A slow day at work yesterday and as usual the plot bunnies ran amok, and it occurred to me that it might be fun to write the scene that was referred to in "The Case of the Missing Pooh" where Mycroft fesses up to Sherlock that he had, in fact, read the missing Winnie the Pooh book to Rosie while Mrs. Hudson was out of the room on an extended phone call. So last night, after a panicked reinstall (three times!) of Microsoft Office, I got to work letting the plot bunny hop around my computer keyboard... and so we have what I hope is a tender scene between Mycroft and little Rosie, thus proving that even the Ice Man's heart is capable of being melted a little bit by Rosamund Watson...

Previously, in "The Case of the Missing Pooh"…

Sherlock's phone pinged with Mycroft's reply.

What book? I haven't seen any book. ~MH

Rosie's book. Winnie the Pooh Meets Gopher. Vintage copy circa 1965. Rare. ~SH

I have no idea what you're referring to. ~MH

I'm beginning to think you do, brother. ~SH

Winnie. The. Bloody. Pooh. A vintage children's book with a metallic golden coloured spine. ~SH

Oh. THAT book. I may have seen it. ~MH

Where? ~SH

BROTHER MINE. This is my Goddaughter's book. She is inconsolable. ~SH

MYCROFT. Where is the damn book? ~SH

Mycroft, when Rosie is unhappy, I am unhappy. And I know things about you. Embarrassing things. ~SH

Who do you suppose I should tell first that you are shagging Lady Alicia Smallwood, brother? ~SH

Okay fine. I read it to her one day whilst Mrs. Hudson was taking an extended phone call. The child was fussing. She was annoying me. ~MH

AND? ~SH

I finished it, much to Rosamund's delight, and set it down on your armchair. ~MH

That's it? ~SH

I may have bounced her on my knee. Rosie McPeanut was extremely endearing. I had a weak moment. ~MH

Rosie McPeanut? I KNEW IT. You DO have a soft spot. ~SH

I most CERTAINLY do NOT. And I will deny it wholeheartedly. ~MH

Where is the book, Mycroft? ~SH

Molly came in before I left and sat in your chair. She may have moved it but I don't recall where she placed it. ~MH

Molly doesn't remember it. But she still may have seen it. ~SH

I've told you all I know. Good luck, brother mine. ~MH

Five weeks ago, at 221B Baker Street…

Mycroft Holmes lifted the knocker on the door at 221B Baker Street and rapped the heavy decorative metal against the hard wood several times. He stood back, placing his hands on the umbrella in front of him and leaning on it lightly, taking on a stiff air of dignified posture.

Mrs. Hudson, seeming only slightly distracted, answered the door, stepping aside with barely a word of greeting to let him in.

"Is my brother in, Mrs. Hudson," he asked, when he'd entered the flat and made his way up to Sherlock's living room. Glancing around, Mycroft noted the familiar clutter of his brother's living space, and briefly wondered if his mind palace was any more or less organized than this. If it wasn't in a better state of order, it must surely be a mystery in and of itself how Sherlock managed to function as a detective. "Organized chaos" and "method to the madness" were concepts that were wholly foreign to Mycroft Holmes.

"He's out with John and Greg at the moment chasing down some sort of lead. He's expected back shortly if you'd like to wait for him." Mrs. Hudson seemed hurried as her phone began to ring. "I really need to take this," she said unapologetically. "If you want tea, you know where the kettle is," she said, as she exited into the kitchen. "Rosie is napping in her room, so don't make any noise if you don't want to have to look after her."

Mycroft looked around with a raised eyebrow, wondering where the safest place to sit might be. Finally, he decided that John's easy chair may be his best bet. Settling down stiffly, he heard a fuss in the next room as Rosie was apparently waking up from her nap. He sat quietly, unmoving, waiting for the toddler's ruckus to pass and wondering when Mrs. Hudson would take notice and tend to the child.

As the fussy whimpering became louder, it was soon enough apparent that Mrs. Hudson was not going to become aware of it any time soon, unless he were the one to alert her – and then she'd just make him look after the distasteful task anyway. Mycroft waited a minute or two more before finally deciding he'd had enough.

Rising out of the chair and walking over to the crib that Rosie was in, he stood and crossed his arms, speaking to her.

"Miss Watson, what is the meaning of this… undignified fussing? It is most unbecoming. And frankly it's annoying," he said sternly.

Rosie, frustrated tears streaming down her flushed little cheeks, and her curls stuck to her forehead with the sweaty efforts of expressing her momentary heartbreak at finding herself ignored, stopped her whimpering just a moment to focus on the tall figure looming in front of her. When Mycroft judged she'd quieted, he nodded towards her in polite acknowledgement and turned to walk away. No sooner had he gotten out of eyeshot of the unhappy girl when the whimpering and soft cries started up again.

Mycroft closed his eyes, stopping in his tracks. Taking a deep breath and letting it out in an exasperated sigh, he turned around and walked the few steps he'd managed to make back to the crib.

"Very well then. But what I am about to do does not leave this room, are we clear, Miss Watson? Nobody is to know that I interacted with… a baby." He reached down and picked her up gingerly, holding her in front of him, entirely unsure what to do next.

Had Sherlock been there, he may have laughed at his brother's incompetence when it came to young children, before rescuing his Goddaughter from his hapless older brother. Unfortunately for Mycroft, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and if he had been, Mycroft was unsure exactly which of them would be rescued by Sherlock's taking Rosie from his shaking, clueless hands and cradling her tenderly against his chest, murmuring soft deep rumbling apologies to her for the bumbling incompetent he had just liberated her from.

Not even his impending niece or nephew, due in a few short months courtesy of Sherlock and his wife, Molly Hooper, would likely see much of an Uncle instinct from him, or so he presumed.

"Now what, Rosamund? I do sincerely apologize, I am utterly out of my element. I'm relying on you to tell me what to do next." The little blonde girl, realizing she wasn't alone now, reached out her chubby hands towards Mycroft's face, while Mycroft, realizing that his arms were tiring from holding her out at such an awkward angle, brought her towards him, resting her against his chest in a more practical position and moving one hand under her bottom to support her. She reached up, smiling, and grabbed at one of his cheeks, giggling softly. He tried, but failed, to stop himself from smiling at the gesture of innocence and trust.

"Now Rosamund, as it is my understanding that you are approximately 17 months old, I expect you to behave accordingly. Now I do realize that you have thus far received your training on how to act like a proper toddler from my brother, but you must nevertheless rise above to forgive him and surpass even his own level of behaviour. Now… what shall we do," he said, carrying her back out towards John's chair. Glancing around quickly, ensuring that nobody could see him cradling a baby, he quickly scanned the room. Finally, his eyes fell upon a small children's book. It was thin, with much of its actual thickness attributed to the cardboard cover, and a decidedly worn vintage look about it. Picking it up, he noted that there was a faded golden spine on it, and it was titled, "Winnie the Pooh Meets Gopher." Rosie reached out for it, grabbing the corner and giggling.

"Pooh!" she declared happily and eagerly. "Big bum!" She giggled as if it were the funniest thing she had ever seen – which at the tender age of a year and a half, it just may have been.

Mycroft, deciding this would be a good way to keep her from fussing, settled down in Sherlock's chair this time, judging it to be larger and more comfortable. "So, I suppose you think I'm going to read this to you, Rosamund Mary Watson?" Rosie smiled at him briefly, before turning her focus back towards the book Mycroft held in his hands.

"I suppose you are correct," he sighed. Glancing quickly again towards the kitchen, he opened the book and began to read.

As he turned the pages, becoming embarrassingly engrossed in the story of Winnie the Pooh overindulging in the honey pot in Rabbit's house (perhaps it was a story he could relate to from a more… portly time in his life), Rosie turned her attention to the pictures, giggling happily when they came to the page with Pooh stuck in the window. As Mycroft neared the end of the page, Rosie would reach down towards the corner, grasping the well worn paper in tiny fingers to help him to turn it. Mycroft smiled. Rosie McPeanut was definitely an intelligent child. He hadn't realized how… endearing she was. And this book was clearly familiar and a favourite of hers.

As they finished the story, Rosie flopped herself heavily against him contentedly and lazily and reached up for his chin, having already commandeered his tie to chew on. Finding himself unable to resist, he smiled back at her, reaching down with one hand to tenderly rearrange some of her unruly blonde curls and stroke her chubby cheeks. Sitting back upright, Mycroft gently removed his tie from her grasp, only mildly annoyed at her assault on the fine silk, (that's what the drycleaners were for, after all, and this tie was due for laundering again anyway, he thought, dismissing the transgression) and placed her further out onto his knee.

"Can you say, 'Mycroft', Rosie McPeanut?" he said in a gentle voice, carefully avoiding the ridiculous "I'm speaking like an idiotic dolt" voice that most adults tended to employ when interacting with infants.

Rosie grinned at him. "Mycooo," she managed. She giggled at her own efforts, her eyes shining with delight. Mycroft nodded, bouncing her lightly on his knee.

"Yes, that's close my dear, but not quite. Mycroft," he said, enunciating carefully, and then again more slowly, "Myyy-cr-oooo-fffft." He stifled a laugh as she attempted it again, only managing a raspberry and a few bubbles at the "fffft."

"Well, I suppose Myc will have to do for now. You would not be the first one to call me that," he said, rolling his eyes at his absent mother. "But rest assured young lady, you will be the last allowed to shorten my moniker as such. Unless my niece or nephew finds themselves unable to pronounce it as well."

Rosie gazed up at him adoringly, and Mycroft thought, though he would never admit it unless he were under threat of extortion, that she was incredibly endearing at that moment. Suddenly, the young girl yawned, wobbling slightly under his light grasp. "I see you may be ready for another slumber. I suppose we can arrange that," he said softly. He placed the book that had fallen onto the floor on the wide arm of Sherlock's chair, and picking Rosie up and cradling her upright against his chest, he took one last glance towards the kitchen to ensure he wasn't seen and carried her back to her crib. Kissing her temple softly, and noting how sweet she smelled, (curious things, babies were, the olfactory chemistry involved to inspire adults to nurture them, he made a mental note for later contemplation, and thought perhaps further research with Rosamund's assistance may be called for... and the new niece or nephew that Molly was due to deliver in approximately four months), he placed her on the mattress, covering her up with the blanket that lay askew.

The little girl locked her gaze with his as he smiled down at her, and as her eyelids grew too heavy to resist any longer, Mycroft took just a moment to watch her, taking note of her impossibly long lashes. When he saw her eyes twitch under her lids, he knew she was dreaming… perhaps of investigating Rabbit for being so mean to Pooh and starving him like a cranky tyrant until he'd lost enough excess mass to escape the window.

Mycroft took one more look into the kitchen as a precautionary measure as he exited Rosie's room and walked back into the living room. He thought no more of the book on Sherlock's chair, until one day five weeks later when his brother texted him and threatened to extort him if he didn't fess up.

Afterwards, Mycroft realized, he could have simply lied about how or why he had seen Rosie's beloved Winnie the Pooh book, and Sherlock would have been none the wiser, though most likely still able to locate the missing book in spite of Mycroft's verbal dodging. He may need to explain somehow why she reached out for him and said "Myc" whenever he was at 221B and Rosie was in the room, but surely that couldn't be so difficult to brush off.

But, later on, when he thought back to his short time with Rosie Watson, remembered how she trusted him so completely to look after her for those few minutes, and the innocent delight she had displayed while he read to her, he realized he had no regrets. Let Sherlock and John laugh at him for being such a soft sell. He didn't care.

Rosie McPeanut was worth every mocking snicker.