Chapter 2: Sherlock Broods His Egg
Sherlock pulls out a fresh lab notebook and titles it "Incubation Procedures for Optimum Egg Hatchability". Some of the things in his notebook include:
Early Incubation:
Maintain humidity at 45% (sprinkle w/37.7° C water)
Turn egg at least 5x/day (so internal organs remain internal, and not attached to the inside of the shell)
Late Incubation (last 3-4 days)
Stop turning egg
Increase humidity to 70%
Sherlock wonders how far into the incubation period they are already. The embryo is massive, he can probably calculate how much, given a few more measurements, but he can't discern details beyond a generic, crumpled up form.
Over the next several weeks, Sherlock bustles through cases at twice his normal speed, eager to return to his flat and keep an eye on his egg. He's decided he wants it to imprint on him, whatever it may be. (Griffin? Dinosaur? Dragon? Roc? All are equally impossible, he figures, so he's trying to keep an open mind.)
He tells the egg about his cases, and his methods. He leans against the egg as he speaks and his voice is low, rumbling velvet. The creature will recognize it when it hatches. When he researches basic medicine for a case involving a disturbing string of vivisections in the London underworld, he reads the medical texts aloud to the egg. He plays the violin for the egg during the odd hours he's feeling wistful. Lullabies are too babyish. He plays Paganini, Ernst, Corigliano, and works of his own. When he sleeps, he curls around the egg, assuming that his pheromones will be concentrated and perhaps even seep into the egg through its gas-exchange mechanism.
He methodically rotates the egg, in accordance with suggestions he's found on the web. He sprinkles it with very warm water several times a day, to keep it from drying up. When he doesn't think of water, he sprinkles it with tea. He figures that it's all the same to the egg.
He begins to call it "John", just to have a handle.
The embryo within grows steadily larger, the black mass where the egg candling doesn't penetrate now encompassing almost all the space in the egg. Sherlock can watch it spasm, from time to time, and has even seen limbs flicker out, but hasn't been able to recognize them, they blur too quickly against the black background. He can feel the shell growing more fragile, thinner, more resonant, and knows that the time is approaching for hatching. The body inside is absorbing the calcium from the shell, to use in building the last bits.
Lestrade comes striding up the stairs with a case. "Oi! Sherlock! I've got one for you!" he shouts.
"Not now, Lestrade," Sherlock hisses. "Keep your voice down."
"What's that?" Lestrade enters the kitchen at the same moment Sherlock exits his room and shuts the door behind him. They stare at one another over the mess of beakers and microscope on the kitchen table.
"I've a very delicate experiment going, Lestrade. I'm quite unable to leave at this time." Sherlock enunciates clearly, so that he won't have to waste precious time repeating himself to the sometimes dense D.I. There has been distinct movement from the egg, it's been rocking slightly all morning, and Sherlock is wild with excitement, although you wouldn't know that from his face.
"But Sherlock, it's a closed room-"
"Not interested. Did you not hear me the first time? Now bugger off, won't you? I'm extremely busy."
Lestrade huffs, but Sherlock whirls back to his room and slams the door. He can hear Lestrade make his way down the stairs and back outside. He doesn't care one whit.
Over the next few hours, the egg continues to slowly rock. Sherlock drinks tea and watches it, speaking quiet words of encouragement. He wonders what is about to erupt from it. All ideas are equally improbable, so he is content to suppose mythological as well as extinct. He has dressed in one of his sharp suits, the shirt a deep maroon, in case the hatchling can see color: he wants to be noticeable. He wants to look his best, for this first, all-important meeting. Although he knows academically that it's a ridiculous notion.
Scraping and scratching commence. Finally! Sherlock hovers, one knee pressed on the mattress beside the egg, both hands flattened on the shell. "That's it, John. Come on," he thrums. "Make quick work of it, now. No need to spend all day pecking. Come now, John. I want to meet you."
And with that, cracks splinter out from an area on the side. Sherlock holds his breath. There is a pounding noise from inside, and at last a sharp stiletto shape pierces through, and pulls immediately back in. Was it a claw? An egg tooth? Sherlock can't tell. The object pokes out again, working steadily at the small hole, dragging down to pry open the largest crack. It looks for all the world like the clip point tip of a knife blade. If it is a claw, Sherlock thinks, it is the flattest one he's come across. He longs to get in there and help the creature out, but he's not stupid enough to put his violinist's fingers in reach of that frantic blade.
"John, John, John," he chants quietly. "Come out. Come out."
Hairline cracks fracture into small canyons, and several angular polygons of shell shoot to the bed. The pounding changes in tenor, and Sherlock sees a larger shape behind the stretchy white membrane. It kicks out more pieces of shell, before violently coming out through the enlarged hole. It looks for all the world like a human foot. Attached to a human leg. What the hell? But. No stranger than a roc. Or a dinosaur.
Sherlock is writing copious notes in his lab book. He doesn't want to lose any data.
The leg is pulled back inside, and two very human looking hands reach through, breaking off more of the shell. Sherlock sees an elbow. There is a final, jolting surge, and the egg rolls off the bed and crashes to the floor. Kneeling in the middle of the wreckage, panting, dripping wet with albumen, is a full-grown man. He pushes quickly, and unsteadily, to his feet.
*** There is some gorgeous artwork for this chapter, by BoringIsDull (on Tumblr), that you can find on my AO3 account version.