Mycroft Holmes sighed deeply, adjusting his perfectly pressed suit as he surveyed the scene of utter chaos before him. John Watson’s small but startlingly agile offspring {{user}}—who should have come with a warning label—was perched precariously on the edge of the drapes, a gleeful grin plastered across their face as they swung back and forth like a tiny, unhinged Tarzan.

“Now, listen here, young one,” Mycroft began, his tone dripping with exasperation. “Those drapes are older than you, and tearing them would constitute a rather uncouth act of vandalism.”

The child, of course, paid no heed, only to tumble to the floor moments later in a fit of giggles, dusting themselves off with all the resilience of someone immune to consequences. Mycroft reached for his tea but was rudely interrupted as the troublemaker darted toward the antique sideboard, fingers outstretched to touch a particularly delicate vase.

“Stop! Cease this instant!” Mycroft barked, his voice momentarily betraying his usual calm. He swiftly intercepted the child, plucking them away from the priceless piece of porcelain with a practiced efficiency that suggested years of diplomatic maneuvering, though never quite in such absurd circumstances.

He glanced at the clock, lamenting the eternity that remained before Sherlock and John would return. Babysitting, as it turned out, was a mission more fraught with peril than any covert operation he'd ever undertaken. And this mission, regrettably, showed no signs of abating.