Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Fifteen - Babysitters and Bramble Pickers

One second it was Spring, the next it was Autumn - as they say, time flies when you're having fun, and for Mycroft and Greg, the Summer had been just that. Of course work continued as usual, but in between the meetings and paperwork, the two men often met to dine or for walks in the park. Greg had tried to persuade Mycroft to go for a cycle with him. Mycroft politely declined, and opted instead to see Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of The Worlds at the Dominion Theatre...
One evening, an amber-soaked day littered with dead leaves and conkers, Greg suggested a picnic in a nearby park. He purchased a bunch of nibbles for M&S, and Mycroft added a bottle of Champagne and two glasses. They were just preparing to leave, when suddenly the phone rang.
"Brother dear! How are you this fine afternoon?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes and mouthed "Sherlock" across the room to Greg, who returned the eye-roll. The last thing he wanted on a lovely Autumn evening was an extensive chat with his brother. Unfortunately it seemed choice was not a factor of the situation.
"I'm quite well, thank you Sherlock. What is it you want from me?"  He waved an arm to the D.I., who promptly put down the thatched hamper and leant against the mantlepiece. The after-work picnic would have to wait.
"Ah, you see John and I have plans this weekend - shut up, I know you're thinking - and Mrs Hudson was going to look after Rosie until Sunday. She says her friend is ill, however it's clear from the size of her suitcase and her quite franky alarming good mood she's going to some kind of party. Point being, we need a babysitter."
"What does he want?" Greg mouthed to him, arms folded in annoyance.
"Shhhh!" Mycroft returned.
"Is Molly Hooper not available?"
"Working."
"Are we your last resort?"
"Of course not."
"I'll take that as a yes. Look, Sherlock, you know we love having Rosie with us, but at least some prior notice is required - I need to baby-safe the house. Not to mention, we do have plans of our own."
"Plans? Mycroft, she's practically your niece."
Mycroft sighed. "Are you around tomorrow?" He asked Greg, one hand over the phone receiver.
"Yeah! Why?"
"Rosie." He uncovered the receiver. "What time does she need picking up tomorrow?"
"7:30."
"You're a pain."
"Thank you."
Sherlock hung up, leaving Mycroft groaning at his brother's spontaneity. Rosie was a wonderful child really, but babies had never been (and never would be) his area. Not to mention his house was the epitome of not-baby-safe houses. Expensive antiques lined the window sills, a couple of low-down coffee tables had horribly sharp edges, and the floors were either perilously slippery or carpeted with materials far too expensive for a toddler's "accidents". Aside from the safety of the child, Mycroft had no clue as to what to do with her - his idea of a fun afternoon was more in the range of reading one of his crime-thriller novels, rather than finger-painting and baking. He didn't expect Rosie would be interested in the gory decapitations or maimings found in the literature he read (although with Sherlock for a father, who knew). That's where Greg came in. He had a way with children - he could make them laugh, have fun with them. It was very sweet, and Mycroft's heart had a tendency to flutter whenever he saw him with Rosie.
"Still up for this picnic?" Greg called, with a motion towards the basket.
"Of course, of course. If we could just prepare the house quickly, though."
Greg put the basket down again.
"Sure. How can I help?"
Over the next half an hour, the two men busied themselves preparing the house. From he garage, Mycroft pulled out his 'baby kit' Anthea had arranged a few months ago after a disastrous visit (Rosie tripped over and Sherlock went into hysterics). It consisted of various toddler items; foam floor matting, a ball pit, bottles and more. Mycroft wondered if Anthea had any children of her own - her own personal life never cropped up in conversation.
Once the floor covers were fitted into the living room, Greg tried to assemble the ball pit, but ended up with something which more greatly resembled a 'thing' rather than what it was supposed to be. Mycroft looked on with amusement, and a certain appreciation for Greg's tousled hair and rolled-up sleeves.
"Just follow the instruction book..." Mycroft smirked from the other side of the room, as he knelt down on the floor to fit corner-protectors onto the coffee table.
"I am!" Greg chucked one of the green plastic balls at Mycroft, and hit him squarely in the face.
"That was entirely uncalled for!" Mycroft retorted with a sigh. He turned back again to the coffee table, but was interrupted by another ball - a yellow one, this time.
"There is one flaw in your attack method, Gregory." He said, his voice deeper than before.
"What's that?" Greg grinned and threw another one in his partner's direction.
"As you deplete your own ammunition, you are in turn supplying me with it." He picked up the green ball and launched it in Greg's direction. It smacked onto his forehead and rolled back to him.
"That's just not fair! They're not rolling back to me!" Greg pouted.
"Come over here and get it, then." Mycroft smirked. He put the corner-protectors down.
Greg stepped across the room and stooped to pick up the yellow ball from the floor. He crouched down opposite Mycroft, one knee on the floor, and went to scoop up the ball. As he dipped low, Mycroft surprised him with a chaste kiss to the cheek.
"Missed." Greg whispered.
"Again, Gregory, you are wrong. That was my initial offensive, used to catch your attention. This is my true attack." One hand behind Greg's neck, he kissed the D.I. strongly, leaving Greg slightly dazed by his partner's suddenness.
"Just had to, darling. You look quite delicious this evening."
Greg went to kiss the auburn again, but was stopped by a tap on the nose.
"No more, my dear, don't you have a job to do? Go have some fun building the ball pit." Mycroft smirked and gestured Greg back to the assortment of plastic poles and netting.
"You and your bloody power complex." Greg muttered jokingly.

***

"Shhh, Rosie's still asleep." John beckoned the pair into 221B. They shuffled in and crept through to the hallway, Greg closing the door softly behind them.
Upstairs, Sherlock was in a state of half panic: pacing back and forth across the living room, occasionally picking up the mantle-piece knife and stabbing it back into the pile of letters, all the while being as quiet as possible so as to not wake his half-daughter. He looked up as Greg, John and Mycroft entered the room.
"Brother! You've baby-safed the house?"
"Yes."
"Food? You have food to feed her? Do I need to ask John to buy anything?"
John sighed behind a resting hand on his face.
"No, no, I can assure you we are perfectly stocked up."
"Security measures fully functional?"
"Of course!" Mycroft tried not to roll his eyes at his brother's relentless worrying. He realised that perhaps from his point of view, Sherlock's panic seemed pointless. However not being a father himself, he recognised that his own view might differ largely from his brother's. Sherlock had taken surprisingly well to fatherhood, in an emotionally sympathetic way, but he tended to stress over the slightest issue, whether it be the fear of a common cold going around or the potential dangers of baby seats in trolleys at the supermarket...
A few words from John seemed to calm him down a little, but still he offered to carry Rosie down to the car, fasten her seatbelt and double-check her miniature suitcase to ensure nothing was missing.
"Don't worry guys, we'll look after her." Greg grinned, waving goodbye.
"Have fun!" John called. Sherlock buried his head in the shorter man's shoulder.

***

"'Ello, welcome ter Buckets Pick-Yer-Own Fruit Farm, my name's Dave. Pick yerself a punnet from o'er there." A middle-aged man in a blue polo-shirt waved the trio into the entrance of the small pyo fruit farm.
Greg carried Rosie upon his hip, leaving Mycroft to push the empty pushchair. Picking up a couple of punnets on the way, they made their way outside to the rolling fields of all sorts of autumnal fruits: currants, tayberries, apples and blackberries amongst them. The fields were lined by large chestnut trees, which had scattered polished conkers across the ground.
"Blackberries first?" Mycroft pointed out the thorny bramble bushes to his partner.
"Blackberries, Rosie?" Greg asked the little girl, who smiled and clapped. Greg grinned back at her and lead the way to the blackberry bushes.
They picked several of the plastic containers with the dark purple berries. Occasionally Rosie helped herself to them, and Mycroft had to remind her not to eat too many as it was technically stealing.
"Yes Rosie, you shouldn't eat lots and lots of blackberries now!" He said whilst Mycroft stood next to him. However as soon as the auburn took a couple of steps away, he picked a berry for himself and winked at Rosie as he ate it.
"Shhh!" He put a finger to his lips, smiling.
"What's that, dear?" Mycroft turned back to Greg.
"Nothing, nothing!"
They spent a few hours picking different fruits and vegetables, in particular some very nice looking peas which Rosie tried to eat raw.
"Yum!" She said enthusiastically as she went to scoop up more peas.
"You're meant to cook them first, darling." Mycroft advised the toddler.
"No!" She retorted. She wanted to eat raw peas.
"Wait til' we get home, lovely and we'll cook you something nice with them." Greg moved the bag of peas out of her reach. Rosie frowned, but contented herself instead with a conker Uncle Mycroft had found her.
Finally they checked out the freshly-picked groceries, along with a large Pumpkin ready for Hallowe'en.
As soon as Rosie was strapped in to the car seat, they set off for Mycroft's home, thinking she would fall asleep for the journey. That was not the case.
Without too much thought, Greg had placed the fruit and vegetables on the car seat next to her, and right within her reach were the peas...

***

"How does savoury rice with salmon and vegetables sound?" Mycroft offered as he leant against the kitchen counter.
"Sounds delicious, dear. Need any help?"
"Can you start shelling the peas?" The auburn asked. He started to make up the marinade for the salmon.
"Sure... Um... Myc, where are the peas?"
The two men turned to Rosie. As she smiled back cheekily, the truth dawned upon them...

A/N: Hiya! This took a while as usual, but I guess it's here now, yeah? That's something, yeah? *sigh* I'm no good at this whole updating malarkey.
The part about Rosie and the peas is actually based upon my own experience of a pick-your-own fruit farm when I was about three years old. It's a story commonly told by my mother at family gatherings: that I once ate an entire bag of raw peas...