AN: This one actually did not take as long… Hopefully, neither will Sunday. You guys are the best.

Raylan woke to what sounded like an air assault. He rolled out of the bed in his boxers, grabbing his gun off of the nightstand. He checked out the window and recognized the helicopter touching down in his front yard.

"Becky," he called to his wife, whose only response to a possible air assault was to cover her head with a pillow. "Your father's here."

"Bloody hell!" She pulled the covers over her head as well. Raylan chuckled and pulled on a pair of blue-jeans and a t-shirt. Becky cared for her father, but always needed to prepare herself for visits.

Raylan poured himself a cup of coffee from the timer-set pot and, out of habit, started the kettle for tea. He walked from the kitchen to the hall and opened the front door just as Mycroft Holmes reached the stoop.

"Thank you," he said grandly, carefully leaning his beloved umbrella against the wall by Becky's rain boots. (Raylan had his suspicions about there being secret gadgets inside that thing).

It was a Holmes trait, walking into a room and immediately owning the space. Mycroft did it with sharp, precise movements and a baleful gaze, whereas Sherlock and Becky did it with flamboyance and obvious assessment.

Raylan stifled a snort as Sherlock swept in dramatically, wearing a silk dress shirt and shoes that probably cost more than Raylan's couch and, judging by the squeaking, had just thrown himself into that aforementioned couch with abandon.

John, Raylan's favorite in-law, trailed in last. Somehow, he managed to balance two expensive looking leather suitcases and rather battered carpet bag. He dropped them inside the hall and gave Raylan a wan smile. "I'm assuming by your rather calm appearance that Becky's near death was an exaggeration."

"Yep."

"Nice to see you, Raylan." Neither of them were huggy people, but the handshake was friendly and so were the, somewhat tired, smiles.

"You too, John. There's coffee in the kitchen if you want some. You know where the mugs are?"

"Who needs a mug? I'm going to drink it straight from the pot."

Raylan shook his head. "I know the feeling." He walked back to the living room to see Becky, dressed and flawless, sitting on the arm of the sofa by Sherlock's head while Mycroft perched on the edge of a chair. Raylan leaned against the wall by the window and watched when John adopted the same pose by the door, steaming cup in hand.

"Lovely as it is to see you all, I am curious as to why you came in such a hurry; especially with Father being in the middle of an important discussion on Middle East tariffs and Uncle Sherlock in the middle of a case involving a lighthouse and trained swallows…no, cormorants."

Mycroft steepled his fingers together, in one of the few gestures he shared with his brother and daughter. "You spoke with John yesterday. He seemed very concerned about your health when he hung up, talking about changes and concerns and a long-term illness."

Raylan pricked up his ears at that, looking at her with concern. A similar, though better concealed, expression was on Sherlock's face.

Becky and John, however, looked at each other for a moment before they both burst into laughter. "You commandeered the royal jet and helicopter-" Becky clutched her chest as she convulsed in silent laughter, "instead of just calling me and asking if I was alright!"

"You'll never be able to pretend you don't bloody care again," John affirmed, having to rest his mug on the bookshelf to keep from spilling. "You made it sound like she was captured by terrorists!"

Sherlock looked miffed at their display of mirth. "There are a host of genetic health risks on her mother's side of the family."

"I'm pregnant!" Becky explained.

Raylan nearly dropped his cup.

"I was trying to find the right time to tell you," she said quietly, walking over to stand in front of him. "And this is probably not it, but, yes, I'm pregnant."

Without thinking, Raylan's hand stole down to rest on her stomach. There was no denying the joy in her eyes or the tremor in her voice when she asked "well?"

He put his mug on the table and kissed her in response.

Sherlock coughed when he thought they had been given enough time. "What are you going to name it?"

"I was thinking Hamish," she said, far more shy than Raylan had ever seen her. "If Raylan approves. Hamish Sigerson* Arthur Givens."

Raylan thought about objecting to three names, one of them being Sigerson, but then he thought about the fact that Becky was going to be the one pushing out a seven pound crying football and decided to just nod.

John and Sherlock both looked astounded to be included in the name and, for once, Sherlock said nothing to spoil the moment.

Mycroft smiled a little, looking softer than usual. Raylan thought that maybe, being a grandfather would change him for the better. "It's just as likely to be girl, Becky. What then?"

She frowned, clearly never having considered that possibility. "Athena? Or, maybe…Susan?" She shrugged. "Irrelevant. It's a boy, I know it."

"No you don't," Sherlock argued. "That's not logic. That is hormones."

"Yes, well, what's logical about the fact that right now I am growing a liver?"

"Actually," John interjected, frowning at his now cold cup of coffee. "At four weeks you've barely made the placenta."

*Sigerson is fanon for Sherlock's middle name since he used it during his hiatus as a long-term alias