Prologue

March 2015

The first four weeks had been a blissful whirlwind of emotions. The most perfect twenty eight days of their lives. The best sleeplessness they would ever know.

At least, that's what they told everyone. No one wanted to know the reality of what John and Mary were dealing with. That a new baby was quickly becoming one of the top three things most likely to be the death of John (number one being his best friend, Sherlock Holmes). He and Mary were among the first of their friends to get married, let alone to get pregnant. They couldn't sympathize with the two, four and six A.M. feedings. Didn't know what it was like to be sprayed while changing a nappy, despite the fact that the baby girl seemingly lacked the equipment to accomplish the task. What spit up tasted like after being warmed in the stomach of an infant.

But then there were those moments. Those simply perfect moments when she had fallen asleep with her cheek resting on her little fist, her peach fuzz blonde hair blowing softly as Mary breathed in the sweet baby's scent. When she opened her eyes just enough for John to see the pale grey blue that danced with light. A faint twinge of a smile when he brushed her ears as he changed her tiny clothes to some not completely covered in saliva. At least, not for the next ten minutes.

They'd had very few visitors so far. Mrs. Hudson had brought a week's worth of casseroles every Sunday with instructions for storing, reheating and then storing again. Most of these dishes had been eaten cold; left on the counter to be scooped out, bare handed, until the couple could no longer justify their edibility. Lestrade had come three times a week for the first two. He was surprisingly adept at holding an infant. The new parents had found themselves asleep on the sofa more than once as Greg cradled their girl. But as cases began to pile up, his visits stopped altogether, though he called as often as he could. Even Molly had stopped by once, though her visit was cut short. Her nerves eventually had gotten the better of her as she crashed into surrounding objects and rattled off statistics about infant illnesses. She had left apologizing the entire way, though both John and Mary tried to encourage her to stay.

Sherlock had been the only one who had not made an appearance at the flat. He had been to the hospital after John had first broken the news to him. The consulting detective had seemed rather distracted, but the moment John's daughter was placed into his arms, his entire demeanor changed. He had become completely wrapped around her littlest finger at the sight of her chubby cheeks and bemused smile. He cooed, cuddled and stared at the small figure wrapped in pink until a nurse came in and announced it was feeding time. As the two men were ushered out, John saw it as the perfect opportunity to ask a very important question.

"Sherlock, Mary and I were wondering... Well, I was really wondering... Though I'm sure this goes without saying, you must already know..."

"John, I'm sure they won't be all day with feeding her, so why don't we just skip to the point."

Sherlock was smiling, amused by how flustered fatherhood had made his blogger.

"Yes, well, fair enough. Will you be our little girl's godfather?"

Sherlock's face went blank. He simply stared at the doctor, barely blinking.

"Not religiously, of course, though we would like you to be at the christening. It's more of a symbolic thing. Anyway, it only seems appropriate, you being the best man at our wedding…"

The blank stare continued as John spoke. It was a bit unnerving, actually, but it was something John had expected as a possible reaction. His best friend's gaze wasn't broken until a buzz came from his pocket.

"Look, Sherlock, I know it's not something you normally do…"

Sherlock looked at his phone, his face remained blank as he studied it intently. John continued, now slightly annoyed.

"But having a baby isn't something I'm used to, either, so…"

"I'm sorry John, I cannot accept."

His words came out so abruptly that John was shocked into instant silence. He blinked several times, attempting to process the impossible sentence that had just exited the thin-lipped mouth. Hesitation he had expected. Disbelief, shock, gratitude; all expected. But not refusal.

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm sorry, John, I have to go."

"But Sherlock! Sherlock!"

As the tails of the long charcoal coat vanished behind the elevator doors, John felt sick to his stomach. His phone calls went unanswered for the following two days. Mary tried her best to reassure her husband. That, perhaps, he just needed some time. But John continued to think the worst. Since then, he only received fleeting texts from the consulting detective. Notes like "new case, busy for a few days" and "hope you three are doing well." Any texts from John, however, went completely unanswered. Lestrade offered little consolation, though he was able to at least provide some connection to the man.

"He's just wrapped up in a case. You know how he gets. And with you gone… Well, he's doing his best to give you your space. He knows how important this time is for you both. For all three of you. Give it some time. And I'll talk to him, see if i can't get him to drop in."

But Greg seemed to have no success with this task, either. Mrs. Hudson had even less news to offer.

"Barely see him anymore. A glimpse every now and again. But that web in the living room has gotten worse. Strings everywhere! I had to stop him from connecting it to the door. I couldn't get in! Otherwise, he seems fine, bless him. Still drinks the tea I leave every morning, though sometimes he's not home when I do. But I'm sure he's fine, dear, don't you worry. He'll come 'round soon enough. Now, come sit down and have a cupa'."

There had been one night when the couple had found themselves stranded in the middle of the night with no nappies or wipes. As John left the flat half awake and half dressed, he stopped at the site of a shopping bag on the steps. He was so tired and distraught that he never questioned the bag's appearance, but simply plucked it up and headed back inside.

Now, almost a month after speaking to Sherlock in the hospital, John's pocket buzzed.

If convenient, come to Baker Street. If inconvenient, come when able.

With more speed than he would later admit to, John hurried to dress, kiss Mary and the baby goodbye, then rushed to 221B.

The all too familiar dark blue door slammed behind him as he ran up the stairs of his best friend's flat. Mrs. Hudson began shouting from below at the noise, but John wasn't listening.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, if you're not here, I'm going to bloody kill you."

The living room was empty, save for the maze of strings and notes strung from all areas of the room. The center note still read in ominous red letters "Did you miss me?" John continued to call out as he checked the kitchen, bedroom and even the loo. Finding no one, John headed upstairs to his old room. He didn't know why he was checking there. John didn't think Sherlock had so much as cleared his bed, let alone moved anything from when he had lived there nearly three years ago.

"Sherlock, I didn't come all this way just to..."

His sentence was cut short as he opened the door and he was met with a brilliant sight. The walls had been painted a soft green with a border of colourful geometric shapes lining the top of the room. The bed had been removed and replaced with a grey wooden cot with high sides. A changing table, small dresser and bookshelf lined the other walls. A variety of educational toys and books were nearly organized around the room. The only word John could think of to describe the design was science. Sherlock was standing just in front of the wardrobe holding a gift basket filled with nappies, wipes and a stuffed honey bee. He was smiling his sweet, placid smile that he only wore when apologising to his blogger.

"If the offer still stands, now I can accept."