Autumn arrived faster than anticipated, or at least it seemed that way. The year had raced past them in a flurry of colours and activity, in nursery school assignments, miles of paperwork, and its fair share of dead bodies. They had just returned to Baker Street from one of Lestrade's many lectures, his treatise on Correct Procedure and Moral Execution of the Law still ringing in Sherlock's ears. Will babbled in the background - something about the unfair distribution of wax crayons in his nursery classroom. Sherlock was on the sofa, his hands obediently clasped between his knees while John swabbed at the recent graze to his temple, when realisation dawned.

'It's October,' he announced.

'It is indeed.'

'The sixth.'

'They don't call you a genius for nothing,' he muttered, binning the soiled swab and pulling the steri-strips from his kit. 'You certainly didn't receive the title for your knowledge of when to duck...'

Sherlock's fingers circled his wrist. He waited for John to meet his eyes. 'I almost forgot.'

John shrugged, the ghost of a crooked smile on his lips. 'You always forget.'

'Darling, you should have said-'

'Sherlock. I'm not angry.' He kissed his forehead. 'But I will be extremely cross if you don't stop fidgeting.'

He did as instructed, allowing John to work in peace. He held out for almost two minutes. 'We ought to celebrate.'

'You're fidgeting again…'

'I mean it, John. We ought to do something.'

'You don't like doing things.'

'I like doing things with you,' he smirked.

John stepped back, one brow cocked. 'You do realise that our four-year-old is in the kitchen?'

'He's heard worse.' His pocket chirped. 'Could you get that for me?'

John pulled off his gloves. 'Ten years we've been together and you still want me to fish your phone out of your pocket.'

'We've only "been together" four and I'm not to be fidgeting, am I?'

'Because you've done such a bang-up job of that so far.' He retrieved the mobile anyway and clicked through to the text. 'Sherlock.'

'Hm?'

'Oh god. Sherlock-'

'What is it?'

'Sophie. She's-' He laughed, bright and manic. 'We have to go. We have to- Will!' He flew into the kitchen. 'No, don't take your coat off, bug, we're leaving!'

He watched as Will was hauled unceremoniously onto the sofa. 'John, what's going-'

'Call a cab, would you?' He fluttered through the lounge, tossing papers and drawings and grinning like mad. Will and Sherlock traded puzzled expressions. 'Jesus, where did you put his-' He crawled beneath the kitchen table. 'Of course, how logical. Here, bug, toss this on-' A loaded Babar knapsack sailed through the air. Sherlock snatched it just before it smacked Will in the nose. 'Is my folder in there? Green one, loads of papers?'

'For God's sake, John-'

He shoved his wallet in his pocket. 'Her water broke, you git! We have to go!' He threw Sherlock's scarf to him. 'Sophie's in hospital!'

'Her water-'

'It's happening!' John seized him by the cheeks and snogged him ferociously. By the time pulled back, Sherlock was breathless and Will was giggling. 'Sherly, it's time!' He was beaming. 'It's finally time!'

It was intolerable, Sherlock decided as he chewed on the newest inhalator from the stash in his pocket. Waiting rooms had clearly been designed by the Marquis de Sade and he was sick to death of them. He hadn't meant to snap at the gynaecologist, although it should be obvious to anyone with eyes that the man was completely incompetent and had no practical experience whatsoever when it came to gestational carriers. Even so, he had no interest in causing their surrogate any more stress than she must already be suffering at the hands of that imbecile. John must have known that, even if he did make a point of calling Sherlock an arse on a daily basis. He did seem apologetic as his hand found the small of Sherlock's back and shoved him into the corridor, offering the amicable threat of, 'You're going to give the poor woman a heart attack. Go sit down.'

It was a small consolation, nicking the box of Nicorette from the nurses' station along with several pens, a stapler, and an impressive number of pushpins. Molly had gotten him a coffee and forced a sizeable amount of egg-and-cress sandwich down his throat, and he'd settled into a brief haze of nicotine and irritated digestion.

But now Molly was gone - called away to the morgue or perhaps just seeking asylum from his continued nervous vibrations. Will was beneath his long arm and dead asleep, a smear of jam and breadcrumbs on his cheek. Sherlock clamped the inhalator between his teeth and he wiped the mess off with his thumb. Even in his sleep, Will muttered his protest before snuggling in closer. Sherlock turned his attentions back to the waiting room wall.

He hated that painting. Hated it more than the bloody room or bloody waiting or bloody egg-and-cress sandwiches. It was huge and gaudy, the colours muted and cold and somehow still ostentatious. It looked like a funeral. He'd done battle with that same painting four years before, had been staring it into submission when John burst through the swinging doors with a breathless smile and a stuttered explanation of, 'Sherlock! He's- Jesus, Sherlock!' It was an ill omen and he wanted to burn it to a crisp.

In hindsight, these fantasies might be deemed A Bit Not Good for a father-to-be to dwell on in the waiting room of St. Bart's maternity ward.

Will made a small sound against his chest and his arm folded around him on instinct. He clicked the inhalator against his teeth and tried to think of something else. How long had he been sitting here: hours, days? He inventoried the number of cartridges he'd gone through on the inhalator. Two gone, a third currently between his lips. Not yet three hours, then. He swore under his breath. The whole process was too time consuming, too stressful. If John was at all interested in further experiments in parturiency, he could jolly well do without; Sherlock's nerves couldn't stand anymore of this.

The door swung open for the thousandth time and his eyes flicked up, then widened. The woman at the door was familiar - a nurse from their delivery room, young but experienced, a happy partnership with an older man, she'd followed John's instructions to the letter and he'd liked her right away - and smiling like a fool. He hefted Will into his arms, and went to her. She looked like she might hug him.

'Congratulations, Mr Holmes. They're waiting for you.'

Sherlock felt a grin yanking at his cheeks. A small balloon seemed to be filling and stretching his chest. He stammered his thanks and she held the door for him as he hurried down the shining corridor.

Time stopped when he stood in the doorway. Will's sugary breath fluttered across his throat. The curtains were drawn, a sliver of streetlamp peeking through the gap. Just now dawn. The fluorescents were still on, the ugly room slathered in harsh, industrial light. John sat on the bed, haggard and grinning in sickly green scrubs, enamoured with the tiny, red-faced bundle in his arms. Sherlock could've sworn his heart stopped beating.

He looked up then, joy and wonder crinkling his eyes, hair tousled, tears on his cheeks, and Sherlock had to stop himself from falling to his knees. Instead he stepped forward, slipping the inhalator into his pocket and settling next to John on the bed. Will shifted and curled around him once more. He drank in the scrunched face nestled against John's chest, the crimson hand no bigger than a £2 coin peeking out of the white blanket. He reached over to touch it and it curled tightly around his finger. The balloon in his chest burst. John smoothed the tangled mop of Will's hair.

Neither of them spoke.

John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and drew a long, shaking breath. Sherlock pressed a blind kiss to his nose.

'What do we want to call him?'

Sherlock's voice sounded raspy and ill-used. 'Let's let Will decide.'

He chuckled. 'We aren't naming him "Eeyore", love.'

'Wouldn't be Eeyore. Might be Paddington or Bilbo these days.'

'I stand by my statement.' John shifted, nuzzling into the side of his throat. 'I'm not used to you being so quiet.'

'I don't have anything to say.' He swallowed. 'I don't remember Will being this tiny.'

'He wasn't.' He nudged Sherlock's face, their eyes meeting. 'Alright?'

Sherlock grinned. 'A bit more than alright, John.'

John caught his lips, gentle and sucking, his fingers curling in Sherlock's hair. His mouth opened like a morning flower, breath musty, lips dry, and it was the most delectable sensation on the planet. Happy tears pressed at his eyes, and Sherlock pulled back just enough to nuzzle at John's face.

'Do you know what time it is, darling?'

John chuffed on a laugh, his own voice crackling with tears. 'No clue.'

'Half six.'

John's brow furrowed, his lips parted and ticking up at the corner. 'Half six? We've been here ten hours?'

'Indeed we have. Half six on the seventh of October.'

He laughed. 'You're kidding.'

'I'm not.' He kissed him softly. 'Happy Birthday, John.' John choked on a laugh, the sound wet with happy tears. They turned as one to the sleeping bundle in John's arms. Sherlock brushed his fingers through damp, dark curls. He kissed John's temple and murmured against his hair. 'The happiest of birthdays to you both.'