They lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The Baby had been asleep in his crib for nearly two hours.
"What do you think of Mark?" John asked.
"No. It somehow reminds me of Mycroft."
"How? Mark has nothing to do with Mycroft!"
"The first letter is the same." Sherlock eyed him in the gloom. "It's enough."
John rolled his eyes. "What about Martin-No. First letter, right."
"Yes. And I don't want our child to grow up obsessed with aeroplanes. So Martin is out. As are Douglas and Arthur."
John giggled. Sherlock was impossible.
"Steven?" the good doctor asked, after few minutes filled with quiet snoring from the crib.
"Name me a Steven who isn't a troll! Come on, John, use your imagination!"
"Hey! I'm trying to! I've given you at least twenty names in the last two-"
He was cut short by a wail. Oh, so it was already two hours and twenty-one minutes? The Baby worked like a Swiss watch. John watched Sherlock-thank God it was his turn-with a smile. Sherlock was good at this. Hell, he was good at anything he put his gigantic mind to.
"There, there, my little cucumber patch, daddy is here..."
"Benedict," John snapped.
Sherlock smiled, long fingers teasing out a halo of blond curls.
"So he is... Benedict."