A Silver Lining

The aura around Mycroft Holmes closely resembled that of the storm clouds that covered the London sky as he left his meeting with key members of Parliament. These negotiations were taking far longer than they would if certain imbeciles who'd only gotten their seats through nepotism or worse would listen to him. Honestly, he was in this high position for a reason, so why could they not remember that?

He stepped into the back of his chauffeured black car and practically slammed the door shut. Anthea, who had gotten in on the other side, remained wisely silent. After the engine had purred to life and began its journey, the PA sent a quick warning text to Molly. Her boss's wife replied instantly in acknowledgement and gratitude. Anthea then sent an inquiring text to John Watson regarding her boss's brother, needing an update on how the consulting detective was holding up during his latest case.

Though her phone was on silent, Mycroft seemed to sense exactly when John's reply arrived. "Well?" he asked curtly, looking at nothing out of his window. "Has my brother made a slip?"

Anthea shook her head. "Dr. Watson assures me that he is still on the job. Just finished analyzing his daily urine test after spending a day undercover in that…den." It was the kindest term she could describe for the place.

Mycroft gave a nod, still looking out the window. "As long as Dr. Watson knows that, if there are any slips, I will hold him personally responsible. The last thing I need on my plate is another sick baby."

Anthea spared him a sympathetic glance as the car pulled up outside her apartment duplex. "Let me know if you or your family need anything else immediately, and I'll take care of it," she said, her voice much less cool and impersonal than it normally was with her boss.

Mycroft said nothing, but gave her a brief look as he nodded in gratitude. Once Anthea was inside her building, the driver got back on the road just as rain began to pour down. In less than ten minutes, the car had pulled up outside of Mycroft's own building; the day had gone dark now. He tipped his driver and exited the car silently, his umbrella protecting him from the downpour. Like a robot, he entered his building using his incorruptible keycard, and walked across the elegant lobby to the lift.

Once the bronze doors had closed in front of him, Mycroft allowed himself to let his weariness show a bit. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed a hand across his face. Usually, he would will the lift to climb the twenty-five floors to the penthouse quickly; today, he did the opposite. It's not that he didn't want to see his family…well, maybe he didn't, because then he would have to face the mistake he'd made last night.

He didn't want to see his four-month-old daughter flushed, sweating and crying from a high fever. Despite the best pediatricians in the United Kingdom, she'd been sick for a week now. The best diagnosis they could come up with was a very bad flu; all that could be done was prescribe anti-biotics a baby could handle, advise the parents to give plenty of liquids, and reassure them that it would pass in time.

But his daughter wasn't what Mycroft was dreading to face the most – it was his wife, his Molly. She had been extraordinary in the past week, dedicating herself to their daughter and never letting herself take a moment all for herself. Last night, when she'd managed to put their daughter to sleep for a few hours, Mycroft had pulled his wife into their room, hoping to have a sweet hour with her. Wanting to forget about the current dramas of work and his brother, Mycroft also wanted to tell and show Molly just how wonderful he saw she was being throughout all of this, and possibly make her forget for a while, too.

Unfortunately, when Mycroft tried to unbutton her blouse, she'd taken his hands and lowered them. "I'm sorry, My, I'm just…I'm tired and not…in the mood." She spoke softly, desperate apology in every syllable, but he could feel how firm her statement was beneath that. Instead of being the gentleman and husband she deserved, he merely nodded curtly and locked himself in his study with the excuse of work, as if she had done him a grievous offense. He'd spent the whole night in there, barely getting any sleep. When he heard his daughter cry for relief from the fever, he hadn't moved, letting Molly go and take care of her. In the morning, he had left without a word before the sun was even up.

The closer the lift brought him to his home, the more ashamed Mycroft felt as he remembered his juvenile and inexcusable behavior towards his wife and daughter. He should have realized that Molly would be too tired to make love after taking care of a sick infant all day. He should have helped her take care of their daughter last night instead of sulking in his study like an immature adolescent. Thank goodness Sherlock was not here; Mycroft could very well imagine how Sherlock would rub his mistakes in his face.

When the lift doors opened, Mycroft took a deep breath to rally himself and walked across the elegant hall to his front door. He unlocked the door and walked inside; he didn't call out in case it disturbed the baby. Walking into the spacious sitting room and seeing it was empty, Mycroft sighed and took off his coat and scarf. Molly was probably in the nursery with their daughter, so he would wait for her.

He didn't have to wait very long.

When he turned around after hanging up his things, Mycroft saw Molly standing on the other side of the sitting room; she had come from the hallway that led to their bedroom, the nursery, and his study. She was holding their daughter in her arms.

"Guess who's fever broke this afternoon?" she said quietly, though not quietly enough that he couldn't hear her. A tiny and hesitant smile was on her lips.

Hearing this news the both had been waiting for, seeing her looking as though she expected a severe scolding…Mycroft felt a great boulder he hadn't known he'd been carrying on his shoulders slide effortlessly down his back. Without a word, he strode across the sitting room to his girls, never breaking his gaze from Molly's. When he reached them, he cupped Molly's face in his hands and kissed her.

In that kiss, he expressed all of the regret, apology, relief, joy and love that he felt in that moment. Her reciprocated response mirrored his own. When they broke apart, her eyes had lost all apprehension and hesitation, and glittered only with pure love. He was sure that his own eyes did the same.

At the sound of a small coo, Mycroft turned his head to look at their four-month-old creation, their beloved daughter. She was smiling; he hadn't seen her smile since she'd fallen sick. Cupping her head with one hand, he leaned in and kissed her brow. "Lady Genevieve," he said softly, letting her grab the index finger of his free hand. "You have fought a hard battle, and come through with victory in your embrace." He lifted her little hand, still wrapped around his index finger and kissed it.

Turning his head back to Molly, who was watching with shining eyes, he asked, "Shall I give her a bath? She feels a bit damp from the fever."

"That would be wonderful, My. Unless you're too tired. I know how hard you've been working lately –"

Mycroft gently interrupted her with a kiss. "If anything, darling, you have been working harder. However, I believe, between the three of us, she's been working the hardest." He straightened up and removed his blazer, tossing it onto his favorite armchair.

"I certainly won't argue with that," said Molly, kissing Genevieve's head and turning to walk to the bathroom. "Let's go, then."

Mycroft followed, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he did. A peaceful smile was on his face, a start contrast to the dark clouds pouring rain and lightning outside.

There is truly no place like home.

Some time later, Mycroft walked slowly around the nursery, Genevieve's head resting between his shoulder and his heart. One of her tiny hands gripped the collar of his waistcoat. Her brown eyes, which she had inherited from her mother, were slowly blinking, staying shut for longer and longer moments. It wouldn't be long until she was completely asleep.

Resting his cheek against her head, Mycroft let his eyes roam around the room. The colors were light – soft yellow, baby blue, lamb's-wool white – and the atmosphere comfortable. He smiled at the rocking chair by the window, and could easily conjure many memories of Molly and Genevieve in that chair, both feeding her and helping her sleep. Mycroft never used it; aside from the fact that he preferred walking, he felt that the chair was Molly's spot, which he did not want to violate somehow.

The proud father smiled when he saw Genevieve yawn, let her eyelids fall firmly shut, and her grip on his waistcoat slacken. What a marvel she was, and such a good baby. He wasn't biased when he thought that, either. Genevieve was quite a happy baby, content, and only crying when necessary (in hunger, in need of a change, or if startled). Even in the morning, she did not cry; she merely laid in her crib, happily babbling to herself and trying to fit her foot into her mouth while she waited for her Mummy or Daddy to wish her a good morning. All of this pleased Mycroft to no end: it proved, even at this early stage, that Genevieve had inherited both her mother's personality and her father's intelligence.

When Mycroft felt that she was fast asleep, he walked them to the crib and gently lowered his baby girl onto the soft mattress. Her little hands spasmed in reaction to being laid down, and she gave a little yawn again. His heart filled with tenderness, as it always did when he looked at her, Mycroft bent down and kissed his baby girl, saying what he always said at this time:

"Good-night, light of my life."

When he straightened up and turned to the open door, his breath caught in his throat. There stood his beloved wife, barefoot and wearing his favorite nightgown: the champagne-colored one he'd found for her in France. She was smiling and holding out her hand to him. With a smile of his own, Mycroft more than willingly let her lead him into their bedroom.

Once their door was shut, Molly set to work in unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt. "You need a rub-down," she said softly.

Mycroft gave a soft groan, letting his forehead rest on the crown of her head. All of the weariness and frustration he'd felt at work caught up with him as he realized just how much he needed one. He helped her by loosening his belt and unzipping his trousers.

Rub-downs had become a bit of a tradition with them since they had started a relationship, more specifically a physical one. If ever one of them had had a particularly grueling or long day at work, the other would give them a thorough massage to ease any tension they had brought home with them. Nine times out of ten, slow and passionate love-making would follow.

Soon, Mycroft was lying face-down on their bed, stripped down to his pants. Molly sat on her legs at his side, smoothing the tension out of the muscles of his back. "If heaven exists, it's right here and I'm experiencing it," he breathed.

Molly chuckled softly before speaking in a quiet, serious voice. "You looked like you had the weight of the whole world on your shoulders when you came home. It's only the British Isles you have to worry about, love."

He smiled at her joke before sighing. "And that is more than enough…These negotiations should have lasted no more than two days, and now with each extra day, patience is showing us just how thin it can be stretched."

When he felt her kiss him between his shoulders, he turned himself over, so he lay on his back and could see her. Reaching up, Mycroft laid his hands on her shoulders and brought her down a bit, over him. "Forgive me, beloved. My behavior last night…it was reprehensible."

Molly shook her head and caressed his cheek. "I'm sorry too, My. It's not that I didn't want to, I did, it's just…I was tired and I felt I would feel…guilty later, like I would be selfish while Genevieve was still suffering…"

It would never cease to amaze Mycroft: every day, his Molly would say or do something that would make him love her even more, especially when he thought it couldn't be possible. His right hand lifted from her shoulder, and lovingly undid the loose braid she had put her long auburn strands into. "There is not a more compassionate wife or selfless mother that lives on this Earth than you, my Molly." When she lowered her head, his left hand lifted her chin back up. "Now then. You've taken care of me; tell me how I shall take care of you."

Her brown eyes smoldering, Molly lowered both of his hands to the hem of her nightgown, which had pooled around her hips. "I believe we both have a lot of time to make up for."

Within ten seconds, Mycroft had lifted the champagne-colored nightgown from her body, tossed it to a corner of the room, and had her underneath him as their lips locked in passionate need and deep love.

And so, the husband and wife finally had a sweet night to themselves, while their healthy daughter slept in contentment and dreamed happy little dreams. The heavy rain pouring down from the heavens was a healing balm after a week of lightning storms for all of them.

Thankfully, as it always does when it is strong and deep, true love came through with victory in its embrace.

The End