"Shit, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, as he paced in front of the fireplace in a state of frenzied panic. Sherlock sat in his armchair, warming himself by the fire, resining his bow in the perfect picture of unworried ease.
John had spent the rest of his work day in a daze of confusion and worry, questions running through his mind unceasingly, that only Sherlock could answer. Was Irene telling the truth? If she was, could she be trusted? Did Sherlock know? Did MYCROFT know? Why did this happen? HOW could this happen? Quickly decided he probably didn't want the answer to that last question, all John was certain about was that Sherlock would PAY if he had told the homeless network before him again.
True to his form, Sherlock had ignored all 20 of John's calls, and increasingly violent texts. Which is why, at 9 in the evening, rather than relaxing at home with his wife and son, he had found himself, once again, in front of Baker street, wrapped up in another one of Sherlock's dramas.
"I don't know why you are reacting so poorly, John. I am simply fulfilling my biological mandate to progenate the human species. After all, do you really expect me to leave the business of solving crimes to the police after I retire? Someone must shoulder the burden of their stupidity." Sherlock drawled, as he played a slow tune on his violin, then shrugged and added
"and besides, Mother has been quite insistent in her demands for grandchildren of late,and she's long since given up on Mycroft to provide them. I suppose the creeping reality of mortality reaches even the simple eventually."
John ceased his pacing just long enough to give his friend a reproachful glare, before returning to his previous state of panic; only the Holmes brothers would refer to one of the world's premier mathematicians as 'simple'.
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous! How can you take care of children when you can barely take care of yourself! Mrs. Hudson has to bring you food to make sure you don't starve yourself for God's sake!" John yelled
"And what about your job, you oblivious arse!? What will you do when you have a case? Bring the pram along to a murder scene?!"
"Of course not John, children are a completely unnecessary distraction on a case, at least, before they can walk that is." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics.
"So what? Will Irene be raising your spawn in America, then? Maybe she'll show them how to dismantle a government, or the proper uses for whips too!" John spat sarcastically.
"Nonsense, that's nothing I can't teach them myself! Mrs. Hudson will help, she does so little already. Or perhaps Mycroft." Sherlock said, shrugging.
The thought of two wailing babies in the Diogenes club, while Mycroft tried to feed them humoured John just enough to allow him to slide into the chair opposite Sherlock's; he hadn't been getting enough sleep lately, and he could feel the weariness in his bones. He leaned his head into his hands, and began massaging the migrane out of his temples as he spoke through gritted teeth.
"We both know that Mary and I are going to end up doing the work, Sher. You'll run off on one of your cases, and we'll pick up the slack, because that's what we do. You're even more oblivious than I thought if you think you can become a father without anything changing in your life. In eight and a half months, two babies will be totally dependant on you. Do you realize how selfish it was to make that kind of a decision without thinking it through?"
Shocked and slightly puzzled, Sherlock put down his violin, and met his best friend's eyes seriously for the first time that night.
"Two? Are you certain?"
"Yeah, Sher. I did the sonogram myself, you're having twins." John said sleepily, contented that his words finally seemed to be getting through to the world's thickest consulting detective.
"How did the exam go? You never did tell me." Sherlock said, settling back into his chair the way he always did when he was listening to a client, gathering information and deciding on the best course of action.
And John obliged him, informing him that both babies were healthy and growing normally so far, relating to him with sheepish dread of how he had seen Irene Adler completely nude, once again, even after giving her a gown and explicitly telling her she should keep her undergarments on, and how Mary had walked in on this awkward exchange to bring them the sonogram jelly (John doubted Irene had any idea of how close she had come to death that day), until finally, they lapsed into their old, comfortable silence that came with years of friendship.
"You do realize what a big responsibility this will be, don't you, Sher? Mary and I will help of course, but we can't do everything, there are going to be things that only you can do, as a parent. Twins are no easy feat either, are you sure you're ready?" John mumbled, dozing off, as Sherlock picked up his violin once more and began playing a slow lullaby.
"Well, you never know. One twin could absorb the other, and then I'd only have to raise one; that's what happened with Mycroft." Sherlock replied, shrugging nonchalantly.
Truly, Sherlock was not worried a bit over the safety of his unborn children, they would be Holmes children after all, and Holmes children were born with a keen sense of self preservation; anyone related to Mycroft would be reduced to a blithering madman instantly without it. And besides, what a fabulous experiment this would make! To be given two blank slates, to raise and educate without all the frippery and needless trivia he and Mycroft had been forced to endure, to be able to share his work and passion with those smart enough to fully understand it. He would teach them everything he knew, and they would join him in his world, and perhaps, for the first time since John had left, he would no longer feel so alone anymore.