Ooh, a new chapter and a new story in the same day! Aren't I fancy! So here's my latest mind-worm that wouldn't let me sleep until it happened. This will have Johnlock eventually, so the rating may change based on how much man secks I want to happen. But basically this story will be all fluffity-fluff-fluff. Hope you like it! Reviewers will be rewarded with virtual hugs.
I do not own Sherlock, John, or anyone/thing else. Only the plot. And I don't even make money off that. *sob*
Sherlock looked out the door again. No, his senses didn't deceive him; the odd little bundle was still there. His original suspicions of it being a bomb had been (almost) completely disproven when a tiny fist had extended from the blanket and clutched at the air, a high pitched squeal filling the air. Sherlock frowned and took out his phone.
When was the last time you had intercourse with a woman? –SH
Christ, Sherlock! I dunno, a year maybe? –JW
Would nine months seem accurate? –SH
Yes, I suppose… Why? –JW
There's a child on our doorstep John. Congratulations. –SH
Wait, what?! –JW
You know I hate repeating myself. –SH
The detective risked another peek at the infant in question, deducing as much as he could about the child from a safe distance. The mother obviously did not want it, so someone who John had not been close to or had parted with on bad terms. Fairly nice blanket and the child seemed to be in a sort of pajama, so the mother had at least an iota of conscience. The splash of mud on the edge of the blanket indicated a home (or at least birth site) on the outskirts of London. He narrowed his eyes before shaking his head in resolve. Without further examination, that was all he could deduce. He perked up when his phone buzzed in his pocket, denoting a new text.
So I may possibly be a dad is what you're saying? –JW
Yes. It's extremely likely. –SH
Oh my God… -JW
John, do come home. I haven't the slightest idea what to do with it. –SH
Well, where is the baby? –JW
I told you, on our doorstep. –SH
You didn't bring the poor thing inside? –JW
Should I have? –SH
YES. Sherlock, it's a baby. Babies need love and attention. You need to hold him or her. –JW
No. –SH
Sherlock! –JW
I'm not touching it. –SH
Sherlock, please. –JW
For me. –JW
Fine. What do I do? –SH
Pick up the baby; mind its head and neck. –JW
Do you have it? –JW
[delayed] Yes. It's now on the kitchen table. –SH
Well done. Now, I need you to give it a look over, make sure it's not hurt. –JW
It seems healthy enough. –SH
Oh, and it's a boy. –SH
A boy? I have a son? –JW
That's what I just said. –SH
And I think it has your nose. –SH
Sherlock, the baby is a 'he,' not an 'it.' Put the sociopathic tendencies on the back burner for a bit. –JW
My nose, really? –JW
Sherlock ran his fingertips over the baby's face, trying to determine if the child did indeed bear any resemblance to his flatmate, when the child decided to make a game of fitting Sherlock's long slender fingers into its tiny mouth. Sherlock gaped as the child began to suck on his index finger, unsure of how to react. Pulling his finger away would undoubtedly result in crying, which was unfavorable. It seemed that becoming a human dummy was the only option. The baby made a contented cooing noise as it suckled on the detective's unwilling digit, and Sherlock found himself smiling despite himself. He had never liked babies, they were a mess of sugar and crying and nappies, with no real contribution to society except that they had the potential to grow into decently intelligent human beings. But this one seemed… Different. Calm and ridiculously happy with the simplest things. Sort of like, well, like John. Perhaps there is some family resemblance in more than just noses, Sherlock mused to himself.
What does he look like? –JW
Pink. Quite squirmy. –SH
Well, obviously. I meant facial features. Hair? Eyes? –JW
Not much to speak of for hair. A bit of ginger fuzz on top. Sort of blue eyes. –SH
What're you two doing now? –JW
He's attempting to eat my finger. –SH
Sherlock, that's adorable. –JW
No it's not. –SH
Yes it is. –JW
I think he's hungry. What shall I feed him? Jam? He's your son, he must like jam. –SH
That's hardly proper food for a newborn. But seeing as we have nothing else, I suppose you can give him a tiny bit of jam. I'll get some formula on my way home. –JW
Sherlock scrutinized the tiny lips that were currently determined to nibble every bit of jam off of Sherlock's finger. When the baby was done, the baby stared at the now bare finger as if in disappointment, before deciding that a jam-less finger was better than no finger at all, and putting it back in his mouth with a delighted giggle. After a few more minutes of mock-nursing under Sherlock's watchful eye, the little thing got upset and, spitting out Sherlock's finger, started to fuss. Sherlock's eyes widened in panic.
John it's crying. What do I do? –SH
Calm down Sherlock, he'll be more upset if you panic. Just pick him up and rock him a bit. Everything will be fine. –JW
Sherlock took a deep breath. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for God's sake. He could handle a disgruntled baby. He picked the child up gingerly, holding him to his chest. "Shh, hush little… John-thing. Shh…" He whispered to the baby, swaying gently back and forth. The baby fixated on him with huge, round eyes and Sherlock decided that a walk around the flat might be a good idea. He rocked the baby against his chest as he wandered around the living room. He spotted his laptop out of the corner of his eye and sat down, cradling the baby in one arm while he quickly ordered some DNA tests from Molly. He shut down his computer when he was interrupted by a tiny hand prodding at his face, grabbing at his lips and nose in an irritating, yet endearing fashion. He took the baby's hand off his face and let the little one curl his hand around Sherlock's finger. Sherlock was not at all surprised when John Jr. decided that the finger belonged in his mouth once again.
When John finally arrived at the flat, he was faced with a truly surreal picture. He stared in disbelief at the scene before him. Sherlock was sitting calmly in an armchair, a tiny bundle cradled in his arms. There was a look of unprecedented serenity on the detective's face as he watched the bundle intently. John's heart caught in his throat as he was faced with what was possibly his child. He cleared his throat, almost regretting interrupting the moment. Sherlock looked up, just then realising that John was home. "Ah, John. You came home quickly." John nodded as he walked over to Sherlock, peering into the blankets in his flatmate's arms. The tiny baby was currently engaged in sucking on Sherlock's fingers, but when he saw John, he let them fall out of his mouth, leaving a small trail of drool, and giggled with delight. John's heart melted at the sight of the baby, possibly his baby. Sherlock looked up at him, wiping the baby spit off his hand. "Do you want to hold him? I've lost all feeling in my arm." Sherlock ventured, gesturing to the baby with his head. John nodded, "Yeah, yeah sure." He swallowed as he took the baby boy from his friend's arms. Sherlock stood and stretched, having been holding the baby for well over an hour. He looked at John skeptically. "Are you alright?" John turned to face him, still rocking the baby. "Yeah, fine. Just… This is a bit of a shock, you know?" Sherlock nodded. "I already took the liberty of sending samples to Molly for a paternity test." The detective said nonchalantly. John started, "Wait, what? I mean, of course we need a test but, don't you need my DNA?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly John, I've had current samples of your genetic material in the fridge since you moved in." John shook his head before deciding that this wasn't something he wanted to get into right now. "So how long 'till we can expect results?" "A few days, a week at most." Sherlock replied. "Okay then. He'll have to live with us until we get the results." He looked up at Sherlock, concerned. "Fine then." Sherlock said, opening his laptop. "Besides, if he does turn out to be yours he'll move in for the next eighteen years. I know you won't allow anyone else to raise your child; it's not like you." John sighed. "You're right. If he is my son, I want to raise him, be a part of his life. And if you can't live with a baby-" "John." Sherlock cut him off. "I live with you. Child or not, that isn't changing. End of discussion."
John felt a familiar stirring in his chest, one he experience every time the detective displayed something even remotely resembling affection. He had spent the entire cab ride home reconciling with the fact that gaining a child would result in the loss of his best friend. The thought of raising a baby with Sherlock seemed so… Domestic. He found himself smiling at the thought of waking up and finding Sherlock in the kitchen with his son. Them all having breakfast together before he went off to work. But as Sherlock removed a bowl of eyeballs from the microwave in order to prepare the formula, John was snapped out of his reverie. Who was he kidding? It wouldn't be like that. Sherlock behaved like a six-foot toddler, looking after both him and a baby would be bedlam. He was suddenly quite apprehensive about the whole ordeal. But he had seen the tenderness with which Sherlock held the infant. The detective had pretended to be indifferent, but John would be damned if he hadn't seen a tad bit of attachment. He took a deep breath as he smiled down at the tiny baby boy. Maybe this could work after all.