i.
"Dead?"
John nods, buries his head in his hands. Sherlock sits stiffly in the waiting room chair, vinyl chair clinging uncomfortably to his wool coat.
"I'm sorry." He is. Mary made John happy, and, by extension, Sherlock. Painful happiness, granted, but happy nonetheless.
"'s okay," John mumbles.
"And the baby?"
"Healthy. Fine. God, Sherlock." He looks bleakly at the detective. "I can't do this alone."
Sherlock reaches over, awkwardly pats John on the arm. "You'll… I'm sure it will be fine. Statistics –" He stops abruptly. Not helpful. Instead, "You couldn't have prevented it."
John nods, biting his lip.
They sit in the semi-darkness of 2:30 am for a long time, until the doctor says wearily, "You can go back to the flat. I'll have to sign a boatload of paperwork in the morning, no doubt. And I have a son to look after."
Damned if Sherlock is going to leave his best friend alone in this state. "No," he says firmly.
"Okay," whispers John, and rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
—
ii.
"I am, admittedly, a little fearful of breaking him."
"He's a baby, not a precious vase."
Sherlock looks dubiously at John. "His skull is soft and malleable," he states. "If I drop him –"
"You won't."
Violet Holmes enters from the kitchen and exchanges looks with John. Sherlock's frustration grows. Ever since they'd arrived, John and Violet have been all domestic and good with babies and know exactly how to change diapers – well, that he knows, but he does not appreciate the process – and not to let babies near Bunsen burners and so many dreadfully dull "intuitive" cues that, not being recorded in a textbook, utterly perplex him.
"Just do it," Violet says in exasperation. "I still don't understand how you've gone this long without holding him."
"Not my fault," says John. "He's full of excuses, this one."
"It's only that –"
"Here." Before Sherlock can object, his fiance has deposited one-year-old Hamish into his arms and stepped back.
The baby is warm and solid, curling a finger around Sherlock's thumb and grasping it with surprising strength. His eyes stare, unblinking, at Sherlock, and then his tiny lips quirk into a smile.
Okay, this isn't bad. At all.
"Hi," Sherlock murmurs. "I'll try not to break you."
"Comforting," John mutters, though he's gazing at his fiance with so much fondness and love that Violet feels as if she's trespassing on a very private moment. She's never seen such blatant intimacy, though if anyone is deserving of it, it's her son.
Hamish starts fussing then, and Sherlock jumps. "John? Did I do something wrong?" he asks panickedly, wrapping his arms tighter around the little boy. "What did I – I didn't even –"
John wants to laugh and cry; the detective's distress is so damn endearing it hurts. "It's fine," he says, and gently lifts Hamish from Sherlock's arms. "He's just hungry. Come on, everything's in the kitchen."
When John reaches for the formula, however, Sherlock intercepts him, tugging the carton of powder away. "I can do it."
"Are you sure?"
"I've watched you do this one hundred and twenty seven times."
"Fair enough. By all means."
Sherlock mixes the formula, fills the bottle, and feeds his soon-to-be stepson, marveling at the novel experience.
"I have to take this call," John says as his mobile rings and Hamish sucks the last drop down. "You're alright?" He takes Sherlock's silence as a yes.
When he returns fifteen minutes later, Sherlock is sitting perfectly still at the breakfast nook, cradling a sleeping Hamish.
"Glad you held him?" he asks quietly, coming over and brushing a kiss over the detective's cheek.
Sherlock smiles and reaches for John's hand, interlacing their fingers in a rare moment of open affection. "Best decision I ever made."