~ Godfather ~
"God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend."
"Yeah, but there'll be cake. Will you do it?"
"I'll get back to you."
But, of course, there'd been no real question that he would consent to act as Rosamund Mary Watson's godfather. He bloody deserved cake, after the trauma of Miss Watson's birth.
While John, with a death grip on the steering wheel, had sped the car toward the pre-selected birthing centre in Harley Street, Sherlock had actually been in the back seat with Mary, fruitlessly attempting to calm her, his efforts to google ways in which to do so entirely unappreciated and grossly impeded when, kneeling, she'd rudely mashed his face against the window, and then began to roar at John to pull the car over – with good reason as Sherlock could presently see. The next few minutes (which seemed, at the time, more like hours) were the stuff of nightmares.
One would have thought two experienced medical professionals could have handled the matter at hand – somewhat unusual for them, perhaps, but certainly mundane enough when one considered a world population of almost 7.5 billion – with the calm efficiency they'd displayed in so many previous medical emergencies. However, this had not been the case.
It still made him shudder to think of it.
The situation had eventually improved, of course. Since the venue of the birth had been somewhat unorthodox, mother and child had been transported to Bart's for the rest of the night for observation. Presently Mary and Rosamund were cleaned up and comfortably bedded down in a luxurious private room (thanks to a quick text to Mycroft), the baby neatly swaddled with only a pink cap and the tiny, scrunched, yet beautiful face showing. Some colour came back into Mary's cheeks, and a smile to her lips as she and John looked down on their daughter. And then Molly had come in, oohed and ahed over the newest Watson for a few minutes, then took Sherlock away to the canteen for tea and sympathy.
That part had been quite satisfactory.
And the Christening itself, a few weeks later, turned out to be mildly enjoyable, in spite of Sherlock's skepticism regarding the entire premise of the ceremony–after all, he'd made his own vow months ago. But most of those he held dear were there: lovely Mary, and John, and the small being who was now the center of their world; Mrs. Hudson, clucking and clutching her handkerchief; and Molly, standing beside him, clothed in charmingly typical Molly attire, slightly impatient with him, but generally as happy as he'd ever seen her. There was an almost palpable atmosphere of well-being, of friendship and shared history. Of joy and hope.
And later, of course, there was cake.
~.~