Title: The Name Game

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Warnings: Excessive amounts of fluff! Overdosing can be lethal! Read at your own risk!

Disclaimer: Owned by Moffat, Gatiss, and the lovely ACD.

Summary: 5&1. The names that baby girl Watson comes up with for her extended family. Or: how everyone—Watsons, Holmes, and others alike— just gave up and learned to embrace their weirdness.

A/N: So I just finished Beat As One, a very dark Rumbelle fic, so I really needed to write something SERIOUSLY happy. Nothing but sunshine and rainbows here, folks! Enjoy!

-1: Prologue

Of course it started with Sherlock.

The day that Mary came home with her first story of another woman cooing at her growing belly was the same day that John dropped by 221b and found his former flatmate experimenting with baby formula.

Hands in his pockets, John nodded at the nearest beaker. "Should that be boiling?" he asked.

"Yep." Sherlock didn't bother looking up from the frozen blocks of milk he was scraping at. They were huge, twice as big as his head, and one appeared to have a baby bottle trapped inside. The iced milk magnified it gruesomely.

"Right. Okay. You sure about that?"

"Y-e-p."

"Really? Because it's boiling over…"

"There's a pan, Joh—"

"—and it's eating through the pan."

Sherlock's head shot up. With a curse he lunged at the kitchen table, his robe flying out behind him. The entire apparatus was chucked into the sink where a grey, fishy-smelling smoke immediately began to rise. While Sherlock frantically shooed the vapors away from the smoke detector John scuffed at the scorch marks that now marred the wood. Normally he'd be freaking out about it but, you know, he and Mary had their own lovely kitchen table now. He grinned happily at the prospect of Sherlock taking all the heat from Mrs. Hudson—pun intended—and Sherlock in turn scowled at him, no doubt knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"Formula then?" John asked. The table gave a last, ominous hiss. "The hell did you add that made it caustic?" Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"Nothing worse then what's already there," he growled. "Do you have any idea the detrimental substances that manufacturers have been adding, given that there is little to no regulation in the development of commercial formula?"

"Nope. I've got a feeling you're about to tell me though."

Sherlock snatched the nearest bottle, shaking it in John's face until little white droplets flew against his jumper. "There is, disgustingly, no actual 'formula' for baby formula, John! Pick any brand up off the shelf and you're just as likely to get severely modified cow's milk as you are anything even resembling human breast milk. They add 'vitamins' to make it 'nutritionally sound' but all they're really doing is making a nutritionally inferior product just a little less awful. A little." The bottle flew out towards the couch where about twenty petri dishes were nestled between the cushions. "I have found traces of salmonella and cronobacter sakazakii in six of those samples, John. That's not even taking into account the fact that all of them have already been artificially sweetened to an alarming degree. Even Mycroft wouldn't drink this stuff." Sherlock snorted. "Speaking of Mycroft, no doubt he's going to call you soon about an improved formula they're developing at Baskerville. Don't accept it. No need to worry though, I'm developing my own recipe." With that Sherlock went back to scraping at his giant frozen blocks.

John blinked. "You're developing… no." He sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Sighed again. "No, no, no, Watson. Focus. The important point here is not Sherlock's experiments or the…" He gestured helplessly. "The—the baby bottle condemned to an icy grave. It's that Sherlock is panicking." John nodded even when Sherlock looked up, outraged. "He's definitely panicking."

"I am not!"

"You are. You've been doing this for months now." John approached, finger out and wagging. "You panicked before the wedding, you panicked for two weeks after learning that Mary was pregnant, you nearly lost it when you found out we were having a girl—"

Sherlock snatched his violin bow, using it to fend of John's finger. "The social and cultural pressures on young girls today are positively repulsive. You should be planning ways to counteract—"

"Nope." John grabbed the bow. "Sherlock. You. Are. Panicking. About everything. Last month it was miscarriages. Then birth defects. A week ago you were bemoaning the state of day nurseries." Sherlock opened his mouth, now doubt to list the horrors of incompetent babysitters, but John beat him to it. "I'm the father, Sherlock. If anyoneshould be panicking it's me. My daughter—mine, Sherlock, not yours—is going to be just fine considering that she's got an ex-soldier and ex-assassin for parents, the entirety of the Met, the bloody British Government, and yes, an overprotective consulting detective watching over her. In all honesty, I'm far more worried about you right now. So breathe."

Sherlock did breathe, but it was in frustrated little puffs that blew at the curls on his forehead.

"Good enough." John looked around the room, shaking his head at everything he saw. "You're just going to keep going aren't you? No, don't answer that. Look, if you're going to panic like this you might as well have an official reason to. Jesus." John drew his hands over his face and revealed an expression that was roughly two-thirds convinced he was going to regret what came next.

"Sherlock, how do you feel about being my daughter's godfather?"

An hour later John was back in his own flat, listening to Mary's story about the cooing woman on the Tube and watching her stir risotto. She kept one hand protectively over her belly.

"—so I let her pat me a while—which was weird, frankly—and tried to explain that it was a little too early to be feeling any kicks, but god she was determined and—"

"I asked Sherlock to be godfather," John interrupted. Then he winced. Probably should have eased into that one. But Mary only froze a second before she continued her stirring.

"Not like, a godfather, godfather," he felt compelled to continue. "Not in the Christiney way. You know, the teach-the-child-about-Jesus-or-so-help-you-both…" John flapped his hand. "Right. Probably should have discussed it with you first. Sorry."

"Not in the severed-horsehead-underneath-the-sheets sort of way either I hope. Though knowing Sherlock that's entirely possible." Mary smiled. "No worries. Truthfully, who else would we have asked?"

"Greg," John said wistfully.

"Ah. Well, think of it this way: the main non-Christiney responsibility of a godparent is to take the child in if both parents die, right?" John nodded. "Well, if you die it's going to during some case and I'll be there with you—because let's face it, if you're doing something stupid enough that it ends in your death it's stupid enough that I'll be there as backup—so if they manage to kill you they'll have managed to kill me too, and if we're both on this suicidal mission it only follows that Sherlock is there as well." Mary tasted the risotto, humming in appreciation. "So all three of us are dead and Greg will have to take our daughter in anyway, yeah?"

John thought about it a moment. "Yeah. Makes sense."

"Great." At her nod John started setting out plates. "Any particular reason you asked him today?"

"He was panicking." Mary snorted. "About formula this time. I really don't want to know how he deduced that you can't breastfeed." The chicken came out of the oven, smelling like capers. He dished it out and cut up the bread. "I figured if this was going to continue he might as well have a good reason for his panic. Godfathers are allowed to panic, right?"

"Right." They sat down.

"Plus, it came as even more of a shock than the 'best friend' admission. I stayed an extra twenty minutes to make sure he was really okay, but he was still kinda comatose when I left. At least it kept him from chipping away at the frozen milk for a while."

"Cheers." Mary lifted her glass in a toast.

"Cheers."

1. Sherlock

Snubbing every natural law and sanitation guideline written within the last fifty years, there was an infant residing at 221b. It had taken Sherlock a week of cleaning and six inspections by John for the sitting room to be deemed passable and even now his little girl remained sequestered on a sterile blanket (the kitchen would remain off limits until she was sixteen. At least.)

Sherlock poked the chubby baby through her onesie. She rocked a little to the left.

"Her motor control far exceeds that of most three week infants," he said proudly.

"You can't possibly know that." But John grinned, twiddling his fingers and beaming when her fist waved vaguely in their direction.

"I do. Her speech is also accelerated. I saw her mouthing the approximation of a long 'o' yesterday while you were giving Mary that appalling attempt at a massage."

"First of all, Mary loves my massages. I'm a doctor. I know how to massage people. Second, she was mouthing vowels because she wanted her pacifier and babies just do that. See?" John lowered his fingers until his daughter's mouth pursed, eventually catching them in a slimy bite. Sherlock peered closer.

"Motor control," he insisted. "And her eyes tracked the movement. Her intelligence level is astounding given the genetics."

"You're biased."

"Nonsense. A scientist is never biased."

For the next twenty minutes the two men just lay on their stomachs, happily watching the baby. John let his daughter chew on his fingers while Sherlock occasionally tested the sensitivity of her feet. When a sudden yawn caused her to give a tiny, baby whine Sherlock nodded.

"She'll be talking soon," he declared.

"Sherlock, she's three weeks old."

"So? I spoke at four months—"

"Of course you did."

"—there's no reason why she can't do better given the proper encouragement."

John gazed heavenward, fighting for patience. "You do realize she's not actually related to you, right?"

"Hmm." Pulling out his magnifying glass Sherlock took careful inspection of her nose, lips, and upper teeth. "The most common words—if they can truly be termed as such—made by infants are 'ma,' da,' or variations thereof. Really it's more of a mimicked sound that happens to resemble our titles of "mother" and "father" though some babies have been known to show a true understanding of their speech." He snapped the glass shut with a click. "We can do better. The 'a' of 'ma' and 'da' is admittedly easier than an 'e' sound—let alone one combined with an 'r'—but I do have faith in you." Sherlock leaned over and stared intently into the little girl's eyes. "Say, 'mer-der'" he commanded.

"Oh my god. Sherlock, no."

Baby girl Watson did eventually speak of course, though to Sherlock's disappointment her first word was not "murder" ("Well really, it's a disgustingly general term as both a noun and a verb. 'Homicide' is preferable.") Nor did she say anything beyond the usual baby talk until she reached seven months ("Obviously she hasn't had anything to say to you idiots until now. Really, John.")

Her first word was, in fact, "Mama."

John experienced crushing disappointment for all of two hours. Then Mary tried feeding her daughter mushy peas for lunch. The attempt resulted in green stains on her blouse and a high-pitched scream for "Daaaaaaaa!" John came running with the preferred mushy pears and a grin.

"I came first," Mary insisted.

"She loves me more," John countered.

"Like hell she does." And they set about getting food in their daughter's stomach.

The only one who seemed disappointed in this development of speech was Sherlock who, for all his attempts, could not get the word "godfather" out of her mouth. Not a month later, nor two months after that. Not even after her first birthday.

"Is this payback for the pony?" he asked desperately, gripping at his hair. Sherlock kneeled in front of the couch where his goddaughter sat, sucking on a block. John and Mary made tea in the kitchen. "Is it? Because that is entirely your father's fault, I assure you. You must believe that I offered to buy you one. Repeatedly."

"You're not getting her a pony!" John called. Sherlock glared over his shoulder.

"Every fanciful narrative I've read insists that it is the coveted gift of every little girl. Why are you denying her this?" Said little girl continued to suck happily, eyes bounding between the crazy man and the back of her Da's head.

"Where the hell are we going to keep a pony, Sherlock?"

"I don't know! Make Mycroft commandeer a royal stable!"

"Nope." Mary swooped in. The tea was handed off to Sherlock while she lifted her daughter up and settled her in her lap. "Come on, sweetheart. Say 'god-da' before Sherlock starts crying."

That caught her attention. "Cry?" she asked, wobbling her head. Mary nodded solemnly.

"Say 'god-da.' Or something like it. Please, sweetie, because Mommy's getting real tired of Sherlock's shi—"

"Language," John chided. It was a moot point though considering his own foul vocabulary. He seated himself next to Mary and gave her a sip of his tea. Sherlock had chucked Mary's to the side and now just sat, staring.

"You okay?" John asked. Sherlock stared some more, but eventually he nodded.

"I may have been… overly optimistic regarding her language capabilities." Two of the party raised their eyebrows. Sherlock huffed. "She's still smarter than you lot, though perhaps some simplification is best. 'Godfather,' is too long and really, 'God-da' is hardly melodious." Suddenly and frighteningly, Sherlock grinned. "So how about we just shorten it to 'God'?"

Of course he timed that for when John was taking a drink. A wet dressing gown was well worth his expression.

"My daughter is not calling you God, Sherlock!"

"No? You're sure? Opinions, Mary?"

She merely tugged her baby closer. "Crack shot, Sherlock. Remember?"

"Ah. Of course. How about we just go with 'Da' then?"

"NO—"

"Da?" All three froze at the tiny, confused voice.

"Da?" she asked again, looking from John to the manically grinning man on the floor. Her little faced scrunched up in perplexity.

"No, no, no, no, darling." John kneeled quickly by her side, swinging two chubby fists into his own. "I'm Da, yeah? He's just an asshole."

"Hey!"

"Da." John repeated, pointing to himself. "Asshole," he said, pointing to Sherlock.

"Stop it!"

"So much for language," Mary muttered.

Her daughter still pouted though. That is, until something clicked in the tiny developing brain. Her eyes slid back and forth between the detectives, again and again.

"Da," she said, looking directly at John. He grinned. Then her eyes swept over to Sherlock. "Da… Da."

"No, no. He's not—"

"Da!" she cried again, back to John. She was smiling now, gloriously. Her gaze returned to Sherlock. "Da-da!" The block was waved in triumph. "Da! Da-da!"

"Oh my god." John's head dropped into his hands.

"Come now, John. This is perfect." With little warning Sherlock took the little girl into his arms, sweeping her up high. Mary watched her daughter go with a resigned air.

"'Godfather' was always too impersonal, wasn't it?" he asked her. "Honestly, you may not share the Holmes' genes but it's quite clear that I have as much nurturing influence over you as your biological father."

"You're not her father!"

"Don't shout, John, you're scaring her." Sherlock swung the baby girl onto his hip. She giggled and clutched at his robe. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing to a prostrated John.

"Da!"

"And I'm…?"

Her mouth was currently filled with dressing gown, but a clear "Da-Da!" was heard around the silk.

"Excellent." Sherlock danced a bit, looking happier than he'd been in months. Mary nudged John with her foot.

"You knew this was going to happen," she accused. A pitiful cry was all she got in return.

Suddenly, Sherlock paused in his swinging.

"You know, John, our daughter is far brighter than I originally gave her credit for. Of course you'd be 'Da' while I'm 'Da-Da.' I'm obviously twice the father you are."

As a former assassin Mary was quick on her feet. She made sure to rescue her little girl before her husband broke Sherlock's nose.

2. Mycroft

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock said.

Many months before the Da-Da Debacle Mycroft showed up at 221b with an envelope of confidential files in his hands and the beginnings of a furious migraine. John was there, showing Sherlock how to properly change a diaper ("Genius my ass. You're an idiot.") and his first thought was that whatever national case needed solving must have taken one hell of a toll on the British government because Mycroft actually seemed… surprised at finding an infant in his brother's arms.

Mycroft frowned at the squirming mass of wipes and baby power.

"Ah, John." He said. "I'd heard that Mary had come through the labor well. I do suppose congratulations are in order." He eyed the baby though, looking as if 'congratulations' were the furthest thing from his mind.

"Thank you," John said primly. He ignored Mycroft's shudder as his daughter hiccupped spit onto Sherlock's back. "Mary's still resting at home so I've been charged with showing off our latest edition. Actually, it's about time you two met."

That statement drew a reaction. Hence Mycroft's horrified spluttering and Sherlock's, "Absolutely not!"

"Really, John." Mycroft said. He planted his umbrella before him like a shield. "I am happy for you, truly, and I am more than willing to provide any… practical… assistance in the raising of your child—"

"Like poisoned baby formula," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft glared.

"However, I really must insist that I be removed from any… hands on experience."

"Too bad." Marching forward John snatched the envelope from Mycroft. He thumbed through the files, many of which contained full, glossy photographs. "Ooooo, look at that!" he cried. "Disappearance of government officials leads to—yep!—vicious double murder. Wow, that body's mangled. Never seen anything like that before. Gosh, looks like there's a locked room too…"

Sherlock's hands twitched, drumming against a tiny head. John eyed him coolly.

"You want the case?" he asked. "Then hand over the baby."

"But Mycroft will ruin her!" Sherlock whined.

"Oh he will not. Non-negotiable, Sherlock…" so it was with much grumbling that John took his daughter back into his arms, leaving Sherlock to start taping all the pretty photos above the couch.

"And if you," John said, turning to Mycroft. "Want Sherlock to tell you who killed your men" (Sherlock: "Ha! Payback!") "you'll hold my daughter for…" John glanced at the clock. "Three minutes."

"I never knew you to be a cruel man, John Watson." Mycroft sighed.

"Four minutes now. You're a part of this messed up family too, Mycroft, whether you want to admit it or not. Now hold her or so help me I'll break your kneecap."

This time the grumbling was all about idiot army doctors and their need to express sentiment, but Mycroft did as he was told—shockingly. Really, John shouldn't have been surprised that his daughter slipped easily into the crook of Mycroft's arm, his large hand cradling her neck and head confidently. It suddenly occurred to him that, of course, a young Mycroft would have done this endlessly for his baby brother. The image buoyed John's mood.

"Great," he said. "Four minutes. Who wants tea?"

But, as always, nothing could remain simple at 221b. With only a minute left Sherlock noticed a splinter wedged beneath the fingernail of a corpse in the photographs and he suddenly had to show it to John right this second, so he charged into the kitchen just as John was pouring very hot water into a very breakable mug. The resulting collision ended in a minor burn for him and lacerations on Sherlock's left foot. Yelling ensured, bandages were obtained, Sherlock refused to let go of the photographs, and thus he nearly kicked John in the face when he excitedly noticed more, more, more. It was only John's experience with bandaging toddlers—nothing new here, folks—that allowed him to tend Sherlock's foot without gaining a split lip.

John sighed. He looked up at the time and realized with a shock that twenty minutes had passed, rather than four. That was… quite a difference.

"You two are remarkably loud."

Mycroft stood with John's daughter still in his arms, nestled happily in a cocoon of blanket and expensive suit. She was fast asleep and Mycroft bounced slightly to maintain her slumber. The hand not holding her gently stroked the curl growing on her head and John would have bet all his savings that Mycroft didn't realize he was effectively petting her.

"Really," he continued, glaring at them both. "Do you want to wake her?" He looked down at his little charge and the only appropriate word John could dredge up was besotted. His daughter, in turn, squirmed with happiness.

"I told you," Sherlock hissed. He gripped John's arm in pure, unadulterated horror. "He's ruined her!"

Mycroft Holmes did indeed go out of his way to ruin the youngest Watson. If, that is, by "ruin" you mean, "spoil absolutely, positively rotten."

It should also be noted that Mycroft was very good at whatever he set out to do.

After it was decided that Sherlock was basically Father Number Two ("You're not her father!") it only made sense that Mycroft would be "Uncle Mycroft." And as neither his odd name nor the two-syllable "uncle" was easy for a tiny mouth to pronounce, he immediately, simply, became "My."

Mycroft also quickly discovered that while his mother's love of shortening his name brought only frustration, his niece's tendency was… cute. Comforting even. Especially when he returned again to 221b and the little tyke tried to scramble out of Sherlock's lap, chanting "My, My, My, My" continually around her binky. That was highly satisfying.

"Well look at that," he murmured as she latched onto his umbrella. "Even you should be able to deduce who she loves more, Sherlock."

The resulting temper tantrum was fairly spectacular and John attempted, valiantly, to inform the Holmes brothers that his daughter was not another object to be fought over in their jealous, messed up power plays. It didn't really work.

"My, My, My, My" she chanted while all the grownups fought. She kept chanting it until they smiled at her.

Mycroft in turn called his niece a number of different things: "darling," "precious," "young lady" if she was naughty, and—after a family marathon of Game of Thrones where she squealed delightedly every time the dragons came on screen—his fierce little "khaleesi." That particular nickname was especially fitting. It was easier to justify treating her like a queen if he already called her such.

Education and financial security were already mapped out, of course. As was the impossibility of any future ailments thanks to some… help from the men at Baskerville (John may not have accepted his formula, but once she started on solid foods it was far harder to regulate her diet. What the good doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him). She had more toys and clothes than any child could possibly need—what John wouldn't accept was happily snatched up by Mary. She had a weakness for her daughter in designer wares—and yes, there was currently a sixteen stall stable being built that would be filled as soon as she could sit a horse. Or pony, rather. No need to wait too long.

During his third trip to 221b Mycroft sat down, took up his niece, and announced: "I've bought you a pony, dearest. Do you like that?"

"I HATE YOU," shrieked Sherlock.

"For god's sake," said John.

3. Mrs. Hudson

Mycroft may have come to adore his niece, but he hadn't been lying about refusing "hands on" experience. Bestowing no more than ten (but certainly no less than six) acts of physical affection per visit was fine, but his expertise lay in calculating her future skill set and how it might align with the nation's interest (no reason why he couldn't multitask after all). He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a caretaker.

No, all motherly acts not done by Mary herself were taken up by Mrs. Hudson. Including babysitting.

Not that she'd admit to that.

"I'm not your babysitter, dear!" She said as John thrust a screaming child into her arms. Mrs. Hudson immediately started rocking her though. And cooing.

"You're not our housekeeper," Sherlock countered.

"Well I'm not your babysitter either."

"Then what are you good for?"

"Really!"

"Please," John interrupted. He knew this would go more smoothly if he could get Mrs. Hudson to focus on him instead of the vibrating consulting detective who was getting bitchy because there was a case and he wasn't there yet. "Won't you watch her?" John begged. "Just for a few hours?"

To say he was frazzled was an understatement. Over a year of caring for two kids—yes, Sherlock still counted—had taken their toll. Yet despite knowing that the best thing for him was a good night's sleep and a decent meal, John found himself pulling on his coat as Sherlock texted Lestrade for the address. Correction: for most overworked parents the best thing was sleep and food. For John, a frantic chase about London and a few mutilated corpses would do just as well. Getting to shoot someone too wouldn't hurt.

Mrs. Hudson eyed them knowingly. "It's hardly likely to be 'just a few hours,' now is it, John?"

"Probably not," he admitted and grimaced when Sherlock tugged impatiently at his sleeve. "But please? Pretty please?" and John whooped when Mrs. Hudson gave a very put-upon sigh. "Yes! Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint. Mary's still at the clinic but I swear I'll try to get us back as quickly as possible. There are snacks upstairs in the mini-fridge—don't touch the ones in the microwave—and there are diapers under the couch. Don't forget that she—Sherlock! At least let me say goodbye!"

With a growl Sherlock swung John until he stumbled out the door and then popped back inside. Bracing himself on Mrs. Hudson he leaned carefully over her to place a smacking kiss on one very tiny nose.

"There! That's from the both of us. Come along, 'Da.' The game is on!"

The "game" took three days.

It was really a simple, if highly embarrassing string of events. Basically Sherlock deduced the murderer, chased him down, and… then got caught (Not his fault. Really. John was the one carrying the gun). John, in turn, was just a few blocks behind (curse the man with the longer legs). He tracked down Sherlock, broke into the warehouse… and was promptly knocked out (Gun or no gun, a lead pipe to the back of your head will do the trick). Lestrade did his thing, Mary did her thing, and Mycroft no doubt did his thing which basically amounted to watching Lestrade and Mary run around like frantic chickens while making sure that John and Sherlock weren't really in any danger. If the murderer decided to up his body count (unlikely, given that his first and only kill was a crime of passion), well, then Mycroft would step in.

Until then it was all just fun to watch.

So what this all basically amount to was three days of Sherlock and John strapped to chairs, dehydrated, and bickering like the married couple they most assuredly weren't. Eventually they were rescued and eventually John got to haul Sherlock back to 221b.

It was about this time that he remembered his daughter.

Not that he'd actively forgotten her of course—there was in fact a rather tense moment where he thought of little but her. It was just that his slightly panicking brain had decided, quite rightly, to put aside the knowledge that he'd left her with Mrs. Hudson. For three days. Also that three days was most assuredly not "a few hours." Not even close.

"I'm a dead man," John whispered as he threw Sherlock face first onto the sofa.

"No, stupid. We got out." Nearly asleep, Sherlock's mutterings were lost to the cushions. Even so, John heard him.

"Yeah. Got that. That's why dying like this is going to suck."

So it was that a bruised, bleeding (only a little), dehydrated, hungry, and thoroughly terrified John went downstairs to face death at the hands of his landlady. Not his housekeeper, and sure as hell not his babysitter after this. Landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he poked his head solemnly into the kitchen. "It's John. God, I'm so very sor—"

She was crying.

Not bawling like she'd been at Sherlock's funeral, but a quiet sniffling that was somehow just as bad. John's first, horrified thought was that something had happened, but they were both right there. Mrs. Hudson appeared fine physically and his daughter appeared quite happy, giggling into her shoulder.

His second thought was that Mrs. Hudson had had enough. That she was sick of them taking advantage of her. That his daughter's exposer to Sherlock had bred a demon child that was the most god-awful thing to take care of and what was he going to do because Mrs. Hudson was never ever going to babysit ever, ever, ever again—

Then she caught sight of him and flinched.

"Oh, John." She cried. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean for this. I swear I never encouraged it. You have to tell Mary…" Mrs. Hudson continued to ramble, looking more scared by the second.

That was… unexpected.

"Mrs. Hudson, what—?"

"Da!" His daughter had finally caught sight of him, but before John could do more than smile at her she'd turned back Mrs. Hudson. Patting at her cheeks she cried, "Mo-mee!"

Oh.

Mrs. Hudson curled in on herself, shaking her head.

Oh.

"John I didn't teach her that," she whispered. "I'd never. She just started saying it yesterday. I've tried everything to get her to stop but…" It was easy to see what a failure that had been, if the constant string of, "Mo-mee! Mo-mee! Mo-mee!" was anything to go by. Mrs. Hudson cried a little more.

And John burst out laughing.

"John…" but he waved her off and just leaned against the door jamb, laughing until his breath wheezed and the bruises on his stomach ached. When John had recovered a bit he tried to give Mrs. Hudson as reassuring a smile as he was able.

"Are you surprised?" he asked, still giggling. "Because I'm not. Jesus. Fucking Jesus, Mrs. Hudson. Of course you're 'Mommy.' I mean, she's already got two dads," Reeling slightly, John exaggeratedly put a finger to his lips and pointed upwards. "Just don't let him hear that, yeah? Alright. Two needs two moms then right? Good god almighty…" Suddenly weary, he rested his head against the tile. "Seriously, Mrs. Hudson. It's fine. I'm… happy even. And don't worry about Mary—she's 'Mama.' You're not taking… taking that away from her. You've got your own place in this mess, for whatever that's worth."

It was apparently worth quite a bit. John resolutely ignored the new tears in her eyes. They were much softer now.

"Really though," he grumbled. "We're 'your boys,' right? So you should be 'grandma.'" He pointed an accusing finger at his daughter, who was still softly exploring her new word, 'Mo-mee.'

"Nonsense," Mrs. Hudson said. She sniffled a little. "This beautiful girl recognizes that I'm far too young to be a grandmother!" and she gave a watery wink. "Oh thank you though, John. I was so afraid… but never mind. You cannot imagine what this means to me." She scurried over to pat his arm. "You give a quick call to Mary, tell her to take her time over at the clinic, and then you march yourself straight off to bed. I can watch my daughter for a little while longer."

"Your… right. That's… great. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." If it weren't for the gentle nudge to his back John might have fallen asleep right there. The exhaustion and insanity of the situation were kicking in.

"No, no, John. Thank you." Maneuvering around her new daughter, Mrs. Hudson quickly cupped his cheek. "You, Sherlock, and Mary have such a wonderful relationship. It's unconventional, sure, but love is funny like that. I for one couldn't be more pleased that the three of you found each other and that you're letting me be a part of it."

"We're not…" John blinked, processing all that. "Mrs. Hudson, we're not having a threesome."

She just patted his cheek again. "Of course you're not, dear. Just don't expect me to join you in the bedroom. We may be co-parents now but I am a little too old for that myself. Off you go."

John went but he made strangled noises the entire way.

4. Lestrade

Lestrade nearly choked when he saw not two men approaching his crime scene… but two men and a toddler.

The cutest little tyke the Met had ever seen was balanced high on Sherlock's shoulders and yes, Lestrade could actually hear his people melting behind him.

"You can't bring her in here!" he cried and what do you know, Sherlock disagreed.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade. This was always going to be a part of her life. Best that she becomes conditioned to it at a young age."

"She already found Sherlock's photo collection of headless nuns," John agreed while Lestrade gaped at him.

"That doesn't mean she need to see this stuff first hand!"

"She also found Sherlock's body. You know, the one without a head or feet?" John's gaze slid to a whistling detective. "The one that was supposed to remain at Barts."

Sherlock rocked a little on his heels.

"And she was supposed to stay out of the kitchen…"

"Yes, yes," he flapped a hand in John's face. "Stop denying that she loved it. I've never seen anyone squeal so much while poking flesh. Myself included." As if to concur a giggle emerged from Sherlock's hair.

With that he moved to duck underneath the tape—one hand firmly pressing a small chest to the back of his head, nice and safe—but Lestrade moved to block his path.

"No." He declared.

"Oh come now, Lestrade—"

"No."

"Okay then." John placed a strong hand on Sherlock's arm. At first Lestrade thought it was to keep him from punching his way inside (it wouldn't be the first time) but Sherlock only crouched, allowing John to hoist his daughter up off his shoulders.

'Good god,' Lestrade thought. 'They have a system.'

"Here" and then the giggling, squirming cutie was in Lestrade's arms. "You can watch her then."

"But—"

"It's not as if you're needed in here." Sherlock said as he finally swept by. He cast a derisive look around the outside of the house. "No need to panic if your ex-wife's lack of faith in your parenting capabilities proves accurate. I'll be done in five minutes."

John cast him a quick glance of apology. "Don't let her chew your leather jacket," he cautioned before jogging off after Sherlock.

Lestrade could only watch them go. He thought about calling out that he was automatically a better parent than a self-proclaimed sociopath but… yep… Sherlock was already inside. Bloody typical.

Then Lestrade felt a wet patch developing around his collar. He sighed.

"'Don't chew the leather.' Bit too late for that, isn't it, sweetie?"

It took Sherlock four minutes to solve the case ("It was the girlfriend! Are you all completely dense?") and in that short amount of time Lestrade had accumulated half of his crew, all of them grinning and cooing over his charge.

"I could just eat you up!" Sally cried. She latched onto a sneakered foot and tugged at it playfully.

"Please don't," John had snuck up behind her, his own smile fixed in place. "I promised Mary I'd get her home in one piece. Running around with Sherlock Holmes I mean my promises literally."

"You're lucky then, darling, that I already had lunch." Sally said, though she pouted a bit when she was ignored in favor of Lestrade's jacket. She nudged her boss. "You're really good with her, you know?"

"Am I? Only had her five minutes." Lestrade eyed the saliva stain that had grown exponentially. "You really are lucky, sweetie. This jacket didn't come cheap."

"Warned you." John said. "Oral fixation. Got it from her mom."

"Ooh!" The screams of horror that produced were quite satisfying. The disgust was only further encouraged by John's saucy wink.

"Three continents," he said with a none too modest shrug. "Seriously though, want to take her for the night, Lestrade? My own coats could use a break."

Sally nodded. "What say you, Papa Lestrade?"

"No." Came a voice behind them. "Definitely not." They turned to see that Sherlock had finally arrived, texting rapidly. He looked up briefly and rolled his eyes. "Oh not to you babysitting, Lestrade. John's recent love of inappropriate jokes says clearly that he needs to have sex—"

"Oy!"

"—preferably without being interrupted by a highly spoiled child."

"Gee. Wonder who could have spoiled her?" John asked.

"The 'no,'" Sherlock plowed ahead, glaring, "was in reference to you in any way being 'Papa Lestrade.' You're not her father."

John's jaw unhinged. His hands came up to wave a little desperately. "Oh! Oh! Like you're one to talk!"

"We've been over this, John. I'm her second father. There isn't room for three."

"It was a joke, freak." Sally rolled her own eyes. She looked remarkably like Sherlock in that moment, not that either of them would ever admit to it. "I get that we're a big, happy family here, but c'mon. What am I then? Her aunt?"

"God no." Sherlock whispered. He sounded nauseous and one hand fluttered to his stomach. "You… you're…" his mouth twisted. "A cousin?"

"Cousin!"

"Yes. A cousin. And you're lucky you've been granted that. Be grateful."

"Be grateful—"

"Alright, you two." John came between them, hands raised. "You know, Sherlock, Sally does bring up an interesting point. What role does Lestrade get? I mean, I originally wanted…"

Suddenly John trailed off, his eyes going wide. Then all at once his face split into a grin and he smacked his fist triumphantly against his palm. "Godfather!" He cried. "I originally wanted you to be godfather!"

"You did?" Lestrade asked.

"You WHAT?" Sherlock sounded appalled. "But you asked me!"

"Uh… yeah. Guess I did." John at least had the grace to look sheepish. "Kinda seemed like you needed it. Sorry."

"Well." Sherlock lifted his nose haughtily, sniffing at John. "Fine. It's obvious your choices were terrible anyway. I suppose this is for the best."

"Um, guys…" Lestrade blinked.

"He can be godfather. It's not as if he's any threat to my familial standing." Sherlock waved his hand like a kind enacting a decree. With that parting command he was off, jogging back under the tape and heading for the nearest taxi. It took Lestrade a stunned second to realize that John was right at his heels.

"Now wait!" He cried. "Do I get a say in this?"

"Nope!" John called, his voice already fading.

"Right. Course not. Huh." Lestrade bounced his (apparently) new goddaughter, considering. He was halfway through wondering how cute she'd be in a leather jacket when—

"Wait, John! Shit! Am I actually watching her tonight?"

Apparently yes. John's legs had already pulling into the cab and… they were off. Lestrade sighed. Again.

"Can you say, 'goddad' yet?" he asked her, somewhat morosely.

"Screw that," Sally said. She grinned wickedly. "Let's teach her to call you 'God.'"

5. Molly

Mary popped her head into the morgue. Her daughter popped her head in a second later.

"Molly?" Mary called and a third head popped out on the other side of the room.

"Hi, Mary." Molly strode in looking a bit frazzled. She had goggles on and there were brown stains on her lab coat. She held a large bowl of… something in her hands. It was, thankfully, put aside in favor of greeting her guests. Her exhausted expression morphed into one of joy when she spotted who Mary had brought with her.

"There's my little peach!" Molly moved to tickle the girl under her chin but she pulled away against her mother, suddenly shy.

"Goggles," Mary supplied.

"Oh." Molly pushed them up onto her head, causing her hair to frizz out in a thousand little tufts. She really looked the part of a mad scientist today, but at least without the goggles her eyes could be seen clearly. A tiny face peeked out from Mary's shoulder.

"That better?" Molly asked and was rewarded by a small hand clasping hers. Molly swung their joined fingers a bit. "Not much of a talker, is she?"

"Wrong." Mary said in a fair imitation of Sherlock, not unkindly though. "She'll talk your ear off, Molly, trust me. She's just about ready for her nap though. Aren't you, sweetie?" A drowsy head flopping back against her shoulder was the only response she got. "Yep. Definitely nap time."

"Here." Throwing her lab coat off (and turning it so the brown parts were hidden) Molly scrunched it and placed it atop one of the recently sterilized tables. Her scarf came next, adding to the cushioning. "I know this is a little… unorthodox… but I swear I keep this place cleaner than Baker Street, so if she's been spending time with Sherlock…"

"It's perfect." Carefully, Mary lowered her daughter onto the nest, laughing softly when she immediately curled against the coat. Her hands latched onto the scarf's fringe. "Oh look," she said dryly. "My daughter's a corpse."

"You're surprised by this?"

"Not in the least."

"Tea?"

"God yes."

The woman moved into the room adjoining where Molly had a kettle and tea leaves stashed in a bottom cabinet. It wasn't exactly allowed, having food in the morgue, but with all the things Sherlock got up to in here a few biscuits were the least of Molly's problems.

"Sugar?" she asked.

"Make it as sweet as you can, Molly. I'm gonna need it."

For a long while the women were silent as the tea brewed. When the mugs had been prepared—each of which had an adorable kitten on it. Mary's tabby was particularly cute in a gigantic straw hat—they hopped up onto the nearest table and immediately set to devouring their mid afternoon snack.

"I'm assuming you're looking for Sherlock?" Molly paused. "Or John. Since, you know, you're married to him. Not that you're not basically married to Sherlock too."

"Tell me about it," Mary said. "And yes. They promised they'd meet me here at 1:00."

"Ah." Molly sipped her tea. "It's 2:50."

"I'm aware."

"Ah."

"I've spent the last two hours right outside the door. You know, keeping the little one entertained. Sending the boys threatening text messages. The usual."

"You should have come in earlier."

"Didn't want to bother you."

Molly nudged her shoulder, causing them both to slosh a bit of tea. "You should've." She insisted. "I was dissecting Mr. Soler. He's got a really fantastic exit wound." Molly nodded to the covered body across from them and Mary got up to take a peek.

".22 caliber?" she asked, lifting the sheet.

"Centerfire rifle, actually."

"Oooo. Very nice."

"I know, right?"

They went back to demolishing the biscuits. When those were gone Molly produced a crumbling packet of crisps from her cabinet.

"They're not coming, are they?" Mary sighed.

"No, they will. It'll just be at 3:00am or something. They tend to get… sidetracked."

"Don't I know it."

"Oh." Stretching her neck, Molly tried to see out the window into the next room. "Just had a thought. She's not going to roll of the slab is she? That'd be quite a fall."

"Nah," Mary said. "She sleeps like a log." She snorted. "That is, except when she's supposed to be in bed. I'm telling you, she really is a talker. Learning all sorts of new words now and all she wants to do is ask things: 'Why does Da get to stay up? Why can't I eat ice cream for breakfast? Da-Da let me eat ice cream for breakfast. Why can't I play with Da's gun? Why is Da shorter than Da-Da?'" Mary frowned. "Don't know if I should be concerned that all her questions are about John and Sherlock."

Molly patted her hand. "Are we through asking questions about them?"

"Hell no."

"Well there it is then." She pulled another handful of crisps out, encouraging Mary to eat. "Frankly, I'm surprised she's not asking for a pony."

"Already got a pony."

"…Oh?"

"Mycroft."

"Oooooh."

"She did ask for a sister though," Mary said with a grin. "Crazy, right? One of the nurses at the clinic, Jane, she's got a daughter named Emily. Jane's pregnant again and by god, when that one found out that Emily was getting a sister and she wasn't…" Mary shook her head. "John looked tempted and I promptly told him where that thinking would get him. It's just a little on the early side for another, thank you very much."

"I always wanted a sister," Molly said wistfully.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I, uh…" Molly blushed slightly. "I wasn't always the most popular girl growing up. I convinced myself that if I had a sister it would all be better. You know, always someone to play with. Someone who understood you. She'd be blood. She'd have to love me." Molly rolled her eyes. "Fast forward twenty years and, hello, saw how well that worked out with the Holmes brothers."

"You want her?" Mary asked. Mouth full of crisps it came out a bit garbled.

"What now?"

"Her," Mary pointed toward the morgue. "Devil child. Biological product of me and John, psychological product of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Little bit of Mycroft and Lestrade too. Messed up combination, right? Well what's a Specialist Registrar sister? You'd fit right in."

"Really?!" Molly cried. A bit too loudly it turned out. There was a startled sound from the next room and then the crying started in earnest. "… Oops."

"No worries." Mary hopped off the table and grabbed Molly's hand. "The boys won't get here for hours yet, no doubt. C'mon. You can formally meet your new sister."

+1. Shirley

"Aren't you precious."

Mrs. Connell's store was the scene of a recent crime. Well, kinda. Apparently a serial killer of some-sort had dumped a body in her bakery last night (she really wasn't very good at remembering to lock up…) The police were all here, as were two very nice men who said they were consulting detectives. It was all rather exciting. They'd asked her to watch their daughter while they looked for clues; or whatever it was consulting detectives did.

Their little girl really was precious though.

Mrs. Connell smiled at the sandy-haired child. She wore a white dress with a gray print that sorta looked like skulls. Huh.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Shirley." Five-year-old Shirley Watson shuffled her feet, already bored with being left out of the case. Left behind with a witness no less.

"Really! Are you named after Shirley Temple?" Mrs. Connell asked. Shirley started to roll her eyes, but then remembered that Da always said it was rude. She kept looking at her feet instead.

"No," she admitted and then pointed to the tall man in the long black coat. "I'm named after Da-da."

"Your father?" Mrs. Connell's smile dropped in puzzlement, but only for a moment. She beamed. "Your father! A bit odd I'll admit, naming a girl after her dad, but how very sweet!" Shirley really did roll her eyes then.

"He's not my father. He's my second father," she stressed, tone indicating that this made all the difference. "Da," a chubby finger wavered towards the short man who seemed to be trying to kick the shin of the taller man. "Da is my Da." That was also stressed.

"... I see." Mrs. Connell didn't sound very sure. Then she brightened. "Oh I do see! One is 'Father' and one is 'Da.' It must get confusing, having two men for parents. Yes?"

"Noooooooo." Shirley twirled on her heels, frustrated. "He's Da and he's Da-Da! And they're not my parents! Only Da is my parent. Da-Da is my secondfather. It's totally different." She leaned forward to give Mrs. Connell an emphasizing punch on the arm. "It's like how Mama is my other parent and Mommy is my second mother. She's my babysitter, not my parent. You can't go around getting them confused." Shirley continued to spin, ignoring Mrs. Connell's baffled expression. It was growing by the minute. "Except that sometimes Uncle My says that he should have been my father because he's the smart one, but that just makes Da-Da throw things. God is sorta like a parent. He feeds me a lot. And buys me leather." Shirley rolled her eyes extra hard when Mrs. Connell chocked. "Not God god." She pointed upwards. "He doesn't exist. Oh!" Suddenly excited, Shirley started hopping from foot to foot. The sun caught and reflected against the skulls on her dress. "But I've got a big sister! Cool, right? She's, um…" Stopping to count, Shirley held up both hands and wiggled all her fingers. "Twenty-eight years older than me!"

"Uh…"

"Everything okay over here?" The shorter man had suddenly appeared behind his daughter, one hand ruffling her hair.

"Hi, Da! I was just telling…um…"

"Mrs. Connelly," she offered, voice faint.

"Right! I was just telling Mrs. Connelly about the family."

"Ah." The man's expression became pinched. "That's… lovely, sweetie."

"John. Shirley." It was the tall man. He stalked past, nose buried against his phone. "Come along. We're through here." He looked up briefly at Mrs. Connelly. "The murder obviously wasn't committed here so you haven't anything to worry about. Except for the money your grandson is skimming."

"Sherlock! Look, I'm so sorry—Sherlock!" The short man—John— gave up and grabbed Shirley around the waist, moving to catch up. The tall man—Sherlock, apparently—ignored Mrs. Connelly in favor of gazing adoringly at Shirley.

"Did you manage to keep yourself out of trouble for five minutes?" he teased. Neither of them seemed to know, or didn't seem to care, that Mrs. Connelly was still within earshot.

"She was telling our witness about the family," John said dryly.

"Did you tell her about how your Da named you after me?"

"Yeah!"

"I didn't name her after you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock snorted. "Right. She just happened to be 'Shirley.'"

"Mary's really fond of those Temple girl movies." John said, but it came out defensive. Mrs. Connelly could see a blush rising on the back of his neck.

"You believe him, Shirley?"

"Nope!"

"Me neither." Sherlock took her from John, swinging her up onto his shoulders. Shirley settled there with a familiar, happy laugh. They were nearly all the way down the street but Mrs. Connelly continued to watch, enraptured.

"Now," Sherlock said when the three of them had hit their stride. "Shirley. Remember what we discussed? What do we say when there's a case to solve?"

"The game is on!"

"Atta girl!"

Shirley's cry of success rose high on the wind, echoing all the way back to Mrs. Connelly.

The End.