A/N: My work has been in the way of my writing for almost one year, but I've recently decided to claim my life back, started a new job and now am happy to share with you this continuation of "Just One More Boy to Care For". I hope you enjoy it.

My apologies for any mistakes, I'm an non-native speaker of English living in the US.

Lastly, I don't own the characters other than Jonathan Holmes and Aunt Esther. Enjoy!

Mycroft Holmes picked up his phone to check his emails, sitting on his bed in his childhood room one Saturday night. After spending a whole day with his parents and the extended family to celebrate Mummy's birthday, Mycroft felt he's had more than his share of tiresome small talk with uncles, aunts and cousins he had not seen in years. As far as he was concerned, Mycroft could very well go on without ever talking again to these annoying dimwits who kept referring to him as Mikey and reminisced on what a chubby boy he has been growing up. Mycroft had only consented to coming since it was Mummy's birthday, her 75th to be exact, and her only wish was for her children, which now also included Molly and baby Jonathan, to spend the entire birthday weekend with Mummy and her guests.

Now a large part of the festivities were behind them. After showing his utmost restraint at a catered brunch in the family's garden, as well as when tea and cake was served in the afternoon, and the elaborate sit down dinner the in the evening, Mycroft was cranky about wasting his time with these people while denying himself the pleasure of food. Looking at his phone, Mycroft was thinking that surely there would have to be a crisis somewhere that would require his personal attention so he had to return to London, far away from his parents' house and back to his fully stocked refrigerator. But when he checked his messages, there was absolutes nothing! As a last resort, Mycroft texted his assistant, Anthea, in the hope she had anything that would give him an out, but Anthea's prompt response smashed his hopes. He sighed very deeply in disappointment and put his phone on the small night table next to his bed.

What was there to do for him? He didn't need to look around to notice that nothing has changed in his childhood abode since he moved out decades ago. Feeling his body sink in deeper into the mattress than he was used from his bed in London, Mycroft thought his parents could have at least replaced the bed after all these years, but then, it would have been rather wasteful since he rarely ever had reason to sleep at his parents' house anymore. Truth be told, Mycroft had actually only agreed to staying for an entire weekend fully counting on being able to sleep in the larger and newer bed in the guest bedroom. He was therefore dismayed to learn upon his arrival that the room had been given to his aunt Esther, who had come in from Manchester to spend the week with her sister. Mycroft and Sherlock has been banished to sleep in their respective old bedrooms for the entire duration of their visit. In all fairness, Mycroft thought Sherlock had pulled the even shorter end of the stick, having to share the narrow bed of his youth with his wife Molly, while his 3-month-old son Jonathan was occupying a brand-new crib at the end of the bed. That crib Mummy and Daddy had bought just days after Jonathan was born. They made the investment since they wanted to make sure their beloved grandson had his own bed for the regular overnight visits Mummy demanded from Sherlock and Molly after Jonathan's birth.

Thinking of his nephew, Mycroft realized that the room next to his, where the family of three was sleeping, was eerily quiet, whereas from the guest room across the hallway he heard the loud snores from his aunt. Mycroft, being used to sleeping in his own quiet house, felt his irritation at the noise increase. Exasperated, he stared at into the darkness, and got annoyed with himself when he felt and heard the low grumble from his stomach. He chided himself about not having more of the roast chicken, at least the lean chicken breast! Mycroft only ate a small portion for at supper to avoid any comments by Sherlock or his skinny Aunt Esther about his lack of control. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't even have said anything this time, as he literally had his hands full holding Jonathan, just now and then nibbling on the food on his plate while Molly was eating for two.

Mycroft sighed. Since he couldn't sleep anyways, he decided he would head downstairs to the kitchen for the last slice of birthday cake Mummy had put in the fridge. He stealthily opened the door and tiptoed in the hallway past Sherlock's room, trying to avoid waking his brother, as Mycroft knew Sherlock would shamelessly exploit the opportunity to bring up Mycroft relapsing to his old habit of midnight snacking. Once Mycroft had reached the bottom of the stairs, he relaxed and walked on normally to the kitchen only to find it illuminated. Through the half open door, Mycroft spotted Sherlock sitting at the table across from Molly, who was holding their son in her arms and judging from her slightly bent over posture, nursing him, while Sherlock was reading out loud to his small son from one of their father's apiology books. It did not escape Mycroft's attention that the last slice of cake he had come down for sat half eaten on a plate in front of Molly. He swallowed his disappointment and was contemplating to return back to his room when his brother interrupted his reading and looked up at him: "For God's sake Mycroft, you can come in, Molly insisted on fully covering up around here."

Mycroft stepped in and cautiously glanced towards Molly's direction, who had indeed spread a large piece of cloth over herself that covered her upper body and little Jonathan fully while she nursed him. The little color that spread on his sister-in-law's cheeks though revealed that just like Mycroft, she had not forgotten the incident that happened when Jonathan was just a few days old.

That day Mycroft had come by 221B Baker Street to find his brother bent over his microscope.

"Should you not spend your time with your newborn son?" Mycroft asked, as he pulled off his gloves and took off his coat and scarf.

"Molly is perfectly capable of taking care of our son. Besides, she asked me to give her and Jonny some 'quiet time'. " He used his fingers for air quotation marks, while pouting like a four year old.

Mycroft decided not to entertain his brother's antics. "Oh, has my sister-in-law finally discovered she had two babies to take care of?"

Sherlock shot him an angry glance and turned his attention back to the microscope.

"They are both in Johnny's room, you can go upstairs to see them as long a you remain 'quiet'," Sherlock suggested somewhat lightly, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes for a moment about the missing testiness he would have expected from his brother for calling him in a baby. However, Mycroft Holmes was secretly looking forward to seeing his nephew, so he walked up the stairs to John Watson's former room, contemplating what may have triggered his usually highly patient sister-in-law to ban Sherlock from the nursery. In retrospect, Mycroft ascribed his preoccupation with whatever small disagreement Sherlock and Molly must have had to miss waiting for a prompt to come in after his knock at the door. Thus, as he opened the door, unprompted, and stepped in, he was startled to see that Molly sitting in a rocking chair, her upper body fully exposed as she was just about to start nursing Jonathan. He round, almost tearful eyes looked up at her brother-in-law in shock and a deep crimson color starting spreading on her cheeks as she tried to cover her breasts with Jonathan's body. Mycroft, priding himself for his self-control, blushed furiously, and stammered: "Ex- excuse me, Molly, I – I – I didn't know you were –were," he waved his hand in front of his chest area as words failed him.

"I - I'm, Jonny's having trouble, trouble, with la – la – latching on," Molly stammered, looking down at her fussy baby who she expected to start crying at any moment from hunger. Sensing the distress in his sister-in-law, Mycroft fought the urge of stepping out of the room and asked kindly, looking pointedly towards the wall away from Molly: "Didn't you speak to a lactation consultant in hospital?"

Molly responded that she did, and that she managed fine with the help of the nurse while she was in hospital. However, since coming home, she was having trouble. Her voice broke and tears started to flow as Molly asked herself – and Mycroft- what kind of a mother she was if she could not even feed her own baby. To make matters worse, Jonathan was promptly starting to wail as well. Not knowing how to deal with this tidal wave of emotions, Mycroft did the only thing he could think off; use the wide resources available to him and call an expert. So Mycroft pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to his assistant to get the best lactation specialist of the country to 221B Baker Street immediately.

"Help is on the way," Mycroft said gently, before leaving the room and going down to chide his brother for sending him up to the nursery knowing that Molly was about to breastfeed the baby. Sherlock of course denied the accusations, but an evil shine in his eyes as he suggested Mycroft was overreacting as he had not seen woman's breasts since his own infancy made it obvious that Sherlock had paid Mycroft back for his earlier comment. Luckily, the specialist who showed up at 221B Baker Street within the same hour seemed to have helped. Baby Jonathan has been nursing well since then and was growing steadily, as Mycroft knew from the detailed reports he received from the pediatrician without Sherlock and Molly's knowledge.

Still, Mycroft had learned his lesson. Assured that Molly was fully covered up tonight, he allowed himself to look more closely at his sister-in-law. Of course she was wearing an atrocious cat-design pajama underneath the robe Mycroft had given her for Christmas. Given Molly's horrific taste in clothes, Mycroft had decided to make sure little Jonathan's clothes were of more tasteful colors and patterns, after all, he was a Holmes. He had his assistant buy an ample supply of sensible looking baby and toddler outfits to make sure Molly would not put anything ridiculous looking on his nephew. To a large part, Mycroft's plan had suceeded, except today, when Molly put an awful red outfit on the little boy which said "Granny's Favorite Cupcake". It sure made Mummy very happy, who barely would part with her grandson during the day, showing him off to all her family.

Molly, oblivious to his thoughts, smiled at him. "Mycroft, I hope we didn't wake you up when we came down here?"

Mycroft slowly approached the kitchen table and returned Molly's warm smile with one of his rare genuine smiles: "You didn't. I just couldn't sleep. Would you two fancy some more tea?"

He gestured at the cups in front of his brother and sister-in-law.

"Some more tea would be lovely," Molly responded. "Thank you Mycroft."

"No desire for cake, Mikey?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his book and grinning impertinently at his brother.

"Oh -," Molly said, looking at the half-eaten slice of cake in front of her. "I'm so sorry Mycroft, I wasn't thinking. Would you, would you like to finish it? I probably shouldn't eat any more than I already have today."

Mycroft, who had put the kettle on the stove, turned around to see if Molly was kidding, but she actually had a genuinely apologetic expression on her face as she looked up at him. With slightly colored cheeks, she continued: "Mycroft, please go ahead and eat it, I've had more than my share earlier today. If I keep going at this rate, I will never get back to my pre-pregnancy weight."

Mycroft mustered up a lot of inner strength as he responded: "No need to apologize, Molly, my dear brother was mistaken. I just came here for a cup of tea, not for some left-over cake." He pointedly looked at his brother, who just sniggered before turning his attention back to the book.

Molly, by now used to the quibbling brothers, took a peek under the cloth at her son who had stopped drinking and fallen asleep. She nimbly closed the clasp of her nursing bra, buttoned up her nightshirt before removing the cover and placing Jonathan's head against her shoulder, gently rubbing the infants' back in a circular motion while pressing a few kisses against the side of the baby's head and then sighing happily. Mycroft suppressed the urge to role his eyes at this superfluous display of sentiment. He was about to get up to take care of the tea as the water started to boil, but his sister-in-law got up at the same time: "Why don't you hold Jonathan while I make the tea?"

She held out the sleeping Jonathan to him and Mycroft didn't even try to refuse, despite his concerns for a renewed spit-up accident he encountered the last time he held Jonathan after a feeding, ruining his suit. This time, much wiser, he placed the baby's spit cloth on the shoulder as he had seen Molly do, after all, his silk pajamas and housecoat have been a gift from the Royal Family. Then he took his nephew and bedded him carefully against his shoulder, trying very hard to avoid for Jonathan to wake up and cry when he realized he was not in his mother's arms any longer. However, his nephew was unaffected by the transfer and kept his eyes shut and breathing pattern deep and steady. With Molly having her back turned to them while making tea, and Sherlock too engrossed in his book, Mycroft felt safe to take a closer look at his nephew's head with its messy, dark curls, resisting the urge to run his hand over the head to straighten them. He then turned his attention to one of the little fists that was resting against his chest. With the index finger of his free hand he lightly stroke the back of Jonathan's hand, prompting his nephew to open the hand and then reached out his finger towards the baby's palm. Jonathan grasped on to the finger tightly. Mycroft smiled.

"You do know that the palmar grasp reflex is a primitive reflex Jonathan shares with all infants his age, and not a sign of his advanced intellect, do you?" Sherlock asked, still not looking up from his book.

Molly, who had turned around, smiled and said: "Too bad I didn't bring my phone down with me, that would make for a sweet picture."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in alarm; this woman certainly had the most bizarre ideas. He spoke rather curtly: "It's alright, Molly, none of us looks particularly photogenic at this hour."

His gaze didn't linger with his sister-in-law, but Molly immediately blushed, wrapping the robe she was wearing tighter around herself and then trying to straighten her hair with her hands.

"Molly, stop fidgeting. While Mycroft does not share your sense of style, he was clearly referring to himself just now, weren't you, Mikey?"

"Of course I was, brother-mine," he said, trying to smile sweetly at his sister-in law, as she started pouring tea into the cup in front of him before refilling Sherlock and her cups. She then sat down and asked Mycroft a little timidly: "I can take Jonathan back now."

Mycroft however gestured towards the cake. "He seems fine right now, so I can hold him a little longer while you enjoy the last bit of the cake."

Molly blinked in surprise, but then smiled and picked up the fork again. "Thanks, Mycroft."

She continued eating the cake, while Sherlock and Mycroft discussed the advantages or disadvantages of teaching Jonathan Mandarin before Spanish as his second language. Their discussion became so heated that Jonathan started to stir in Mycroft's arms and intermittently opened his eyes. Molly sighed and took her son from Mycroft, whispering soothingly about the two of them going to bed now. Mycroft felt a little lost for a moment after his nephew had been taken from him, the comfortable warmth emanating from the small body so suddenly gone. Not able to tear his eyes from Jonathan, Mycroft saw how Molly walked over to Sherlock, pressing a kiss on his head as she whispered "good night". To any observer, Sherlock's lack of response to his wife and son may have appeared cold and detached, but Mycroft saw so much more, the way Sherlock's eyelids remained closed for just a mili-second longer when Molly pressed the kiss on his head, how he almost imperceptibly leaned his head towards his wife's chest, and most obviously how his eyes stayed on her as she walked out of the kitchen with Jonathan in her arms.

"Oh brother-mine, how weak you have become," Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock smirked and glanced at Jonathan's spit cloth still draped over his brother's shoulder. "And so have you, Uncle Mycroft."