As per usual, Sherlock's calculations were correct. It took no time at all for Molly to text and report the fertilization process a success. John spilled tea on himself at Sherlock's delighted shriek, but his requisite reproach died on his tongue when Sherlock swooped in to snog him senseless. He was still smiling an hour later, watching in his periphery as Sherlock instructed Will on the finer points of embryogenesis and his father's mastery of all varieties of experimentation.

Everything moved quickly after that. The final arrangements were made with their surrogate and Mycroft pulled the usual strings to ensure she was as comfortable and cared for as money could afford. John, to his credit, ignored this fact, instead busying himself with checking up on her condition and interrogating her obstetrician. Sherlock swirled off to the Yard to pick at the cold cases. He'd done enough events planning for a lifetime.

He'd known the conversation was coming. There was no way around it. Its inevitability, however, made it no less intimidating. But when John walked in the kitchen and cleared his throat to steel himself, Sherlock decided that his fears must be faced.

'Next weekend.'

John paused for exactly seven seconds. 'Pardon?'

'You're going to tell me that we need to tell my parents. Let's go next weekend. Get it out of the way.'

He had to be smiling, at least a little. Otherwise the yelling would have started. 'There's a reason why people think you're telepathic, you know.'

'Idiots.'

'Do you want me to get the tickets?'

He tapped a final flourish on his keyboard. 'Already obtained.'

'Did you tell Mycroft?'

'No need.'

'Ah. Of course.' He turned, thinking of tea. 'He's not coming, is he?'

'I wish he wouldn't.'

'That's not a no.'

'Sadly it is not. An excellent observation.'

John sighed, his potential beverage forgotten. Sherlock didn't need to look up to know his brows would be furrowed, the corners of his mouth tight with the effort of resisting a frown. He idly considered biting John's pouting lip just to see what would happen. 'Well, I'll have to give him credit for not outing us like last time.'

'When did he- Oh. That. He does have some self-control.'

'Not much when it comes to tattling on you.' Sherlock smirked at that. John's bitterness toward Mycroft's more obnoxious habits always made him smile. 'I'll call your mother, shall I?'

'You won't catch me doing it.'

He could almost hear John's eyes roll. 'I know you too well to believe that, Sherly.' There was a tinny ring cut short and John stepped into the lounge. 'Hullo, Cate! It's John.' He chuckled. 'No, he didn't light the kitchen on fire again…'

There were few places in the world that felt more comforting than the Holmes cottage. John wasn't sure how that had come to be the case. There was something about its cookery smells, its tiny stairwells and spacious rooms, the intimidating glasses of gin that were deposited in his hand as he walked through the door that set him completely at ease. It meant Home and Safety and Potential Insanity in a way that his own parents' house never could. Perhaps there were too many memories in Croydon. Perhaps there just wasn't enough Sherlock there.

There was something about the Holmeses themselves as well, a bone-deep familiarity he'd felt even on their first official meeting. They were brilliant - both of them, no matter what George seemed to think of himself - and kind, full of embraces and smiles and coy inside jokes he didn't realise had been established. Sherlock's mother was a force in her own right: cheeky and loving, but deeply protective, daring anyone and anything to cross her or harm her children. George was softer in a lot of ways and kept to himself, outwardly submissive but more than capable of holding his own and taking control. John remembered how well he'd got on with Mary, her stories of his declaring them 'the sane ones'. It made him smile to know how right George had been about their similarities, how Mary had never realised that, like her, George had his own set of state secrets and hidden talents.

John loved them. It was as simple as that. He loved their house, he loved their cookery, he loved their easy joy around Will. He loved the man they had raised. His bliss bubbled over and oozed into his extremities, and he couldn't be bothered to chide Sherlock when he rolled his eyes and huffed about it. Let him whinge, John thought; there were much worse ways to feel about one's maybe-potential-sort-of-long-term-in-laws.

He smiled to himself at the thought, leaning comfortably on the worktop as if he'd done as much every day of his life. It would be an odd situation to find himself in if he hadn't long ago accepted that his life, as a general rule, was odd. Here he was in the kitchen of his…his euphemism's parents' house, his euphemism's mother chopping onions and chattering away, pausing only to offer him a top-off on his already daunting dram. The man in question was off somewhere in the gardens with their son and his father, wiling away the hours until the appointed time wherein they would announce the fact that they were a few short months away from unleashing another Holmes child (boy) onto an unsuspecting world.

'So when are you due?'

John snapped out of his reverie, his brow creased and mouth agape. 'Pardon?'

Cate grinned. He knew that grin. That grin was a decidedly Not Good sign. 'Will drew a diagram for me of the female reproductive system. Unless you and my boy have been up to I-don't-know-what, I'd say he's soon to be an elder brother.'

His recovery time was brief and ended in a chuff of laughter. 'I swear to God, you're all clairvoyant.'

'No, I'm his mother. It's much more useful.'

'He has had a rather jaunty step of late, hasn't he?'

'He's had that for most of four years now, dear.'

John's eyes turned to the glass in his hand. He was absolutely not blushing. 'We, uh. We just found out the insemination was a success. Mycroft found us a surrogate. She's doing very well so far.'

He glanced up just in time to see a smile spread across her face, crooked and familiar. He yelped as she yanked him into a crushing hug, his drink splashing wildly. 'Oh, John! That's such wonderful, wonderful news!'

He couldn't help but chuckle, one arm wrapped around her as the other kept the tidal wave in his glass from splattering all over the clean lino. 'We certainly think so.'

'Just smashing! Oh, George is going to be thrilled!' She beamed up at him, her eyes damp with tears. For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something else, some hidden sorrow buried underneath. She patted his cheek and pulled away, the moment gone. 'We'll give him the surprise of his life! Other than Sherlock, of course; he was quite the shock to us all.' John chuckled at her conspiratorial wink and drained the last of his gin. 'Be a dear and pass me that bowl. We'd better mash these potatoes so he doesn't choke when he hears the news.'

It was several hours and far too many brandies later and Sherlock couldn't sleep.

Dinner had gone well; better than he had expected. Mother already knew - of course she did - but it did nothing to lessen her enthusiasm and the affection she bestowed on the both of them after their announcement. Father had simply sat agape: delighted and shocked and not quite able to believe it. Then the news sunk in and he was beside himself, grabbing Will in a fierce cuddle and kissing Mother senseless. The brandy had materialised and appropriate toasts were made. John's hand had found his thigh under the table and offered a teasing squeeze.

And then it hit him. They were having a baby. He and John. Together. Intentionally. A tiny person with his genes, his intelligence, maybe even his personality.

What in God's name had he agreed to?

Objectively speaking, there was no one in the universe less suited to child-rearing than Sherlock Holmes. No; there were two worse candidates, but he knew himself to be a close third. He had no patience, an unreliable attention span, a penchant for dashing off to dangerous situations with unstable people… How could he bring a child - an infant - into an environment like that? It would never be safe. It would never even know the concept of 'safe'.

What if he was a terrible father?

He had never considered it before. He wondered if he should have. When it came to Will, there had been no questions. Will had needed him - John had needed him - and he did anything and everything to take care of his boy. There had been no time for second guessing. And once he'd had a minute to worry about it, he discovered that there was no need to fret when it came to Will. He was clever, brave, loving, far too impulsive for John's liking, but that suggested its own list of positive attributes, like curiosity and ratiocination and improvisation. Will would be alright, and that had more to do with his own strength of character than anything Sherlock had done.

This, however, was entirely different. Now Sherlock found himself staring at the ceiling - signs of water damage, no doubt the roof wants patching again - and theoretically losing sleep over a person that, for all intents and purposes, didn't exist yet. It was illogical and it made his skin itch.

No wonder Mycroft told him not to care. Bloody tiresome, caring. Not to mention the cause of several unpleasant physiological effects.

He glanced over at John, his back curved and shifting with his slow, even breaths. Perhaps in the morning they might discuss it, leave Will to torment Mother in the kitchen and go for a walk. That would be more agreeable than waking him now and shoving his inconvenient anxiety in his lap. Sherlock rolled to his side and curled around him, his arm slipping into the perfect gap at his neck. He closed his eyes and breathed in his scent: holy-grass and honeysuckle mixing with the usual blend of sandalwood, cedar, and home. John's heart was beating too fast. Sherlock opened his eyes.

'What did you expect, Sherly?' he muttered, his fingers lacing with Sherlock's where they rested on his belly. 'You're thinking loud enough to wake up the whole household.'

Sherlock bit back a smile. 'I refuse to apologise for thinking. People do so little of it these days.'

John chuckled and rolled onto his back, peering up at him through the dark. 'What is it, then?'

He considered saying nothing. That had been his plan, hadn't it? These conversations were always easier in the light of day. But John was warm and open, his eyes soft in the dim light from the window, his vest clinging to his skin and highlighting every well-loved angle and curve. Sherlock sighed and snuggled into his chest, his voice little more than a whisper. 'The baby.'

'Yes?'

'What if I do something wrong?'

'You will.' Sherlock levelled a glare at him. John shrugged. 'Of course you will. I will, too. So did your parents and my parents and everyone else. In case you haven't noticed, that's a given when it comes to having children.'

'But what if my mistakes are irreparable?'

'Well, one of them will be, I suspect.' He kissed Sherlock's chin to soften the blow. 'We're going to make mistakes, love. We already have. That doesn't mean we aren't going to be good fathers.'

He frowned, but burrowed back into the crook of John's neck. 'Do you think we're good fathers now?'

John chuckled. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. 'I really do. And, even better, your mother does, too.'

'Hm. Biased.'

'And so am I.' He bent to bury a kiss in his hair. 'Do you want to know what I think?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said and he meant it.

'The fact that you're concerned about being a bad father is a good sign you aren't one.'

'There is no evidence to substantiate-'

'Alright, fine.' John tugged him up to look at him. His gaze was soft, amused, with just a hint of exasperation. It was not an uncommon expression at this hour of the night. 'I know you don't trust your own judgment-'

'With good reason.'

'Your words, love; not mine.' He brushed a curl away from Sherlock's brow. 'But I know you trust mine.' He didn't reply. There wasn't any need. 'And from where I'm sitting, there's no one else I'd want raising my boy but you.'

Sherlock sucked on his lip. 'Do you mean that?'

'Of course I do.' He kissed his brow. 'I always do.'