Chapter Text
[Gomphrena globosa] - Immortality
Mycroft was seven and a half years old when Sherlock was born. He is almost eight when mummy says they will have a nanny staying in house that summer. They, as in him and his baby brother, but mostly it's for the baby, Mycroft's already a grown boy and doesn't need anyone taking care of him. Mycroft is reluctant, but consider mummy has some urgent matters for the next few months and looks like she really needed the extra hands, the nanny is kindly welcomed, as long as she knows how to take proper care of little Sherlock.
Still, Mycroft can't not be a bit skeptical. Mummy said uncle Rudi's introduced her, he insisted.
The nanny comes on a fairly nice weather day, with soft cool breezes and enough sun light to make everything sparkles.
She looks like an average woman in her early twenties, about 5 foot 3, pale skin and fairly pleasant complexion. Her light brown hair with gentle curls is tied neatly into a bun behind her nape. She wears a cream button-up with long puffy sleeves and a mid-lenght black silk skirt, a bit old-fashioned for her age, but formal.
"My name is Amara. Nice to meet you." She smiles wide.
Mummy was concerned that she looks a bit young for an in-house nanny, but after learning her past experiences, she's rather pleased with uncle's recommendation.
As mum shows her the mansion and her room to settle in, Mycroft watches them carefully from an appropriate distance, far enough that his mother wouldn't notice, close enough to see any suspicious action.
Mummy leads her through the long corridor full of closed doors, the bedrooms, the studies, their enormous library, and the cozy kitchen. The nanny pokes around and nods along curiously. But she would stop and stare at certain corners just a tad longer, with the nostalgy that doesn't belong to someone who comes here for the first time.
Something doesn't seem right about that woman.
"You lied." Mycroft says from the the door of the nanny's bedroom.
The woman is unpacking her small luggage and folding her clothes on the side. She's startled by his voice, exactly how Mycroft wants her to be. She whips her head back and when she saw Mycroft, a chubby boy with reddish curly hair and a deadly serious look on his face, she breaks into a natural smile.
"What do you mean by that?" She asks.
"About your age." He adds. "You lack the naivety of women in their early tweenties."
"And you've met a lot of young women?" She raised a brow at him.
Instead of answering her question, which would be admitting a leap of assumption he's gathered himself (not assumption, it's the balance of probability), Mycroft says.
"You didn't deny."
She looks unfazed by his statement, despite being in the shorter end, but rather amused.
"I'm invited here to help your mother out. I don't mean any harm to your family."
"Of course you don't." Mycroft nod, "Or else my mother wouldn't have let you passed the front gate".
This makes her laughs. "You should trust her judgment then."
She passes by him, wanting to pat his head and ruffle his hair, but thinks better and doesn't. Mycroft glares at her back. Much luck for her, the boy hates being close to strangers.
He's decided to make keeping an eye on her one of his main missions.
Musgrave Hall suddenly becomes a lot noisier. It has been since the baby was born, but this is another kind of noisiness. There are Sherlock's delighted laughs during his play time of tickling and baby jingles. Then there are nanny's cooing at the baby any given times of day, her soft humming when doing the laundry and dusting the shelves, the all-kinds-of-weird sounds she makes when feeding the baby, her fresh and crunchy laugh at mother's jokes and father's bad puns around dinner table. She charms his parents with youthful wit and a decent sense of humor. And to be honest, Mycroft doesn't find it all that annoying, maybe just a little bit.
The nanny nurses Sherlock in one arm and taps his baby bottle gently on the kitchen counter using the other.
She's surprisingly good at her job. The baby squirms less and quiets down quickly when she's there, he rarely cries at night these days. When the nanny's around, mummy finally looks like she could catch a breath.
Mycroft watches the woman from his side of the table while munching on his buttered toast. Mum drinks her morning tea leisurely, enjoying a drop of free times before focusing on her researches all day long for the upcoming conference. She looks back and fort between her older son and the young nanny with a pleasant smile.
Mummy must have falsely interpreted his actions when he tails the nanny everyday. He didn't get near her (not any nearer than strictly necessary), but he refused to leave her alone, especially when she's holding Sherlock. Mummy, out of her belief in people's goodness, thinks Mycroft likes the nanny, which makes the boy shudder. How could mum have come to that conclusion?
"Little Mycroft, do you want to try feeding baby Sherlock?" She asks suddenly with a small smile, holding out the milk bottle.
Little Mycroft and baby Sherlock, that's how she calls them, smiling to herself with too much fondness as she does so. Mycroft doesn't like it, he's eight and not little anymore. He only accepts that embarrassing name as mum seems to enjoy hearing it.
Since mummy is watching, he couldn't protest. So he takes big steps to the nanny's side and she hands him his brother, guiding him the correct way to hold the baby.
His brother is so small, he's grown a lot the past few months, yet still so small, soft and fragile. They share the same curly hair, but Sherlock's louder, he smiles more, cries more, and his eyes shine like they contain a thousand stars. Mycroft thinks his would never be as bright or as beautiful.
His brother, his precious baby brother.
Mycroft holds him a bit tighter as pride blooms into warmth and fuzzy feelings inside his chest.
Mummy and daddy are taking Sherlock with them to the one-week conference in Lisbon. The baby's not old enough to be separated from his mother even for just a short period. So there's only Mycroft guarding their home. The nanny will take care of him in the meantime, which the boy would highly disagree, but doesn't want to worry his mother.
Without baby Sherlock, there isn't many work for the nanny beside doing the laundry, dusting the room full of old portraits, and cooking for Mycroft. The boy wouldn't deny she makes good pastries.
The week passes slowly.
Until thursday.
Thursdays are usually good weather days and groceries days, which means they have to drive over thirty minutes from Musgrave to centre town. Thursdays are supposed to not have that much of a crowd at best or not have his favorite ice-cream at worst.
It isn't supposed to end in drugging and kidnapping, which are exactly what've happened.
When they're passing by an alleyway, the nanny hugs the giant bag in one arm and clutches Mycroft's hand in hers, something jumps in front of them. Then, everything turns dark.
Mycroft wakes up highly alarmed. His vision's blurry and all he hears are muffled buzzing noises. His hands and feet are tided up and his mouth is taped.
The place is small and murky and cold. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't like not knowing.
Someone whimpers weakly, the boy realizes it's the nanny, also tided and taped. There's a faint blood trace near her hairline and bruises on her neck and arms. Maybe that's why she's barely conscious.
Mycroft inhales deep, as deep as he can in that condition, and tries to even out his heartrate. He's read about these kinds of situation before, from dozens of books in their library. If he's still alive, the captors, whoever they are, need their hostages unharmed for other purposes. Right now, he needs to stay calm.
Mycroft hears heavy footsteps approaching, a tall lanky man barges in and squeezes his cheeks, his breath stinks of cheap cigarette.
"You sure it's this one?" He screams in a squeaky raspy voice, asking another one outside. "Ain't looking that smart."
Mycroft grits his teeth and narrows his eyes at the man. That irritates the older, he raises a hand to hit Mycroft. But he gets shoved away, it's the nanny, she pushes the side of the man's leg and seats in between them, separating Mycroft from the other. The man cruses loudly and slaps her hard on the face.
He curses more, then shrieks through his teeth.
"Tough one ain't ya?" He slaps her again with the back of his palm. "Oi! This one is annoyin'! I ain't got time!"
Another voice comes from outside, calmer, colder. "We only need the boy. Dispose of her."
The skinny man squeals in delight as he starts kicking the nanny. He stomps on her belly and chest repeatedly.
Mycroft swears he hears her bone cracking.
Nanny doesn't fight back, she couldn't. She can only let out painful whimpering sounds.
The junky hits her until his own breath runs out, laughing hysterically all the way. He finally stops and pull out a gun.
Mycroft thinks his heart's dropped on the floor at the sight of it.
Things happen too fast.
A loud bang.
Maybe too slow.
Blood and brain and other things splash out from her head like sparkling confetti.
Or maybe nothing happens and it's just all Mycroft imagination.
Her body goes limp on the floor.
Mycroft can't tell. The boy's in shock.
Crimson blood oozes out and pools under her unmoving head. Her face pales slowly. Her eyes open wide and her mouth parts a little. Her body becomes lifeless.
They shoot the nanny in the head. They killed her. They killed Amara.
Mycroft couldn't breath, a lump forms in his throat as his heart squeezes tightly in his chess. He couldn't hear the man threatening him, the blasting sound of the shoot is still ringing in his ears, reppeating again and again, turning, twisting, crushing. He couldn't tear away from the dead body of the woman he's just called nanny earlier this day.
At eight years old, Mycroft's read over half the books in their library, learned math and physic and poetry, studied historical figures and philosophy. He's learned that life is strong, resilient, evolving, life can thrive even in the oddest of chance and difficult environment. He's also learned that life is short and weak and vulnerable, as shown by the numbers of plants and animals that went extincted and the death counts after every natural disaster, plague and war. He understands the concepts of life, yes. But it's this moment that's forced him to see how fragile the human life really is, how easily it can be taken away with little effort to none.
Mycroft is eight years old, he's never thought he'd see people killed anytime soon. He's never thought someone would die because of him.
It feels like his whole world just pulls to a halt.
Someone touches the boy cheeks. Someone with gentle hands, warm and steady, reassuring. Someone pulls the tape off him as lightly as possible and unties the knot on his wrists and ankles using quick fingers and sharp actions.
Someone wipes the sweat and messy hair of his forehead and placed theirs on his, testing his temperature. Someone whispers soft words into his ears, guiding him back to the present.
When Mycroft can finally focus again, he sees Amara looking at him, smiling tiredly, worried, awkward and apologetic.
He sees a man lying on the floor behind her, the lanky man, strangled to dead, and another bulkier one with bullet wounds on his thigh and shoulder, taped and tied up neatly.
"You're okay now, little Mycroft. I've got you. You're safe now."
Mycroft doesn't know what to think.
"Y-You... died." He splutters. "I saw h-him shot you. I saw you died." His lips quiver and his whole body trembles, he couldn't stop them from shaking.
Amara hugs him softly, resting his head on her chest and rubbing small circles on his back. The back of her shirt and her head drench with blood, but the front is still clean. The rusty metallic scent isn't overwhelming in his nose.
"I'm so sorry i couldn't protect you." She murmurs. "I'm sorry you have to see that."
The boy's minds is blank. He thinks he should be angry, he should feel betrayed, he should push her out and yell in her face for an explanation. Yet he couldn't find the strength to move a muscle. He seats rigidly in her arm and let her pat him all over.
Her touches shouldn't feel real, yet it's the only thing grounding him in that moment.
"How?" Mycroft finally manages a word, one single word that contains all the swirling winds he couldn't name.
"I'm sorry, dearchild. I'm sorry." She says. "Your uncle has a lot of explaining to do. But for now, i've got you, you'll be okay."
Mycroft blinks, glancing back and forth between the two abductors and the puddle of blood smudged messily on the floor, and blinks again.
He has just gone through the most shaken experience in his life yet, his mouth is dry and he doesn't cry. He doesn't shed a tear.
He only wants to know what the bloody hell does uncle Rudi have to do with this mess.
When his uncle comes, Mycroft's already gained back his composure, he waits quietly for a perfectly reasonable excuse, he wouldn't accept anything less than.
The ride home is quick and secured, veiled with heavy silence and the tension between Amara's frown and his uncle's stoic face.
Once they're back inside the walls of Musgrave, the lines on nanny's face turn into visible gloom. She stands in front of Mycroft like a shield, facing his uncle with a glare that cuts through metal.
"Rudi dear" she asks "why exactly did you need me here in the first place?" Maybe it's the way she tilts her chin up but still seems like she's looking down at the taller man, maybe it's her choice of words and her tone, which gives the feelings like she's known his uncle for a long time, and knows him well, from the way he thinks to the way he plans and works and weaves things to his purpose. Amara looks intimidating.
The man doesn't flinch under her stare. But Mycroft notices him rubbing the pads of his thumb and index finger together, which mummy says he only does when he's nervous. His uncle barely ever gets nervous. Amara doesn't really have any authority over him, Mycroft thinks no one does, but the older definitely has respect for her, and he's actually feeling a bit guilty about it.
In the end, it's his uncle who opens his mouth first.
Rudi, in the final battle with his life long arch-enemy, needs an opening that his enemy believes they can poke into and ruin him for good. He needs a weakness, a bait. What could ever be more suitable than his future successor, Mycroft.
"How could you, Rudolph?" She leaps toward the taller man, her nails dig into the fine fabrics of his suit, her eyes sharp and burning. "He's your nephew!" Amara is fuming with anger.
"Don't be dramatic, Amara." He said calmly, "Everything is under control."
"No, it's not!" She cuts in, raising her voice with each word. "They shoot me in front of him!" The scowl on her brows morphes into an expression of pain and uncertainty, and maybe fear.
Uncle Rudi face falls, his mouth hagging agap. He glances in between Mycroft and the nanny for a moment, then sigh apologetically at his nephew. "I apologize."
Mycroft nods slowly without breaking eyecontact with the older man.
"Did it work?" He asks the older as he observes him carefully. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't disagree with his uncle's plan, not because he believes in Rudy's ability to cover every loose ends, but because he himself couldn't come up with a better one. Not yet. Not this young.
It's Amara's turn to look stunned, her eyes are filled with water while her lips quiver. She covers her face with her hands, rubbing circles on her forehead for a few moments, then let out a long sigh and turns toward the kichen.
"Fine. You stay for dinner then."
"I'm afraid i'm abit-"
"That wasn't a question" She whipped her head back and glare at the taller man.
Mycroft's learned that day, that caring is a weakness, and if he wants to take over uncle's Rudi position oneday, which he certainly doesn't have anyother choice, he'd have to learn to not care, or at least, to mask his care with other meanings.
Amara cooks quietly whilst uncle Rudy works on his laptop. Although there is still underlying tension from the nanny's simmering anger, the atmostphere is much better than Mycroft thinks it would be.
The boy rests his head on his folded arms on the table top, watching the back of nanny's head carefully, silently.
Mycroft has spent a lot time time observing her these pass few months.
She acts silly sometimes and usually talks about big, unattainale dreams like a other youngsters (from daddy's point of view), but she also gets along well with his parents. Even more than that, she gets them. She understand the things they say and how they say it and their mindset in that conversation. Her résumé notes she's twenty-five, but her worlding is heavily similar to his parents', like she's only seen people their age her whole life.
She wears outdated-style and has apparent fondness for vintage things, loves them, appreciates them, holds on to them. All her personal belongings are old and worn out, yet carefully maintained.
And her war stories, Mycroft knows some people can be really good storytellers, but she speaks of the gruesome wounds and painful injuries as if they were her own, on her arms and in her body. Yet her skin is clear and all her limbs are still intact.
The boy blinks at the messy bun on Amara's head where the blast of the gunshot would have been, remembering the haze of burned and bitter gunpowder smell mixed with the metalic scent of blood. No normal human would have survived a shot that direct that close, especially not with that amount of blood lost.
Suddenly, everything just make sense.
It's not just that she looks younger than her actual age and lies about it, she doesn't age! Who knows how long she might have been living.
Uncle Rudi must have known her for a long time, he trusts her with their life. Yet mummy doesn't have a clue about this woman. Why?
His thoughts got cut off as the nanny places a bowl of warm stew in front of him. Mycroft can see the tangled feelings in her eyes. It seems like she wanted to reach out and cob the curly hair off his forehead, then hesitated and doesn't.
She puts a plate of tarte tatin next to his soup, and slaps the back of uncle Rudi's prying palm and glare at him.
Mycroft lets his thoughts run wild again as they eat quietly.
"How's your father these days?" She asks out of the blue.
"You can visit him, you know?" He said instead.
She laughs bitterly. "It'd be odd if he reconises me and not his own children"
His grandfather, Howard Holmes, starts to have Alzheimer entering his eighties, his situation worsen with the passing of his wife a year ago. He could barely remember anything. Which makes Mycroft wonder whether the bitterness in her tone is more for herself or his uncle. Maybe both of them.
When Amara tucks Mycroft in bed that night, the boy figures he could draw some information from her while she's still feeling gulty. So he ask, "Who are you?"
If she's used to concealing and keeping secrets, being blunt might be the easiest way to make her talk.
She doesn't reply right away, but looks at the boy carefully, examining him. A chubby bot still a few years away from his growth spurt, yet acting all matured and adopting the calculating behavior of his uncle. She smiles fondly, abit reluctantly, and says, "I can be considered a friend of your familly."
"Since?" Mycroft hisses, then presses his mouth into a serious line.
"Can't you guess?" The woman tilts her chin at him, not hiding the amusement in her voice.
Mycroft takes a breath, closes his eyes, and let the details sink into their right places.
"The 9th Head of house, Arthur Holmes" When he speaks, the answer is finalized.
Amara is rendered speachless. She blinks at the tryumph smirk on the boy's face, then breaks into a blinding smile. Her eyes sparkle with joy and adoration.
"Clever boy" She whispers softly "How did you know?"
"When we went into the ancestor room, you looked at the portraits of the head-of-house longer, but you stared at him the longest." She wasn't just fascinated by a bunch of paintings of deceased strangers, the longing can only be for people who she used to know and be very closed to. She looked like she missed them a lot.
Her cheeks go a little pink, "was i that obvious?"
Mycroft shakes his head. He was just paying close attention.
"So", she seats on the floor and settles herself next to his bed, resting her arms and chin on the edge of his mattress, "what else do you want to ask?"
She chuckles at the quizzickle frown on his face, and reaches to ruffle his hair. "You already learned some, might as well know everything worth knowing."
Mycroft swallows, then starts giving her a long list of questions on every skeptical things he could think of.
Amara replies to some, laughs awkwardly at some, brushes off some, and gives very brief, simplified answers to some.
But in the end, the boy is satisfied with what he's got.
Mycroft also learns that protecting the house of Holmes was her reason to live, still is, has been, for the last almost 150 years.
The next morning, as the three of them are having breakfast, uncle Rudi asks casually, "When are you leaving?", as if it's given fact that once his project is done, hers would be as well.
Amara huffs a laugh and gives the man an amused smirk, "Oh no, Rudi dearest. Your sister will definitely need my help caring for three children at the same time."
Both Mycroft and his uncle drop their spoon. They turn in sych to stare at the young woman in disbelief.
"Don't be dramatic. I know a pregnant woman when i see one." She chuckles. "Now, finish your food, you two."
Uncle Rudi looks like he might want to burst.
Mummy is indeed two months pregnant, they've just found out after the conference.
So, Amara stays with them through his mother's pregnacy and the birth of his new baby sister, Eurus.
When Eurus reaches six months old and Sherlock's grown enough to start remembering everything people tell him, she bits them goodbye. She doesn't want the younger children to have clear impression of her. So she packs her small valise and her vintage stuffs, hugs them one last time, and never turns back.
Mycroft knows he'll be the only one to meet her again, he wonders when that will happen.