mariteri said: I just found your stories and I've been loving them all. Here's an idea for you - sure you had John and Mary babysitting, but how would Mycroft do if he had to do so? True, he has more help than any one hundred people anyone knows (he is the British Government, after all). It's late, the help is all asleep and Sherlock and Molly have no other choice but to leave their little loves in his brother's care. What do you think? Anyway, great writing and I hope you update soon. Thanks for sharing.

The pounding on the door awoke him from a sound sleep. Grumbling, Mycroft rose and donned his dressing gown, the dark grey silk perfectly complementing his grey-and-black striped pyjamas. By the time he'd slipped his feet into the matching slippers and opened his bedroom door, Sherlock was already standing in the hall, a carry-cot in either hand and two sleeping infants tucked inside each. "No," Mycroft said flatly, then moved backwards a step.

"Molly's ill," Sherlock said quietly, instantly causing his older brother's scowl to vanish beneath a bland expression that hid his very real concern for his sister-in-law. Mycroft had never had a high opinion of love outside of familial devotion, and had openly scoffed that Sherlock would be bored with his pathologist-turned-bride within six months of their wedding, but had quickly discovered, much to his chagrin (and secret delight) how very, very wrong he'd been.

And now Molly was ill; it must be serious for Sherlock to arrive in the middle of the night with Scarlett and Edmund in tow. Still, Mycroft had to try; he'd never been left alone with his three-month-old niece and nephew, and even his enjoyable interactions with Isabelle Watson weren't enough to prepare him for babysitting duty. "Surely John and Mary," he began, only to be interrupted by his brother.

"Out of town. Visiting John's sister," Sherlock said tersely, setting the carry-cots down on the hardwood floor before shifting his weight, a subtle motion designed to remind his brother that he was in a hurry. A quick glance toward the front door cemented that deduction, and Mycroft sighed inwardly, resigned to a night of baby-minding. "Molly's in the cab, I have to get her to the hospital, Mycroft," his brother said. "Their diaper bags are in the foyer, they've eaten recently but the expressed milk needs to be refrigerated, heating instructions are…"

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I'm sure I can manage," Mycroft interrupted him. "I've changed nappies once or twice in my distant past," he added with a small smile, to remind his brother that he'd once been forced to mind him while their parents were out dancing once upon a time. "Take care of Molly, and do give her my love and my reassurances that I will take the very best of care of her children. Text me later and let me know how she's doing."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, glanced down at the still-sleeping twins as if uncertain he was making the right decision, then once again met his brother's gaze. Mycroft raised both his chin and an eyebrow, non-verbally daring Sherlock to express his doubts aloud, but his brother merely nodded again and left, tossing a "Thank you, Mycroft" over his shoulder as he did so.

oOo

When Sherlock returned the next morning, he was braced for anything: for Mycroft to have given up and turned the twins over to the servants, for the three of them to have been summoned to an emergency meeting at Buckingham Palace or Downing Street, even for Mycroft to be a sobbing mess hiding in his immaculate bedroom. What Sherlock wasn't prepared for was the sight of his brother, fast asleep on the plush, black sofa, a twin cuddled in either arm, their heads resting on his chest, just as fast asleep as their uncle.

Sherlock stealthily reached for his mobile, intending to snap a quick picture to show to Molly (and to use for possible future blackmailing purposes), when Mycroft spoke without opening his eyes. "Don't you dare, brother mine."

Sherlock pulled a face but replaced the mobile in his pocket as Mycroft finally opened his eyes. "How's Molly?" he asked softly.

"Much better. The fever broke and she's on an antibiotic drip as well as fluids for the dehydration. She'll be released later today as long as she continues to recover as well as she has so far. She sent me home to get some rest, but I wanted to check on the twins first. And," he added with a smirk, "to see how well you were coping."

Mycroft grimaced. "As you can see, I am coping just fine." His expression softened as he looked down at the identical heads of soft, curly brown hair resting on his chest. "Go home, Sherlock. Shower, change clothes, get some rest or at least retreat into that ridiculous mind palace of yours. I'll keep the twins for as long as you need me to."

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke again, and when he did it was only to say, "Thank you" in a quiet voice. Then he crossed the room, pressing kisses to his children's heads; with an impish grin, he gave his brother one as well, right in the middle of his forehead, which wrinkled up in an impressive scowl as he straightened up and hurried out of the room.

Muttering quietly to himself about bratty younger brothers, Mycroft wiggled himself into a more comfortable position. "Well, at least you two won't have that to contend with," he said quietly, then grimaced. Who was he kidding? Scarlett would lord it over Edmund's head for the rest of their lives once she learned she'd been born a full four minutes before he had.

But then, that was the way of siblings; squabble amongst themselves eternally, but always have one another's backs.

With a contented sigh, Mycroft closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.