It’s so hard to ship Johncroft when all the fics are either about John rebounding after Reichenbach or Mycroft, for some undisclosed reason, “stealing” John from Sherlock. I’m here for John and Mycroft, not Sherlock.
I mean, instead of focusing on Sherlock being miserable, why not contemplate John falling hard in the warehouse, Mycroft’s absence at the wedding, or the grand saga to precede the realisation that Mycroft is freaking amazing with Rosie?
omg fine just hold a gun to my head and make me do this why don’t you
When John walked into 221B, Rosie’s face was scrunched up in an alarming similarity to the expression she’d adopted as an infant whenever she was in the midst of shitting her pants. John paused in the doorway, eyes sliding to Mycroft, who was sitting next to her on the couch, watching her intently, and then Sherlock, who was draped awkwardly over his armchair like a cat meme, intently ignoring his older brother and godchild.
Rosie’s mouth opened, and, struggling, she pronounced, very clearly and distinctly, “My-croft.”
The British Government sat back with a satisfied smile. “Exactly correct,” he said, quite effusively if one considered the source. “Very good, Rosamund.”
The girl narrowed her eyes at him. “Rosie.”
Mycroft was so stunned by the correction for a moment that John nearly choked trying not to laugh. “Quite right,” he said, as somber as if he was speaking to the Queen herself. “My mistake, Rosie.”
“Um, hello,” John said, finally stepping across the threshold into the flat. “What … are we doing?”
Sherlock sort of flopped his whole body to the side, nearly toppling off his armchair in his quest to turn his face in John’s general direction without losing the aesthetic effect of his dramatic ennui. John rolled his eyes.
“Mycroft is instructing Rosie in Received Pronunciation,” Sherlock drawled.
Mycroft rose to his feet while Sherlock was speaking, and tugged his waistcoat straight with all of his usual elegant poise. “Someone must,” he said, preempting John’s protest. “Her enunciation is ghastly.”
John pursed his lips. “Mycroft,” he said. “She is four.”
Rosie also scrambled to her feet, standing on the couch cushion, and tugged impatiently at Mycroft’s hand. To John’s complete astonishment, Mycroft acceded to the silent request and scooped the little girl into his arms, hardly breaking eye contact with John for more than a fraction of a second while he settled Rosie on his hip.
“She’s quite capable of learning,” he said, stiffly. Almost defensively. “If someone will dedicate a little time to her education.”
Rosie jabbed Mycroft in the cheek, close enough to his eye that John flinched, although Mycroft’s only reaction was to turn his attention to her. “Rosie,” he scolded, but not without warmth, “I prefer you to request my attention with your words, please.”
“Sweetheart, don’t hit,” John added, still cringing. “Sorry, Mycroft.”
Rosie chewed on her lip, eyes welling up dangerously. “Sorry, Mycroft,” she echoed, forming each syllable with deliberate care.
“You are forgiven,” Mycroft said easily. “Of course.” The smile that stretched his mouth also, amazingly, lit up his eyes, and John had to stop his jaw from dropping at the sight. “Now, what did you want?”
“What is…” Rosie screwed up her nose, struggling to say the word, “en-enun-”
“Enunciation,” Mycroft replied, sounding it out slowly for her. “It means speaking clearly.”
The little girl nodded sagely. John didn’t think she really understood, but then again, she was Mary’s girl, and sharp as a tack in surprising ways.
Mycroft smiled at her, genuinely smiled, and it stripped away the thin veneer of hauteur and sarcasm, leaving him bare and … God, he was really beautiful, wasn’t he? John swallowed, trying to wet his suddenly dry throat.
He licked his lips. “Right, so, um, I’ll book you in on Thursdays, then?”
He’d never seen the British Government lose his poise before. It was brilliant.
“…Thursdays?” Mycroft said, so carefully he sounded almost dangerous. Except he didn’t really, he actually sounded … intrigued.
“Oh. My. God,” Sherlock said, only to be ignored by everyone. Even Rosie, who was far too enamored with Uncle Mycroft to pay her godfather any mind.
John lifted his eyebrow, fighting a smirk, and nodded at his daughter. “For lessons?”
“Ah, yes.” Mycroft subsided, and only then did John realize he’d been wound up with anticipation. But Mycroft didn’t mention the cause, he only glanced down at Rosie and said, “Yes, of course. Thursdays will do.”
John shifted, brain whirring as he tried to work out what he was missing. A possibility occurred to him, and he took a breath, then ventured, “Well, we could get together before then. To, um, you know…” He didn’t dare finish, hoping Mycroft was smart enough to fill in the rest for himself.
“Please, stop. I’m going to be ill,” Sherlock said from his chair, aghast.
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John shot off by rote, not sparing his friend so much as a glance.
Rosie giggled at Sherlock’s affronted squawking. Mycroft eyed John thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “I think that would be … sagacious.”
“Bless you,” John said.
With a heavy thump, Sherlock fell off his chair, having finally rolled all the way off by way of protest to the sight playing out before his eyes.
“Oops,” said Rosie, chewing on her fingers with a considerable lack of concern.
Mycroft spared his little brother the barest glance, then returned his attention to John, shifting Rosie in his arms in a way that might be a sign of nerves in anyone else. “A … dinner, perhaps? I would find that … agreeable. Shall we say Saturday evening?”
Sherlock started pushing himself along the floor by his toes in the general direction of his bedroom.
“Agreeable, even?” John said, mockingly touched. Except, he was actually. That was something, coming from Mycroft Holmes.
The ‘swif-swif’ sound of Sherlock shuffling himself across the hardwoods sped up as he put on the gas. John considered suggesting that he’d be able to quit the room a lot quicker if he got to his feet, but then decided it wasn’t worth the bother.
Mycroft idly watched his brother scoot down the hall. “Yes,” he said with a spot of color high on his cheeks. “Quite agreeable.”
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