Chapter 3

“Let me see… Potatoes need to be cut into chunks and then boiled in water… But how big should the chunks be?”

“Greg…”

“350 grams of minced beef… Oh… I bought 400 grams? Never mind, let’s put it all in.”

“Um… Greg…”

“Four tomatoes, but it doesn’t specify the size of the tomatoes. Is the one I bought too small?”

“Uh, Greg!”

“Hmm? What’s up, darling?”

“I was just thinking, I can make shepherd’s pie, let me do it.”

“…Uh… I’ve never raised a child, but… wouldn’t an ordinary eight-year-old know how to cook?”

Mycroft chuckled, “I’m not ordinary. Daddy always says I have nothing to do with that word.”

Greg sheepishly rubbed his nose, retreating from the cooking area and letting the little one take over the dinner preparation. Watching the small figure skillfully handling the ingredients while standing on a stool, Greg felt an unusual mix of emotions. Mycroft had mentioned his independence from a young age, but he hadn’t realized it was this early! 

It seemed that since Sherlock’s birth, his mother’s attention was more focused on the newborn, and coupled with his father’s suddenly busier schedule with month-long trips abroad, Mycroft learned to take on household chores to help his mother. When the adult Mycroft casually mentioned these things, Greg didn’t give it much thought. But seeing this busy little person now, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of bitterness.

If he and Mycroft had a child as adorable as this one, all he’d want to do is cradle the child in his hands. Yet, that thought just passed fleetingly, leaving Greg feeling guilty again as he absentmindedly rubbed his nose, acknowledging that he might not have the ability to take care of everything for a child. He used to think he was quite self-sufficient, managing with microwaved meals back when he was a young officer. Regrettably, since starting to live with Mycroft, his alpha had endeavored to spoil him rotten; saying that he was entirely dependent wasn’t an exaggeration. If they really had a child… he didn’t doubt he’d end up with Mycroft fussing over both of them like father and son.

Thinking about his Mycroft, the inspector’s eyes drooped with a hint of annoyance, lost in his thoughts, until the little boy in front of him called his name several times, snapping him out of it.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought.” Greg said, fetching the milk Mycroft wanted from the fridge.

Mycroft widened his eyes slightly. If Greg hadn’t been so preoccupied, perhaps he would have noticed the slight pursing of the boy’s lips and the disappointment in his eyes.

 

Greg woke up from his dream at two in the morning, his pajamas damp with cold sweat and suspicious watermarks on his pillow. He wiped his eyes, unable to tell if the wetness on his face was sweat or tears. He’d had a nightmare where he lost Mycroft, searching in vain across numerous places.

Damn, what an apt nightmare, Greg thought wryly. Reaching for water, he realized he had forgotten to place a glass by his bedside before sleeping. It used to be Mycroft who did this for him. He was accustomed to occasionally waking up parched in the middle of the night and reaching for the glass on the bedside table.

A bitter sensation surged in his eyes again. In these late-night hours, one tends to contemplate subconsciously, like Greg right now. He couldn’t help but wonder… what if, of course, it was just a ‘what if’… what if Mycroft couldn’t revert? He had full faith in Sherlock’s capabilities, but… what if something went wrong with the medicine, or Mycroft couldn’t regain his memory? What would he do? Would he lose his Mycroft?

Damn it! He should’ve just given Sherlock a beating first!

Greg ruffled his already messy hair, deciding to quench his thirst first. Perhaps, given his current mood, stealing a bottle of fine wine from Mycroft’s stash might serve as a distraction. However, as he exited the room, he noticed warm yellow light seeping from the neighboring master bedroom. Greg was puzzled. Hadn’t the boy gone to sleep yet? He’d purposely slept in the guest room to avoid making the boy uncomfortable.

He lightly knocked on the bedroom door, but there was no response. Greg figured the boy might have fallen asleep, forgetting to turn off the light. So, he gently pushed the door open and saw the boy lying on the bed, facing away from him, doing something, swaying his adorable, fair little feet.

Approaching, Greg lightly tapped the boy’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

The sudden voice startled the boy, almost causing him to jump off the bed. When he realized it was Greg, he sighed in relief, patting his chest where his heart had skipped a beat. “Greg! You scared me.”

“I knocked on the door, but you didn’t respond,” Greg said, thinking that the boy had worried him. An eight-year-old shouldn’t be awake at two in the morning. He tried to maintain a serious expression and asked, “Why aren’t you sleeping? Insufficient sleep can stunt growth.”

However, judging by Mycroft’s response—furrowing his brows for a moment and then reaching out to grab Greg’s wrist—the inspector’s attempt to play the stern parent didn’t quite succeed.

“Are you unwell?” The boy’s soft voice was laced with concern he couldn’t hide. “Your complexion is bad, your hair is sweaty, your eyes are red, and your heartbeat is a bit fast… Did you have a nightmare?”

“…You’re eight, and you can deduce already?”

“What deduce?” 

“Nothing,” Greg shook his head, deciding to drop the topic that reminded him of Mycroft and focus on criticizing the boy for staying up late. But before he could say anything, Mycroft got up, dragged him onto the bed, tucked him in earnestly, and then scurried downstairs without even a moment to remind him to wear slippers.

Puzzled about what the boy wanted to do, Greg sat up in bed. However, he heard the sound of paper rustling, which the covers had initiated. Turning slightly, he found the source of the sound—a book, a few sheets of A4 paper, and a dictionary, scattered around, accompanied by different-colored markers.

Greg picked up the book, noticing it was in German, and its contents were incomprehensible. He could only discern it was German thanks to the English-German dictionary. The A4 papers had mixed English and German scribbles, seemingly notes from Mycroft’s reading when encountering unfamiliar words.

That explained why he hadn’t heard Greg knocking on the door. Even the adult Mycroft was like this; once absorbed in something in an environment where he could let his guard down, it was hard for him to be distracted. Of course, this situation was rare, only occurring in front of parents, Sherlock, or Greg.

Oh no… his eyes were starting to sting again.

The sound of ‘pitter-patter’ came closer again from outside the door. Greg quickly wiped his eyes. The small figure brought a cup of milk, looking quite displeased as he said, “You should lie down and rest.”

Greg’s heart quivered. The child’s voice was soft and sweet, but the tone was exactly like Mycroft’s, making him unable to say anything. He simply took the hot milk the boy offered, which tasted sweet, probably due to honey.

The boy tidied up the scattered items from the other side of the bed, looking up with a concerned little face. “Staying here might make you feel better.”

“Um… I’m fine…” Greg instinctively wanted to refute but was intimidated by the child’s discerning gaze. The boy was right; this room bore the scent of his alpha’s pheromones, a crisp, clean glacial scent that indeed made him feel better.

The boy, seemingly more grown-up, patted Greg’s shoulder, which would only seem adorable and slightly amusing to an actual adult. They remained silent for a while until Greg finished the milk and set the cup aside, rubbing the boy’s head, asking, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

The boy looked embarrassed, lowering his head and murmuring softly, “I just… can’t sleep.”

Greg sighed, reaching out to pull the boy into his embrace again, once again chastising himself for being an inadequate guardian. Imagine himself at eight years old, waking up to a group of strangers telling him it was over twenty years later, everything around him suddenly feeling so unfamiliar, no parents or familiar faces around. Who could sleep peacefully under such circumstances?

They remained silent for a while longer until Greg lowered his head and kissed the boy’s cheek. “Let’s sleep together?”

The boy, with that tender, delicate look that always touched Greg’s heart, nodded obediently.

The rest of the night, both of them slept soundly. Greg didn’t know why Mycroft did it, but what gave him peace was not just the remnants of alpha pheromones in the room but also the sweet scent of milk from the boy’s body.

 

“Greg, why do I have to wear this?” Mycroft asked softly, but his voice couldn’t conceal the disappointment when Greg was slipping a sweater onto him, bearing a huge clown face on the chest, complete with a clown hat and oversized clown shoes on the back. The sweater itself wasn’t uncomfortable, but Mycroft found the design rather ugly and couldn’t fathom why Greg had bought it on sight.

Greg chuckled mischievously, “You’ll see in a bit.”

Thirty minutes later, Greg appeared in 221B’s living room, holding the boy, relishing Sherlock’s terrified scream as he darted into the kitchen, attempting to stay as far away from the two as possible. “Greg! Is this amusing to you?! I merely drew a blood sample from him!!”

“What are you talking about?” The inspector feigned innocence, settling the boy in Sherlock’s favorite chair—a chair that might end up in flames after the detective’s reaction—then turned away and discreetly gestured to the boy, prompting Mycroft to burst out laughing.

John, who was leaving for work with Greg, looked surprised. “Sherlock’s afraid of clowns?”

Greg winked mischievously, “I’ve got your Christmas present planned.”

 

This case was beyond their capabilities. Despite their reluctance, Greg dialed Sherlock’s number. Twenty minutes later, the great detective and the former army doctor arrived at the crime scene side by side. However, Greg furrowed his brow upon seeing the small figure John was leading.

“God! Why did you bring the child here?!” Greg hurried over, picking up the boy, whose nose had turned red from the cold wind, worried about him.

Sherlock shrugged, “What does it matter?”

“This is a crime scene! Who brings a child to look at dead bodies?!” Greg was tempted to give Sherlock a smack on the back of his head.

“When I was eight, I dissected a cow’s liver to determine water contaminants,” Sherlock dismissed Greg’s surprise. “Even if you’re his spouse, legally, you’re not this little brat’s guardian—I am.”

There was a resounding slap as Greg firmly hit the back of Sherlock’s head, causing John and Mycroft to wince simultaneously—Greg’s strike was quite forceful.

Ultimately, ignoring Sherlock’s incomprehensible reasons (“He keeps saying he’s smarter than me, only because he’s lived a few more years! He can’t possibly be stronger than me when I was eight!”), Greg insisted that Mycroft not witness the gory crime scene. He first escorted the boy back to his car, wrapping him in a blanket, forming a cozy ball with only his head visible.

“Sweetie, are you feeling cold on your head? Do you want to wear a hat?” 

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not cold, Greg. If I’m causing you trouble, I can return myself…”

“What are you saying, silly?” Greg affectionately kissed the boy’s forehead. “I feel better with you around. Otherwise, I’d worry that Sherlock might feed you strange things again.”

The boy chuckled, blushing as he leaned up and planted a “kiss” on the inspector’s forehead, making a soft “mwah” sound. This affectionate gesture left Greg momentarily stunned, touching the spot where he’d been kissed, feeling a surge of joy bubbling up in his heart like effervescent bubbles in orange soda.

 

As Greg finally managed to finish the job to go back to the boy waiting in his car, London’s sky had already been painted with a dense, inky blue hue, with starlight decorating the canvas-like night sky, displaying a beauty entirely distinct from daytime. Despite this, Greg had no intention of admiring it. He hurried back to his car, feeling a slight relief upon seeing the boy curled up, fast asleep in the passenger seat. However, a faint sourness and guilt seemed to swell in his chest.

Donovan peeked over Greg’s shoulder, wearing a face of surprise. “Did you have a child?”

“Impossible,” Greg chuckled, providing the excuse he’d used to convince Mrs. Hudson. “Mycroft’s distant relative’s child, staying at my place for a few days.”

Donovan didn’t question this explanation but asked, puzzled, “Speaking of which, why is your household so quiet today?”

Greg hesitated, indeed considering that Mycroft would have usually bombarded him with hundreds of calls by this hour. He casually replied, “He’s busy.” 

The policeman half believed him but seemed to think there was some conflict between their superior and the mysterious alpha at home. Greg didn’t bother explaining further, bid him farewell, settled into the driver’s seat, ignited the engine, startling the slumbering child, who murmured softly, “Greg…”

“Awake, sweetheart? I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so late,” Greg responded gently. However, he felt his self-accusatory tone might have been excessive, as the drowsy boy quickly sat up, rubbing his sleepy eyes slightly disgruntled, “No need to apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong to me.”

The boy’s obedient understanding didn’t diminish any of Greg’s guilt. Yet, he wasn’t sure what conclusion he’d reach if he argued further with the boy. He simply reached out, pulled the child onto his lap, and affectionately embraced him. The boy’s chubby face, not wrapped in a blanket, felt slightly cool, as it nuzzled against Greg’s neck, its sticky warmth comforting and coquettish.

This took Greg by surprise. Upon careful consideration, it seemed to be the first time the smaller Mycroft had voluntarily displayed such reliance and intimacy towards him since becoming little. It was a subtle feeling, intertwining the sweetness of lovers with the affection of a father and son. The boy, likely having consumed some fruity candy before falling asleep, breathed softly, carrying a hint of strawberry fragrance. Somehow, it entirely saved Greg’s nerves, exhausted from work.

Greg sighed contentedly, “Hmm… this feels rather nice.”

 

“Darling, wear it one more time for me?”

“…No, it’s too embarrassing.”

“Where’s the embarrassment? It’s so adorable!”

“I don’t want to be described as cute at all. I’m your alpha; I should protect you.”

“Well… then, as my alpha, can you bear to refuse your omega’s sincere request?”

“…”

“Please, just one last time!”

“…Hm, last time.”

“Yes!” Greg cheered, embracing the boy and rubbing his cute round face. Unaware, his slightly stubbled chin left a red mark on the boy’s face. Nonetheless, he concluded happily that his signature puppy-dog eyes worked just as effectively on the eight-year-old Mycroft.

That’s why the boy ended up being rushed to 221B dressed in that detestable bunny outfit by Greg, while the ex-army doctor, sporting two heavy dark circles, glared at the coin-sized abnormal redness and slight grazes on the right side of the boy’s cheek. Inside, a myriad of wild horses stampeded by wearing high heels, “If you can’t provide a more serious reason, I won’t forgive you for waking me up at five in the morning.”

“He keeps saying it’s itchy, and he’s scratched it! Could a beard’s touch cause something so severe?” Greg’s tone grew unusually anxious.

John attempted to reassure him, “It’s just a minor scratch…”

But clearly, the overly anxious inspector couldn’t hear anything. He muttered to himself, “Could it be a food allergy? Or has his constitution weakened since becoming small? Oh! What if Sherlock’s medication has messed up his immune system? Shouldn’t we go to the hospital? Forget it, let’s just call an ambulance…”

“Greg!” John couldn’t bear it anymore and shouted, “Please, be a bit more rational, stop overreacting!”

“But…”

“It’s not as serious as you think! It’s just because children’s skin is too sensitive. Plus, being out in the cold wind yesterday might have aggravated it. Put some gel on it, and I assure you it’ll be fine within three days!”

“Then why is he feeling so low? Isn’t he too weak?”

The ‘weak’ party pitifully mumbled, “You woke me up too early; I just didn’t get enough sleep…”

Greg opened his mouth but stayed silent, glancing guiltily at John.

The good doctor banged his head against his palm, “You owe me my sleep time!”