What's in a Name

Prompt : Sherlock suggests a name for a baby.

Rating: PG-13

Warning : mpreg (nothing graphic)

"Morgana, obviously."

"What?"

Sherlock's hand is resting over Greg's stomach, lifting now and then for an occasional pat which Greg suspects is half seal of approval and half Sherlock testing for their minute daughter's knee-reflex. All in all, it's endearing enough for Greg to refrain from telling him that they'll have to wait another week or two before knowing if she's going to be a Beckham or a Donovan.

What is less endearing is Sherlock's evident certainty that their child should be called after a woman who, if his memory serves him right, was a witch, a serial adulterer, and a busybody whose political mayhem would make Irene Adler fall to her knees and beg for a tutorial. Twice.

"Because it's the logical answer that will save us precious time." The pats are getting brisker. "For one thing, every elder child in my family is bestowed a M- name."

"Your dad said I was to call him Zed."

His first interview with Professor Holmes was a pleasant surprise - the stocky, seven-foot world expert on natural energies had looked him up and down, enfolded him into a bear-hug, boomed out an atrocious pun on sons-in-law-and-order, and fetched him an A1 scotch which Greg had regretfully declined.

"Short for Melchizedek. I think Mother made him delete most of it."

"Yeah? Well, every Lestrade kid gets a one-syllable name. How about that, genius?"

"Your father told me to call him Richard."

"Yeah, Da wasn't too happy with my Gran's choice either."

Sherlock nuzzles his forehead against Greg's shoulder. Greg braces himself mentally: the cat-like approach works only too well as a rule.

"And then, think of the memento."

"Of...?"

"Well. We did conceive her in St Barts'..."

"Oh, dear Christ. The poor kid doesn't need to know about that!"

"We don't have to tell her immediately. If I recall, Mother did wait until I was five."

"Sherlock, I don't need-"

"The partial solar eclipse, April 1976."

"... Oh."

"And since Moriarty was actually responsible for bringing us together -"

"By forcing you to enact the worst, piss-poorest, trashiest corpse in the history of frauds? You totally deserved that slap, by the way."

(Though Molly now keeps a nervous vigil near the bench every time he comes over to check on a post-mortem.)

"- it would be a happy coincidence that our child should be named after him. Partly, that is."

"Sherlock."

"Pleaaase?" By now, Sherlock's lower tones have plummeted to a cross between cocoa butter and a rutting cello.

"We'll see," Greg says even as Sherlock's breath warms up against his ear, and a Conradian shudder trickles down his spine. The hormones! The hormones! He is a lost man if Sherlock goes for the hormones. But Sherlock's hand is curling round the nascent belly curve, then lower, lower, and Greg's last lucid thought is that he must really, in his child's best interests, nominate John Watson as a godfather.