Work Text:
Mrs. Helene Holmes requests the honour of your presence in welcoming her grandson
Miles Gregory Sigerson Holmes
To the Holmes Family
Saturday, the twenty-ninth of June
at two o’clock
Number Five, Kensington Garden Estates
Luncheon will be served promptly at three o’clock
RSVP: 011-44-1987652341
Registry: Selfridges, Bebe Bisou, Caramel Baby & Child, Mothercare, Harrods
I frown at the words on the light blue invitation in my hand, and read them again. Christ. “What the bloody hell? Sigerson? Who the hell… MYCROFT!”
Mycroft pokes his head out of the nursery, where he and Jean-Claude’s assistant have been in deep discussion about the painting of accurate cloud formations for the better part of the morning. “I despair of you behaving less like a hooligan, Gregory. Must you shout so?”
I wave the invitation in his direction. “Did you see this? Oh my god, Mycroft. Your bloody mother.”
He frowns, most likely taking issue with me using the word ‘bloody’ in association with his mum. If the shoe fits, I say. “What’s happened?”
“A sodding invitation. To a shower. For our son, who she seems to have renamed! Mycroft, if she sent this to my mother, who hasn’t even heard a word about the baby yet, I will never hear the end of it.”
One of the great things about being married to a Holmes is that they tend to be rather quick on the uptake. (Unless emotions are involved, and then it will take some time for them to get it) “Shit.” Mycroft is at my side immediately, taking the invitation from my clenched fist, looking it over like a top secret document. “This is dreadful.”
“Dreadful? This isn’t dreadful. Bad sushi is dreadful. A phone call about a murder during the best sex you’ve ever had is dreadful. This? This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions. She’s giving an unauthorised party, and she’s re-named our baby after your father.”
“Calm yourself, Gregory,” Mycroft says, eyes scanning the invitation as if he’ll find a secret message between the lines. “I’m sure she meant to tell us. And the name is just to impress her friends.”
“She can’t just rename our son.” I take a large gulp of air, trying not to hyperventilate. “Listen… I don’t want to start a row with you, so I won’t comment on what she may or may not have meant to do. We talked about this. Right here in this room. Helene was there. I told her his name. Wrote it down for her.”
“Well, it’s not a bad name,” Mycroft murmurs, studiously not looking at me.
“Ignoring you, because you’re trying to get me to punch you. We agreed to keep it low key until… do you have any idea the shit storm this is going to kick up with my family?” I tug at my hair, and begin a slow pacing from one end of the room to the other. “My mother… it’s bad enough she had to find out through my sister that we’d married. And just when we’d gotten to a place where she stopped bringing it up, here’s a baby that I’ve kept secret. Bloody hell, Mycroft, Miles has only been here for a week!”
As if on cue, my mobile rings. I look at it, and groan. “My mum. Of course it’s her. Who the hell else would it be?” With a glare at Mycroft, and a curse for all Holmeses in general, I answer. “Mum. How are you? No, I’m not being flippant. No, I am not trying to make you cry. Why would I…? Oh, no… Mum…Mum… Mum… yes, but… Mum. If you would just let me… Mum.” I put my hand over the phone, and shake my head at Mycroft. “She’s crying. And telling me I’m a horrible son. Of course I am.”
“I’m going to ring Mummy,” Mycroft says apologetically. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, and goes into the lounge to get his phone.
I go back to the call. “Mum… it’s only been a day or two since he got here… yes, you were the first person I thought of, and yes, I should have called, but Mycroft and I… Mycroft. My husband. Yes, that’s his name. No… it’s not Michael. Yes, I’m sure, since I married him. Oh, for Christ’s… mum, it was just signing papers. No one was there except a witness… it was really spur of the moment, Mum, believe me. The baby is… yes, he’s mine. Tessa is the mother. Yes, I’m sure. DNA doesn’t lie… no, we didn’t go on that show. Yes, I know she was, but we’re sure. She’s… Canada. Yes, with the PE teacher.
“Mum… we didn’t know… Helene is… well, she’s over excited about having a grandson… yeah, I know you would be excited if you knew… I wasn’t trying to hide him from you, Mum! No… I’m not being shouty, but you’re jumping to the wrong… What? No, the other son isn’t married. Sherlock. Sigerson is Mycroft’s father. No, I didn’t pick the name… mum, please. It’s not his name. A typo, probably. He’s passed on, so I can’t possibly tell him that. Mum… Well, that’s not really a question you should… no, I’m not being rude. The baby’s last name is Lestrade-Holmes, and that’s it. Let it go, hm?
“Well… he’s gorgeous. Looks like a true Lestrade. Brown eyes, dark hair… he looks like your dad. Just a beautiful boy, happy, and adjusting well. Oh, mum… don’t cry. Please… okay, okay… listen, why don’t you come up for the weekend, then? No, Mum… it’s not an imposition. Mycroft won’t mind at all. I’m not… Mum… just please come. Meet Miles and maybe help us with the nursery, hm? Yes… yes…Mum… Mum…. No, please don’t bring anything… he doesn’t – fine. Yes, I’ll have you picked up when the train comes in. How else would you get here? Mum, you live in Surrey, not America… the train ride is only a bit away. You’re not imposing. I know. Just call me with the train time. I love you, too. Take care… yes, mum… hanging up now. Bye.”
I ring off, and just barely resist the urge to throw my phone against the wall.
“My conversation with Mummy’s secretary went just as well.”
I decide that punishing Mycroft for the sins of his mother will only make things worse, so I offer a commiserating smile. “Where’s Helene got to?”
“It appears she’s got a touch of laryngitis, and can’t speak for at least a fortnight.”
“How convenient. Well, not to pile on, but I’m sure you heard me tell my mum she could come down for the weekend.”
Mycroft’s mouth opens to say something, but he wisely snaps it shut, and just gives a firm nod. “I’ll have the other room readied for her.”
“Jesus.” I let out a great sigh, and shake my head. “Is it too early to start drinking?”
“They say it’s always cocktail hour somewhere,” Mycroft responds. “However, as I do not know who ‘they’ are, one must take such pithy sayings with a grain of salt.”
“And now I want a margarita.” I sigh. “Is Miles sleeping?”
“He’s in his cot, staring up at the menagerie of animals suspended above him. That he is content to watch animals that do not exist in nature causes me great concern.”
“He’s a baby, Mycroft. Easily captivated by bright colours.”
“Elephants are not orange.” He says this as though the very thought has left a bad taste in his mouth. “I fail to see why things marketed toward children must be whimsical rather than accurately portrayed.”
“Lestrade by birth, Holmes by nurture. Be patient, my genius. He’ll come round to your way of thinking.”
“I certainly hope so,” Mycroft says with a small smile. “And I do apologise for Mummy. I should have anticipated something of this nature.”
“You can’t predict everything.”
His raised eyebrow makes his thoughts on that matter known. “Thankfully, she’s provided a suitable window of time to prepare. Where would you like to go?”
“Go?” I repeat, confused.
“Yes, go. Do keep up. We’ll need a place to go, as we most definitely are not attending her soiree.”
“Why not? It’s… she’s already invited most of my family. Even Aunt Jacqueline in New York. Aunt Jacqueline, Mycroft. That is a bit not good. It would be worse if she came all this way, and didn’t see me or the baby.”
“Well, I refuse to be manipulated by my mother.” Mycroft folds his arms across his chest and gives me a long, pointed stare. “Nor will I allow you or Miles to be manipulated. We are not giving in to her. I forbid it.”
My eyebrows go up at that. “Do you now?” I fold my arms across my chest, and stare back at him. “Last I checked, I wasn’t one of your minions, so watch your tone.”
"No." He looks down, then back up at me. It’s a habit, really, him being brusque and sharp. But I put my foot down on that type of thing early in our relationship, so he doesn't do it as often as he used to. “My apologies for being dictatorial.”
“Yeah, okay."
“However, I need you to understand the severity of Mummy’s actions, Gregory. If we give her this inch, and please pardon the cliché, but she will indeed want to be the ruler. We can’t allow that because it won’t stop there. If we let her do this, there will be ponies, sailor suits, soirees, mother-son luncheons, and promises of marriage before he’s two. Mummy is like a tsunami when she wants something. My father named me Matthew; she didn’t like it, so she waited until my father went to sleep on the night I was born, and forged his name on the birth certificate so that I was named for her grandfather. This is what she does, Gregory.”
“At least I know you come by it honestly,” I sigh, thinking of the tsunami that resulted in us having Miles. “You can’t make this about you and your childhood, though if there is a picture of you in a sailor get-up with a Shetland pony, I’d love to see it.”
He gives me the long, slow blink, which is a sure sign that he is not amused. “Gregory.”
“I know that the last thing you want is to let your mom ‘win’, but if you don’t give in gracefully, she’ll just take another tack. Let’s just let this be about Miles,” I say, stepping forward to gather him in a loose embrace. “If your mum wants to throw a party for him, let her. She’s all wrong for not asking us first, and to try to stick him with that hideous name, no offence, but she’s your mum, and therefore, she’s like you. Holmeses don’t wait to be asked; they just do, and hope you can run fast enough to catch up.”
He relaxes a bit, and puts his arms around my waist. “Is that what you will say to your mother when she asks if my mother will allow this to be a joint venture between our families? Like our reception?”
“No, no… that’s what you’re going to tell my mum. I’m staying out of it.” Miles lets out a wail before Mycroft can reply. “I’ll see to him,” I say quickly. “Probably needs a new nappy, and is hungry.” With a swift but firm kiss to his parted lips, I let him go with a pat to his arse. “You’ll figure something out. You Holmeses are bright like that.”
“Gregory…” His tone is just short of whinging. “I can’t deal with both our mothers. It … well, I shouldn’t have to say this, but it isn’t fair.”
To hear the world’s most confident man turned into a pouty three year old softens my heart a bit. But just a bit. “Yeah… I won’t let you deal with my mom by yourself, but you’re on your own with Helene.” I smile what I hope is a reassuring smile. “And no, it’s not fair, but you can handle this because you’re brilliant at it.”
“I suppose if I can handle the PM, the American ambassador, and the bungling of the transfer of top secret documents in one phone call, I can handle this.”
“There’s a good lad,” I say with a big, fake smile. “Oh, and tell your mum to include Baby Gap on the registry list. With the exception of Aunt Jacqueline and Uncle Francois, none of the Lestrades will know what the hell a Baby Bisou or Motherlode is.”
TBC…