gripping her hips as he slid into her, the sensation so intense it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. Elise gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper.

“This is what you owe me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “And I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.”

Her other hand slid around his waist, pulling him against her, and he could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her negligee. She pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, her teeth nipping lightly at his skin, and he groaned, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as she stroked him, her touch driving him wild.

“Tell me you want me,” she demanded, her voice low and commanding. “Or tell me to stop.”

“I want you,” he gasped, his voice rough with desire.

“That’s it.” she murmured, her lips brushing against his skin as she continued her ministrations. “Now, show me how much you miss me.”

This elicited a deep groan from him. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his before kissing him deeply. 

Her hands gripped his shoulders as she released control, letting him take over as he chipped away at her desire. He fisted his hands against her waist, his fingers tightening as the pleasure built, threatening to overwhelm him. But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, not until she was trembling with need, and her breath came in ragged gasps.

“Elise,” he moaned, his voice strained. “I can’t…”

She pulled back, looking up at him with that wicked smile of hers. “Not yet,” she said, her voice firm but teasing. “Almost.”

She stood slowly, her hands sliding up his chest as she rose, and then she was pressing him back into his chair, her body was quickly once again flush against his. Her lips found him in a hungry kiss, and he kissed her back with equal fervor, his hands roaming over her body, desperate to touch every inch of her.

“I want to feel you lose control just like before.” she murmured against his lips, her voice low and sultry. “That’s it,” she moaned, her voice trembling with pleasure as she sank down onto him. “Just like that, Mycroft. Give it to me.”

He obeyed, his hips moving in a rhythm that was both desperate and controlled, each thrust upward driving them both closer to the edge. Elise’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her body arching against his as she clung to him, her fingers tangled in his hair. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, the chair creaking beneath them, their moans and gasps mingling in the air.

“You feel so good,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their breathing. “I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

Mycroft didn’t respond—he couldn’t. Words were beyond him now, lost in the haze of pleasure that consumed him. All he could do was focus on her, on the way she felt around him, the way her body moved with his, the way her eyes burned into his with a need that matched his own.

“I’m close,” she gasped, her body tightening around him. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His pace quickened, his thrusts growing more urgent as he felt her begin to unravel, her body trembling with the force of her release. She cried out his name, her voice breaking as she came undone, and the sound was enough to push him over the edge, his own release crashing over him like a wave.

They clung to each other as the pleasure ebbed, their breathing slowing, their hearts still racing. Elise pressed a kiss to his chest, her lips soft against his skin, and then she looked up at him, her smile warm but with that familiar glint of mischief in her eyes.

Elise smoothed down the front of her negligee as she stepped off of Mycroft’s lap, feeling entirely too pleased with herself. The papers that had once been his sole focus were now strewn haphazardly across his desk, and the man himself—still recovering from their recent activities—was leaning back in his chair, adjusting his disheveled shirt and tie with a mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion.

She turned back, leaning against the desk with a sly smile. “I trust that was a more effective stress reliever than your usual tea breaks?”

Mycroft exhaled, his gaze flicking up to her, still as sharp as ever despite the faint flush on his cheeks. “Considerably.”

She stepped forward again, placing a neatly packed dinner on his desk with a smug little flourish. “Good. Now, since you’ll need to replenish yourself after that—this is for you. Another carefully crafted, low-calorie meal, made just for you.”

Mycroft eyed the container warily. “If this contains more tofu, I may be forced to revoke your security clearance.”

Elise smirked. “No tofu. But plenty of leafy greens and lean protein.” She crossed her arms. “And before you even think about ignoring it, I fully expect you to eat this before you bury yourself in another seven hours of intelligence reports.”

He sighed, reaching for the container with a begrudging sort of acceptance. “You are relentless .”

“You want me to be,” she quipped. “Otherwise, you’d exist solely on tea and biscuits.”

Mycroft muttered something under his breath, but there was no real protest as he set the dinner on his desk.

Satisfied, Elise leaned in one last time, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before whispering, “I expect you home by breakfast, or our daughter will worry..”

His lips quirked. “Are you imposing a curfew on me now?”

“Yes.” She pulled back with a challenging look. “I don’t care if I sleep alone some nights Mycroft, but you are Aoife’s morning.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly, clearly debating something before finally relenting with a small nod. “Of course.”

Elise smiled victoriously, stepping away. “Good. Don’t make me come back here, and next time I may not wear anything at all.”

And with that, she left, covered in only a raincoat, feeling entirely too pleased with how easily she had managed to bend the great Mycroft Holmes to her will.

Two Months Later

Sherlock barely spared Elise a glance as he continued rattling off details about his latest case, flipping through pages at an impossible speed. “The fibers on the victim’s coat suggest he was in a warehouse before his death—tobacco ash from a rare brand, only sold in a handful of locations across London. The suspect claims he’s never smoked a day in his life, but—”

“But his shoes had traces of nicotine,” Aoife piped up, absently picking at the grass as Rosie watched her with admiration. “Which means he’s lying or knows someone who smokes. My daddy smokes sometimes, but I’m supposed to keep that a secret.”

John let out a heavy sigh, shooting Sherlock a dry look. “You do realize your niece knows more about tobacco ash than you, right?”

Sherlock barely blinked. “Of course she does. I gave her my notes weeks ago, and she’s already given me examples of two new types.”

Elise, sitting comfortably with her cup of tea, smirked over the rim. “You should investigate the security guard. And please stop educating my daughter on tobacco ash, she’s only seven.”

Sherlock finally turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”

Elise shrugged. “His statement reads like a lie. The way he phrases his whereabouts is too careful—too precise, as if he memorized it rather than actually experienced it.” She tapped the file. “You’ve been looking at the suspect, but the person who gives an overly perfect alibi is often the one worth questioning.”

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then snatched the case file back, flipping through the pages with newfound interest.

“I was talking to Aoife, she’s allowed to learn about tobacco ash. But… the security guard is… well – perhaps I’ll give him a second look.”

John, meanwhile, smirked and took a sip of his tea. “Oh, I like this.”

Aoife, ever observant, grinned at her uncle. “Mummy’s right, isn’t she?”

Sherlock grumbled something under his breath before snapping the file shut. “We’ll see.”

Elise simply smirked as she leaned back in her chair, thoroughly enjoying herself.

***

Mycroft sighed the moment he stepped onto the garden path and caught sight of his brother. Sherlock, of all people, lounging in his garden, drinking his tea, and no doubt filling his daughter’s head with absurd notions about criminal deductions and forensic science before she was even out of primary school.

Wonderful.

He ignored the pleasant domestic scene before him—Aoife and Rosie playing in the grass, John looking far too smug about something, and Elise sipping her tea with a knowing glint in her eye. Instead, Mycroft merely adjusted his coat and walked straight into the house.

He needed a drink.

He barely made it to the decanter in the study before he heard the inevitable sound of approaching footsteps.

Of course.

Pouring himself a generous measure of whiskey, Mycroft sighed. “To what do I owe the displeasure, Sherlock?”

His brother smirked as he leaned lazily against the doorframe. “You wound me, Mycroft. Can’t I simply drop by to see my family ?”

Mycroft swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took a slow sip before responding. “A visit from you is never without ulterior motives. Get to the point.”

Sherlock shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Elise solved my case.”

Mycroft stopped mid-sip, raising a single brow. “…Did she?”

Sherlock strolled over to the bar cart, plucked up a spare glass, and poured himself a drink as if he owned the place. “Indeed. While you were busy pushing papers around, your wife pointed out the security guard’s statement was too perfect. A little digging, and—well, let’s just say she has a rather frustrating knack for these things.”

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temple. “I don’t suppose this means you’ll refrain from dragging her into your work?”

Sherlock merely smirked over his glass. “Oh, come now, brother dear. It’s not as if I dragged her into it. She walked in on her own, pointed out the obvious, and left me to do the rest.”

Mycroft sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I married an intelligent woman, I am well aware.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And one that’s keeping you on your toes.”

Mycroft downed the rest of his whiskey, ignoring the amusement in his brother’s voice. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time Elise casually outmaneuvered them both.

Sherlock took a slow sip of his glass of brandy, watching Mycroft with that irritating smirk of his. Then, in the most insufferably casual tone, he said, “I mean, I can’t imagine how stressed you might be given that Elise is pregnant. Again . I mean can you not take the effort to you know… be responsible when it comes to this sort of thing.”

Mycroft, mid-pour as he refilled his glass, froze. The amber liquid kept flowing, nearly spilling over the rim before he realized and hastily set the decanter down. His fingers twitched slightly as he grabbed a napkin, dabbing at an invisible mess, his mind reeling.

“…I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock blinked at him, then let out a slow, amused chuckle. “Oh, don’t tell me she hasn’t told you yet.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, this is delicious —I thought you were just being insufferably calm about it.”

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. He straightened, smoothing out his waistcoat, his mind immediately calculating every possible explanation. Elise, pregnant? Again? Had he truly missed something so crucial?

He turned, leveling Sherlock with a glare. “And what, precisely, led you to this conclusion?”

Sherlock smirked, swirling his drink. “Please, Mycroft. It wasn’t even a challenge.” He began counting off on his fingers. “She refused her usual tea today, her pupils were slightly dilated, she’s been touching her stomach absentmindedly all afternoon , and her sense of smell seems heightened—she wrinkled her nose at the smell of the grass, and she’s never been particularly bothered before.” He took another satisfied sip. “Oh, and she had a protective hand over Aoife every time someone moved too close. Classic maternal instinct, heightened by pregnancy. Really, brother, do keep up.”

Mycroft stared at him, expression unreadable. Inside, however, his mind was spinning.

If Sherlock could be right—and despite how much Mycroft hated to admit it, Sherlock was rarely wrong—then Elise… was expecting again.

And she hadn’t told him yet.

Mycroft set down his glass carefully. “You’ll excuse me, Sherlock. I have a wife to speak with.”

Sherlock merely grinned. “Do try not to panic.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft exited his study, his mind already fixated on Elise—and the very serious conversation they were about to have.

Mycroft’s footsteps echoed through the hallway as he made his way towards the kitchen, where Elise was tending to Aoife. His mind was working furiously, piecing together Sherlock’s observations, and he was nearly certain now. But as he entered the room, seeing Elise smile at Aoife, his chest tightened in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

Elise noticed his presence and smiled softly. “Is everything alright?”

Mycroft didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room, his expression unreadable as he leaned against the kitchen counter. His gaze flickered briefly to Aoife, then back to Elise. “Elise… we need to talk.”

The smile on her face faltered. “What’s wrong, Mycroft?” Her voice was tinged with concern now, sensing the change in his demeanor.

Mycroft didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Sherlock has informed me of something I hadn’t been made aware of. Something I missed myself.”

Elise turned to face him, his eyes scanning her body now, one particular thing he was grateful Sherlock chose not to note, what the increased breast size, and now that he thought of the lunch she served Aoife, no chicken, dinner last night, no chicken, in fact all week she’s made something resembling curry.

Elise’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

His tone was sharp, frustration creeping in despite his attempt to keep calm. “Sherlock seems to think—no, he’s sure —that you’re pregnant again.”

Elise blinked at him, clearly surprised, and then looked down at her stomach as though expecting something to be revealed. “I—What? No, Mycroft. I’m not—”

Mycroft’s gaze never wavered as he let out a small sigh of disbelief, crossing his arms. “Sherlock deduced it easily, in fact. His ability to notice the smallest things astounds me. He mentioned your heightened sense of smell, your hand on your stomach, your reluctance to drink tea... You’ve been behaving quite differently, Elise. Did you really have no idea?”

Elise stared at him, a little overwhelmed by the whole situation. She shook her head, her voice a quiet mixture of confusion and disbelief. “Mycroft, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Or what you’re on about. But I think I would know if I was pregnant.”

Mycroft’s lips pressed together, eyes scanning her further. He wanted to believe her, but Sherlock’s deductions were so precise, so certain. He was making similar ones himself now. The extra oil on her skin and hair, the way her shirt didn’t quite fit. Something wasn’t adding up, and the doubt gnawed at him. “Are you absolutely certain?”

Elise frowned slightly, moving closer to him. “Of course, I’m sure. Maybe Sherlock is trying to mess with you as usual. Honestly, I—” She paused, biting her lip as she searched for the right words. “Mycroft, you know Aoife was a one in a million shot.”

Mycroft sighed, frustration giving way to a strange feeling of relief mixed with guilt. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something vital, but Elise’s sincerity—and the way she still looked at him with concern—made him doubt his own conclusions. “I don’t know what to make of this… but if you’re sure...”

Elise reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m sure. Sherlock doesn’t always know what he’s talking about, you know.” She smiled softly, trying to ease his unease. 

Mycroft studied her face for a long moment, his thoughts still swirling. Finally, he nodded, but his expression remained uneasy. “Very well. I’ll trust you, Elise. But if anything changes, if you feel—”

Elise gently cut him off, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

There was a pause, and then Mycroft managed a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. But inside, he couldn’t quite shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss, and Sherlock’s smugness wasn’t helping matters

***

Mycroft stood in the dimly lit corner of the small Boots store, feeling utterly out of place. The fluorescent lights hummed above him, and the shelves filled with bright, colorful packaging seemed to mock him with their simplicity. It was a world he rarely stepped into—he was far more accustomed to exclusive boutiques, designer shops, and private markets. Yet here he was, holding a small, unassuming box in his hand, staring at the pregnancy test with a mix of disbelief and an oddly uncomfortable sense of guilt.

He could feel his pulse quickening as he tried to avoid looking around at the faces of other customers, the whispers of the mundane world that he felt so disconnected from. As though it wasn’t enough that he had to deal with the potential of another life-changing revelation, he had to face the reality of picking up something so… common .

His thoughts swirled around the dinner earlier, out of curiosity, he had requested they have chicken. A test. Then came Elise’s subtle discomfort, the way she seemed slightly off, though she’d been trying her best to mask it. He could see it in her eyes when she’d set down the chicken, the way her hand had hovered just a bit longer over the sink. He hadn’t said anything at the time. It wasn’t his place, and he hated how his mind kept jumping to the conclusion that Sherlock might be right and that his wife was wrong.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he moved toward the checkout counter, paying for the test with far too much urgency. He barely acknowledged the cashier’s polite smile as he stuffed the small package into his coat pocket. His mind was already racing ahead, wondering what he’d do with the results if they confirmed what he feared. 

Back at home, Mycroft entered quietly, hoping to make it back before Elise or Aoife noticed he’d been gone too long. The house was serene, quiet except for the gentle sound of water running from the bathroom. He kept the test in the pocket of his suit jacket, away from prying eyes, and moved into the kitchen where Elise was cleaning up the remnants of dinner.

Elise turned to him, offering a small smile, though she still seemed a little off, "Everything okay?"

Mycroft, noticing the quiet vulnerability in her tone, nodded, though his mind was still far from the moment. "Of course." He paused, looking at her as she wiped down the counter. "How are you feeling?"

Elise hesitated, clearly not wanting to burden him with more than she already had. But her hand lingered at her stomach, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint tightness around her eyes. "A bit tired," she admitted, her voice soft. "That’s all."

He watched her for a long moment, his own stomach knotting as if his suspicions had already been confirmed. He opened his mouth, ready to ask her about her symptoms, but something stopped him.

Instead, he changed the subject, his voice oddly soft, careful. "I’ll put Aoife to bed tonight."

Elise smiled gratefully. "Thank you, My. She’s on the French Republic of 1793 – something to do with Sherlock and beheadings no doubt."

“Ah, what a lovely after dinner conversation.” Mycroft replied. “Cake, and the death of Marie Antoinette. Suiting, nonetheless.”

He simply nodded, not meeting her gaze as he retreated up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew why the thought made him uneasy. It wasn’t the prospect of another human running around his house, the late nights, nor the uncomfortable months of diapers, though it was pleasant Aoife learned early. He’d be the first to admit that the life he had without his family was sterile and unlived. Now, it was perfect. One more patter of feet down the hall wouldn’t be bad, or change much. 

But since Sherlock had told him about Elise, Mycroft couldn’t stop closing his eyes and seeing Greg covered in her blood. The emergency surgery, the near loss of her life. That was something he couldn’t handle.

Later that night, after Aoife had been tucked into bed, Mycroft sat in their shared bedroom, the pregnancy test still in the pocket of his coat. He stared at it for a long time before finally pulling it out and holding it in his hands. His mind wandered through various scenarios, the consequences of a new life being added to their family.

His thoughts buzzed with a mixture of apprehension and longing. 

But as his thumb traced the edge of the test, he couldn't ignore the part of him that longed for this, that wanted to have more of Elise and their family. He tried to focus on the probability of everything going perfectly fine. Even if those odds weren’t as high as he liked. 

With a deep breath, he placed the test on the end table next to him and stared at it, his thoughts filled with the weight of having the need to buy it in the first place.

The door creaked open behind him, and Elise stepped into the room, her soft footsteps the only sound that broke the silence. "Mycroft?"

He turned slowly to look at her, his heart still pounding. She stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable, her gaze falling to the test on the desk.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat, unsure of how to begin. Finally, Elise spoke, her voice soft but steady.

"You didn’t ask me first." It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

Elise stared at the pregnancy test resting on the desk, its presence unspoken but heavy between them. Mycroft didn't move to push it toward her, nor did he try to explain himself. He simply sat, hands folded in his lap, his expression as controlled as ever—except for the way his fingers were slightly tense against the fabric of his trousers. She could tell he was stressed.

Mycroft lifted his gaze to hers, unwavering. "No, I didn’t." His voice was quiet, measured. "Because I know you. You would have dismissed it. As you did earlier, yesterday, tonight at dinner." He let out a slow breath. "I find your stubbornness a charming quality, but at times like this, I need to operate off of facts. Especially now that Sherlock and I—however insufferable he may be—have drawn the same conclusion independently."

This was one of the biggest unknowns yet.

Elise let the silence stretch before finally reaching for the test, plucking it off the desk with a sigh. "Fine."

She didn't miss the way Mycroft's fingers twitched ever so slightly, betraying his carefully controlled anticipation.

***

Several minutes later, Elise emerged from the bathroom, the test resting on the bathroom counter. Mycroft hadn’t moved from their bedside, his hand drummed lightly against his knee in an uncharacteristic show of impatience.

She didn’t speak as she sat down on the edge of their bed, staring at him, waiting for him to make the next move.

Mycroft finally stood, adjusting his waistcoat as though preparing himself for something of great consequence. Then, without ceremony, he strode past her into the bathroom.

Elise barely had time to brace herself before she heard a quiet exhale—relief, confirmation, or simply the end of uncertainty, she wasn’t sure.

Mycroft reemerged, his expression unreadable save for the slight parting of his lips, his normally controlled posture slightly less rigid.

He looked at her. "You're pregnant."

Elise let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. "I suppose I am."

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the reality settling in. Then, without another word, Mycroft crossed the room, sat beside her, and took her hand in his.

He was still processing, still absorbing, but there was no mistaking the quiet reverence in his touch. He squeezed her fingers lightly. "Another child."

Elise huffed a soft laugh. "Another Holmes in the world. God help us all."

Mycroft turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze with something softer than a smirk, something close to genuine warmth. "God help anyone who underestimates them."

***

Elise stirred in bed, rolling over only to find the sheets cold beside her. She blinked groggily, momentarily disoriented, before she slipped on her robe and headed down the hall. She peek in on Aoife who was sleeping comfortably in her bed. Eventually the distant sound of Mycroft’s voice reached her ears, he was in the kitchen, and she made her way silently down the stairs.

"Yes, I expect full discretion. No, that’s not a request—" Mycroft’s voice was sharp, clipped, the tone he used when he was handling something.

Elise frowned and slipped quietly into the doorway. As she rounded the corner, she found Mycroft standing near the counter, phone pressed to his ear, his other hand sneaking a snack. Stress eating. A notepad sat open beside him, already scribbled with names and times.

"No, the previous complications were severe. If there is any measurable risk, we will need immediate counsel on alternative solutions."

Elise’s stomach dropped. He was talking about her. Not some botched election.

"Yes. No later than this afternoon. Yes, I realize it is short notice.”

Her breath hitched, and she took a step forward. "My?"

He turned immediately, his face betraying the smallest flicker of guilt before his usual composed mask fell back into place. "Elise, you should be resting."

She crossed her arms. "What are you doing?"

“Let me call you back.”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the phone in his hand, then back at her, choosing his words carefully. "I am ensuring that we are properly informed before proceeding with anything."

Elise’s chest tightened. "Properly informed, or—" she gestured to the notepad "—looking for a way out?"

Mycroft exhaled sharply, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Elise, be reasonable. Aoife’s birth was nearly fatal for you. I will not—I cannot —stand idly by while you risk yourself again."

"Risk myself?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Mycroft, I haven’t even spoken to a doctor yet. We don’t know anything yet."

"And that is precisely why I am taking precautions now ," he interrupted, his voice dangerously even. "I will not gamble with your life."

Elise swallowed, staring at him. "So if the doctor says it’s dangerous, you expect me to just… terminate?"

His silence was answer enough.

Her heart pounded. "You made this decision without me?"

Mycroft's jaw tightened. "I am making the only decision that ensures you will live, Elise. I will not lose you. Neither will our child."

She stared at him, emotions warring inside her. "You don’t get to make that call for me, Mycroft. We’re a family, and we converse about these things together. You don’t get to play the lone diplomat of House Holmes."

For the first time, real frustration flickered across his features. "You think I’m being cruel, but I am protecting you. And Aoife."

Elise’s hands clenched into fists. "And what about what I want? Mycroft of course I will put my health and safety first, for you and our daughter, but it’s like you don’t even think to ask. You just act. "

Mycroft let out a breath, his hands bracing against the counter. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but firm. "When I act, I save countries from collapse, I save countless lives, I only intend to do the same for our family."

A heavy silence settled between them.

“I thought this was a quality I possessed that you admired,” he said, almost biting.

Elise's heart ached. She knew Mycroft loved her. Knew that his fear of losing her was consuming him already. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he had taken control—had started orchestrating her life before she had even woken up.

And she wasn’t sure if she could forgive that.

She simply said, “Aoife will be up in an hour, I’ll start on her school lunch, I assume you have some government to topple, surely you can manage to find your own breakfast?”

Mycroft refused to engage her in an argument, he simply replied, “You have an appointment at eleven.” and walked out of the room. 

Elise’s jaw dropped at his demand, not request, leaving her no time for rebuttal. She shouted something about not going, but he was headed up the stairs to change.

They didn’t fight often, but Mycroft knew this was already becoming one. Elise had followed him up the stairs but she barely had time to argue before she was sitting in a pristine, private doctor’s office, her pulse hammering in her throat. 

The entire morning had been a blur—a car was already waiting when she finished dressing, Mycroft’s hand at the small of her back as he guided her inside, offering only clipped explanations.

Now, she sat stiffly in the chair, her fingers curled over the armrests as the doctor reviewed her file. She flicked her eyes toward Mycroft, who was standing beside her, his posture stiff, his expression unreadable. But she knew better. Beneath his cold exterior, she could feel the tension radiating off him.

It was Greg’s voice that echoed in her mind—the way he had once quietly admitted just how close she had come to dying that night. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mycroft look so shaken in my life, Greg had said. He wouldn’t even hold Aoife at first, just sat there, staring at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Elise swallowed, her throat dry. This wasn’t just about Mycroft making decisions for her—this was about fear. His fear. His desperation to prevent history from repeating itself. She hadn’t wanted to come. She picked a fight because she was scared too.

She sighed, glancing up at the doctor. “Alright then. Let’s hear it.”

The doctor smiled kindly, folding his hands over the desk. “First, let’s run a few tests. Then we can discuss risks and options from there.”

Elise nodded, resigning herself to the process. Mycroft might have pushed her into this doctor's office, but she could see the worry in his eyes—the slight twitch in his fingers, the way his gaze flickered toward her stomach as if it were an equation he had yet to solve.

So, for now, she would go along with it. Maybe it would be okay if he found a way to solve the problem.

“Given the one ovary, and the damage repaired, yes, I can see your concern for any complications, this scan however shows no concerns thus far, and bloodwork is normal. Given that you’re feeling well, have had no pain, and indicated no pain during the exam, we’re in a safe place.” 

Elise felt immediate relief, and then a clobbering of nerves. Mycroft seemed stunned as if the good news was actually more complicated. 

Elise rested her hand over her stomach, a small, contented smile playing on her lips as they stepped out of the clinic. Ten weeks. It was real now—more than just Mycroft and Sherlock’s deductions, more as always correct.

Mycroft, still stoic as ever, seemed more at ease. The rigid line of his shoulders had loosened ever so slightly, and while he still carried that ever-present air of control. The ultrasound technician had said the word uncomplicated , and it had temporarily disarmed him.

He held the car door open for her, and once she was settled, he took his place beside her, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee.

“I’ve made a reservation,” he said, voice calm but measured. “I think we ought to discuss things properly.”

Elise arched a brow. “But Aoife, we’ll need to pick her up from school soon. It's a half day.”

“I’ve made arrangements for her to be picked up.”

“No secret agents please, it frightens her.”

“No, I have Sherlock picking her up, we’ll collect her from Baker Street.”

She smirked, thinking of Sherlock wrangling his niece on his own. But at least Rosie would be there, a friendly face. Elise then reached for Mycroft’s hand as if to bring him some additional comfort.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the black wrought-iron gates of St. Winifred’s Preparatory School for Young Ladies, ignoring the disapproving glances from the huddle of parents nearby. His coat collar was turned up against the wind; the violin case slung over his shoulder looked incongruous, like a musician waiting for a gig that would never come. He had taken the opportunity to have it restrung while in Kensington.

When Aoife finally emerged — all polished shoes, navy blazer, and a tie knotted too loosely to meet the headmistress’s standards — she spotted him instantly and broke into a skip.

“You’re late,” she accused, falling into step beside him.

“You’re early,” Sherlock countered. “A mathematic inevitability — two perspectives, equally valid, equally tedious to debate.”

“That’s what people say when they’re wrong,” she retorted, chin tilted up.

“Incorrect. That’s what clever people say when they’re forced to converse with someone smaller who insists on having the last word.”

They descended the stone steps to the nearest tube Station, Aoife’s satchel bouncing against her hip. As they passed through the turnstiles, their argument shifted topics with the fluidity of the Thames.

“Did you know botflies lay their eggs under your skin?” Aoife chirped, delighted at her own horror.

“Of course. Dermatobia hominis — tropical. If you’re bitten by a mosquito carrying their eggs, they hatch and burrow in,” Sherlock replied, scanning his phone for updates on a very convenient murder.

“They chew their way out, don’t they?”

“Yes, unless you suffocate them first with nail varnish or bacon.”

“Bacon?”

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s quite versatile — culinary, parasitic extraction, bribe for dogs. Please stand on the right, we’re on an escalator, not at a village fête.”

A woman in a tailored coat gave Sherlock a scandalized look, pressing her child closer. He smiled back with exaggerated politeness.

“Does it hurt?” Aoife pressed on.

“Having a living larva in your flesh? Not especially — more of a dull itch. The real discomfort is social. People prefer their parasites to remain metaphorical.”

They boarded the next train — Aoife swinging on the overhead pole, Sherlock looming beside her, eyes distant, mind elsewhere.

“How long until you catch the man who put the body in the pond?” she asked, too loudly for the carriage’s comfort.

“Sooner if you’d stop talking,” Sherlock muttered, but there was no real sting in it. He adjusted the violin case and regarded her with something that could, in better light, almost pass for fondness.

“And when you do?”

“I shall celebrate by returning you to your mother with minimal fuss and maximum plausible deniability about your conversational habits.”

She beamed at him, uncowed by tube commuters who edged away as their stop approached. Together, they rattled toward Baker Street — the world’s most improbable detective, and his equally improbable apprentice, oblivious to every raised eyebrow around them.

They emerged from the Underground into the cold drizzle of Baker Street. Aoife trotted to keep pace with Sherlock’s long strides, clutching his sleeve before he could usher her straight through the door to 221B.

“Can we get a snack?” she asked, blocking the steps with a stubborn plant of her feet. “A scone. Or something with sugar. It helps with—”

“—brain function, yes, I’m familiar with the propaganda,” Sherlock said, peering down at her like she was an inconvenient but unavoidable experiment. “Fine. Five minutes.”

They ducked into Speedy’s Café next door, Aoife bouncing in ahead of him as if she owned the place. She climbed onto a chair and declared to the startled young man behind the counter, “Tea and a scone, please. Clotted cream and jam. It’s for science.”

Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite her, violin case propped against the table leg. He was already typing furiously on his phone, eyes flicking over Greg Lestrade’s replies.

Aoife kicked her feet under the table. “You know,” she began, voice at the same bright, unselfconscious volume as always, “bodies bloat because the bacteria in the gut produce gas as they break everything down. But if the body was frozen first—”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted just enough to show he was listening, but not enough to encourage her.

“—then it wouldn’t bloat right away. Or if it was in a hot car, it might bloat faster. So maybe your timeline is wrong.”

He didn’t look up. He just typed:

Text to Lestrade: Re-check cabin perimeter for refrigeration units. Also, owner of black Vauxhall—run plate, follow up storage rental. Possible timeline shift.

The man at the next table — a mild-looking tourist with a guidebook and an untouched slice of Victoria sponge — made the mistake of taking a sip of his tea right as Aoife continued, louder:

“And if it bloats too much, sometimes it splits open. Like a sausage!”

The man spluttered violently, tea spraying into his napkin. He abandoned the cake entirely and hurried out the door without meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Aoife watched him go, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I was right, wasn’t I? About the freezing?”

Sherlock didn’t dignify her with a direct answer. He only nudged the plate toward her as the scone arrived, steam curling from the pot of tea beside it.

“Eat quickly. And now you’ve got jam on your cuff.”

She beamed at him, triumphant. Sherlock went back to his phone, mind already four steps ahead — but he didn’t stop her chatter, or her crumbs. Sherlock loved Aoife to the point he would almost, almost squeeze her cheek at such a profound notation that only a unique a seven year old would have.

The scone — fresh from the oven, with clotted cream piled so high it threatened to slide off — had the blessed effect of rendering Aoife blissfully silent for five whole minutes. Sherlock watched her demolish it in a methodical pattern: crust first, then a neat circle carved out of the middle, jam spread with surgical precision.

He let himself watch her, phone momentarily forgotten beside the half-empty teapot. It struck him, as it did sometimes when he was off-guard, how much he admired her — not just for her unflinching curiosity about things that would make grown men abandon tea shops, but for the way she balanced that same macabre spark with something soft and human when it counted.

He thought of the girl upstairs — Rosie Watson, all bright hair and sharper questions than her father realized. Aoife with Rosie was different: softer at the edges, willing to trade talk of bloated corpses for pink plastic ponies and tiny cups of invisible tea. An experiment in contradictions, really. Sherlock respected that.

“Done,” Aoife announced around the last crumb, licking a smear of jam from her thumb. She hopped off the chair and looked at him expectantly.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said, nodding toward the street door. He scooped up his violin case, pocketed his phone, and nudged her out before she could start in on another tangent about frozen flesh.

At the base of the familiar steps to 221B, Aoife opened her mouth — ready, he knew, to reignite the frozen vs. hot-car decomposition debate — but before she could, Rosie’s excited squeal echoed down the stairwell.

“AOIFE!”

There she was: Rosie Watson, hair in lopsided plaits, socks mismatched, peering down at them with a grin that was all Mary’s softness and John’s stubbornness. She practically flew down the last two steps, colliding into Aoife with enough force to knock her bag sideways.

“Come up, come up! I got the new dollhouse from Aunt Molly — it has a working lift! You have to see it!” Rosie gasped out, already tugging Aoife’s hand.

Aoife shot Sherlock a look — conspiratorial, resigned — before surrendering her free afternoon to Rosie’s iron will.

“Fine,” Aoife said loftily. “But only if we do it in French. You promised.”

Rosie rolled her eyes but nodded, undeterred. “D’accord. But you have to be the mum. I’m the vet again.”

Sherlock watched them clatter up the stairs, dolls already forgotten in favour of fierce debate about who was allowed to have a pretend puppy. He caught the faint overlap of their chatter — half English, half passable French — mingling with the creak of floorboards above.

He allowed himself a small, fleeting smile.

Frozen, hot car — didn’t matter now. The facts could wait. For now, the detective had two mysteries upstairs far more resilient than any bloated corpse: how Aoife, who debated decomposition over scones, would become perfectly content serving invisible tea, and how Rosie, who still dreamt in bedtime stories, would insist on telling them all in another tongue — just to prove she could.

Sherlock adjusted his coat collar, violin case bumping his knee, and followed them in. 

Sherlock had only just opened the violin case, the faint scent of rosin and old wood drifting up to meet him, when the unmistakable thunder of small feet on the stairs heralded trouble. He’d barely plucked a single string when Rosie and Aoife rounded the corner, breathless, conspiratorial, and already armed.

Rosie held a dented plastic crown aloft like an offering. Aoife had a gaudy string of imitation pearls draped over her arm and an expression that brokered no refusal.

“You,” Aoife declared, pointing a jam-smeared cuff at Sherlock, “are the lady of the house.”

“The lady of the house requires you to wash your hands—” Sherlock began, dry as ever.

“No time!” Rosie said, climbing onto the arm of his chair to jam the crown onto his head at a crooked angle. “The vet is here and your puppy is very ill. It’s urgent!”

Sherlock looked between them — the crown slipping down one eyebrow, the pearls now looped twice around his throat by Aoife with all the finesse of a cat dressing a goose — and, with no audience but two children and his own battered dignity, he sighed in defeat.

“Very well. The Lady of the House. But I’m not wearing rouge—”

Rosie was already brandishing her mother’s forgotten lipstick, stolen from her father’s desk upstairs. Aoife shoved it into Sherlock’s hand and climbed onto the settee for better reach. Five seconds later, he was wearing a smear of garish red across his lips and the pearls hung lopsided on his scarf.

They set the scene with utmost seriousness: Rosie, the earnest vet, Aoife, the housemaid turned traitor, and Sherlock, the long-suffering matriarch with a tragic secret.

Hours passed in a whirl of shrieks and laughter. What began as a polite consultation about an imaginary dog’s cough rapidly devolved — thanks to Aoife’s delightfully grim ideas — into betrayal and back-alley horse tranquilizers.

By the time the Lady of the House collapsed dramatically onto the rug, hand clasped to her chest, pearls splayed wide like a fallen duchess, both girls were half-crying with giggles.

“Tell my husband…” Sherlock wheezed, eyes fluttering shut, “the pony was not worth it—”

Rosie dissolved into hysterics, Aoife wiped tears from under her eyes at the purest performance of hilarity. They barely noticed the creak of the door or the measured, disbelieving exhale that followed.

“Sherlock,” came a voice like a cold draught of North Sea wind, “why is there rouge on your face?”

Sherlock cracked one eye open. Mycroft Holmes, umbrella hooked over his arm, stared down at the scene: the world’s greatest detective in costume jewellery and smudged lipstick, pinned beneath two cackling conspirators.

“It’s called imagination , Mycroft,” Sherlock intoned, deadpan from the floor. “You should try it sometime.”

Aoife sat up proudly, crown now perched on her own head. “He’s dead because she poisoned him with horse tranquilizer. I helped.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Of course you did.” He regarded his brother for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as if it dearly wished to betray him with a smile.

“Carry on,” he said at last, voice clipped but softer than usual. He stepped over Sherlock’s outflung leg, brushing a stray pearl aside with his polished shoe. “I’ll come back when the corpse is—” he glanced at Aoife’s triumphant grin “—properly disposed of.”

Sherlock, half-buried under giggling children, lifted a single gloved hand in a dignified wave. “Close the door on your way out.”

Mycroft did. And in the flat above Baker Street, the Lady of the House rose to die dramatically at least three more times before the crown fell off and the pearls became a leash for an imaginary Great Dane who, according to Rosie, needed emergency surgery in French.

***

Outside 221B, the government car idled at the curb, engine murmuring just loud enough to drown out the drizzle tapping at the windows. Mycroft Holmes sat rigid in the back seat, umbrella laid neatly beside him, leather gloves folded with surgical precision on his knee — the portrait of control, to anyone passing by.

Inside, his phone glowed softly in his palm, the screen unchanged. No new message. No missed call. No sign of Elise.

He exhaled — just once — through his nose, fighting the futile urge to text again. He wouldn’t. Not yet. He’d said enough over lunch, far too much really, each word sharp as a scalpel and twice as cold.

***

A quiet bistro, mid-afternoon.

They’d picked it because it was discreet. A corner table, tucked by the window. Her idea — she’d liked the tiny vase of violets and the smell of fresh bread.

For a time, it was pleasant enough. They spoke of Aoife — her schoolwork, her appetite for horror stories, the fact she’d asked if she could dissect a frog in the kitchen sink. Elise laughed when she said it, Mycroft allowed himself a small, fond smile.

But it had not stayed pleasant for long.

He watched her break off a piece of baguette. “You should have seen her the other day — she corrected her teacher about the migratory pattern of starlings. Mrs. Baines nearly swallowed her own chalk.”

“Mrs. Baines is underqualified. I’ll make a note to have her replaced.”

Elise rolled her eyes, “Please don’t have the starling teacher vanished, Mycroft. She’s fine. Aoife is just... Aoife.”

A comfortable silence. Coffee cups. The lull before the storm. Elise shifts slightly, resting her hand on the table — her other hand brushing absently at the swell of her belly.

“ I went for a walk in the park yesterday. It was lovely. I met Sarah — you remember Sarah, from the library —

“ I remember she talks too much. And you shouldn’t be walking in the park alone.” Mycroft said, wondering when this conversation would get to the point.

“ Oh, here we are.” She sets her coffee cup down deliberately. “I wasn’t alone, I was with a friend. And I’m pregnant, not made of spun glass.”

“ You’re carrying our child. The risks—”

“Ah, the bloody risks again, the risks are normal. The doctor said—” Elise had raised her voice at this point.

“Doctors can be wrong. They often are. I’ve seen the file, Elise — your scans don’t erase statistics. Need I remind you this is how we had a daughter in the first place?!” Mycroft said, voice slightly raised, stinging.

Elise flinched — not because she’s surprised, but because he’s said it like that, here, in daylight, over half a sandwich.

***

He replayed it anyway — Elise’s gentle insistence that she was fine, that the baby was fine, that the specialists were confident, the scans good, the heartbeat strong. Her smile had trembled only when he’d pressed too hard, his voice growing low, words meant to protect that instead carved a canyon between them.

It always came to this: his instinct to defend with fact colliding, as it always had, with her fierce, quiet defiance. Mycroft Holmes could command half the world’s secrets with a flick of his wrist, but he could not order his wife to bend to fear. Not when she’d waited so long for this fragile promise, this small heartbeat they’d once believed would never come again.

He flicked to his messages again — nothing. No I’m home . No I forgive you . Not even a pointed Don’t wait up.

Outside the car window, the fog of his breath blurred the glass. His reflection stared back — immaculate suit, neat hair, eyes tired in a way no expense account or security clearance could conceal.

***

“So this goes back to you never wanting kids? Another one tips the Mycroft scale just a little bit too sideways?”

“That’s not what I mean, our daughter is immensely important to me —”

“It took you months to come to terms with me being pregnant with her, I always wondered if it hinged on the fact it saved my from being murdered by your collegues, but this, this is–”

“-asinine.”

Elise rolled her eyes, and left her food unfishished as she took her phone and bag and left the restaurant entirely. 

Mycroft didn’t expect her to return.

***

He thought of Aoife upstairs, loud and unbothered, weaving grim stories with the consulting detective. He thought of Elise’s hands pressed flat over her stomach after the scan, her eyes wet with hope.

Perhaps today he had been too harsh, and too cold. Afterall, the scan ultimately delighted him. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the phone warm against his knee now. Another message hovered on his tongue, an apology half-formed. But he knew how this would go — he would say too little or too much, she would say I love you like a final word on a signed treaty, and they’d circle this battlefield again when the next scan came.

So he stayed still instead, eyes fixed on the front door of 221B.
Waiting for his brother to emerge.
Waiting for the next text that might not come.
Waiting for Elise to forgive what he could not help: that loving his family, to him, always meant building the tallest, strongest walls he could — no matter how cold they felt on the inside.

Chapter Text

Greg Lestrade’s flat smelled faintly of takeaway and cheap aftershave. He’d just settled onto his sofa with the football on mute when the frantic knock rattled the door. He opened it to find Elise already halfway through pushing it in, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dangerous gleam that told him someone — probably someone Mycroft — was in trouble.

“Uncle,” she declared, sweeping past him without waiting for permission. “I need wine. Or chocolate. Or both. Preferably both.”

Greg shut the door with a resigned sigh, scratching at his grey hair. “Afternoon to you too, love. Can I take your coat—?” Greg knew that when Elise was in this state he was in for it.

“No, I’m hot. I’m hot and hormonal and I swear to God if I don’t talk this out I’m going to scream.”

She dumped her bag onto his coffee table, flopped onto his battered sofa, and found the half-empty tin of treats he kept for Aoife. She ripped it open with unnecessary force and stuffed a miniature chocolate bar into her mouth before he could say a word.

Elise started to ramble. And Greg reached for a bottle of wine. “ So we go to lunch, right? Lovely little place on Shepherd Market — you know it, the one with the violets on the tables — and I try , I really try to keep it light. I talk about Aoife, I talk about the weather, I talk about Mrs. Baines and her idiotic starling nonsense—”

Greg simply nodded, perching on the armchair, not daring to interrupt.

“—And he just sits there, all stiff and polite, like a marble statue someone decided to dress in Brioni. And then he says — he says — I shouldn’t touch my own belly in public , because apparently I’m not allowed to look pregnant in case someone kidnaps me for ransom or tries to assassinate my uterus or whatever paranoid Cold War scenario he’s cooked up in that vast, shiny head of his—”

She unwrapped another chocolate, and shoved it in her mouth and continued.

“—And then he has the audacity to say I can’t go for walks , because apparently I might trip and break my neck or fall victim to rogue swans or terrorists disguised as joggers—”

Greg opens his mouth, and closes it as she’s already in the next sentence, but with her third mouthful of chocolate.

“—And then when I say, ‘I’m fine, the baby’s fine, the scans are perfect,’ he whips out statistics like he’s reading me a bloody classified memo.”

She pauses to cram a Malteser in her mouth, eyes watering now — whether from rage or tears, he’s not sure. Greg had poured two glasses of wine, about to hand her one, but the word baby made him pull his hand back and Elise gave him a scowl as she reached out and only palmed air. 

“Wait–what?!” Greg asks softly, still confused.

“And I just — I just wanted one nice lunch. One hour where I’m not a delicate state secret . Where I’m just me . And he can’t do it. He can’t let go . So I left. I left him there with his stupid perfect napkin fold and his stupid, beautiful worry that I know comes from love, but I want to pick up that damn napkin and smack him with it sometimes, Greg, I swear to God—”

She inhales, finally, glaring at the tin as if it’s about to argue back.

“So now I’m here. I want that glass of wine. So I’m eating this instead and telling you because you’re the only man in London who doesn’t tell me what to do with my own body.”

Greg, very gently, pushed the tin closer. He stands, pats her shoulder with the same sturdy warmth he once used when she was twelve and crying over a scraped knee, and then ambled off to the kitchen.

A moment later he returned with a glass of milk, and a fresh packet of biscuits.

He said nothing — just set it down, sat back in his chair across from her and nodded.

By the time Elise’s rant had looped around twice — veering from statistics to rogue swans to Mrs. Baines again — Greg had made peace with the idea that he’d barely get a word in until she ran out of chocolate.

But eventually she paused, rummaging for another piece, only to find the tin empty. She flopped back against his sofa, exasperated and pink-cheeked, hair askew.

Greg cleared his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice soft but firm in that way she could never quite brush off.

“Right. So. Circling back, just for a second — you are pregnant. You could have led with that.”

Elise tipped her head back dramatically, exhaling at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah. I didn’t know. Should I start knitting booties? Because I swear to God if you say booties —”

“I won’t,” Greg cut in, lifting a placating hand. “Just — humour me for a second.”

She glanced at him — caught the tone. The one he only used when she was really spinning herself sideways. She pressed her lips together, said nothing.

Greg rubbed a thumb over his knuckles, choosing the words carefully, precisely, no room for gaps.

“You don’t remember that night. When you nearly— when we nearly lost you.”

Her eyes flickered. The room felt smaller all of a sudden. He went on anyway.

“I was there, El. He wasn’t. My shoes were filled with your blood. They made the most awful noise every time I took a step. And when Mycroft finally saw me it was like he was already planning the funeral. He nearly killed the nurse with questions before they’d even sewn you up. You were there, but you weren’t really there.”

She swallowed the fight in her slumping just a fraction. “I know, Greg.”

Greg tapped the arm of his chair. “So yeah, of course he’s impossible. Of course he’s overbearing. Of course he wants to wrap you in bloody bubble wrap and hide you in a vault somewhere. You scared ten years off all of us that night. And now there’s another possibility the same thing will happen — and that makes it worse, at least it does for me, and I assume the same for him.”

He paused, let it hang there in the quiet, football commentary still muted on the telly behind them. 

“You think he’s just trying to control you, El. And maybe he is, in that daft Holmes way of his. But underneath all that? He’s just protective.”

She shifted, drawing her knees up like she used to when she was a teenager ranting about exam scores. Her eyes went glassy again, but softer this time.

“He makes it feel like—” She pressed a hand to her belly, gentle now, almost apologetic. “Like I’m a walking disaster waiting to happen.”

Greg leaned forward, laid a warm, rough hand over hers.

“You know, when I got the call about your mum and dad, I felt so terrified. The call wasn’t exactly clear, and I thought you had been with them, and they had reported multiple fatalities, and I had to drive an hour to get to you. I was so grateful you hadn’t been in the car that night. I was grateful my sister had lived, but then there was you, scared, sad, but perfectly okay. And it was the only thing that breathed relief into that night.”

Elise sniffed, blinking hard, then blew out a wobbly breath and reached for another phantom chocolate. Finding none, she leaned sideways and let her head drop into her hands.

Greg moved to the couch, and put his arm around her, the football flickering away to itself. 

The physical contact seemed to make the anger subside completely and the tears come. She put her head into her hands and quietly cried.

“Greg – I was mean to him. I have been for days.” she admitted quietly.

“Did I ever tell you about the time your mum stole our dad’s car?” he asked, smiling.

“What? She would never–” Elise said looking up at him.

“I was at a friend's party. She wanted to come with me and I told her no, I felt like it would be corny if my sister hung around my friends, but she took the car without permission, drove over there anyway, I had no idea until an hour later because she has started a fight in the back garden with my ex.” Greg gave a painful laugh, “she had my ex face down in the garden mulch until someone pulled her off.”

“I was so mad she had done something so reckless, but she had done it out of love, and every damn day you remind me of her.”

Elise looked at him in kind, happy to hear a fond memory of her late mother. It had been a while since they had talked about her.

“Now, understand, I think Mycroft and I would agree that you make decisions just like your mum. You do what you want, when you want, and you don’t care if danger is involved. A baby is not really that different.”

“That’s not fair, there’s Aoife, and I’m doing less hours – I haven’t tackled anyone or found a bomb–”

“No,” he interrupted, “But danger does have a way of finding you, and if it doesn’t you seem to make it. So just let the man protect you. It’s not like he’s asking the world of you, he’s asking to let him protect you.” Greg said.

“But I can do that–”

“--yourself. I know. But if I’m honest, I sleep easier knowing the British government can keep you safe. He has good intentions, I promise.”

Elise relented to Greg’s words of reason. She didn’t want to. But then she assumed well… hormones. It hadn’t been this bad with Aoife. She had barely noticed any signs aside from the regular aversion to poultry. 

Then she had to force herself to remember that Mycroft’s parents visited so rarely because of his status. Elise had been kidnapped, because of his status. At some point, he had made her safety his top priority. Elise briefly wondered if Mycroft surveilled Aoife at all hours of the day or if he delegated the task to a team of fifteen people, either way, she wouldn’t be surprised. 

Eventually they watched the last half of the game, neither of them mentioning her pregnancy or day again. Elise fell into the arms of a man that always sought the best for her, she realized, there was another man at home you wanted only the same.

***

Mycroft had called her three times by the time she checked her phone. So eventually she sighed and gave into facing her family after a day of hormones and chocolate indulgence. 

It was well past eleven by the time Elise headed home. Greg’s last packet of biscuits demolished, his polite insistence that she call a car, not walk, for God’s sake still echoing behind her.

The car ride was short, no traffic tonight and she even needed an extra minute to think so the cab dropped her off two blocks away and she walked.

Greg’s memory of her mother made her think that perhaps everything that had happened when she was young made her distrustful of Mycroft. 

She had lost everything at a young age, and it made her into who she was today, stubborn, rash, feisty but loving. Mycroft knew all this and loved her anyway even though she could at times be irrational, stubborn and take it out on him. But it made her smile to think he still wanted to be with her anyway. 

The fresh air was sobering. The cool air was kissing the sweat on her neck when she saw their home, and she felt safe. No longer combative.

Inside, the house was dark but not asleep. She knew that particular silence too well — the way it stretched thin around corners and pooled under doors. The fire still lit, Mycroft would have never let a fire go unwatched. Somewhere behind it, Mycroft was awake. Awake and pacing, or reading, or sitting in the study pretending not to listen for her key in the lock.

She toed off her shoes in the foyer, slipped past the library where a faint line of light glowed under the door, but didn’t stop. She wasn’t ready for him yet — not for his tight, formal apologies or the way he’d stand too far away while she’d want to hold him so badly it almost broke them both.

So instead she padded up the stairs to Aoife’s room. The door was cracked open just enough for a sliver of warm lamplight to spill into the hall.

Inside, Aoife lay tangled in her covers—eyes wide and very much not asleep. One look at her mother’s face and she scooted over without a word, lifting the blanket in silent invitation.

Elise crawled in beside her, ignoring the twinge in her back as she did. Aoife tucked herself under her mother’s arm, her small body stubbornly warm and solid.

“Dad’s awake. I can hear him walking past my door.”

Elise smiled into her daughter's freshly washed hair. “ Of course you do. Little bat, you are. Ears like radar.”

“Bats use sonar to talk to each other, mum. Talking is what beings do. You two fought, so that means you didn’t talk.” Aoife said, far too adept for her age, but yet again, far too similar to her father.

Elise sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head. “Something like that.”

Aoife turned, burrowing in closer. She was too big to be tucked under her mother’s chin like this — too sharp at the elbows, too clever by half — but Elise made space anyway.

“ He worries about you. I do too.” Aoife said sleepily.

Elise pulled back just enough to see her daughter’s serious little face in the glow of the lamp. “Hey. None of that.” She brushed a stray curl from Aoife’s cheek. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

Aoife frowned, stubborn. “Uncle Greg said you almost died in hospital. And the new baby—” She hesitated, searching her mother’s eyes for permission to say it. “I know about the baby.”

Elise’s throat tightened — not with fear this time, but something softer, sadder, fiercer. She nodded. “Yes, love. There’s a baby. Since when do we have such serious conversations? Can we go back to whales or something?”

Aoife considered this gravely. Then: “Whales swim in pods together with their families.”

Elise exhaled, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair. “Of course they do. You’re mad I came home late, everyone’s still awake because of me.”

Aoife’s brow furrowed the way it always did when she was winding up to offer a solution. “Maybe you and Dad can go talk?”

Elise laughed then — quietly, so as not to wake the rest of the house. “Okay, my love. Of course I will.”

Aoife pressed her ear to her mother’s chest, listening, like she did when she was very small and thought all grown-ups kept secrets hidden in their heartbeats.

“He’s outside the door isn’t he?” Elise asked in a whisper. 

“Yes,” Aoife whispered back. Elise kissed her head again and again. And sure enough, outside the door, the house creaked — a faint shadow in the hallway where she knew he was standing, listening, unable to come in just yet. 

It didn’t take long for Aoife to drift off — her small hand curled into Elise’s sleeve, her breath steady, soft as a secret against her mother’s collarbone. Elise lay there a moment longer, brushing a thumb over her daughter’s hairline, committing this moment to memory.

Then Elise eased herself free — inch by inch, careful not to disturb the rise and fall of that small chest. She tucked the blanket up to Aoife’s chin, and slipped off the bed.

When Elise cracked the door open, Mycroft was there — perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, the ghost of a man too dignified to admit he’d been standing sentry for nearly an hour. His eyes found hers immediately, dark and unblinking, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved.

All the sharp words from lunch, the bristling worry, the leftover fight she’d burned off in Greg’s living room — it all hovered between them like a ghost. She could see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his mouth twitched like he might apologize but didn’t know how.

Elise didn’t need him to say it. She stepped into the hallway, lifted her hand — the same hand that had slammed down her water glass at lunch and threaded her fingers through his.

Mycroft didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, just closed his fingers around hers like something precious and breakable… something he would guard with his life. He let her lead him down the hall, past Aoife’s door, past the soft pool of lamplight spilling from under the study — past everything sharp and cold until they reached the bedroom they shared.

They said nothing as they undressed. Elise tugging her hair loose, slipping into a soft nightgown, Mycroft folding his shirt with unnecessary precision before they slipped under the duvet without ceremony, two shapes in the dark, the hush broken only by the faint tick of the clock.

Mycroft then gathered her close, arms iron-tight around her shoulders, her back pressed to his chest so firmly it almost hurt. His breath ticked against her neck, ragged for just a moment before he buried it there, like maybe if he held her tightly enough he could anchor every fear that roared through both their chests.

Elise let out a soft, shaky sigh, their last fight long gone, the last word swallowed as he pressed his palm against her stomach. His hand lingered there, protective, reverent, helplessly human.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to have an entire government protecting her and her family. 

***

Mycroft was only asleep for an hour before he woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest as the remnants of the dream clung to him like a cold sweat. Her body, limp and lifeless in a hospital bed. He blinked rapidly, forcing the vision to dissolve into the darkness of the night. His breathing was shallow, uneven, until his hand instinctively moved to her side of the bed.

She was there. Warm. Alive. The soft rise and fall of her chest reassured him that it had only been a nightmare. His palm brushed lightly over her stomach, still flat, still betraying no outward sign of the life growing within her. He pressed his hand there gently, trying to ground himself from such a dream. Mycroft had never really dreamt much in his life, but ever since he’d met Elise, they would creep in. Good ones, bad ones, either way, they were rare.

She stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping her lips as she shifted in her sleep. Mycroft’s gaze lingered on her face, peaceful in the dim light filtering through the curtains. He couldn’t help himself—his fingers traced delicate patterns across her stomach, moving upward to brush the curve of her waist, his touch feather-light.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she let out a quiet sigh. “Mycroft?” Her voice was drowsy, slurred with sleep, but it was enough to make his pulse quicken.

His voice was low and soothing. “Just me.” His hand continued its slow exploration, slipping under the hem of her nightgown to feel the bare warmth of her stomach. Her breath hitched, and he could sense her waking more fully now, he just had to know that she was there, and the next big step in his life living and growing beneath her skin.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Just making sure you were both here.” he murmured against her skin. She shivered, and he felt her hand reach up to grip his arm weakly, as if she wasn’t sure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

But Mycroft knew he’d never really apologized, and part of him was feeling he needed to make it up to her. His mouth found hers in the darkness, and the kiss was slow, tender at first. He savored the way her lips softened under his, the way her body arched ever so slightly toward him. Her hands slid up his arms, holding him closely as she came out of her sleep.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, attempting to be as inaudible as possible and whispered “I am sorry.” He expected a conversation, maybe a kiss before they settled back to their sides of the bed, but her response was a soft moan, her hips shifting restlessly beneath him. 

Then her hand met his face, her eyes locked into his and she shook her head, “No, I’m sorry.” she whispered. His forehead pressed against hers, he was willing to take the fall for this, she was after all pregnant, and deserved to have whatever she wanted.

Mycroft’s hands moved with practiced ease, pushing the thin fabric of her nightgown up and over her head. Her skin seemed to glow in the dim light, and he couldn’t resist leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, down to the swell of her breasts. His tongue flicked over one nipple, and she sighed, her back arching off the bed. She was still tired, but waking up now.

She breathed in deep, her hands clutching at his shoulders. He became determined to make his amends. His hands moved lower, skimming over her hips, down to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She spread her legs instinctively, and he groaned at the feel of her, already wet for him.

He kissed his way down her body, his mouth kissing her navel before moving lower. Her hands slipped gently into his hair as he nuzzled against her inner thigh, his breath hot against her most intimate place. “My,” she whispered.

He didn’t reply, simply swiped his tongue against her entrance, and she did her best to muffle a loud gasp, her fingers tightened in his hair as he licked and sucked at each sensitive nerve the exact way he knew she liked. Then he was savoring the taste of her, the way she was thrusting against him and pulling away at the same time, and the way her toes curled.

He slid one finger inside her, then two, curling them just right as he continued to lick and tease her. Her hips lifted and pressed against his face, and he felt her walls tighten around his fingers just like she always did when hooked to the right and then quickly back to the left.

Her climax hit her hard, her body tensing before she melted into the mattress, gasping for air. Mycroft kissed his way back up her body, his lips finding hers once more as he positioned himself between her legs. He wrapped each of her legs around his waist, pulling her closer, and he didn’t hesitate to press directly into her, groaning at the feeling of squeezing himself in between her thighs. 

“Yes,” she breathed, her nails digging into his back as he began to move. He set a slow, deliberate pace, savoring every inch of her as he filled her completely. Her moans were music to his ears, and he watched her face, captivated by the way she bit her lip, the way her eyes fluttered shut.

He picked up the rhythm, thrusting harder, deeper, and she cried out with each movement. Her hands moved to his face, pulling him down for a kiss that was all heat and desperation. Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony, and when she began to tremble around him again, he knew she was close.

He was just waiting for that final que that would tell him she was falling over the edge and then he’d fall right after. Finally she came undone. The sensation was exactly what he needed, and with a final thrust, he followed her over the edge, burying himself deep inside her as he spilled into her.

They lay there for a moment, tangled together and breathless. Mycroft nuzzled into the crook of her neck, pressing a soft kiss to her skin. She turned her head to look at him, a soft smile playing on her lips. Mycroft laid back beside her, both of them catching their breath - when she looked over at him in appreciation. Not realizing this had all been because of a mere nightmare. 

He leaned in and kissed her once more. Tasting the faint remnants of chocolate, and when he finally pulled away, he didn’t smile, just furrowed his brow, committing her heart rate to memory. 

“I’ll go to any appointments you want me to.” Elise said with a sigh, “I was hard on you earlier-”

Mycroft didn’t wait for her to finish; he simply came back to kiss her again. His hand tracing the sweat beading against her chest. That night he was willful and hopeful that he’d somehow managed to prove to her his love.