There are more notes at the bottom, but really quickly I just wanted to ask you all to please excuse the horrible mistakes I know are going to be in this. I just finished it and wanted to get it up so you guys could read it, and as such it has not been proofread. I will fix them as soon as possible. So until then, please forgive! Thank you! =)

Chapter Eleven: Bonds

Sherlock vaguely recognized that the door had been shut, and he was now alone with his daughter. The detective almost jumped when she gasped in his arms and stretched her shaking, little arms, still in the process of adjusting.

"Shh… Come here, love." Hoping this would be more comfortable for both of them, Sherlock lowered himself so he was lying on his back, and then settled the little girl on his chest, careful to keep her wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and pressed against the warmth of his chest. The detective couldn't help but smile when he noticed that her head fit perfectly in the dip just below his collarbone. "There. That's better, hmm?"

In response, the baby girl released a tiny sigh and continued to stretch her tiny arms, bumping the detective in the chest and jaw.

Sherlock felt a flutter of paternal love bloom in his chest and travel down his spine as he placed fingers atop his daughter's back and noticed that her entire back was smaller than his hand.

"Hey there," came the whisper of John. Sherlock turned his attention towards the door and saw the doctor take a hesitant step in, a smile on his lips. "How are you two doing, hmm?"

"She's so tiny, John," the detective whispered, turning his attention back to his baby girl. "Is she supposed to be this tiny?"

"Well, she is a tad small, yes, but she'll be all right," John assured tenderly. "Do you have a name?"

"What?"

"A name, Sherlock," John laughed. "She needs a name, you know."

"Oh, yes… I… Suppose she does… I've not really even thought about it, to be honest."

"That's all right, take your time… There's no hurry yet."

With a small smile gracing his lips, Sherlock held his breath as his daughter pressed her incredibly small, beautiful face against the skin of his chest, making a soft snuffling sound. "Lyla," he murmured, automatically reaching forward and turning her head so her nose was not pressed into his skin, and she was able to breath. "I want to name her Lyla."

"Lyla… That's perfect, Sherlock."

"You think so?"

"Of course I do." With a warm smile, John took another step towards the bed. "She really is very lovely."

"She's beautiful… And so tiny," Sherlock breathed again, unable to fathom how small she was against his chest.

"Yes… She is."

"Lyla…"

John watched fondly as a wide grin suddenly spread over his friend's lips. "Can I get you anything? I would say you certainly deserve it."

Sherlock thought for a moment, carefully stroking his fingers up and down the short length of Lyla's spine, and smiling when he felt her snuggle closer to the warmth of his chest. "I would love a cup of coffee, as black as you could possibly make it, and some sleep... And a shower," he added with a pensive purse of his lips.

"I can imagine! Right, then. Black coffee..."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Who all is out there?"

"Oh," John chuckled. "Greg, Mrs. Hudson, of course, your brother—" A groan. "Hey. Play nice."

"He's probably only going to lecture me," Sherlock murmured, though he was too focused on Lyla to really worry too much about his brother.

"Maybe… But he seems rather excited. Though not as much as Lestrade… He's practically bouncing out of his skin."

"Unsurprising," Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Should I send him in, or… Do you want a few more minutes?"

"A little more time, please… I read that skin-to-skin contact in the minutes after birth are an incredibly important bonding process for the baby…"

"And the parent," John added in a whisper. With a smile, the doctor silently left and hurried into the kitchen, making a mental note that he owed Mrs. Hudson more than a thousand thank yous, not only for her help with Sherlock's labour, but because she was currently entertaining all of the excited guests in the sitting room. John quickly started the coffee brewing.

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock continued to stroke his fingertips up and down the delicate skin covering Lyla's tiny spine. "Lyla," he rumbled, trying the name out on his tongue and lips. Sherlock waited patiently as the baby girl shifted under his touch, and carefully wrapped his other hand around one of her flailing tiny ones. She made some sort of cooing sound in response, high and airy, and so impossibly tiny-sounding that the detective could practically feel his heart melt in his chest.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock reveled in the feel of Lyla's chest rising and falling against his own… The detective could feel each and every one of her quick, little heartbeats. "My Lyla," he murmured, tenderly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of her little hand.

Sherlock found, however, that he was quickly becoming uncomfortable with the bed, and decided he would have a go at standing.

Realizing he was still naked, however, but not wanting to release his baby from his grasp, the detective decided he would merely use the sheet as a cover, as well as a blanket for Lyla's colder body. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock sat up and froze almost immediately; suddenly, his daughter felt so weightless and fragile in his arms. He felt as if just the slightest move would break her.

Startled by the movement and sudden rigidness of her father, Lyla began to fuss, snuffling and gasping against the detective's chest.

"Shh… It's all right, Lyla. I'm here, love," Sherlock soothed gently, once again capturing her hand with his own. Smiling fondly, the detective slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced slightly at the soreness between his legs. "Your fault… Again," Sherlock whispered fondly as, heart fluttering under his skin, he pressed a tender kiss to her temple with the corner of his lips. Holding his breath and placing a hand to his daughter's tiny back, Sherlock stood, pressing his teeth together when he was met with another sharp pain in his groin and whoosing in his head. The detective quickly forgot his own pain, however, when her realized Lyla had begun to cry again; her little body shook and shivered against his chest.

"Shh. There now." Quickly grabbing the sheet, and wrapping it around the both of them, Sherlock made sure his skin was warming as much of Lyla's body as possible. "Lyla," he cooed, deep voice just barely a whisper, in the hope that it would calm her once again. Almost immediately, the baby girl's cries ceased.

Sherlock couldn't help but grin lovingly when he felt his daughter sigh against his skin, and felt her body once again go limp in his arms. Feeling more tears of utter joy begin to flood his eyes, the detective turned his eyes to the little miracle resting against his chest, still unable to comprehend that she was his...

Having never felt more content, more perfect, Sherlock pressed his lips to Lyla's soft cheek and inhaled. The detective could feel a flutter travel up the length of his spine upon being met with her sweet, new smell. "Mmm," he hummed, voice just a rumbling baritone. Sherlock couldn't help but smile upon hearing his tiny daughter coo against his skin, voice just a hum. He turned his gaze back to his daughter's eyes, only to find they were open. Her small face scrunched up, as if seeing a bright light for the first time, and then her eyes fell shut again.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, releasing a breath that had somehow escaped him. He felt as if he might never be able to move his eyes away. "Lyla," Sherlock whispered, feeling a fresh wave of impossibly elated tears fill his eyes as his stared at his baby daughter. "My Lyla."

With a tiny hum, and as if sensing Sherlock's tender gaze, Lyla slowly and carefully opened her eyes once again, and with a few quick blinks, turned a wobbling gaze to her father's.

The detective quite literally felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Well, hello there," Sherlock whispered, eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared into Lyla's eyes. The tears that slid out of the corner of the detective's eyes went unnoticed.

"Hello, Lyla," Sherlock rumbled, sculpted features creased into expressions of sheer wonder, love, and utter joy. "Hello… I… I'm not quite sure what to say… I… I'm you're father," the detective tried with a joyful sniffle. Lyla merely hummed, as if in response, which sent Sherlock's stomach into a tangled, knotted mess of flutters. "I love you, Lyla," he murmured, pressing and resting his lips against her tiny cheek. The detective could feel her tiny eyes flutter shut when they brushed against the hollow just below his cheekbone. The sensation of her skin against his was simply incredible. With a content exhale of breath, Sherlock carefully catalogued the feeling away, locking it away in the most treasured confines of his mind palace.

Having never felt more perfect, Sherlock closed his eyes, and situated Lyla so her cheek was pressed against the hollow in his. "I do," he murmured. "I cannot explain it, but I love you so impossibly much, Lyla…" The detective's brows tugged together as placed one hand to the back of his daughter's head, and used the other one to trace slow patterns onto the small expanse of her bare back. "My Lyla…"

There was a knock at the door. John silently let himself in, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sherlock, swaying back and forth with his back to the doorway. The doctor could see an incredibly tiny, curled hand just barely peeking up over the curve of his flat mate's shoulder. John couldn't help but laugh aloud when he noticed the detective was dressed only in a sheet.

"Stop smirking at me, John," Sherlock murmured, not even bothering to turn around.

"Sorry," the doctor chuckled, taking another step in. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful…" Sherlock answered, voice barely even a whisper. He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Just a little tired. And I am in desperate need of a shower. Oh! John, look! Oh. Sorry, love," the detective added with a chuckle when he felt Lyla jump slightly against his chest. He smiled when she once again settled into his warm hold, and then turned around, showing her now-open eyes to his flat mate.

"Oh!" John breathed with a fond smile. "Well, hello there. Aren't you just so pretty?" he whispered in a cooing tone, gazing into the baby girl's eyes, which were currently staring up at her father's neck. "My, she is just really beautiful, Sherlock." The detective merely grinned proudly in response. "Here. How about I take her, so you can take a shower?" the doctor suggest. Almost instantly, he saw the muscles in his friend's arm tense. "Don't worry; I just need to check some things to make sure everything is how it should be."

"Why? Do you think something may be wrong with her?" Sherlock asked fretfully, placing a hand to the back of Lyla's head, as if to protect her from something.

"No, no! I just… You want a shower, and I need to do some checks… I'll be careful. Promise," the doctor added with a laugh.

Debating, Sherlock swayed back and frothed, pressing tender kisses to Lyla's tiny head. "…Fine," he murmured eventually. The detective felt as if he was handing his daughter away and would never get her back. Knowing she would be safe with John, however, Sherlock placed his cheek atop Lyla's head, inhaled, and then reluctantly handed her to the doctor.

Almost instantly, the baby girl began to fuss, having been removed from the warmth and safety of her father's hold, her little lungs producing those unique cries.

"John," Sherlock whined anxiously, sending the doctor an accusing glare. "Clearly she's upset and in distress."

"Sherlock, she's all right; babies cry, it's just what they do. Now, go and have a shower," John chuckled, nodding towards the bathroom. "Doctor's order."

With a rather child-like, anxiety-riddled huff of breath, Sherlock kept the sheet around his sore body and hurried into the bathroom, where the sound of Lyla's cries could still be heard. The detective desperately tired to block out the sound of his distressed daughter. Eventually, he could hear her cries and wails softening. "Thank God," Sherlock breathed, feeling a bit of tension release itself from his body. Allowing the silence to fill his ears, the detective closed his eyes, but quickly opened them again when he was met with the sting of over-exhaustion.

For once, Sherlock was given a moment just to think and feel and breathe. He realized he ached all over, especially between his legs, but yet the detective was filled with such incredible elation; he felt he could float away.

A small smile suddenly twitched over Sherlock's lips. He had a daughter. An actual daughter. Another human life that was his. She had arms and legs, two beautiful eyes, a little mouth, a tiny, precious voice... And it was positively incredible.

Joy reverberated through every fibre of Sherlocks' being as he stepped into the shower. The water falling and dripping down his sore body felt wonderful. Trying to wash away the exhaustion and the many fluids encrusting his body, the detective took a thin hand and, after cleaning his hair, chest, and extremities, made to wash the sweat from his stomach. Sherlock was met with a strange feeling upon finding it was flat; all of the progress of the last nine months was gone from its home, and had appeared in the form of the beautiful baby girl in the other room.

Somehow feeling as if he was empty, yet full at the same time, Sherlock smiled and removed his hand from his empty abdomen.

Sherlock emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped firmly around his hips, to find John had dressed Lyla in a nappy, and was cradling her in the crook of his arm.

"Feel better?" the doctor asked softly, with a small smile towards the baby in his arms. He turned his gaze to the detective, and his eyes instantly fell to his friend's stomach. "Unbelievable, "John muttered with a purse of his lips. "It doesn't even look like you had a child in there for eight months! Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

The detective merely smirked smugly in response. "Mycroft was able to find some positively wonderful lotions," Sherlock hinted with a raised brow.

"Bloody hell," John repeated with an eye roll. "Anyways... Are you feeling better?"

"Mmm. Much. I assume all is well? With Lyla?" Sherlock asked, trying to ignore how much he was now yearning to hold his daughter.

"Yes; she's practically perfect. She's just a bit smaller than we'd like her to be, but I don't think that will affect her too much. She seems to be doing just fine."

"Good, good." Having already dried his raven curls, Sherlock padded over to his dresser and, once John had turned away, quickly pulled on a pair of trousers and pajama bottoms, wincing slightly as he did so. Wanting to allow for as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, the detective decided he would not wear a shirt, but rather just his robe. With the silky fabric draped over his lanky frame, Sherlock hurried over to John. "May I have her?" he whispered, gazing over the doctor's shoulder and into his daughter's tired, impossibly blue eyes.

"Of course." With a smile, John carefully transferred the baby girl into her father's waiting arms.

Sherlock felt his heart quicken in his chest as his baby daughter was safe in his hold once again. Almost immediately, the detective noticed that Lyla was so incredibly tiny that he was capable of holding her with only one arm; her head was small enough to fit just in the palm of his hand, and the rest of her little body did not even stretch the length of his forearm.

Smiling, and with tears once again glistening in his grey eyes, Sherlock pressed an incredibly tender kiss to his daughter's head, chuckling deeply when she cooed happily in response, her tiny voice just a soft, airy hum.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"If you're ready and feeling better, we have quite a brood of people waiting in the sitting room—all of whom are very desperate to see her," John chuckled, smiling fondly at the scene in front of him.

"Oh. Right." Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned and angled his head, pressing his cheekbone just barely against Lyla's cheek. "Right, then. Come on, love." With careful movements, Sherlock moved the fragile life in his hands and settled her so she was resting parallel to his chest, her tiny limbs curled inward. The baby girl hummed and whined just a bit at the movement; her blue eyes fluttered open and gazed confusedly around before sliding shut when she settled once again into her father's safe hold.

"There's my girl," Sherlock whispered with a fond smile. Just as during the past few months, he could not imagine living without the feeling of his baby kicking inside of him, the detective now realized he could not live without the incredible sensation of Lyla's new, soft body curled against his own; he could not imagine living without the feeling of her tiny head snuggling against him.

"Right, then. Ready?" John asked, his hand on the door.

Sherlock turned his gaze from his daughter to his flat mate and managed a small smile. "Yes."

As John opened the door, Sherlock carefully took a slender finger and placed it inside the tiny fingers that were resting against his collarbone. The detective gasped silently as Lyla's entire hand curled around his finger, trapping his fingertip in her tiny grasp. Sherlock chuckled to himself with a find, loving smile. As he left the safety and quite of his room, Sherlock lifted his finger to his lips, taking Lyla's little hand with him and began pressing soft, impossibly tender kisses to her fingers and wrist, still utterly amazed that he'd created the wonderful baby resting contently against his chest.

"Ready, Sherlock?" came John's voice.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, yes I'm... Ready." Running the thumb over the knuckles of Lyla's tiny hand, Sherlock took a deep breath and, keeping close to John's smaller form, took a step into the sitting room. His over-loaded senses were soon assaulted with a flurry of sounds and sights.

Instantly, Lyla whimpered against her father's chest, and she awoke with a tiny cry. Sherlock could feel her weak grip tightened around his finger.

"Shh," the detective chuckled, placing his hand to the back of Lyla's head. "You're all right." Smiling triumphantly when the baby girl quieted, Sherlock turned his gaze to Lestrade, who had just reached them. "Greg," he greeted with a fond nod, though the Detective Inspector was staring at the baby girl calming in his arms.

"Wow," Lestrade chuckled, staring in amazement at Lyla's tiny body. "Sherlock… She's beautiful."

"Mmm. I quite agree."

"What's her name?"

"Lyla," Sherlock answered with a smile. He felt his breath catch in his throat when the baby girl turned against him, rubbing her small head against his chest and then snuggling against him once she'd settled; Sherlock could feel each and every one of her little fingers scratch against his skin as he her hand settled into the gap at the base of his neck. Finding he didn't care if Greg saw, the detective pressed a kiss to her temple, wanting to keep her wrapped in his arms and pressed against him for as long as was humanly possible.

"Lyla… Wow. Congratulations, Sherlock!" Greg cheered, clapping the detective on the back, which earned him a warning glare. "Oh, right. Sorry, mate."

"That's all right." With tenderness that made even Lestrade smile, Sherlock scooted Lyla up so she was resting further on his shoulder, placed a careful hand to her back, and then steadied her wobbly, weak head by pressing the curve of his cheek against her temple. Almost immediately, the baby girl pressed into the touch, snuggling against the warmth of her father's skin.

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked, taking a few fingers and placing them to Lyla's spine.

"Tired."

Lestrade merely smiled sympathetically in response.

"Speaking of," John chimed in. "Well… Not really. But still! One cup of coffee, black as can possibly." With a smile, the doctor offered a mug full of the liquid to his flat mate.

Sherlock eyes widened with the realization he could once again drink caffeine. Making sure Lyla was firmly settled against him, and keeping his cheek pressed against her temple, the detective took the mug from his flat mate's hands. Lyla cooed calmly against his skin. "I'm just here, love," Sherlock whispered as he sauntered over to his chair, where he sat and, for the first time in nearly nine months, took a sip of true, caffeinated coffee.

"Dear Lord, John," the detective hummed, allowing his eyes to fall closed, if only for a moment.

"Good?"

"Incredibly," Sherlock answered, referring not only to the beverage, but the tiny baby slumbering against his chest.

"Yes, well... You've certainly deserved it."

"Mmm. I suppose… I thought you mentioned my brother was here, as well?"

"Yeah, uh, your brother…" A glance around the flat. "Seems to have vanished."

Sherlock scoffed. "Good riddance."

"Play nice."

A fond smirk. "Not exactly my forte, John." Fingers drumming against the ceramic of the mug, turned his gaze to Lyla, whose little chest was rising and falling against his own. "John?"

"Do we have anything to dress her in? I don't want her to get cold."

"Of course." John stood, quickly retrieved the only pink onesie Sherlock had allowed him to buy and then hurried back. "Here you are."

"Ah. Thank you. Now… How should I…?"

"Oh! Here, just lay her on your chair," John guided. Sherlock carefully obeyed.

Holding his breath, the detective stood, turned, and then carefully lowered Lyla's little body onto his chair, keeping a hand under her back, so her skin was not pressed against the cool leather of his chair, but rather against the warmth of his palm.

Having been removed once again from her father's warm arms, Lyla fussed a bit, stretching her arms and legs with a tiny whine.

"Shh. Hey there," Sherlock whispered as he knelt down, allowing his robe to fall open. "You're all right, little one," he murmured with a rumble of a chuckle. With no worry or regard to Lestrade or John, the detective placed is other hand on top of Lyla's stomach—which was rising and falling with quick little breaths—and then placed his lips to her cheek and forehead. "There now," he murmured against her new skin. "You're all right, love. I'm here." Almost instantly, the baby girl's cries softened to just snuffles. "There's my girl…"

A tender smile dance across Sherlock's lips. Sure to be careful with her fragile body, the detective took ahold of each of Lyla's tiny feet, lifted them, and started to put the onesie on. "Almost done." Eventually, the detective was able to get the onesie on his daughter's tiny body. "John," he chuckled, smiling down at Lyla's tiny body, which was swamped by the baby grow.

"I told you she was a bit small," the doctor laughed.

"Mmm. Oh, come here, love," Sherlock chuckled as he ever-so-carefully lifted Lyla from the chair. With precision unique only to a Holmes, the detective cradled Lyla in the crook of his arm so he would be able to stoke the pad of his thumb over and across his baby girl's cheek.

"Softie," Lestrade murmured under his breath and with a fond smile.

"No," Sherlock answered, though he kept his eyes locked on his daughter's angelic face. "I merely allow myself a few moments to be human every now and again… Though I think I may have to overuse my self-prescribed limit," the detective added as he brushed the back of his knuckles up and down Lyla's cheek. "Greg?"

"Yeah, Sher—hey!"

"What?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"You remembered my name!" Lestrade declared, as if this was some great triumph.

Clearly unimpressed, Sherlock raised a brow. "Yes?"

"It's just you—you never… You've never… Remembered my name?"

"Trivial. Greg?"

The Inspector dropped his gaze. "Yeah?"

"Would you care to hold her?"

"Oh! Oh, sure, sure," Lestrade whispered as he hurried over to his young friend.

"Right, then… Just… Be careful with her. Please."

"Don't worry," Greg chuckled. "I will."

"… All right." Forcing his arms to move, Sherlock slowly and carefully placed his daughter's small form into Greg's waiting arms. The detective noticed the way she squirmed slightly once in the Inspector's grasp and had to stop himself from taking her back. He resolved to just taking a hold of her tiny hand.

"Well hello there, Lyla," Lestrade cooed as he gently bounced the baby girl up and down. "My, she is positively lovely, Sherlock," he added with a smile.

"Mmm. I quite agree." Sherlock smiled as he gazed down at his peaceful daughter. He could feel her little hand moving and stretching against his palm. The detective frowned slightly, however, when he felt his eyelids begin to become exceedingly heavy. "John?" he murmured, giving Lyla's hand a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, mate?"

"I think… I might just take a quick rest," Sherlock mumbled tiredly. The detective was already—though reluctantly—releasing his daughter from his grasp so he could make his way to the couch, which looked exceptionally comfortable.

"Of course, of course. I'd say you've earned it."

"Mmm. Be careful," Sherlock warned Lestrade once again with a wary raise of his eyebrow, before lying on the couch. He found he was almost physically unable to keep his eyes open anymore. And—for once—the detective found he honestly and truly did not mind who saw him as he laid on his side and allowed his eyes to slide shut.

John watched his flat mate with a small smile and a sympathetic gaze. Sherlock was positively exhausted. And, after what he'd witnessed the detective go through, John was proud enough of his friend to feel truly sorry for the man. Sherlock was already completely passed out on the couch, his sharp features slack and youthful-looking as his body finally received the first of many rests it would be needing in the near future.

"Poor git," Lestrade chuckled, with a nod to Sherlock's sleeping form. "Incredible. He actually did it. Him. Sherlock bloody Holmes… Created a life."

"I know… And look how beautifully she turned out."

"Mmm." Sharing a quick smile with John, Greg turned his attention back to the baby sleeping in his arms. "Amazing."

Sherlock awoke with sharp intake of breath. Noise. A specific sound. Can't place it. Crying?

The detective could feel something pulling in his chest, urging him to awaken, yet he felt as if he wouldn't have enough energy to do to. He ached everywhere, and the pull of exhaustion was so great, he almost obeyed it. But still… There was a ringing in his ears. Crying. Again, something stirred deep in Sherlock's chest. The detective's eyes flew open suddenly as his mind—thrumming to life far slower than usual—finally identified the sound as the weak, tiny cries of his daughter.

"Lyla?" Sherlock murmured, forcing himself to sit up on the couch. He found there was a blanket wrapped around him. Sentiment.

"She's just here, Sherlock," came John's voice.

With his vision blurred slightly, the detective turned is gaze towards the sound of John's voice and could make out his flat mate's form carrying his daughter towards him. Sherlock could vaguely see her tiny arms shaking unhappily back and forth, as her tiny cries—those distinct only to newborns—reached his ears.

Now instantly alert, Sherlock quickly left his spot on the couch, deserting the blanket, and took Lyla from John's arms. "Shh," he whispered. With careful, large hands, the detective set his daughter on his shoulder, so her head was resting just above his collarbone. "What seems to be the trouble, sweetheart?" he whispered with worry lacing his deep voice.

"Just wanted her father, I think," John chuckled. "Also, I'm guessing she's probably getting a tad hungry, so I've started a bottle in the kitchen. It should be ready here in a few moments."

"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response, far too worried about his daughter to bother listening to his flat mate. He barely noticed as the doctor smirked and disappeared into the kitchen. Hoping to calm the upset baby girl in his arms, the detective began to sway back and forth, pressing tender kisses to as much of Lyla's little face as he was able to reach. "There now," he murmured against her skin when she began to calm in his arms.

Thoroughly disliking the fabric barrier between the two of them, Sherlock sat on the couch—not trusting himself to stand and keep a careful hold around Lyla at the same time—and then laid her small body down so she was lying atop his thighs. Almost instantly, the baby girl began to stretch her incredibly small limbs. The sight brought a loving smile to her father's cupid's bow lips.

"Right, then. Here we go." Feeling as if he might scar or somehow hurt her fresh skin, Sherlock carefully unbuttoned each button of her tiny baby grow with the precision of the chemist he was, and then, once all had been popped out of the place, pulled off the rest of the soft, pink fabric.

Now free of the restricting clothing, Lyla continued to stretch her little limbs; the baby girl's arms and hands reached up and stretched, as if reaching for something, and her legs stretched and kicked in a jerky manner, so impossibly adorable that Sherlock couldn't help but laugh and take a hand in each of his own and then place quick, ticklish kisses to Lyla's quickly rising and falling stomach. "My precious little girl," he whispered with a chuckle between kisses. "My Lyla." Sherlock could feel his daughter's tiny feet kicking weakly against his stomach, and the sensation caused a new wave of powerful love to flood his chest. "Oh my little girl," he murmured, pausing to stare down at Lyla's precious face. "My little girl…"

Still seeming rather confused about what was happening around her, Lyla blinked up at her father's face and took a deep breath. The baby girl released it with a soft sound—too adorable for words to describe—and then pulled a tiny hand free of her father's gentle grasp.

Sherlock gasped when he felt Lyla's tiny hand make contact with his cheek. Her tiny fingers clenched and unclenched against his skin, as if trying to grab ahold of his cheek. With a content sigh, Lyla opened her eyes once again, and blinked up at Sherlock.

"Hello," was all the detective could think to see, feeling overwhelmed with the incredible sensations of his daughter's hand against his cheek, her other wrapped in his own, and her incredible eyes staring up at him. "Hello, Lyla."

In response, the little girl turned her head to the side, and began to nuzzle against her father's leg.

"Hello," the detective repeated with a smile.

"...Sherlock."

"Hmm?" The detective forced his gaze away from his baby daughter, and found John was holding a warm bottle out for him. "Oh. Right. Thank you." Giving a shake of his head, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away and placed a single hand atop Lyla's stomach to keep her steady, as he reached out with the other to grab the bottle. "Now how should… Umm… How would I…"

"Oh." Chuckling, John carefully sat himself down on the couch next to his friend. "You'll need to make sure she's situated in a position that will allow her to down the milk easily. It's a bit different than how you would place her if she was breastfeeding." Sherlock looked positively alarmed. "Oh, no, not that you are, I just… Didn't know if you'd… Crossed anything like that in your research…" More utter confusion. John just shook his head. "Nevermind. You're going to need to cradle her in the crook of your arm."

With slow movements, Sherlock carefully moved Lyla so her head was resting on his elbow.

"Good. Now you may want to prop your arm up on the side of the couch at some point, but unless your arm starts to feel tired, that shouldn't be a problem. Okay. Now just… Put the nipple in her mouth, but be sure that no air gets into the front of it; we don't want air getting into her system, all right?"

"Okay." Completely unsure of himself, and feeling somehow inadequate for not being able to directly provide his daughter with proper sustenance, Sherlock made sure Lyla seemed comfortable and then, looping his arm about her body so he was cradling her bottom, hesitantly slipped the nipple into her open mouth.

Almost instantly, the baby girl began sucking at the formula, and her blue eyes rolled backward in contentment as she sucked.

"Ah, there's a good girl," John approved with a small smile.

"Good?" Sherlock asked. His grey eyes were rigorously scanning Lyla for any signs of distress.

"Very. She's downing it, which is what we want. Some babies don't or aren't able to drink the milk—breastfed or otherwise."

"Ah. Well… I suppose she seems very content." Holding the bottle as John had instructed, Sherlock turned his attention back to Lyla and began to gently rock her back and forth. The baby girl's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, and then quickly slid shut once again.

"John," Sherlock whispered in sheer amazement at the little life before him.

"I know, Sherlock… I know."

Greg ended up staying far longer than he originally intended, upon seeing how thoroughly Sherlock was and realizing how much rest he would be requiring.

Despite the protests of both Greg and his flat mate, the detective refused to release his hold of his daughter, even when it was obvious how desperately he needed sleep. Eventually, Sherlock was lying on the couch, Lyla sleeping soundly against the bare skin of his chest, when he fell asleep, a hand still resting on her back.

Upon seeing that John, too, had passed out in the sitting room, Greg decided he would stay to help the two men, and not leave all the work for their landlady—who was currently cooking some sort of extravagant meal in her flat.

Feeling truly like some sort of doting father or grandfather, the Inspector crept over to Sherlock and, seeing how Lyla was clothed only a nappy, draped her father's robe over the back of her tiny body. The detective stirred slightly at the movement, opening his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible. Greg watched with a warm smile as Sherlock—even his sleep-deprived state, carefully scooted Lyla's body closer to his face, pressed her head against the warm skin of his cheek, and then, after placing a hand to her back and her head, wrapped his robe and a nearby blanket around her tiny, more vulnerable form. With a soft exhale of breath, the detective's eyes slid shut once again, and his breathing soon became deep, and even.

"You are most definitely a big softie," Greg murmured with a smile, before taking a seat once again.

Eventually, John was properly rested to care for both Sherlock and his daughter and—after getting a few more holds of the precious baby girl—Greg left the flat, leaving John to care for a more-than-exhausted detective, and a perfectly content Lyla.

After seeing Greg out, John jogged his way back up the stairs and entered the flat to find the sitting room empty. Frowning in confusion, the doctor silently crept his way to Sherlock's room and pushed open the door. "Sherlock?"

"We're all right," came the detective's deep, yet tired reply. "She's finally fallen asleep."

Eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, John turned his gaze to the bed, to find Lyla—stripped of her nappy—lying with her back facing towards the air, curled up against Sherlock's chest; her little arms and legs were tucked under her incredibly small body. The baby girl's chest rose and fell with each quick breath. Sherlock's hand was lying on her back, and though the detective's eyes were closed, it was clear he was fully awake and functional.

"How are you feeling?" John asked with smile, as he already knew the answer.

"If it is humanely possible to reach a level of upmost calm, joy, and perfection, I have most certainly reached it," Sherlock answered, his soft voice just a rumble.

The doctor merely smiled in response. "Congratulations, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John."

"Mmm."

"No. I mean it."

The doctor turned his gaze back to the bed to find his friend was now gazing at him.

"None of this would have been possible without you. Had you not planted the slightest bit of guilt in my mind… She wouldn't be here… I have you to thank, John. So thank you. Truly."

"Of course, Sherlock," the doctor replied simply, knowing Sherlock would not require a sentimental speech to understand his feelings on the situation. "Enjoy." With a smile, John silently left, closing the door behind him.

With a fond twitch of his lips, Sherlock let his head loll back into place, and closed his eyes once again.

The detective could hear and feel Lyla's quick breaths against his skin, and feel her back rising and falling under his gentle touch. "You're finally here," Sherlock whispered, now completely sure he would not be able to live without the feel of his daughter's small form near. "Something impossibly, wonderfully perfect born from the ashes of something horrendous… My little Lyla." Sherlock watched with a tender gaze as the baby girl shuddered slightly on his chest, and then turned her head so it was facing towards him.

With a loving smile, Sherlock scooted his daughter's tiny body closer to his face and then, after pressing the corner of his lips to her temple, wrapped her small body in the warmth of his arms, skin, and hands. "And would I do it again?" The detective smiled. "In a heartbeat."

Hey guys! So I just wanted to say: THANK YOU! A huge thank you to all who have followed, favorited, and taken the time to leave your positively wonderful reviews! I truly appreciate everyone's support, and I cannot believe you all are so kind! =) In case anyone's worried, there will be more baby fluff in the next chapter, as well as some Mycroft and Molly time! Thanks everyone! I hope you all liked this chapter! =)