While working on the next chapter for "Cut and Carried" I got hit with a plotbunny. This will be a series of one-shots of Mycroft and his favorite niece.

Charlotte Holmes was not having any of it. Not the lipstick kisses, the scratchy beard faces that peered down into hers, or the wiggly fingers that made as if to tickle her. She squirmed and writhed in every pair of arms that held her. Her little red mouth pulled into a frown. She disliked being passed from person to person. She disliked that she could not see her parents at all. Suddenly someone was pulling her from the stranger.

"Here sweetheart, you look overwhelmed," Mrs. Holmes picked up her granddaughter, not even apologizing to the distant relative who had been holding her. A house full of strangers all cooing and pinching Charlotte's cheeks and pushing to see her, poor dear was quite sick of it. Having secured her granddaughter, Violet went in search of her eldest son (who had made his obligatory Saturday afternoon visit not realizing the crowd of people already there). Just as she thought, she found Mycroft in the orchard, just beyond the kitchen garden.

At the sound of Charlotte's sobs, Mycroft turned with a start.

"Here Mycroft," Violet said over the noise. "Take her. She needs some peace and quiet."

His niece was thrust into his arms and he grunted, awkwardly cradling her.

"You look as if you'd do with some peace," he replied.

"Oh it's just so irritating! I shouldn't have mentioned I had Charlotte this weekend!"

"Temper, temper, Mother, one must share one's grandchildren."

"Oh do shut up," Violet snapped, irritable, but her features softened after a moment. "Do try to calm her down," she nodded to the still squalling baby in his arms. "She's had such a dreadful time today. Beastly strangers poking and prodding her."

Mycroft pulled a face, remembering all too clearly being small and adults always wanting to pat him on the head, adjust his clothes and generally talk down to him. Charlotte could not yet walk, and so she was twice as helpless. It did not help at all that she was a particularly pretty baby.

Violet hurried back inside, hearing Sigurd rapping on the window, his request to be rescued from the relatives.

In the orchard it was still, and so Mycroft shifted Charlotte up, cradling her so she could face forward and see the trees. She twisted around though, wanting to face him, so he turned her around again, and she instantly curled against him, hiccupping back sobs. Instinctively, Mycroft soothed her small back until she sighed contentedly. He had held his niece twice before, at the hospital, when she was first born, and then once at Baker Street. Both times, Charlotte had laid quite placidly in his arms, seeming to be perfectly content to sit and look at him. He didn't know why she seemed so content with him. Probably because he didn't go poking her cheeks and waving insipid toys in her face.

"Well I suppose we may as well have a chat while we are here," Mycroft said, somewhat conversationally to the quiet babe in his arms. "Shall we go for a walk?" Charlotte cooed in response. "Very well then." He stepped through the taller grass, ducking under the lower branches of the flowering fruit trees. "I expect your father would have some lesson for you on bees and how they affect the success of the orchard. He's always up on some odd fact. I'm afraid my subject of study is politics, and very boring for one of your age," he glanced at Charlotte, who looked at him as if she were listening and understanding him. He quirked an eyebrow. "Very well then, I am in the midst of trying to undo a very stupid decision of the current prime minister's son, or at least, that's one of the problems I'm sorting out. It' the least of them, really." He discussed the meeting of the United Nations with her, his last committee with several military generals, the idiocy of the nuclear proposal that kept sliding onto his desk, among a host of other subjects one does not usually talk to a baby about. Mycroft couldn't be bothered with babbling 'baby speak'. It was ridiculous. While the noises did illicit Charlotte's own noises, and probably prompted speech, he'd rather encourage full words from her rather than nonsensical grunts. In any case, Charlotte didn't seem to mind. If she had something she felt was important to say, she babbled on in her own manner of speech, her tone quite clear that she had something to say and Mycroft ought to listen, to which he usually responded: "Oh I see," or "Hmmhmm, you make a good point." In any case, the afternoon was pleasantly spent, for Mycroft got to solve at least three problems he'd been working on, and Charlotte was rescued from the pinching relatives.

Mycroft had not realized that this incident would stick with Charlotte however.

The next time he stopped at Baker Street, Charlotte was home again (Sherlock and Molly were back from their case). Charlotte very happily wriggled in her playpen, seeing her Uncle, and she reached for him.

"Up!" she demanded, a newly learned word.

"What, baby?" Molly bent, picking her up, and Charlotte stretched across her mother, to her uncle who sat quietly in John's chair, looking over the London Times. "Oh, err, Mycroft,"

The paper lowered, and Mycroft saw Charlotte reaching for him. He merely folded the paper over, placed it on the arm of the chair, and held out his arms for the child. Once on his lap, Charlotte stuck her fingers in her mouth and remained quiet, happily so. With her free hand she fingered the buttons on his waistcoat, his gold watch chain, and found the pen in his breast pocket, which Mycroft quickly removed from her hands (an old fashioned fountain pen he rather did not want her to open and ruin his suit with). She did not fuss or try to climb down, not even when John and Mary came over, which surprised Molly. Charlotte loved John and Mary to pieces.

"What's the matter, Charlotte? Feeling quiet today?" Molly smoothed down her daughter's unruly curls. Charlotte only went on poking the watch chain in Mycroft's button-loop. Ever insightful, Molly realized that her daughter wasn't feeling down, merely comfortable. Every child needs someone they feel perfectly safe with, so Molly let them be.

Mycroft was gone from London for several weeks, very busy with top-secret meetings and dealing with the general problems that would affect the nation as well as the world. He received intermittent texts from Molly, keeping him updated on Charlotte's progress with speech and her attempts at walking. He received a picture, taken from Molly's phone of Charlotte facing the camera, standing upright, Sherlock's feet just behind her, her tiny fists curled around her father's thumbs, grinning cheekily at the camera. Mycroft studied the photo for exactly three minutes, suddenly overcome with a bout of homesickness. He immediately sent the picture to the 'To Be Deleted' folder on his phone and emptied it. After a moment, he reopened the text, saved the file, and shut his phone off.

Three Weeks Later, 221b Baker Street, London

"Welcome back!"

Mycroft bent slightly, accepting his sister in-law's peck on the cheek.

"How is my baby brother?"

"He's fine," Molly cast her eyes over to the sofa where her husband was sprawled, currently deep in his mind-palace. "He's solving a case right now."

"Hmm, yes, a 'twelve' he told me."

"Yes, he said he'd asked you for some files."

"I sent them already."

"That must be what he's going over," Molly nodded. She noticed Mycroft lingering, looking about the living room. "Will you stay for tea? Mary brought over a fresh loaf of bread."

"I have thirty minutes," Mycroft conceded.

"I was just about to get Charlotte up as well," Molly said. "Put the kettle on?" she was already heading down the hall, not waiting for his answer.

Mycroft set his umbrella and case down, reaching for the electric kettle. Molly Hooper Holmes was the only woman (aside from his mother) who could get him to brew tea outside of his own home. By the time it was set up, Molly had returned, a sleepy-eyed Charlotte in her arms. Mycroft suppressed a sudden urge to grab the child and hold her. Instead he went on getting out mugs and plates.

"Mycroft," Molly's soft voice called. Knowing full well she was about to hand him Charlotte, he went on putting out tea.

"Will Charlotte be having anything?"

"Mycroft," Molly repeated, so he turned.

Oh.

There stood Charlotte, unassisted, her wide, bright eyes staring up at him. She covered her mouth with her little fingers, giggling before she took a wobbly step, and then another and another before she broke out into a full-tilt run screeching: "Unca! Unca! Unca!"

She head-butted his shins, still giggling as she plopped to the floor, stretching her arms up as high as she could reach.

Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking quite a bit (the flat was just so dusty, obviously). He bent, picking her up. Before he could even take a step, she wriggled to get down, so he placed her on her feet again. But instead of running back to her mother, she took him by the finger (for one finger was all she could possibly hold) and tugged him over to John's chair, patting the cushion. He obeyed, sitting down, and she clambered up onto his lap. Settled against his chest, she placed her fingers in her mouth, and with her free hand, traced the stripes on his waistcoat.

"We showed her your picture," Molly explained, smiling at his curious expression. "She's been begging to see you for the past two weeks."

He glanced at his brother, who was clearly not in his mind-palace, but now sitting up on the sofa, looking piss-pleased with himself. "I helped her to balance, and she's been walking ever since. She also would not shut up about you every night until we showed her your picture. So I expect you're her new favorite…aside from us, obviously."

"Don't be mean," Molly handed Sherlock his tea, and then went to Mycroft, removed Charlotte's fingers from her mouth and gave her a piece of bread to chew on. "I'll set your tea here where she can't spill it,"

"Right." Mycroft was surprised at how difficult it was to speak.

Sherlock noticed, obviously, but said nothing, though his eyes and his smile were terrifically smug.

Mycroft, for once, could not be bothered. He stayed all afternoon, not even minding that Charlotte dropped breadcrumbs all over his brand new suit. He didn't mind her sucking her fingers and then touching his waistcoat. When he felt her grow heavy in his arms, he looked down and realized she'd fallen asleep on him, head against his ribcage. He shifted her carefully, so that she was lying down on his lap, and Molly draped a blanket over her.

She was about to say 'I can take her,' but Mycroft stiffened immediately, bunching up his knees.

"Don't you dare," he muttered. Molly barely smothered her grin, and shrugged. Taking his empty mug, she went to the kitchen to refill it.

"We've got a three-day weekend coming up," Molly said.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder.

"Hm."

"It's good for children to go visit relatives…" Molly prompted again.

Oh.

"Yes well…I am quite busy at the moment-" his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, so he excused himself, carefully removing it from his breast pocket without disturbing Charlotte.

Holiday weekend is taken care of. Called your housekeeper, she's opening up the country house. – Anthea.

"Time to go?" Molly asked, noting his silence.

"Soon," Mycroft conceded, pocketing his phone. "It seems I have a holiday weekend free." He looked at Charlotte, still fast asleep in his arms. "If…Charlotte would care to come for a day or two."

"I think she'd love to spend her first sleepover with you," Molly agreed. "I'll make sure she's all ready for you."

"Yes well…" he cleared his throat, suddenly thinking of how quickly Charlotte was growing up. Soon she'd be old enough for riding lessons. The idea of her playing in the garden on his country estate made him smile inwardly. "If you hadn't anything else planned for her."

Molly's smile was far too knowing as she set a fresh mug of tea down beside him. "No, not a thing." She squeezed his shoulder in passing. "Charlotte loves her 'Unca 'Croft'."

Mycroft did not voice it, but as he studied the sleeping child in his arms, he thought that perhaps, perhaps, he just might love Charlotte as well.