Warning: Deaged!England for a while, violence and angst all over the place.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's a multi-chaper story. (Approximately seven parts)

Enjoy.

1.

There was silence in the air, breeze passing like a longing hand, a fleeing touch, soft, short and tingled.

Blue eyes rested solely on the figure of thousands years of life, little now, with shoulders still straight like lines, but softly curled over the edges – battles and loves, strength and tenderness, blood and tears.

The leaves so deeply green they might be withered in the human gazes and petals of smooth crimson silk rustled - as if whirring sounds in a far-off space, in a far-off mind, leaving quivers of unfathomable fear and lost. Here we stand as so many people, so why do we feel the loneliness crawling at the flesh of our souls?

Green eyes looked out, away, traveling far and deep, even when the solid small body of their owner sitting there, looking as though bones and guts and skin melting into the chair, all seeping, draining into the earth, becoming just what he truly was.

"How can you even-," it came out like voices belonging to the memories of time long gone in the past, like a silent breath in a lone dark room, feeling so strong it squeezed the hearing ones' hearts, desperation like earth-infuriating, fear like heart-stopping, eyes-widening and pain like soul-wrenching. "You're selfish. This is selfish."

It stabbed, it hurt more than thousands of knives and swords and arrows that had once pierced through his body, leaving scars buried deep into the fiber of his inner soul. He couldn't breathe – in just a brief passing of nanoseconds – the corners of his eyes tight and dry. His child-like body urged him to wrap his tubby arms around himself, hugging, securing, isolating.

Like thousands years ago when forests and mountains were reigning, sheltering and hiding and comfortably intimidating; when he was helpless and scared and always heart-fluttered as though a constantly frightened rabbit.

He turned his head to meet with the other's unwavering cerulean gaze, feeling his soil shifting, his air whispering, his blood in veins oozing and his pulse thumping for his million lives.

And he smiled.

The tea had long turned cold.

On the table that separated the three of them.

Old walls were embraced with new wallpapers – the tastefulness of putting up, of the lonesome of a so long life – seeming to brace themselves, inhaling and exhaling through dust and wood, looming over them all like ancient presences bearing the burden of historical witness mixed with normal secretive routines. There was a portrait on the wall facing Mycroft, a very old painting – still not fading in shades and powerfully deep and conveying the atmosphere, the spirit of one of the greatest leaders of Britain. He could feel the burn in her meticulously drawn eyes, catching his ones, twisting his inside and reprimanding his mistake, his unobservant.

How sour that tasted, ripping the contour of his tongue.

Mycroft folded his long fingered hands – smooth on the outer side but rough the inner, tight as though a thousand of iron grip; his umbrella was guarding his side, straight and dark and dangerous and leaning against the Victorian chair he was residing and so very readily near his reach.

His eyes kept lingering on the small figure resting in the large sofa opposite from his, curling into its own clothing and skins. The back of the sofa was like a flowery tidal wave going high, ready to snap and engulf that tiny body with a neat wipe of sharply soft and suffocating cushions. So dangerously vulnerable, so infuriatingly defend-less and neglectful.

Yet he held back his reasonable distaste and unacceptable insecurity. Mycroft would never tell it, indeed, felt like his skin was peeled off delicately, vaguely and achingly exposed and slightly taken-aback.

All shown with an almost invisible crease of just one well-kempt and noble brow.

"I know my presence make you worried," it was a sharp cut in the air, grazing the silence with a neat and solemn incision, almost infectious. The afternoon light poured into the room through the closed high window, wan and strangely grayish yellow, touching the man, who had been speaking, like faint steam, shadowing his facing-away face and blond lock. That man, he looked young, profile showing fitness and power, his voice a blank liquid to the eyes, yet seeped and neutralized and mingled with layers upon layers of experiences and knowledge the short life of a human being could not yet fathom.

Mycroft felt his every muscle fiber tensing, coiling into discomfort and overpowered; the line under his left eye formed clear, but he was nothing if not carefully composed, insightfully prepared and imperiously proactive.

"Despite the alliance between our both countries, I have good reasons to be alerted," Mycroft replied, watching the man's hands tightening and broad, strong shoulders stiffening in a fast movement, the sound of shifting clothes heard as though a rough rub to an opened wound. Mycroft's eyes were razor-sharp, thoroughly observing, analyzing and tearing apart.

The information was overwhelming, solely one body but millions behalves. History, no, histories. Flows of lives, flows of over two hundreds of year. Looking like human, yet existence proving anything but – Just like the child laying there, chests rising and falling, continuously, immortal, and who – what – where – he had sworn his life to protect and devote.

"Stop. Manipulating. Me." The blond gritted, still standing there in front of the window, turning into a raged statute, every word pulled out like bullets, iron, time-wearing and wrath of so many. "I do him no harm."

Mycroft lifted his brow, gazes narrowed whilst legs remained crossed elegantly, smoothly stiff. "Of course, we don't want that." Vivid blue eyes snapped at his profoundly deepening and warning ones; Mycroft's left palm reached pointedly right beside his umbrella as his right tipped off to the direction of the smallest body in the room. "Regardless of the relative relationships, Mr. Jones, we all don't want wars."

The muted atmosphere was oppressive, readily to be blown off, exploding and unstoppable, as if there were necks to strangle, throats to choke out and hearts to rip apart with limbs. "Don't threaten me," the sentence rolled out of Jones' tongue like icy fire, a deadly calm madness.

And Mycroft was not a Holmes for nothing, a behind-the-scene leader with strings to living and lands-like marionettes, having been facing madness, being the madness, seeing its madness and capturing that madness (- And it would be a "will" later on, because human could never outrun it, could never separate it from the picture of life).

"Then, explain to me, how?"

"It's his plan," Jones had explained in a rapid tone like a certain firing gun. Years of practices had forged Mycroft to hide his surprise and essentiality well; it was so much similar to listening to Sherlock's deductions, it was just less brilliant, not fact and logic but pure honesty. Though shocking and mad and firm all the same. "Arthur's been acting strangely lately, thinking over something, perhaps about this. I came here two days ago when he'd already transformed. I don't know when he changed, don't ask, I have no idea how he did it in the first place. And you come to my emergency phone-call this morning, he's been unconscious since."

Mycroft waited, feeling his mind speeding, racing.

Jones was silent for a few minutes, his jaw working as if tasting, testing the words that had already been told and those that hadn't yet, his hands balling and his feet stopping pacing, standing just behind the sofa to flex his palms and brace one of them on the craved edge of the back of the furniture. He seemed to want to reach out and touch the worryingly-still-unconscious boy, but Mycroft's gaze was all crimson signs.

Jones inhaled tenderly harsh as though he was angry and confused and controlled at the same time. The blue of his hues traveled far away beyond the scene he was in, beyond the understanding of human beings. "He's doing the thing people like us had long wanted to do. But so far all we had got were pains and chaos."

This time Jones purposefully stretched his arm to comb his fingers through soft, infancy strands of ashen blond hair, watching Mycroft now as he tensed instantly and the handle of his umbrella was tightly in hand. "I'm not happy." Jones continued like a threat merging into a comment about weather, like the air hadn't dropped cold one bit. "I can take him to my home, look after him then, as he had once done to me years ago. I can, and I want to, to break this wish of his, break this game he's playin'."

The glistening sharpness of something like a sword was pulled out under Mycroft's certain and deadly fingers with no hesitance. The alerting button to call security teams was waiting to be pressed, to even bring down this man, this likely-threat, this representative if needed.

May there be a lot of paper work and explanations to make. May there be war looming over the heads, but endangering one nation is to endanger its whole citizens and lands and much more. The world could burn itself if Mycroft failed to protect England himself.

Jones didn't break their both eye-contact, azure glinting and dancing in odd shadow and light, burning. "But being away from his own home, land and people for long, he will be hurt. And I've said before, I will do him no harm.

"Therefore, don't need to-"

A much smaller hands held tight onto Jones' bigger one and yanked, making him off-balanced, cutting off his sentence.

"Stop being pettish," a boyish voice was resounded, foreign in a space full of intensity and raging storm and mind-plays. Little limbs unfold and settled and straighten in a manner of a very true adult, nails remaining digging softly into the flesh of the blond man's hand. Round, fluffy green eyes met Mycroft's brown ones evenly.

Mycroft could feel the intense knot in his body easing, yet his mind was intentionally and thankfully high on ringing alarm hidden under unreadable and composing expression and the sword still could be seen.

The seeming-to-be-seven-year-old boy inclined his head, "Mycroft." And turned round to look at other man in the eyes, "America."

"I won't be able to remember anything after today, maybe even sooner."

"We'll dicuss this later, Mycroft."

"Leave me to my people, America."

"You have no right to meddle with my own wish."

"When time comes, I'll be back to normal."

"America,"

"America,"

"Please understand."