John heard Sherlock well before he actually saw him.

He was on his side on the hospital bed, trying to keep his mind on anything but the large needle about to enter his spine. Being a doctor himself, it wasn't that John was squeamish about such things. Rather, it symbolized something greater, something far more worrying than simple needle phobia: this is really happening and it cannot be stopped or delayed. A heavy thought indeed.

So when he first heard Sherlock's deep voice calling his name desperately from somewhere outside his hospital room, he prayed to any deity, contract-happy demon, or wish-granting fairy who may exist and happen to be listening in for the anesthesiologist currently working on him to have steady fingers. As Sherlock's voice got closer, accompanied by the sounds of a minor scuffle and several irate voices trying to tell him off for making such a racket in such a sensitive ward, John heard the anesthesiologist chuckle.

"I think someone may be looking for you," he said dryly.

"Oh, no, I'm sure it's a coincidence," John replied, matching the tone. "John's a very common name, after all."

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist did have very steady hands, as demonstrated when a loud knock sounded at the door the moment the needle smoothly entered John's spine. John winced, partially at the pain, but mostly at the knowledge that if he'd been in jumpier hands, he may well have been rendered paraplegic.

"Just finishing up! You can come in, provided you stay calm," the anesthesiologist called. John wasn't too sure if that was possible.

"Oh, believe me, I'll be seeing to that."

It was Dr. Wilson's annoyed voice. John stifled a surprised laugh as the door opened and she marched in, pulling Sherlock by his ear. Given that she, like John, was a good half foot shorter than Sherlock, it was quite a sight.

"I believe this belongs to you, Dr. Watson," she said, frowning at her reluctant charge. "I don't want to have to instate a leash law while he's here, but he started making such unbelievable noise the minute he got into the ward."

"Oh, we heard," the anesthesiologist replied as he removed the needle and carefully inspected the area of application.

"You!" Sherlock growled, pointing at the anesthesiologist. "What are you doing back there? What are you doing to John?" He cringed when Dr. Wilson gave a tug at his ear.

John rolled his eyes. "It's anesthesia to take a bit of the edge off, Sherlock. The less physical stress I'm in, the better, the way things are. It'll help me rest."

"Oh, please, that part is obvious. So, you're just giving in, then, Wilson?" Sherlock asked snidely, attempting to look at her. She released him and he straightened to his full height, rubbing his sore, red ear. "Just giving up, doctor?"

Dr. Wilson walked away from Sherlock purposefully, making her way to John's bed. She checked the anesthesiologist's work, nodded, and dismissed him. Sherlock briefly scowled at the anesthesiologist as he left, but quickly turned his wrath back to Dr. Wilson. "No response to my question, I see. Telling," he groused.

Dr. Wilson still didn't respond, choosing instead to help John lie on his back and prep him for an examination. She sanitized her hands, slipped on medical gloves, and began the exam, completely unfazed as Sherlock continued making sounds of disapproval. Even though Dr. Wilson looked as if she could go on ignoring him indefinitely, John finally had enough.

"Not good to antagonize the doctor who will be delivering our baby, Sherlock!" he snapped.

"And that is my point exactly! This is happening too soon, John. It's too early!"

"And what, then, do you propose we do? The labour's already well under way –"

"Well," Sherlock said, his shoulders tight and his hands flexing wildly at his sides. "Stop it."

"Would if I could, trust me," John grumbled, wincing as he felt another dull throb and trying not to think about what it would feel like without the anesthetic. "Not my choice."

"And at this point, there's not much in the way of options," Dr. Wilson answered. "Honestly, even if John had a lower threshold of pain and he came in before the waters ruptured, I doubt there'd be anything I could do. Now it's more dangerous to try to postpone delivery, since it's very easy for complications to arise or infection to set in."

Sherlock groaned and staggered dramatically to the wall opposite the hospital bed, where he sank to the floor, clutching his head in his hands. "Deliver now and the child is well over a month premature, higher probability of physical or mental disadvantage in comparison to full term births. Delay and risk not just the child's health, but John's as well," he muttered to himself. "Both unacceptable."

John sighed, relaxing his legs as Dr. Wilson finished the exam, removed her gloves, and moved away to make notes on his progress. "Look, Sherlock," he said, tiredly. "I'm scared too, but shutting down in the face of fear won't-"

"I am not scared," Sherlock interrupted. Maybe someone who didn't know Sherlock or who believed in Sherlock's sociopath claims might have believed him, but John could hear the small hitch in his voice. He removed his hands from his hair and hugged his knees closely to his chest. "I just despise no-win scenarios. I've had my fill of them. I am searching for a third option as we speak."

John gazed at Sherlock for a moment before he turned to Dr. Wilson with an expression that implored for advice. The aging doctor shrugged and said, "Believe it or not, this isn't the worst reaction I've seen an Alpha have in a delivery room. But it is pretty high on the list, I must admit."

John rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Oh God, please say this isn't in the top ten, at least."

"Top five, sorry. Mostly for terrorizing the ward before we were able to get him into the right room, mind you."

"Oh, of course."

Dr. Wilson smiled as she moved back to John's bed and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Here's hoping he'll be more helpful soon," she said warmly. "If I had to estimate, I'd say you have at least another couple of hours before you'll be ready to deliver. But don't quote me on that. It could be sooner or much, much later."

John nodded. "I understand." He grinned a bit weakly. "Not really looking forward to living those hours, though."

"Just be glad that active first-time labours for Omegas average out to around nine hours. Betas have it far tougher than we do, honestly. They get to grapple with severely reduced fertility, and if one manages to get pregnant, the labour usually lasts well over a day."

"Wow," John said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I think I suddenly respect my parents a bit more now, even if they didn't quite know what to do with me."

Dr. Wilson chuckled. "Becoming a parent can do that to you a bit, yes. Epidural kicked in yet?"

"Starting to. It's really making a difference."

"Wonderful. You should try to get some rest while the pain is numbed, especially since Sherlock's actually being quiet for the time being. I'll have someone bring in a couple of guest chairs and see if we can coax him off the floor."

"Yeah, good luck with tha- hold on." John blinked in confusion. "A couple of chairs?"

"I'm sure you'll be having visitors, considering I generally like to keep preterm patients a bit longer than their more timely counterparts," Dr. Wilson answered. "Now, relax a bit. If anything comes up or you need anything, hit the page button straightaway. Otherwise, I'll be back in about an hour to check up on you."

John readily obliged, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and practically willing some of the tension out of his muscles.

When he opened his eyes again, it felt like only seconds had passed. John knew that couldn't be true, however, as Sherlock sat in one of the promised guest chairs. He'd scooted the chair close to the hospital bed, close enough to slouch forward so his right arm rested on the mattress with his face hidden in the crook of his elbow. His left hand had sought out John's right, and he had laced their fingers together. John gave the hand a small squeeze, and Sherlock looked up immediately. He hadn't been asleep, then.

Sherlock's eyes were dry, but John's chest ached when he noticed that they were slightly red-rimmed. "Hey," John said in a tone that was a bit too wavering to be as uplifting as he'd hoped it would be. Trying to lighten the atmosphere, he added, "Found that third option?"

Sherlock's lips twitched in a tight frown.

"For the record, I'd much rather us be stuck together on the 'so this is happening now' option than try to get through this on my own while you plumb the depths of that big brain of yours for a potential solution."

"Pleased about my failure to solve the problem," Sherlock mumbled, looking as if he were gearing up for a world-class sulk.

"Don't be like that. This," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand again. "Is infinitely more helpful than what you were doing before." He brought their joined hands up to his lips, where he breathed his next words over their knuckles. "Okay? So keep it up."

The bourgeoning pout faded from Sherlock's face, leaving his expression strangely blank. Or, perhaps, the rest of Sherlock's face merely seemed blank in comparison to his eyes, which pinned John with a contemplative and unblinking stare. They held the gaze for a long moment, saying more through a single look than any number of words could possibly express.

Then someone to John's left cleared their throat, and the moment shattered like the ashtray from Buckingham, which hadn't survived one of Sherlock's experiments involving sound waves (and incidentally, neither had nearly all of John's tea mugs).

"Jesus Christ!" John gasped, jolting in surprise and turning to the unexpected sound. "Fucking hell, Mycroft, how long have you been there?"

"Once again: language, John. I don't want my niece or –"

"Nephew. I've already deduced it. Keep up," Sherlock grumbled.

"- exposed to such vulgarity. It's indecorous."

"I'm the only one in labour here, so I'll swear as much as I please," John replied, trying to take in long, slow breaths to lower his heart rate. "And that doesn't answer my question at all!"

"He came in with the chairs," Sherlock stated, his voice dripping with venom. "Personally, I think he planned it that way because he can't bear the notion of standing for any period of time."

"I'll have you know I've had my hands full keeping abreast with all of today's media reactions," Mycroft said primly. "Congratulations. My assistant has informed me that you're the subject of two Twitter trends as we speak."

"Only two?" Sherlock wondered to nobody in particular. "Underperformance."

"What are they, then?" John asked.

"The first, #SherlockLives, is self-explanatory and mostly links to news reports covering the press conference. The other is #HolmesBabyNames, which is an exercise in ridiculousness."

John gave a brief mental prayer in the hopes that he wouldn't feel the need to kick himself later for succumbing to curiosity, but went ahead and asked, "What's the best one of that last one?"

"I'm ill equipped to make such an assessment," Mycroft said, waving a hand in dismissal. "However, the most popular example seems to be 'Auguste'."

"Ugh, Dupin," Sherlock hissed, as if the name itself were somehow inherently filthy. "A hack who can't even manage the woefully simple task of being non-fictional. Fools have compared me to that character for ages."

John gave a thoughtful 'hmm' and said, "Must be especially bad lately, what with that popular modernization on telly."

Somehow, Sherlock's naturally pale face managed to blanch even further. "No. You're joking. That doesn't exist."

"I've only seen 'The Purloined Laptop', but it was pretty good. Loads of chemistry between Dupin and his assistant; it's hard to believe they're supposed to be Betas."

The sound that Sherlock made in the back of his throat was not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, not quite a pained death rattle. What it was, however, was 100% melodrama. "Future generations plagued by Dupin. Our child will be born into a terrible world."

"So the world is terrible because a fictional amateur detective doesn't live up to your exacting standards and not because of, oh, little things like murder," John said. His expression turned thoughtful and he nodded. "Sounds about par for the course for you."

"Without murder, the world would be terrible and dull. Instead it is both only some of the time," Sherlock explained.

John shook his head. "Right, so at the very least 'Auguste' is out. Fine by me; I don't even like it. But Sherlock, ruling that out is literally the only thing we've decided name-wise. And we are kind of on a deadline now. You seem pretty insistent that it's a boy –"

"Because he is."

"So do you have any suggestions, then?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate in the slightest: "Absalom."

"Absalom?"

Mycroft hummed in recognition. "After our grandfather, the Omega on Mummy's side," he explained. He folded his hands and continued, "I realize you come from Beta parents, John, and therefore have no practical experience growing up in a home with Alpha and Omega parents. But seeing as there are certain times wherein parenting becomes… let's say challenging…"

John closed his eyes and held his hands up in surrender. "Stop. Nope. No, no, no – do not continue. I don't need to imagine your parents in heat, thanks."

"Nor did their children, hence the need for a regular caregiver who could mind us for days at a time."

"So, you were watched by your grandfather?" John asked Sherlock. "Really?"

"I have been told that this arrangement was one of the few things about my family which society would deem 'normal'. What makes it seem so peculiar to you?"

"Well, I suppose it's because it's normal." John shrugged. "It's just that I always assumed you two were looked after by nannies and governesses, being so posh and all."

"Sherlock terrorized them mercilessly, and they usually ran off within days if not hours of being hired. The turnover rate was staggering," Mycroft stated. Sherlock tried to begin an argument over how fully justified he was and that he should have been lauded for providing such an invaluable service, but Mycroft cut him off. "Grandpapa Absalom was the only member of our family whom Sherlock wholeheartedly adored, possibly because of the shared pirate fixation. They were insufferable once they were on a roll."

John suddenly had the mental image of a toddler-aged Sherlock with a cardboard sword and poorly-placed eye patch and his elderly grandfather in an ostrich-plumed pirate hat ordering an irate preadolescent Mycroft to walk the plank. He laughed so hard he needed to wipe away tears. "Oh God," he said once the laughter finally began to die down. "That's the most adorable thing I've heard in ages."

Sherlock looked ready to sulk again.

"Unfortunately," Mycroft continued. "Grandpapa Absalom passed away when Sherlock was six. Even though our parents were past the point of being… inconvenienced… by biology by that time, they determined that I was old enough to look after him when they needed a break from his ways. Which was quite often."

"And it was all downhill from there," Sherlock said, frowning at Mycroft.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said firmly. He did, taking in the warm smile on John's face. "I like the name. Yeah, it's unusual and a bit cumbersome for a baby, but it's got character. And, more importantly, a good story attached. I think it'd be a brilliant name."

This seemed to smooth some of Sherlock's feathers that had been ruffled. "Of course it's a good suggestion, or else it wouldn't have come from me," he said, a smile forming on his own lips. "And now I can see that an idea for a second name has popped into your head. An acquaintance from the Army."

John gawked at him for a second. "That's right."

"A gleam appeared in your eyes when you mentioned attaching stories to names. Where have you acquired the most meaningful stories in your life? Family? Unlikely, not terribly close, mostly strained relations. Practicing medicine? More likely, but still not quite there. Our work together? Certainly, but as much as I am a show-off, I refuse to be our own child's namesake and I know you feel likewise. Now, the Army, with its powerful inter-personal bonds formed in the fires of mortal danger: ah, that's just right."

"I don't think I'll ever not be impressed by that, you know."

"Good, because I don't plan on stopping."

"I should warn you though," John said, looking away from Sherlock and his fingers worrying with the bedding. "My story isn't nearly as sweet as yours."

"Memorable stories from the Army rarely are," Sherlock stated. "Go ahead."

"Right," John said with a nod. He took in and released a deep breath and began, "When I was first promoted to Captain, it rankled a couple of Alphas who'd been passed over. They thought it an undeserved charity promotion even though, not to sound vain, I was much, much better at the job than they were. Anyway, they got into my supplies and messed with my medications, replacing my military-assigned suppressants with placebos."

Sherlock glared. "Idiots!" he hissed. "With so many Alphas about, they were tempting chaos. They didn't just want to ruin your career; they wanted to ruin you, in the most degrading way imaginable."

"And they would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for pesky Omega solidarity," John quipped in his best attempt at an American accent, which didn't deserve even being within five miles of the word 'best'. Sherlock and Mycroft gave him those identical puzzled expressions again, and he kicked himself for not knowing better. "Scooby-Doo? No? Wow, you two really didn't have childhoods. Just - never mind, just forget it."

He cleared his throat and resumed his story, "I meant what I said about Omega solidarity, though. I went into heat, and things would've ended disastrously if the only other Omega in my company didn't take such a powerful stand. Watched over me the whole time and single-handedly kept all the Alphas far enough away. Despite some of them being very, very insistent, from what I gathered. Once my head cleared, we investigated and discovered the plot."

"And now you want to give our child his name, in a token of gratitude."

"Half right," John said. "Her first name was 'Melanie' and since you're so certain we're having a boy, I don't think it's a good fit. Her surname fits the bill, though. Wade."

"Was," Sherlock noted, grimly.

John sighed. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Four months after she prevented… all that. IED."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Wade," he murmured, testing the sound out. "Wade Absalom. Absalom Wade."

"I like that second one," John said, smiling. "Absalom Wade Holmes, assuming you're right about it being a boy. What do you think?"

"How many times must I insist that assumptions are not necessary?" Sherlock asked. However, the irritation did not last long as he quietly said the name a few more times. He said it fast, said it slow, said it with drawn-out vowels and slight tweaks to the cadence. He savored how mere contortions of lips and tongue could form something so meaningful. "It's ideal."

John chuckled and brought a hand to his belly. "You've got a name! And with hours to spare, at that."

Only five minutes later, Dr. Wilson returned to give John another exam, which Sherlock wouldn't let her begin until he had chased Mycroft out of the room. When she finished, she made a rough estimate on how much longer it would be until the delivery.

She was off by only three minutes.

Time moves in mysterious ways.

Looking back, if someone told John that every temporal law (and even a few that would merely be theories for a few more decades) completely ceased to apply when one was in labour, his response would probably be, "Oh, well that explains all that, then." If he really thought about it, he'd agree with the famous words of a truly great man-shaped being: it really was all a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff.

Several hours of resting in short bursts, minutes of light half-conscious dozing or small pockets of dreamless sleep. Check-ups counting down to the inevitable. Sucking on ice to prevent dehydration, crunching on some of the cubes and feeling the cold trail of frozen splinters run down his throat. Feeling uncomfortable, mounting pressure, despite the absence of the regular, cramping pains – at least until the epidural began to wear off.

Hours felt like days, until suddenly Dr. Wilson was nodding, saying it was time, helping him get into position. Then it was as if the day had flown by in mere seconds, racing at a breakneck speed to this, the most important moment in his life.

"John, you're crushing my hand," Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth.

"Good!" John hissed. He gripped even tighter as another contraction hit. He panted through it. "Best news I've heard all day!"

"But I need this hand! Achieving full ambidexterity could take days!"

"Boo-" He took in short, quick breaths, following Dr. Wilson's breathing exercises. "Fucking-" He groaned as he bore down. "Hoo!"

"You're doing very well, John, keep it up," Dr. Wilson said, her voice slightly muffled by her medical mask. "I can see the head. Oh my, I think somebody may already have their daddy's hair."

"Really?" Sherlock asked. He craned his neck, trying to get a view despite the impossible angle. "I want to see." He winced as John gave his hand the most vicious squeeze yet.

"Oh, no you don't," John growled. "You stay put. No part of you is allowed anywhere below my waist until I bloody well say so!"

"But I'm curious, and the best way to understand how a process works is to actively observe!" Sherlock pouted at John's heated, absolutely-no-nonsense glare. "Fine, I'll just watch next time."

"What next time?"

Dr. Wilson managed to interrupt the banter, urging John to focus and that they just needed one more push. And then, suddenly, as if all the pain and exhaustion and hand-crushing were a single grain of sand dropping in an hourglass, it was over.

Subjectively, it felt like an eternity passed for John as he begged anything and everything for the baby to be okay. He'd never be upset if it cried all night for months, if it took ages to get the hang of potty training, if it went through a nasty biting phase – anything, as long as it was alive and safe. In his desperation, he wasn't sure if he was saying these things aloud or not, but he could vaguely hear Sherlock murmuring similar sentiments under the breath he could not fully release.

In reality, that moment of soul-gripping dread only lasted about three seconds. Time moves in mysterious ways, after all.

Dr. Wilson announced that the baby was a boy, and Absalom Wade Holmes gave his recently-formed lungs a workout. The cry was the finest thing John had ever heard, and the relief and stark absence of pain that flooded through him was overwhelming. The stuttering breath he released was halfway between a laugh and a sob as the wailing newborn was wrapped in a towel and placed on his chest. Sherlock's hand, still clasped with his own, trembled.

"Oh my God," John breathed, gazing at the pink baby through tear-clouded eyes. His free hand instinctively moved up to cradle the little creature, and he smiled when Sherlock's hand joined his in a gentle exploration of the child. He laughed and glanced at Sherlock, "He really does have your hair."

Sherlock was silent, gazing at the baby as if he were memorizing every detail about him. Which, actually, was probably exactly what he was doing.

Dr. Wilson had finished overseeing the passing of the afterbirth, the cutting of the clamped umbilical cord, and cleanup. After sanitizing her hands, she pulled on a new, fresh pair of gloves. "Now comes the really tricky part," she murmured to herself.

She took a steadying breath and continued in a slow and soothing voice, "John, Sherlock, I need to take the baby for a little bit, okay?"

"Don't touch him," Sherlock rumbled dangerously. "He's ours; don't you dare touch him."

"Settle down," Dr. Wilson said calmly, holding her hands out in a placating gesture. "I know that your instincts are really strong right now, but I need to give him a proper check-up. You want to make sure he's healthy, right? And look, I'm wearing gloves, as are anyone else who might touch him. It won't be long at all and he won't smell like any of us when we get him back to you."

Sherlock and John each met the other's eyes, searching for approval. The hormones which were triggered to surge through their bodies by the birth of their child fogged their minds with instincts nearly as powerful as those brought on by heat. Their bodies were telling them to huddle close with their child between them, allowing the newborn to imprint on their scents. It was the crucial initial phase of forming the family bond.

But even with their bodies yearning to start that connection, they still had some rationality. They still had the knowledge that Absalom was premature and therefore susceptible to all kinds of unthinkable complications. Knowing the status of their son's health was worth the wait.

"Okay," John murmured.

Dr. Wilson smiled. "I promise he'll be even prettier when you see him next."

"Impossible," Sherlock whispered.

Dr. Wilson lifted the baby from John's chest. Absalom, who had just begun to quiet down, fussed and began to cry again as he was taken away to be cleaned and thoroughly checked. John fought the surge of adrenalin that urged him to get the baby back in his arms and shut his eyes tight. He felt Sherlock move, pressing closer to him and gently touching his forehead to John's sweaty temple. Neither tried to think about what it would be like if Absalom hadn't cried. What it would be like to clasp each other as they did now, waiting for a bonding that could never happen.

Fortunately, true to her word, Dr. Wilson returned quickly. Absalom had been cleaned and dressed, complete with a little cap over his puff of dark hair. "Seventeen inches long and four pounds, twelve ounces," she said as she deposited the baby in John's arms. "A teensy little thing, but about average for being as early as he is. No critical health problems that I could find, but he will need to stay in hospital for a while for monitoring as well as to meet a few milestones. For now, though, I think he'll be just fine for that bonding you two are so keen on."

She smiled at the new parents and tried to remind them about using the emergency call if anything happened, but chuckled as she noted that her words were mostly falling on deaf ears. John and Sherlock had already turned all of their attentions to the baby. Dr. Wilson saw herself out.

For quite some time, though neither John nor Sherlock were exactly sure how long, they hadn't needed words. They communicated with each other and with their son through touch and scent, far older languages than anything spoken. As with any newborn, Absalom's eyes wouldn't properly focus for months yet, so he would need to know his parents by scent and warmth – the earliest ways to assure him he was secure and having his needs met.

Sherlock was the first to reintroduce language to the equation. "John," he said quietly. They had held Absalom together for a while, but had now taken to taking turns holding him individually. The baby was asleep in Sherlock's arms, and he gazed down on his face.

"Hmm?"

"Will the parents of other children born here be able to see Absalom, or is it more private?"

John hummed in thought. "More private, I think. Why?"

"If they see him, they may realize their child is woefully inferior in comparison and try to make a switch. I refuse to raise anyone's dull changeling," Sherlock replied.

John laughed hard even though each 'ha' reminded him that he'd never felt as sore as this in his life. "Oh God, Sherlock," he finally managed to say, though he was still gasping. "I think – I think everybody feels that way about their baby."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "However, the difference is that I am right and they are wrong. Simple."

John grinned, but it gradually softened from one of jest to one of fondness as it sunk in that Sherlock was being 100% sincere. "Yeah," John eventually said. "Yeah, I think you're right in this case."

They sat in companionable silence for a little while longer, until a realization hit John. He winced and covered his eyes with his hand, mumbling, "Oh shi-… erm, darn."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, concerned. "What's wrong? Are you in pain? I'll summon Dr. Wilson."

"No, no, that's not it," John said. He shook his head and ran his palm over his face in irritation. "It just hit me that I should probably inform Harry that she's, y'know, an aunt. Hours after the fact."

"If the media is running with it to the extent Mycroft has implied, it's very likely that she's already pieced that together," Sherlock stated. "Unless, of course, her deduction skills are even worse than yours."

John smirked sarcastically, but otherwise ignored the comment. "Give me your phone. I lost track of mine on the way here. Probably with my clothes, but I don't know where those are, either."

"Coat pocket."

"In a hospital bed, Sherlock."

"Holding our baby, John."

"You're going to need to get used to moving him around so you can do other things," John began, but held up a hand when he saw a gleam in Sherlock's eye. "Non-labwork things. So position him so you're holding him with one arm, then give me the phone."

Slightly awkwardly, Sherlock maneuvered Absalom until the baby was entirely supported by his left arm. He froze for a moment when the child gave a small, sleepy grunt, but resumed when it became apparent that he wasn't going to wake. Carefully, he reached into the pocket and passed John the phone.

John murmured his thanks and thumbed in the password, but his plan to notify Harry stopped dead in its tracks when he saw that Sherlock had changed his mobile's background. During the bonding, John had drifted off to sleep with Absalom lying in such a way that the baby's head was cradled against his neck just over the clavicle. Sherlock had apparently taken a picture and set it as his new background. When John went to the mobile's photo folder, there were well over 30 similar pictures: John and Absalom, Absalom alone, John alone, and even a few Sherlock had tried to take of himself with the baby to limited camera angle success.

John had to blink to clear his vision and swallow a few times to clear the lump that had formed in his throat. "Sherlock," he said, his voice thick. "Do you remember a couple of weeks ago, when I said that I'd tell you when we were okay?"

Sherlock looked up at him, and John swore he saw guarded hope there. "I do."

John smiled. "We're okay."