"Okay," John wheezed, struggling up the stairs with his arms full, "I think I've got everything we need. I was lucky; a lovely saleswoman helped me pick..." He stopped, noticing that his flatmate was neither interested nor listening. Instead, he tapped away on his computer. John sighed, accepting the fact that he wasn't going to get any help. "How's the baby been?"

"I wouldn't know. We're not on speaking terms," Sherlock answered flatly, keeping his eyes fixated on the screen in front of him.

"I don't think that's a problem considering she can't talk," John started, but stopped. "You've changed clothing."

"Have I? I hadn't noticed," the dark haired man replied, looking down at his keys as he typed.

"Yes, you've changed shirts and..." The doctor was starting to get a bad feeling, and suddenly he realized why. "Sherlock, where's the baby?"

"We're not on speaking terms," Sherlock repeated as John dropped the bags and tore off to search the flat.

He didn't react when John's angry shout echoed through the flat. "SHERLOCK!"

"Something wrong, John?" He asked, though his voice indicated that he remained uninterested.

John stormed back in, the baby girl held tightly against his shoulder. "You left her alone in my room?"

"I'm sure she didn't read your diary," he told his angry flatmate dryly.

"Sherlock! She is a baby!" John wasn't sure what part of that wasn't getting through to his supposedly genius flatmate. "She needs attention. You can't just leave her and hope she goes away!"

"What was I supposed to do?" Sherlock finally looked up. "Even if I wanted to feed her, I couldn't. I couldn't hear myself thinking with that noise going nonstop. I tried calling you again—"

John shook his head. "No you didn't."

"Well I thought about it, and it's the thought that counts," Sherlock answered quickly. "She went to sleep, didn't she?"

"She probably cried herself to sleep!" Passing the girl to Sherlock, he ran back to the bags. Sherlock held her out as far away from himself as he could. Instead of crying, the girl just looked at Sherlock, and he turned his head, watching her from the side of his eye. "Mycroft didn't tell us her name," John stated, taking a canister of formula to the kitchen and opening it. After checking the kettle contained only water, he turned it on to boil.

"So?" Sherlock asked, wishing he could just put the baby down and leave. John would never let him hear the end of it if he did, so he stayed motionless instead. If she decided to spit up on him again, he'd leave her.

"Well," John opened a package of plastic bottles that he had picked up, "we should really call her something other than 'her.'"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why? I think 'she' or 'it' are perfectly fine. It's not as though we're her parents."

John sighed. Of course Sherlock didn't see the need to give her a name. "For as long as we have her, we basically are her parents. A name would be a good thing to give her. What about something like 'Susan,' or 'Rachel...' "

"Boring, and I refuse to think of myself as her parent," Sherlock spat, cutting him off. "If we must call her something, why not monstrosity?"

"I don't think that'll be good for her self esteem," John stated, checking on the water. "Amy?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Thing?"

"Jane?"

"Dull. Annoyance?"

"Abigail? That could be Abby for short..."

"Unwanted."

"Megan... Catherine..."

"Still dull. Oh! That's what we could call her. Dull."

"You know, not everyone can have a name like Sherlock or Mycroft." John shook his head and poured the boiling water into the bottle, rinsing it around. "Association. Is there an animal that she reminds you of?" He knew this could go badly, but it was worth a shot. Anything Sherlock said could be turned into something else anyways.

"She's a leech... a crow..." Sherlock mused, looking her over.

That wasn't as bad as he had thought. Deciding that it was clean, he added the formula mixture and added in more water. To cool it, he set it inside the fridge. "What about Raven then?"

"Omen of death. Fitting," Sherlock nodded, and stood to give his friend the baby. He had held her for long enough.

Taking her and holding her, John bounced her gently. "So Raven then?"

Sherlock sniffed and straightened his shirt. "If we must. Going out for some air."

Before John could say anything, though nothing he could say would stop his friend anyways, Sherlock had bounded down the stairs. John heard the door slam. He laughed quietly and looked down at the baby sucking contentedly on her fingers. "Well Raven," he said before taking a deep breath, "I'm really sorry. You should be glad you're not going to remember anything of your stay."