Barrie. Barrie Louise Watson. Sherlock still thought 'Sherlock' could have been used as a girl's name, at least a middle name, but the proud parents had disagreed. She had Mary's blue eyes and John's sandy blonde hair, started crawling at six months, smiled more than was natural, and absolutely adored Sherlock.

He'd been hesitant to even hold her at first. He'd never really been around children; he was the youngest, he had no little relatives, and he had no friends with kids of their own. Archie came and visited him occasionally, but all he had to do to entertain that boy was pull up some pictures of bullet wounds and legless horses; he never sat and bounced him on his knee or rocked him to sleep. When Mary finally got Sherlock to pick up the baby (by having a "bathroom emergency" when John was away, forcing the girl into his arms, and dashing away,) he'd discovered that it really wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. Seeing her in her parents' arms all day long, so small, he was sure that he would break her – hold her too tightly or sneeze and instinctively raise his arm to cover his mouth. Left alone with her suddenly, he'd simply held her to his chest while she gazed up at him with her enormous eyes (baby's eyes increase about 50% to reach their full size; in contrast, heads and brains can be as much as four times the size they are at birth, making infant's eyes appear disproportionate to their faces.) After a few seconds, she'd smiled and reached out. Instinctively, Sherlock did what he had always done when he was unsure of himself – he imitated John. He held out a finger and the baby grasped it. In that moment, a friendship was born.

Mary joked that she almost regretted handing Barrie to Sherlock that afternoon. The baby was happiest, now, in Sherlock's presence, something that irritated John to no end. In fact, she seemed to prefer Sherlock to John. Earlier that week, when Mary had dared leave the baby with the two men while she departed with Molly for a much-needed shopping trip, Barrie had woken up from her nap early and refused to go back down. After thirty minutes of "Shut up, Sherlock!" and "I know how to take care of my own daughter, Sherlock," Sherlock finally picked up his violin and played "Barrie's Lullaby" (recently finished). She was out almost instantly. John didn't speak to him for the rest of the afternoon.

For his part, Sherlock found himself strangely, unexpectedly, and hopelessly devoted to the little girl. Just as she preferred his presence to almost everyone else, Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed rocking and bouncing Barrie in his arms. She loved being carried and hated sitting still and Sherlock willingly obliged; he found he did his best thinking when he paced his living room with the sleeping baby resting on his shoulder. Mary thought it was adorable; John found it bizarre.

He felt guilty, though, when Barrie was forced to take a nap in his room for lack of a better space. Not because he minded the baby in his bed, but because he worried that he might have left a cigarette or a pipette or a thumb in there by accident for her to find. Which is what led him to turning John's old room into a makeshift nursery. Which is what led him to calling his parents in search of old baby items.

The instant his mother heard the word "baby" come out of his mouth, she'd flown into a flurry. It took Sherlock a full four seconds to realize she thought he was referring to his own baby and another six seconds before he could properly respond.

"Mother, the baby is not mine," he finally sputtered.

Silence (a rarity with his mother) before, "Oh. Of course not. Why do you want your old baby things, then, Sherlock? If you think I'm going to let you desecrate my memories of my sons' childhoods for one of your experiments, you are going to be extremely disappointed."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. What experiment could he possible do with a baby's crib? Sometimes his mother was just ridiculous. A mobile, on the other hand… "The Watsons. It's their daughter. They're at my flat enough that I thought there should be a proper crib for her." She said nothing. "I'm being considerate."

"You never told me the Watsons had a baby," she accused.

"You saw Mary at Christmas. She was as big as a house. I assumed you could make the proper deductions from there yourself."

"I knew she was pregnant, Sherlock. You never told me she had the baby."

"If she was pregnant, of course she had the baby, what did you think was going to happen?"

"I didn't know she had the baby yet."

"She was as big as a house!" He repeated. "It's been nearly a year. How long-"

"Don't talk that way about a pregnant woman," his mother scolded. "When I was pregnant with you, I was twice her size, and that was your fault."

"Technically that would be your husband's fault."

"Sherlock, don't be vulgar."

He pulled the phone away from his face and took a deep breath. A crib, he thought. I just needed a crib. I could have bought a crib. I could have built a crib. Why the hell am I calling her for a crib? But the damage was done now, no going back. Another deep breath. Back to the battlefield.

"Do you have a crib or don't you?"

"Of course we have a crib! What do you think you slept in?" Rhetorical question. Don't answer.

"Can I have it? Since it's mine."

"Yes, of course, it's very considerate of you, dear, really, it is. I'm sure they'll be absolutely delighted. Have you painted the baby room yet? Your father could always come back with you and help you set everything up if you need him too. We have toys, too, if you'd like to take them as well. Of course, Mary and John can pick those out for themselves, we'll be quite delighted to give away anything that they want, obviously we have no use for them anymore, they just take up space. Your father wanted to sell them once but I said, 'Those are heirlooms!' I said, 'You don't just give away memories like that,' and obviously I was right to keep them."

Come back with you…pick out for themselves… It almost sounded as if… "When will you be stopping by?" He asked pointedly.

She laughed. "No, you'll come get them, Sherlock."

He frowned. This wasn't going the way he wanted at all. "I'm really quite busy. Work…murders…I have a few feet that I need to tend to…"

"You're building a baby room, Sherlock, how busy can you be?"

He thought up six possible directions that he could take the conversation at this point, but every one led to the same outcome so he resigned himself to submitting and ending the phone call as quickly as possible. "Will you be home on Saturday?"

"Yes, of course. Will that work for Mary and John as well?"

Which was how he ended up standing outside his parents cottage with Mary, John, and Barrie for what Mary described as 'Baby's Day Out.' ("It's a movie, Sherlock! How have you not seen this movie!")

With great reluctance, Sherlock knocked on the door. His mother opened almost instantly, almost as if she had been waiting in the entranceway for them (which she had been, he'd heard her.)

"Oh, hello, come in, come in!" She swept them into the house before engulfing Mary in a hug. "Oh, Mary, dear, you look wonderful. John," she leaned over and kissed his cheek, "congratulations, you must be so proud. And this," she approached Sherlock, who was, of course, carrying Barrie, "must be the baby." She took her from him.

"Brilliant deduction," he muttered. He also noted, with a twinge of annoyance, that his presence had not been acknowledged. And Barrie, who did not like strangers, who sometimes did not like her own father, giggled happily as his mother cradled her. Traitor.

"Are you going to stay in the entryway, dear?" His father's voice echoed from the living room. "Because I've set up everything in here."

Sherlock's parents had gone all out. The crib was put together (illogical – we'll have to dissemble it to get to back to London,) a pile of stuffed animals sat near the couch (they'll have to be washed,) clothes sat on the couch (boys' clothes,) and a blanket stretched across the floor (that's actually good.) His father stood, nodded to him, and politely asked to hold the baby, which his mother willingly handed over.

While his mother fetched drinks, Mary walked straight to the clothes while John took a look at the crib. Sherlock tagged alongside his best friend, giving the crib a firm shake, and was satisfied with its sturdiness.

"Mrs. Holmes, this was so unnecessary."

"Yes, I said the crib and a few toys. I didn't say we were stopping here instead of going to 'Baby's 'R' Us.'" He'd thought John was joking when he'd first mentioned that store and now he was a little embarrassed that he'd remembered it.

His mother tittered. "Nonsense, Mary, we have all this stuff from when the boys were young and none of it gets any use. We were saving it for our own grandchildren, but since we're still waiting on those, I would be happy if you wanted to take some."

Sherlock choked on his drink and his mother shot him a look. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you're not in much of a hurry, are you?"

He stared at her and ignored John attempting to disguise his laughter as a cough. "Mycroft's older," was the only response he could come up with.

"We've long since given up hope with Mycroft, haven't we, Siger? But we're still waiting on you."

"Oh, keep waiting," Sherlock muttered.

He didn't like the look on Mary's face. "If Sherlock and Molly ever transition for godparents to parents, Mrs. Holmes, we'll return anything we take so your grandchildren can have them."

Sherlock stared at her, openmouthed, unable to formulate an explanation. And he was losing time. His mother would say something and then his opportunity for distraction would be lost and-

"Who is Molly?" His mother turned towards him excitedly, a look of hope in her eyes. Ridiculous hope. No hope. Get rid of that hope.

"A pathologist at St. Bart's," he answered, still working on a way out of his predicament. Why would Mary say that? Because she's evil. She was an assassin, remember, she has no morals.

"Are you seeing her? Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't Mycroft tell us? You'll have to bring her round, Sherlock, you absolutely must. Perhaps you can come over for Guy Fawkes Night. We could have a bonfire, we haven't really celebrated in a while."

"Guy Fawkes…" he said slowly.

"Mary was just teasing, Mrs. Holmes," John said, changing the subject. Bad memories associated with Guy Fawkes Night, huh, John? "Molly's a friend, a good friend of all of ours. It's a bit of an inside joke, not the kind one should make around people not on the inside of the joke, Mrs. Watson," he said, smiling at his wife.

Trust John to get him out of this.

His mother's face deflated somewhat, but she turned in an attempt to hide her disappointment. "Well, you should all come over, this Molly too. We could still celebrate, three generations, even if they're not all mine."

"Barrie doesn't actually have grandparents, Mrs. Holmes," John said thoughtfully. "My parents are dead, as are Mary's. You're probably the only grandmother she'll ever have."

Trust John to know exactly what to say. His mother simply beamed at him.

"Oh, bless you, John." She took his hand and squeezed it. "I'd be proud if she were my granddaughter."

Barrie chose that moment to cry and Sherlock saw a perfect opportunity to do something, anything, to get himself out of this suddenly emotional, awkward conversation. He all but dove to the floor and picked up Barrie, rocking her back and forth and rubbing her back until she cooed and smiled at him. He smiled back and gently kissed the top of her head.

He was suddenly aware that everyone in the room was watching him.

Clothes…blanket…crib….stuffed animals… "Mother, aren't there some blocks and a mobile somewhere? The basement, perhaps?"

His mother watched him for a moment, then nodded. "Oh, yes, but they're on the top shelf. Siger, would you come with me?"

His father stood and so did Mary. "I'll come down, too. Search around a bit, if you don't mind."

"Oh, of course."

"John, come along. We might need you to carry something," Mary added as she followed Sherlock's father out the door. John shrugged and tagged along behind her. His mother waited a second longer, though, still watching him.

"You'd be a good father." Then she left.

Sherlock watched her go, eyebrows furrowed. A father. No, he'd be a terrible father. Things exploding, running off in the night after serial killers.

He shook his head, physically ridding himself of the sudden onslaught of entirely unwanted and uncomfortably personal thoughts and focused his attention once more on the little girl in his arms, watching him patiently with her usual bright smile on her face. He couldn't help but smile back and he kissed the top of her head once more, without the spectators.

He sat on the blanket (his blanket) and poked around the stuffed animals, searching for one in particular. A black cat. He picked it up and held it up to Barrie. "This is Anne Bonny," he told her. "She's very brave and very smart and she'll keep you safe." He watched as Barrie grasped the tail in the hand that wasn't clutching his finger. "She's named after a pirate, a real pirate. It's quite an interesting story, actually…"

I own nothing. Except Barrie. Who is inspired by BBC Sherlock anyway. (Barrie, by the way, means "fair-haired" in English. So does Sherlock. That was as close as I could get to the baby being named after him, which she absolutely should be.) Reviews welcome and appreciated.

Edit: Also, a special thank you to my guest reviewer who pointed out that there is not Thanksgiving in Britain. That's my American mind not thinking ;) I've changed all mentions of Thanksgiving to Guy Fawkes Day, which seems more appropriate given the events of "The Empty Hearse." Given that I've never actually celebrated, I hope the mentions I made of it were accurate.