Well, the Sherlock muse hit me on the head, and this is the result.
This story has three chapters (already written.) Updates will be on Saturdays.
Mary goes into labor on a February mid-afternoon. Sherlock's out of contact in every way possible, busy tracking a serial rapist who's been eluding Lestrade for months. He gets back to Baker Street at nearly midnight, exhausted and wired and coated in blood (that isn't his), to find that he has sixteen panicked voicemails from John. All of which, of course, fail to actually mention that Mary is in labor, as John is too busy cursing Sherlock out to mention that particular detail.
Sherlock deduces the situation and takes a cab to St. Bart's, where he inadvertently sneaks up on John in the waiting room.
"Why aren't you with Mary?" he demands. John jumps and releases an impressive array of swearwords.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, where have you been?"
"I told you, I had a case today. Where's Mary? Is she all right?" Sherlock says impatiently.
"Yes, I — I think she's fine, she just didn't want me in the room. I don't know why, I think she's worried the baby'll be deformed — " it's not, Sherlock's studied the obstetrician's reports — "and that'll turn me off or something." John looks a little wretched saying it. Sherlock knows the two of them have had their ups and downs in the recent months, Mary's insecurities clashing with John's lingering hurt over her lies. They're working on it, but these things take time.
"I brought food," Sherlock says, and hands John a paper bag of fish and crisps.
"Oh." John takes the bag and immediately shoves a crisp into his mouth. "I guess I forgot dinner. When did you—is that blood?"
Sherlock looks down and remembers his splattered shirt.
"Don't worry, it's a rapist's," he says dismissively, and that's the moment when the nurse comes out and says Mary's waiting for them.
John bolts for the door like he's back in Afghanistan getting pursued by terrorists. Sherlock follows at a more cautious pace, unease curling suddenly in his gut. This will change things, he knows. It's bigger than getting married. John will have more responsibilities now. He won't want to join Sherlock on dangerous cases, and he won't want to discuss murders in the living room, and Sherlock will have to baby-proof his flat, and —
"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at her. Isn't she beautiful?" John sounds tongue-tied. Mary beams up at him from the hospital bed, clearly exhausted, and John steps around to show Sherlock the pink bundle in his arms.
The baby's asleep, quiet breaths ghosting in and out of its tiny nose, and Sherlock suddenly realizes he's going to have to make another vow.
"What's her name?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
"Abigail," John says with a grin, watching Sherlock carefully. "Abigail Wilhelmina Watson."
Sherlock doesn't hear from John or Mary for a couple of weeks. He tries not to think about it. Mycroft pays him a visit and the two of them puzzle over the Moriarty-on-every-telly-in-Britain fiasco, which no one has been able to solve yet. He takes a case from Lestrade (which he solves in three hours) and sends Wiggins grocery shopping. He runs thirty-two experiments simultaneously and by the third week, Sherlock's about ready to cry from boredom. He's got his mobile out to call John when the front door opens and John comes tramping up the stairs.
Sherlock stares. His life can be weirdly ironic sometimes.
"Help," John implores, without even bothering to say hello. "I haven't slept in—I don't even know how long. Could you come over for a bit and watch Abigail, just for a few hours? Mary and I need a nap."
A babysitter? Is that what Sherlock is now?
He's about to tell John no, absolutely not, when John adds, "Please?"
And that's pretty much the end of the story.
John tries to tell him everything he needs to know on the drive back to the Watson house. Sherlock tunes him out, because he's not an idiot, he's done his research. He knows everything anyone's ever written about childcare. It can't be that hard to put into practice.
When John wakes up after a five hour nap, he initially panics, because he set his alarm for two hours, and apparently he overslept. Mary's still snoring beside him, so he lets her sleep and fumbles his way into the sitting room.
"…and your mother put a bullet through my chest once, but don't worry, I don't have any hard feelings about that."
"Sherlock!" John splutters. Sherlock looks up from where he's standing, Abigail cradled peacefully in his arms.
"Oh hello, John," he says. "I thought you'd be up about now. Have a nice nap? Dinner's on the table."
John blinks in shock. Lasagna and green beans are proudly displayed on the kitchen table, which is set for three.
"Molly stopped by and stayed for a bit," Sherlock continues, oblivious to John's disbelief. "She's quite a good cook, did you know that?" He looks down at the baby and makes, of all things, a kissy face. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few years for lasagna, Abigail."
John finds the nearest couch and sits down, because never in a million years would he have guessed that Sherlock could be a decent babysitter.
"Oh, and John? Don't open the microwave. I'm running an experiment."
Molly becomes a lifesaver, of sorts. After five or so instances of babysitting over the course of several months, Sherlock is forced to admit that despite all he knows, childcare is much different in practice than in theory. John doesn't catch on for a while, but every time he calls Sherlock up to watch Abigail, Sherlock immediately turns around and calls Molly for help. It's nice, the bonding time he gets with both the baby and with Molly. Molly doesn't scream in horror when Sherlock does something Not Good, like leaving the skull in Abigail's cradle. She just quietly and anxiously explains that no, babies shouldn't chew on skulls, put that thing far away, and moves on.
And she can cook, which is an unexpected bonus.
Unfortunately, though, Molly is not always available when Sherlock's babysitting skills are required.
Sherlock gets home to his flat at 9:00am in the morning, frustrated and in what John calls one of his "moods." He's been tracking a serial killer for the past week, but the suspect he'd been most interested in turned out merely to be a fantastically stupid shopkeeper in the wrong places at all the wrong times. While Sherlock had been tracking the shopkeeper, the serial killer had murdered another victim, and Sherlock had been up all night trying to figure out where he went wrong.
Lestrade had sent him home around 2:00am, but Sherlock had paced unhappily around London for another seven hours before returning to his flat.
Which is when, of course, his phone rings.
"Are you on a case?" John asks. He's been a bit out of contact ever since the baby came along; the two of them haven't had time to talk in months.
"Yes," Sherlock says sharply. "The same one as last week."
"Really?" John sounds surprised, which should be a compliment, but is just kind of insulting. "Can you take a break for an afternoon? Harry called me the other day and wanted to meet up for lunch. Normally I'd say no, but — well, we haven't talked since before the wedding, and I thought lunch couldn't hurt. Mary wants to come with me."
Sherlock considers. In previous years he would've immediately said no, but things have changed since then. And he actually does have to start over with his case. He supposes he can consider all his options while he watches Abigail; Molly will do most of the work, anyways.
"I'll watch her," Sherlock says, before John can even ask, and hangs up. He immediately calls Molly.
Who, it transpires, is out of town for the weekend.
Sherlock stares at his phone in a panic. He can still back out. John's not here yet, he could just call and say something came up, he has to —
The doorbell rings.
"Thanks for doing this, Sherlock, I know it's last minute," John says when Sherlock opens the door. Mary waves at him from the front seat of the car parked on the street. "You know, I've realized — we haven't had a case together in a while. Let me know when you get your next one, will you?"
"I — " Sherlock falters in the face of John's expectant smile. He can't back out now, can he? That would be Not Good, especially since John seems so happy. And he wants to go on a case with John again. "Yes. I will." He takes Abigail from John. "Now go on, get out. We'll be fine."
Which is a lie, it's such a lie, but Sherlock's always been good at lying.
It goes well for the first hour or so. 221B has been baby-proofed for a while now, out of Sherlock's sheer paranoia, with a new gate that blocks off the kitchen. John's pointed out multiple times that the gate isn't necessary until Abigail starts walking, but Sherlock's good at ignoring him. Mrs. Hudson has been surprisingly helpful, keeping most of the flat clean and disease-free. Sherlock puts Abigail in the corner and lets her sleep while he tacks photos of murder victims to the wall, trying impatiently to see what he missed the first time around. He's so absorbed that he doesn't even realize Abigail's crying until Mrs. Hudson sticks her head in to ask what the screaming is about.
"Oh," Sherlock says guiltily, wincing at the noise. "Ah, not to worry, Abigail's just—hungry. I haven't fed her yet. Go on, Mrs. Hudson."
"Do you need any help, dear?"
"No," Sherlock says, while inwardly screaming yes. He can't let John find out that he's incompetent, or John will never let him babysit again, and then he'll never see John again. "We're fine."
Feeding Abigail actually does turn out to be the right course of action, or at least the course of action that gets her to stop screaming. Sherlock carries her to the window as he holds the bottle to her lips, idly looking down at the street while she gurgles her meal.
There's not much happening outside; it's a quiet, hateful kind of afternoon. Except for a man standing casually across from his window, there's no activity and no one around. Sherlock gives the man a glance. New hat pulled low over his eyes, new clothes, new shoes, hasn't showered recently, carrying a wallet, a mobile, and a —
He does a double take, eyes darting upwards, trying to see the man's face beneath the hat.
Which is when the man pulls out his gun, aims at Sherlock's head, and fires.
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