'What exactly was wrong with having the scan at the Princess Grace?' John grouses as he lets Sherlock help him into the cab. 'I mean, it's only two streets away and I know Paul, the gynaecologist.'
'I don't like that hospital,' Sherlock's hand goes to John's still flat stomach as they sit, 'The Centre is much more discrete and besides, Doctor Qui and I have been corresponding.'
'Doctor Qui? You've been ... Jesus Sherlock, he's famous!'
'Yes, and, slightly more impressively as far as I am concerned, a specialist in self-triggered omega male pregnancy.'
John smiles at Sherlock, all annoyance gone, 'I should have realised this wasn't just you being snobbish.'
'No this is me - how did you put it last week - continuing to be overbearingly obsessive about your pregnancy.'
'You woke me at three o'clock in the morning trying to measure my waist, you're lucky that's all I said. Anyway, this isn't obsessive, this is … good. Sensible. Reassuring.'
'Dear Lord, you're making me sound normal.'
John stares at Sherlock for a second, incredulous and then he starts to giggle. After a heartbeat Sherlock joins in and the underlying tension of the past ten weeks melts away as they laugh themselves silly.
'Come on John,' Sherlock says, still hiccoughing slightly as the cab pulls up, 'Hurry. I want to see our baby.'
