A/N: Hello darlings!
I am a huge fan of parent!lock and I do so adore fluff. So I decided to start a series. Not sure if this'll be a continuous plot or just a collection of drabbles. We shall see.
This chapter is a lot of set-up and what not.
And yes, I know most stories give them a son named Hamish. But Sherlock and John would make wonderful dads to any little girl.
Also, this is probably to be assumed, but this is established Johnlock and FULL OF SLASH!
DISCLAIMER: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything; I do not. Please don't sue me!
"John, I'm afraid."
He looked at Sherlock, concern etched on his features. The doctor's gaze flicked over to his partner's hands. Oh God, he is. Elegant violinist's fingers, which were usually steady as rocks, trembled.
John reached over and pressed his hands firmly to Sherlock's. "Calm," he murmured, gaze locked with the detective's. The wild look was still there. "I'm going to be rubbish at this," whispered Sherlock, voice threatening to shake.
John sighed. "Sherlock Holmes, you stop this right now." His tone left no room for argument. "John, how can I be a father? She's going to hate me." The detective bit his lip and looked down at his hands, entwined in his lap. John shook his head. "She's going to adore you, you git." Now Sherlock looked suspicious.
"Are you really going to make me list all your positive qualities and inflate your already dangerously high ego?" John tilted his head a little and smiled, just a hint of that dazzling grin that lit Sherlock's heart on fire.
Pretending to think seriously for a moment, Sherlock eventually shook his head. Eventually the corner of his lip quirked into a weak smile.
The cab rolled on until it lurched to a stop in front of St. Bart's. "'ere we are, lads!" The gap-toothed cabby grinned at them as they exited. "D'you mind maybe driving about for a bit? We'll be coming out quite soon with a bit of an, um, addition." John let the words tumble out of his mouth as he paid the cabby. He still found it difficult to talk about her, as though if he mentioned her she might disappear in a puff of smoke.
The older man just nodded. "Course not, mate. Be right 'round 'ere when you're through." And he drove off.
John looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at John.
Both men looked down at their linked hands. Sherlock took a deep breath. "Ready?" His lover smiled.
"Never been more ready in my life," he answered.
It was dark when they emerged from the hospital, John carrying a baby carseat on one shoulder, still holding tightly onto Sherlock's hand. They looked adoringly down at the pink blanketed form in the seat.
"God, she's beautiful." John looked up, surprised at the emotion in Sherlock's voice. He was even more surprised when he saw tears rolling down those sharp cheekbones.
But the doctor only smiled.
"She's ours," he replied, getting into the cab after settling the carseat in, and Sherlock followed.
They both rested their hand protectively, but gently, on the pink blanket.
"Ah, so 'ere's the 'addition'." The cabby looked pleased. "What's 'er name?"
With pride in his voice, Sherlock answered promptly:
"Elisabetta Ingrid Holmes."
