Loud, Smelly, and Leaky

by Amy L. Hull

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Prompt from BlueMorpho. Thanks for betas from BlueMorpho and Solea. Brit-picking thanks to BlindAssassin.

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I clasp my hands tightly behind me, chin lifted, shoulders back, posture public-school-ramrod straight. I have no experience with living human newborns. I quell the urge to rock on my heels, to pace, to leap over the furniture, and content myself with clenching and releasing my hands.

Mrs Hudson rustles past with a plate of biscuits. "Sherlock, you're positively vibrating. We're welcoming John and Mary home, dear, not having a parade and drill."

I smile tightly and clench my hands tighter as a key rattles in the lock. Mrs Hudson scurries to pull the door open.

John nods to her then staggers through the door awkwardly, hefting an ergonomically unbalanced plastic cradle whose handle forces it away from one's body. Tremendously poor design. John also carries a large paper bag by its handles while holding a large package of landfill-polluting nappies under his elbow.

The bag lands on the floor, and the plastic child carrier is set gently on the table. Squeaking noises uncannily like those of an injured rodent or a trapped cat break my resolve, and I rock back on my heels, tightening my fingers behind me. It does nothing to reduce my tension.

Mary moves gingerly through the door, and John fusses about her, taking her coat, muttering endearments on top of fretful reassurances before trying to take her arm.

She chuckles and swats him away. I shake my head. Really, he should know better.

Mrs Hudson is clapping her hands together, leaning over the baby with a wide smile. "Oh, just look at her! Hello, Little Miss Blue Eyes."

I scoff. "Hardly a unique trait. The eyes of most infants of European heritage appear blue at birth. All of us in this house, and upwards of half of white Britain, have blue eyes."

"Sherlock, save the biology till later?" John hovers near Mary, trying to help her settle into an overstuffed chair, still nervously chattering about comfort and pillows and a cuppa.

I tune him out.

"Just press the red release button...you've got it," Mary is saying, and Mrs Hudson lifts a squirming bundle of yellow with a ridiculous green-and-yellow jester's cap.

"Well if you aren't just beautiful," Mrs Hudson coos.

Mary only has eyes and smiles for this small human, and John stops his puttering long enough to smile at Mrs Hudson holding his daughter.

They look like a family: mum, dad, grandmother. "Hmm." That would make me the-

"Go on, Uncle Sherlock," Mary is saying, "give her a cuddle."

I'd been thinking "the awkward intruder who should leave," but Mrs Hudson uses me to support the infant's torso and head as she deftly removes the fleece zippered footie...thing and, thank heavens, that ridiculous hat. And, just like that, I'm holding John and Mary's daughter. She meets my eyes and, for a moment, seems almost sentient, this creature with John's chin, Mary's long and tapered fingers. It is surreal that Mary incubated it, until two days ago, inside her own body. I feel a certain warmth that is almost pleasant, but unsettling.

Mrs Hudson folds the miniature garments and all three of them smirk. At me.

"Mary, surely you want-"

"No, no," Mary's grin widens. "She should get to know her Uncle Sherlock!"

John heads abruptly for the kitchen, no doubt laughing at me. "I'll put the kettle on."

Its wrinkled, toothless face scrunches up and its entire bald head turns red. "Are all newborn humans disproportionate and repellent?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson looks aghast, as if what I've said is somehow untrue.

"Uncle Sherlock thinks you're beautiful, sweetheart," Mary coos.

Suddenly tiny fists begin to flail, and it kicks and emits rhythmic squeals.

Cold terror replaces the momentary warmth. "John. I think it wants you," I call, unwilling to admit that I'm frightened of breaking it.

"She's a 'she,' Sherlock, not an it," is the only response besides the clatter of china.

The squeals intensify, heading rapidly up the shrill of a poorly-played E-string. My ears hurt, and I raise my voice to be heard. "What does it want?"

Mary's hand goes to her mouth and her eyes dance. Damn her.

Mrs Hudson just shakes her head. "Oh, Sherlock."

I have no idea what that is supposed to mean.

"What is that..." I instinctively move the creature away from me and see a spreading dark spot on my best aubergine shirt. Liquid begins to warm my hand as the infant wails, unbelievably, even louder. "My shirt!" The unexpected emotional response was bad enough, but now this?

"Oh, dear." Mary tries-poorly-to disguise a giggle. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I haven't quite got the knack of securing the nappies."

"It's those newborn ones, love." Mrs Hudson waves her off as if this is nothing. "These little ones are too small for a nappy that will hold anything."

I hold the old-man-baby-girl at arm's length. "It is still leaking. And, now, dripping," I announce, hoping one of them will do something.

"She!" John calls from the kitchen.

"Dripping on my very expensive shirt."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson reproaches, frowning.

I force a smile. Again. It makes my face ache. "Your infant's disturbingly plaintive wail has become excruciating."

Mary is no longer even trying to conceal her laughter.

John, in the kitchen, has turned his back, but his shoulders were shaking. Damn him.

I glare at them all. This precise glare has got me into classified crime scenes.

Here it has no effect at all. Damn them.

Mary presses a hand to her side and cringes as she shifts in her chair, and I remember she just spent nineteen hours in labour expelling this creature. "She needs to be changed. Just hold her closer while I get the pad-"

Mrs Hudson pops up despite her hip. "Don't get up. That's what we're here for."

"In the bag by the door." Mary shifts again.

"They don't even produce this colour silk anymore!"

Mrs Hudson only pats my arm. "Come over here." She spreads a pad on the floor. "You're going to have to learn. Lay her here." She pats the spot. "Don't forget to support her head."

I feel my lip curl.

"Don't give me that look, Sherlock Holmes. I'm still having a talk with your mother."

I roll my eyes-does she really think I don't know they have monthly tea together?-and settle the shrieking, squirming creature onto the pad. Mrs Hudson guides my hands in undoing the half dozen little snaps, as if that could possibly be unclear. The diaper comes off, and, as if uncorked, flatulence erupts. My nose twitches.

"John...why does your daughter smell like...curry?"

"Oh." Mary's hand comes away from her mouth. "Well, I'm nursing, of course, and..." She smiles and cringes simultaneously, tendons standing out on her neck. "I had John bring me Indian last night."

A gush of clumpy yellow goo spews from the creature.

I leap back, but not quickly enough, and it spatters my cuff. "Ruined," I mutter. "Utterly ruined." At least the others finally have the good grace to look shocked. I stand, spin on my heel and grab my Belstaff, gingerly holding it away from my soiled shirt.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you going?" Mary asks.

I don't look back. "Let me know when it no longer shrieks, leaks, or explodes!"

John's faint rejoinder sounds, "Not 'it,' Sherlock! She!"

Mrs Hudson scolds, just before the door latches, "You forgot to say congratulations!"

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~end~

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