Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Mycroft stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street and his eyes scanned over the utter chaos. It looked as though a hurricane had swept through the entire flat. There were old newspapers strewn around the floor, and bowls of food unwashed, and baby clothes scattered on surfaces. He furrowed his eyebrows. When he received a concerned phone call from John a few days ago, he thought that Mr Watson had finally lost all his marbles. He simply had to visit 221B for visual proof and sure enough, there was a one year old child staring back at him with giant, inquisitive blue eyes.

The eldest Holmes brother wondered how it was possible. For one thing, he was fairly certain that his brother was completely oblivious to any ideas of sex. He thought that along with other things such as celebrity trivia and primary school scientific knowledge, Sherlock had simply deleted the thought from his mental hard drive. For another, he was positive that Irene Adler was dead this whole time. He had received information from a reputable source that she was beheaded in a terrorist cell in Karachi. But there was no denying that Ms Adler was indeed alive. Sure, the baby possessed many Holmesian features - such as the striking blue eyes and the luscious curls of dark hair, but he could spot Irene's nose and chin already. Mycroft couldn't resist, as he poked his finger inside the cot and touched her cheek, as though he was trying to determine that she wasn't a figment of his imagination. To him, it seemed so odd that a dominatrix and a detective could produce something so cute and innocent. He knew it wouldn't be long before she was tainted by their sociopathic influences.

Sherlock was asleep on the sofa. He was kept up all night by Olivia's constant pining over her 'mama'. At one point, he was seriously contemplating the idea of dropping her out of the first storey window, but that would be counter-productive. Especially when he would have to explain the injuries to the police. It simply wasn't worth the hassle. But when she started making odd requests for 'caviar' and 'foie gras', he started to hate Irene. It was obvious that Olivia was spoilt rotten since she was treating 221B Baker Street like a Michelin Star restaurant. In the end, Mrs Hudson (who had been repeatedly saying that she was 'not your babysitter') came upstairs with a tray of food for the child, most of which ended up on the floor.

Mycroft remembered when Sherlock was born, back when his brother hadn't learnt to make snide remarks and cruel deductions. Back before the dreaded puberty occured and Sherlock turned into a moody teenager. He remembered when the whole house was kept wide awake at early hours in the morning to the sounds of Sherlock wailing. Mycroft learnt first-hand that it wasn't easy to care for a baby. After Mummy and Daddy divorced, at nine years old, he was often given the responsibility of ensuring that his baby brother was adequately cared for.

"Mama," the child said.

He was taken aback by the little girl's ability to speak. It can't have been more than sixteen months old. It climbed up and pressed its fingers against the bar, staring up at Mycroft with those unmistakeably Holmesian eyes. His face softened, as he lay his umbrella against the wall and crouched down next to the bars to examine her face closer.

"Hello, I'm your uncle Mycroft," he said.

"My... my..."

"Mycroft," he repeated.

"Mycoff?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows with determination.

Mycroft's eyes sparkled. She was definitely her father's daughter. That was the exact way Sherlock used to pronounce his brother's name, back when he had a lisp. Mother hated Sherlock's little speech impediment and sent him to a specialist to get rid of it. Olivia seemed to possess the same stubborn determination as her father. He could tell that she was going to be troublesome when she was older. He felt a pang of jealousy, knowing that Sherlock had managed to produce something so pure and beautiful. He remembered when he plucked up the courage to come out of the closet to Mummy. He remembered how heartbroken and devastated she was to know that she would never become a grandmother. He remembered how she tried to put pressure on Sherlock to find a beautiful wife and settle down. How Sherlock vehemently refused to conform to society's ideas of leading a happy, clichéd life. And when Sherlock told her that he had no intentions of bringing any foul, little human beings into the world, Mrs Holmes' heart was shattered into a thousand pieces.

He knew that Sherlock wasn't going to wake up without some intervention, so proceeded to grab his umbrella and prodded his brother with the tip. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, scowling about something.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, groggily rubbing his eyes.

"John called me. He said that it was a matter of urgency. Looks like you managed to do something right for once, Mummy is going to be so proud. Better not tell her who the mother is, though," Mycroft noted.

"Trust John to spill the beans," Sherlock mumbled.

"He was only concerned about you. He worries that you don't have the capabilities to care for the child, and rightfully so. Honestly Sherlock, you can't even look after yourself. Look at all this mess, for instance. How do you expect Olivia to be safe in this apartment? Especially since Moriarty is on the loose and wants your head on a spike," Mycroft said, pulling a face.

"I'd like to see him try," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, don't be so arrogant, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "One of these days, your attitude is going to get you into big trouble and I don't want to be the one to delivery the news to Mummy that you managed to get yourself killed."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said.

"It's not just about you anymore, though. You know, being a father means that you have to act responsibly for the wellbeing of your baby. It means that you have to put her needs above your own. You can't just neglect her for three months and expect her to fend for herself."

"We don't need your help. I'm dealing with the situation," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes," Mycroft replied, scanning his eyes around the apartment. " I see that you haven't even made an effort to child-proof the flat. What if she decides to walk near the stairs and takes a little tumble? What if she strays into the kitchen and accidently drinks one of your experiments? What if she manages to get her hands on the gun you keep in the apartment?"

Sherlock glared at his brother.

"What the hell were you thinking? Irene Adler? You could have had any woman in the world, but you chose the crazy one who tried to blackmail the government! Boy, are you out of your mind?"

"She's called Mrs Ingleby now. She got married," Sherlock mentioned briefly, opening up an envelope from the desk.

"Right. Well, what the devil were you thinking? Of all the people in the world you could have, you chose to... procreate with her?" Mycroft said.

"I am not going to discuss this with you," Sherlock said, pursing his lips.

"Are you even sure that it's yours? I mean, given her line of work, she-"

"You think I haven't had similar thoughts? According to the DNA test I conducted on the first night, I am the father," Sherlock said, shuddering at the thought.

"Ice cream!" Olivia shouted, lifting up her arms.

"No, Olivia. I thought we already discussed this. You can't eat ice cream every single day," Sherlock said.

"But ice cream," Olivia repeated, looking up at Sherlock with her round, innocent eyes. She blinked twice, and her bottom lip trembled as though she was going to start crying any second.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock. Give the child what she needs," Mycroft said.

"No more ice-cream," Sherlock said, slowly, trying to exert authority. "And stop looking at me like that. Crying isn't going to get you anywhere."

Olivia kicked her foot on the floor of her crib and picked up her teddy bear, throwing it at her father's head. He rolled his let out a whimper which soon exploded into a fully grown wail. Mycroft winced at the sound of her crying. Sherlock carried on reading his letter, ignoring the sounds of his daughter screaming for dear life when Mrs Hudson ran into the room.

"Sherlock, what are you doing to the poor child!" she shouted, picking up Olivia and juggling her in her arms.

"Ice cream," Olivia sniffled.

"Okay," Mrs Hudson said, walking up to the freezer and retrieving a box of Ben and Jerry's cookie dough flavour ice cream, which John had rushed to buy from the supermarket last night.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. "You've seen the photos of Mycroft as a child. Unless you want Olivia to turn into an obese whale by the time she turns two, I suggest you stop mollycoddling and let her suck it up."

"That's no way to treat a one year old," Mrs Hudson said, taking Olivia downstairs with her and leaving Mycroft alone with his brother.

"Now do you realise how troublesome you were as a child?" Mycroft asked. "She's just as stubborn as you were at that age. When you were eighteen months, you were the most argumentative little bastard I had ever laid eyes on."

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

"It wasn't a compliment," Mycroft answered, turning his nose up.

"It was," Sherlock stated.

"Are you ever going to tell Mother about this?"

"Why? So that she can mollycoddle Olivia to death? So that she could interrogate me about who the mother is? So that she could try to force me to ask for Irene's hand in marriage? Somehow I think not," Sherlock answered.

Mycroft sighed. It was true. Mother had been eager for new life in the Holmes family for a long time. It seemed that after Sherlock was born, she had been craving for another addition to the clan, but things didn't work out too well when she discovered that Father had met another woman. After she fell into a depression, it was hard for her to return back to the carefree woman she used to be. These days, she was so full of anxieties and worries. There's an old saying that if you hold something too tightly in your hands, you will crush it. That was the epitome of Sherlock's childhood, hence why he turned to drugs and other things. Still, at least the younger Holmes had his life back on track now. Sort of.

"Listen. If you need any assistance, I'm sure that I can get Andrea to book in a childminder for you," Mycroft said.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock replied. "I have some experiments to conduct, so if you'll excuse me..."

The youngest Holmes brother walked to the dining table, which was cluttered with all sorts of mess. He started to stare under his microscope while Mycroft glared at him.

"You're going to have to become a father to that girl," Mycroft said.

No reply.

"Grow up, Sherlock."

When he was absolutely sure that his brother had left the building, indicative by the sounds of footsteps slowly walking down the stairs and the door slamming shut, he finally looked up and stared at the cot.

"I need a cigarette," he said to no-one in particular.

A/N: Please remember to review. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, thanks for reading :) 3