Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.
A/N: I have no good excuse for this fic other than wanting to just write some good old fashioned fluff. Most kid!fics always seem to deal with older children so I thought I'd try something different and explore how John and Sherlock would tackle impending parenthood. I literally just hashed this chapter out in fifteen minutes so I apologize for any glaring errors that you might see. I've had the whole fic outlined for months and just couldn't come up with a way to start it until now. Funny how that works, isn't it?
And I'm sure the question will come up so no, this is not going to be a mpreg story. Sherlock and John will acquire their little bundle of joy through conventional means.
Enjoy! Any and all feedback is always so appreciated.
In retrospect, Sherlock is certain that the existence of the squalling, squished, wiggling little pink thing in his arms could be entirely blamed on Mrs. Hudson.
However, to hear Mrs. Hudson tell it, one would assume that no one was to blame; that it was all a part of maturation, of growing up and sorting out one's priorities. But should they assume that, they would be wrong. It had nothing to do with priorities or growth or any other such nonsense—no. Oh no. It was the fault of Martha and Sophie Hudson, the sickeningly sweet grandmother/granddaughter duo who, as far as Sherlock was concerned, were put on this earth for the sole purpose of destroying his life.
Because if it hadn't been for little Sophie Hudson, there would still be beakers in his sink rather than bottles. Instead of formula in the refrigerator, there would be the bag of tongues that Molly had managed to scrounge up for him, all chilled and ready for experimentation. In place of the crib that now resided in the upstairs bedroom, perhaps there could be an office with a bookcase. Or a new centrifuge. Or a music stand. Perhaps said room wouldn't be painted the most vibrant, headache inducing shade of yellow and perhaps there could have been a new lab table with room for a new microscope.
But because of Sophie Hudson, Sherlock now lived in a quote "baby proofed flat". Because of Sophie Hudson, he'd read all sorts of books on how to properly rear one's offspring and taken parenting classes and gone to doctor's appointments and framed ultrasound photographs and poured over list after list of insipid and utterly ridiculous baby names. (And he'd always thought that there could be nothing worse than Mycroft.)
Because of Sophie Hudson, John had developed what Mrs. Hudson affectionately referred to as "baby fever". Little Sophie was no more than a week old when she'd come waltzing into their lives with all the force of a devastating tornado, practically reducing John into a liquefied puddle of goo right there in the middle of the living room.
Mrs. Hudson had used the guise of wanting to introduce her granddaughter to, in her words, her second family—her "boys". But oh, Sherlock knew better than that. Her motives had been clear to him the moment she'd breezed in, carting a little lump in a horrendous pink dress.
"Isn't she just precious, John?" she'd said.
"You're so good with her, John," she'd said.
"Oh, you're a natural!" she'd said.
"You would make a wonderful father, John," she'd said.
And that had been that. With those words, she'd planted the seed. She'd sparked John's so called "fever". She'd known exactly what she was doing, clever old bird that she was. She wanted her second family to have a family; wanted little surrogate grandchildren for Sophie to play with. She wanted another reason to hover around. Some fresh blood to fuss over.
Enter squalling pink thing.
Sherlock would never begrudge her, though. In fact, he supposes that maybe he should thank her because without all of her meddling, there would be no squalling little pink thing. His life would never have been ruined (for the better, that is) and John would never have looked so blindingly happy. Without all of her meddling, he wouldn't have a son.
No, they. They wouldn't have a son—Emerson Bradley Holmes-Watson wouldn't exist.
So, really, in all actuality, it is all Mrs. Hudson's fault.
And neither Sherlock nor John could ever thank her enough.