Chapter 2

The dining table at Greg’s house was quieter than ever.

Anthea, who had just been in a frenzy, regained her composure. She elegantly and leisurely dined, seemingly reluctant to use her mouth for anything other than chewing. Mycroft sat beside Greg, eating a ham and egg sandwich in small bites. The table was a bit high, so he had to sit straight to reach the plate. His eyes were still watery, his nose slightly red. Occasionally, he timidly glanced at the assistant across from him, his small figure looking somewhat pitiful.

As for the inspector, his apprehension wasn’t any less than Mycroft’s. Given that he had just witnessed possibly the most intense anger Anthea had shown in her entire life, he was worried he might wake up the next day at the bottom of the Thames River.

But silence always needed someone to break it. Looking at the nervous Mycroft, Greg forced himself to ask Anthea, “About his job…”

“You don’t have to worry at all, Inspector.” Anthea looked up, smiling, though it made Greg’s scalp tingle. “He just needs to stay in the office until the boss returns. I can handle it entirely.”

Oh no… Mycroft looks like he’s about to cry again. Greg swallowed hard. “I’ll make sure he gives you a raise! Double!”

“Plus a month of undisturbed leave.”

“Deal!” Wiping away his cold sweat, Greg left his half-eaten breakfast, picking up the boy and cradling his sandwich. “We’re done eating. Let’s go upstairs and change clothes.”

Mycroft didn’t object in any way. He seemed grateful that Greg didn’t leave him alone with Anthea when fleeing. Although he thought he had long outgrown the age of needing to be cuddled by adults, after the terrifying prospect of being pinned down by needles thanks to the theory of what should have been his younger brother, Mycroft temporarily decided that this uncle was someone he could trust.

“God… that scared me to death.” Muttering to himself, Greg put Mycroft on the bed. Half-squatting apologetically, he looked at him. “Don’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands once you’re back to normal.”

Mycroft blinked, understanding Greg referred to the raise and leave. He replied honestly, “I don’t think I will.”

Greg’s heart melted at the boy’s obedient appearance. Praising him as a “good boy,” he took away the sandwich the boy was still holding and tossed it in the trash. “If you don’t like it, don’t force yourself. I’ll take you somewhere nice for lunch.”

Mycroft wanted to say something, but Greg had already stood up. Nonchalantly discarding his blue pajamas and pants, he stood in front of the closet, wearing only black boxers. Mycroft stared at the distinct muscular lines on the inspector’s back, his face reddening. He quickly averted his gaze, persistently justifying himself, “I don’t dislike it… I’m not a picky eater.”

“Who said that?” Greg replied as he put on a sweater, ignoring the rising sense of disappointment within himself. Of course, he hadn’t forgotten the countless times he went home with Mycroft and discussed with his mother his dissatisfaction with the nickname “Mikey.” Even Sherlock, who watched the childish scene, couldn’t bear it and ran out to smoke. At that time, Greg was puzzled. Since they started dating, he has always called him “My,” and Mycroft had never objected.

“That’s a name only you can call me, and I like it a lot.” 

Greg still remembered the night when he and Mycroft cuddled on the couch watching an old black and white movie, and his Alpha had answered him so sweetly. Now, facing this eight-year-old boy, Greg couldn’t find that same sweetness or evidence that made him feel special. It would be a lie to say he didn’t feel sad. Okay, sad might not be accurate; it was more terribly messed up!

Sherlock, you just wait!

Mycroft vaguely sensed Greg’s low spirits and lowered his head, not daring to speak. Seeing Mycroft’s helpless look, Greg couldn’t get angry. He gently messed up the soft face, “Don’t make that face, sweetheart. Being picky about food isn’t a big deal.”

“But Mummy will be very disappointed.” Mycroft’s cheeks puffed up from being rubbed on both sides, and his speech was somewhat unclear. “Sherly kept crying. She’s tired of taking care of him. I can’t let her down.”

Greg was taken aback, released his hands, and watched the boy gently touch his face. His whole heart softened inexplicably. Gathering himself, trying to sound sincere, he said, “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

The little one blushed shyly and finally gave a small smile, saying, “Thank you.”

That expression made Greg want to give him the whole world.

Greg suddenly understood how Sherlock must have felt preparing rabbit-themed outfits for his older brother. He was pointing at Mycroft, who was trying on the seventh set of children’s clothes—a set of iron-gray denim paired with a white sweater and sneakers. He told the saleswoman, “Wrap this set up for me too.”

“Sure, sure, sure!” The saleswoman smiled broadly. Greg didn’t want to speculate on how heartless he might seem in her eyes. His mind was silently screaming, ‘Too adorable! Oh my God, what magical baby is this? How can someone be this cute and lovely? I’m done, I’m done, I’m done…’

As Greg stuffed the eighth set of clothes into Mycroft’s hands for trying on, the boy finally made a feeble protest, “Inspector…”

“Call me Greg,” Greg corrected absentmindedly, trying not to look too eagerly as he thought about the next outfit he wanted the boy to try.

“Um… Greg,” the boy tugged on the adult’s sleeve to get his attention, “aren’t we buying too much?”

“How could we? Look, they’re all different styles!”

“But I might change back soon…”

“That’s why you should wear more now while you can!” Greg held a black striped little suit in one hand and a pair of suspenders with a cartoon dog pattern in the other, with big starry eyes. “These are all so cute! Please try them on for me, darling, pretty please?”

…Mycroft was starting to lose track of who was the younger one between the two of them.

The same scene repeated at the furniture, toy, and supermarket stores. Since there was nothing in the house suitable for the boy, many furniture and appliances were not suited to his height. Not to mention the traps Mycroft had hidden around the house as an adult. So everything had to be purchased anew. Greg let the boy decide when choosing items, but when Mycroft hesitated over multiple choices, the inspector, out of unprincipled indulgence, would buy them all. This was especially true when selecting snacks at the supermarket. The age gap of over twenty years made the boy curious about the various colorful and unfamiliar packaged snacks on the shelves, filling the shopping cart with all kinds of puffed snacks.

“Greg, is it really okay to buy so much?” Mycroft asked for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Greg chuckled, tossing a bag of gummy candies into the cart.

He couldn’t help but think that if he and Mycroft had children, he would sneak in all those junk foods with their precious sons or daughters. Mycroft would surely be the one at home, showcasing their mischievous behavior, simultaneously annoyed and helpless.

Greg knew he should face reality, understanding that it was the best arrangement for now. Yet, he couldn’t hide his unpleasant expression. At the moment, he was driving with the miniature Mycroft, heading to 221B Baker Street. The sole reason: he had to work, and the Serious Crime Unit was clearly not a suitable place for him to bring a child. Therefore, he needed someone to take care of Mycroft – oh, don’t misunderstand, certainly not Sherlock, but the kind and approachable Mrs. Hudson.

Even if the Inspector didn’t want Mycroft anywhere near the highly unreliable Sherlock, he couldn’t find anyone else suitable to help with the child. His police friends were all as busy as he was. Anthea, since yesterday, had plunged into the office and hadn’t even had time to sleep. Mary and her newlywed beta husband were off on a European honeymoon. Molly had work and taking a child to see dead bodies wasn’t preferable to taking a child to Scotland Yard. After much thought, Mrs. Hudson was the only option.

Luckily, when he pleaded with her over the phone last night, the housekeeper didn’t hesitate and agreed. This was within Greg’s expectations. Aside from the friendly omega lady’s special fondness for children due to not having any of her own, Mycroft was an especially well-behaved child. Apart from the tearful fright from yesterday, he hadn’t exhibited any behavior that might upset others, not even a hint of the normal childish tantrums one might expect at his age.

Even this morning, the child had prepared breakfast and come to wake Greg up. When the inspector walked into the kitchen and saw the boy standing on a newly bought stool, making tea for him, he took a good moment to reflect on how unfit he was as a “guardian.” Even when he apologetically explained to the child that he had to go to work and leave him with someone else for a few hours, Mycroft just obediently nodded. Even though the boy looked like an abandoned, pitiful puppy, with watery eyes ready to spill, he still managed a smile and assured Greg, “I’ll stay there obediently and won’t cause you trouble.”

So, it wasn’t surprising that even though he was driving, thoughts of resigning popped into his mind.

No, no, no… perhaps resigning was too extreme, but taking a year off to take care of the child, was that feasible? Hm… what if he used up all his leave and Sherlock still hadn’t come up with a way to turn Mycroft back? Wouldn’t he still be separated from the child?

His mind was filled with jumbled thoughts as Greg parked the car at the door of 221B. He rang the bell, feeling Mycroft tug at his hand with some force. He half-squatted to meet the boy’s eye level and was instantly struck in the heart by those reddish-blue eyes.

“Greg, you’ll really come to pick me up tonight?”

Meanwhile, the door to 221B opened, and John dragged Sherlock out to greet the two, only to see the inspector suddenly scoop up the child and start heading back.

“Greg? Greg, where are you going?”

“Taking the kid home!”

“What?! Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I’m quitting my job!”

“Don’t talk nonsense! If you quit, where am I going to find cases?!”

“Who cares about you, you brat?! I’m going to be with my baby at home!”

“Fucking stop right there!”

“Sherlock, watch your language! Don’t swear in front of the child!”

John, holding his throbbing head, concluded: “Hmm, today’s another chaotic day.”

“Living through the day like it’s a year,” Greg finally understood what that meant. He considered himself a dedicated detective but could not focus on work while seated at his desk. His mind was preoccupied with worries about whether his little one was cold, hot, hungry, tired, or hurt. Instead of concentrating on work, he either kept texting Sherlock, giving him many instructions, or paced restlessly in his office. Even Donovan, who came in to deliver files for his signature, felt that his boss was completely absent-minded as if abandoned by that rascal from the Holmes family.

Greg paid no mind to what his subordinates thought. Just ten minutes ago, he had sent Mycroft a text asking if he had had lunch, and not receiving a reply had him on the verge of scratching the walls. He used not to understand why his omega colleagues, after returning from maternity leave, would call home eight hundred times a day to check on their children. Now, he understood the feeling firsthand.

Seeing the clock strike twelve, Greg made an excuse to go for lunch at Baker Street. The entire way, he was overwhelmed by anxiety, fearing that the boy might have fallen ill, gotten injured, or been bullied by Sherlock in the four hours away from his sight.

Thankfully, upon pushing open the door to 221B, he didn’t see any worrying scenes in his mind. Upon seeing him, Mycroft joyfully jumped into his arms, sweetly calling out “Greg.” Sherlock, with a test tube in hand, looked utterly bewildered as to what mood Greg was in. Mrs. Hudson, who had come upstairs to bring lunch for the duo, was surprised by his sudden appearance and apologized for not preparing his portion.

“It’s fine. I’ll just take a quick look at him,” explained Greg, holding the delighted little face of the boy and planting a kiss. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you reply to my text?”

“Text?” Mycroft tilted his head in confusion.

After Sherlock muttered “idiot,” Greg realized. Mycroft didn’t have a phone when he was eight years old! He had bought the child a new phone yesterday—the old one, with too many secrets, had been taken by Anthea—but hadn’t had time to teach him how to use it. They had spent too long outside, and Mycroft had fallen asleep without dinner.

Relieved, Greg fetched the brand-new phone from the boy’s bag while he ate lunch and, using the lack of cases in the past year as a threat, coerced Sherlock into teaching his brother how to use it by the end of the day.

Greg felt he had underestimated the brilliant minds of the Holmes family. He had just parked the car back at Scotland Yard when he received a text from the boy, telling him not to worry—Sherlock hadn’t bothered him. Instead, he had found a way to improve the reaction of the reagents during Sherlock’s experiment. This nearly made Sherlock drop the alcohol burner, and he even teased the child, saying, “Greg doesn’t want you anymore.”

The inspector gritted his teeth and typed furiously: “Don’t listen to him! I would not want you; I like you the most. GL”

A few seconds later, the reply came: “I like Greg the most, too.”

It was accompanied by an adorable smiley face, and it almost made Greg burst into a nosebleed; this was the treatment he never received when texting the adult Mycroft!

Back in the office, Donovan was horrified to see his boss, who had been absentminded before, now covered in pink bubbles, hearts, and flowers, smiling foolishly at his phone, unable to stop.

Wait… Greg scratched his head. Did he forget something?

*Gurgle* – his stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten lunch.

Mycroft had his blood drawn again by Sherlock. When Greg arrived at 221B after work to pick up the child, he discovered this. Seeing the distinct puncture marks and the reddish-purple bruises on the boy’s pale little arms, the inspector turned livid.

The culprit, unfazed, stared through the microscope, justifying, “I need to analyze the cause of his memory loss to ensure the medicine I’m making is foolproof.”

Mycroft pouted and muttered under his breath, “You’re just holding a grudge, stingy.”

Greg didn’t say a word, but as the most protective and caring dad who had transformed in just two days, he already had a brilliant plan to drive Sherlock crazy.