I'm sick and miserable and felt like writing a bit of Hamish-related fluff. If you're unfamiliar with Hamish, please check out hamish-watson-holmes(dot)tumblr(dot)com
Having completed his sixth tour of the tiny waiting room, Sherlock stops short behind John's chair.
"Isn't there something we could be doing? What if they need us in there?"
John leans back, resting his head on Sherlock. Chuckling, he bobs his head a couple of times, bouncing it against the tense muscles of his abdomen.
"Sherlock, try to relax, would you? I'm as eager as you are, but people deliver babies all the time without your assistance, it's what they're trained to do. There are some things the great Sherlock Holmes has no useful input about. Just take a deep breath and calm down. We'll meet Hamish as soon as everyone is ready for us. All you'd do in there right now is get underfoot."
He grips John's shoulder tightly, and John just reaches up, carefully peeling Sherlock's fingers off of him and twining them through his own. He smiles up with a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock stares down at him, eyes owlishly wide in panic. He runs his free hand through his hair, which only serves to make him look even more discombobulated.
"Everything's going to be fine, love. He'll be perfect. Just come sit next to me, okay?"
Eventually, Sherlock relents and settles down in the chair next to John, the two of them eagerly anticipating their son's birth.