I don't own Sherlock, or any of its characters.
*note at end of chapter*
2: Mycroft interfering (twice)
Three years earlier
"You can't be bloody serious, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed at his older brother. Mycroft regarded him coolly, as if the world ending wouldn't interrupt this conversation.
"The DNA tests have been run, and it's yours. I know this wouldn't have been your preferred outcome, but…" Mycroft trailed off delicately, looking pointedly at John, who was sitting in his chair in utter shock. John wondered if he was supposed to be doing something- comforting Sherlock or something like that. But he truly couldn't move.
"Mycroft, I'm hardly in the position to deal with a child," Sherlock said the word as if it disgusted him. Knowing his boyfriend, it probably did, John thought despairingly.
"On the contrary. You're in a stable, loving relationship; you have a house, lots of friends who could babysit. John could provide sentimental parenting, while you-"
"Now hold on, Mycroft," John snapped, standing up. Sherlock gave him a look which clearly said 'Shut up before I shut you up myself' but John continued, fuelled by Mycroft's comment.
"Sherlock has the capacity to love. Just because you constantly drill into him that 'Caring is not an advantage' does not mean that he won't emotionally be able to deal with a baby. I know first hand how human Sherlock can be, and I won't tolerate you making him into some sort of machine," John spat. Mycroft blinked- usually him and John got along quite well- but nodded in acknowledgment of John's words. Sherlock looked at John with an almost unreadable expression on his face, but John knew his boyfriend too well. Pride was slipping into his angular features, but they were both summoned back into the conversation by Mycroft.
"Regardless, this baby needs a home, Sherlock. Irene is dead, and you're his only remaining family. So unless you're happy with your offspring living in an orphanage, I suggest you reconsider," Mycroft explained. Sherlock tugged at his hair, and collapsed onto the sofa. John gave Sherlock a scathing glare- Irene? When was this supposed to have happened? Sherlock and John had only been together seven months, so at least Sherlock most likely hadn't cheated on him.
"I'll bring the child round tomorrow afternoon. I apologise for the incredibly short notice, but this is our only option," Mycroft said, his cold persona, as always, intact. He departed swiftly, leaving John with a sulky Sherlock and millions of questions swirling round in his head.
"You've got questions," Sherlock said, after what could have been hours.
"Irene bloody Adler?" John finally said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. Sherlock sat up suddenly, as if he only just realised what her name implied.
"John. I didn't cheat on you. This was 10 months ago- and she drugged me," he said impossibly fast. John stared at him for a while, then shrugged.
"And how were you have supposed to have been in contact with Irene Adler? Who was beheaded a few years ago?" John accused. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let out a groan of exasperation.
"I rescued her from her beheading. She texted me asking to have dinner, out of the blue, after years without contact. I- we'd had a fight, and I had no clue how to resolve it, and I just wanted to hold you, even though I thought you were in love with that girl, Mary. So I met her, she drugged my wine, and I woke up naked next to her with no idea what had happened. I left immediately, and I haven't seen her since," Sherlock said it all very quickly, but crossed over to John while he was speaking and straddled him. Now he was looking John directly in the eye, so that John couldn't escape the kaleidoscope of colours that made up his boyfriend's irises.
"Please believe me John. You're- I'm so bad at this, and I need you more than anything,"
It was a rare feat to see sincere emotion on Sherlock's face, and John knew that Sherlock was being completely honest. John sighed, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock buried his nose into the crook of John's shoulder, breathing him in, before he spoke.
"I have absolutely no clue how to raise a child," the detective admitted. John laughed.
"Me neither,"
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Present Day
John sat at the table, his old laptop balancing atop a pile of books, with Hamish perched on his lap. Hamish was holding Sherlock's skull, and quietly mumbling to it, while John typed up their latest case. It had involved a cow's diet being tampered with, and contaminated milk being transported around the country, resulting in multiple deaths. Although not quite the dramatic murder Sherlock had been hoping for, it was still a perplexing mystery and had perplexed the detective for days.
"Daddy, when can we go back into the kitchen?" Hamish whined suddenly. A few weeks after the experiment, and the kitchen was still inaccessible. Like Sherlock, Hamish didn't value eating, but liked playing with the insects that lingered outside the kitchen window. John wrapped one arm around his son's torso, and looked over at Sherlock. The detective was lying on the sofa, his hands pressed together as if in prayer, most likely searching his mind palace for some sort of information.
"Soon, Hamish. If you want to blame someone, blame father," John replied, concentrating on the blog post again. Sherlock made a disapproving grunt, and Hamish mimicked it, before climbing down from John's lap and toddling over to Sherlock. John watched fondly, remembering when Hamish was just a baby, who could barely function without his parents' help. John did admit he missed having a baby… someone who depended on him whole heartedly… but could their lifestyle support two children?
John's train of thought was interpreted by Mycroft arriving unexpectedly at the door. John was about to alert Sherlock to his brother's presence, but Sherlock opened his arms for Hamish and kept his eyes closed.
"I trust you've arranged everything, brother dear?" Sherlock asked, not moving from the sofa. John watched the exchange in confusion, not putting together the pieces.
"Yes. The biological side has been arranged, we just need both of your signatures before we can complete the procedure. And, well, the necessary parts from John," Mycroft reported, looking somewhat awkward. And suddenly it clicked.
"Oh… you actually arranged it," John breathed. Mixed emotions cluttered up his brain but the most prominent was joy- another baby. A smile broke across John's face, and he noticed Sherlock give a satisfied smirk to Hamish, before finally turning towards Mycroft.
"And everything is as I said?"
"Everything," Mycroft promised, leaning on his umbrella. Sherlock nodded, before turning to John.
"Is tomorrow adequate? Hamish is at his god forsaken play group, so we'll be free for a few hours," Sherlock said, as if John was supposed to understand what was happening. John nodded mutely. Mycroft bade them farewell, and Sherlock immediately grabbed a laptop and began some sort of research. John watched him for a while, before inferring that he wasn't going to elaborate, and sitting beside Sherlock's feet. Sherlock put his overly expensive shoes on John's lap, but continued typing. Hamish had slipped off Sherlock's chest, and was now playing with his Lego in the middle of the floor, completely oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place.
"So, what's happening tomorrow?" John said at last.
"I thought it was fairly obvious. We'll go to Bart's, use your genes to fertilise an egg given by a woman by Mycroft has selected to resemble me, so we don't get a child that looks like neither of us. If the process works, then we'll use the woman as a surrogate, and she'll give birth to the baby, so we can both adopt it. Obvious," Sherlock said, very quickly and calmly. John stared at him in shock, before leaning back and shaking his head.
"Very obvious," he sighed.
Well I hope you liked! I might extend the chapter lengths, but at the moment I'm keeping them medium sized. I know this chapter came a few hours after the first, but expect the next one in a few days. Thanks for reading!