Two and half years between updates...
Sounds like a record to me.
All in all, it could have been much worse.
John had never minded children exactly, he'd had enough friends with kids to know he wasn't terrible at dealing with them, but an almost-brand-new baby… well. It was different. Different and overwhelming. Different, overwhelming and completely bonkers.
A large sigh worked its way up from his soul to his mouth. It was loud enough that Sherlock turned around to glare.
"You didn't have to come" he shot over his shoulder, striding rapidly forward.
John scowled, did he say one baby to look after? He meant two. The long-legged git was doing that on purpose. It was possibly the only outward sign that Sherlock was out of his depth. He was always prone to frantic physical activity when he felt like he was on the back foot. The fact that his legs were so much longer than John's seemed to be an added bonus for him.
John sighed again, "Coming from the man who spent all of breakfast picking his toast to pieces while insisting this is a 'thing that people with babies do'," making sure that Sherlock could hear the air-quotes, "that's a little rich."
He picked up his pace to catch up to the man in front of him and promptly tripped.
"Look, could you just bloody slow down? Jesus Christ." John huffed as Sherlock deliberately spun on his heel to face him, looking smug.
"What? Can't keep up with a little brisk walk in the morning sun? Tch, Watson. You're getting slow in your old age."
"I'm not old, I'm a war veteran invalided out of Afghanistan. A war veteran with very short legs. Could you at least take the sticky boy-child please?" John shoved Harry gently but unceremoniously into Sherlock's arms, glared one more time and kept walking. Sherlock's sounds of mild disgust followed him up the street.
"Oh God, he actually is sticky. Why is he sticky? No, nevermind. Why you let him touch your toast I'll never know. Ah well, nearly there now. Come along John, do try and keep up!" Sherlock once again started striding off in front of him.
John thought he'd run out of sighs this morning but was pleasantly surprised that one still fought its way past his lips. Letting the mad detective steam away in front of him gave him some much needed space. He'd never realised how much babies cut down on one's space. Private space, storage space, personal space... all of it. Poof, off it went, never to be found again.
At least the attic was done. It had been finished yesterday, much to John's relief. Sherlock's as well, he suspected. Finished on time within a week (crib included), definitely suspicious. John suspected Mycroft's omniscient presence was involved, he definitely suspected the involvement of Mycroft's wallet. He didn't pay for the conversion, and he was pretty bloody sure that Sherlock didn't either. Ah well, roll with the punches and all that. At least he had his bedroom back…
Which had led to this cheery little family outing.
While a thin slice of personal space had been restored, it had led to a minor problem. Mainly, that neither of them could hear when Harry was crying. And that, of course, meant they needed a baby monitor. And while they were getting a baby monitor, they might as well get a pram, and some extra clothes. Makes sense to stock up on nappies, baby food, more clothes, first aid kit, extra sheets, more clothes… how many clothes does an infant need, anyway? It always seemed like an awful lot to John. Lost in his thoughts as he was, he barely noticed he'd caught up to Sherlock, who was looming in the doorway of a massive baby shop.
Looming in the doorway and looking distinctly uncomfortable. It cheered John up no end.
Finally dredging up a smile, John took a deep breath, and scooped the baby out of Sherlock's arms.
"Come along, oh great detective. Time to get domestic."
He placed a hand gently on Sherlock's back, pulled out his most comforting Trust-Me-I'm-A-Doctor look, and pushed him firmly through the door.
The shopping trip wasn't that bad, all things considered. The pram had been ridiculously expensive, and Harry had started fussing twenty minutes in, but they'd only shouted at each other twice, Sherlock had been unusually persuadable, and the store did home delivery. It was a veritable success.
It figured that they'd come home to Sherlock's equivalent of dog-shit in a paper bag that had been set on fire.
John had been delayed at the door, trying to figure out how the hell the straps in this buggy thing actually bloody worked. Once he'd managed to get them undone, he spent a valuable few seconds wondering whether it was ethically sound to carry both a baby and ten kilos worth of shopping up the stairs.
Then the shouting started.
"Ah fuck," he breathed to himself. Shouting of that intensity and volume meant only one thing.
Putting off the ethical debate for later, he cradled a burbling Harry to his chest and started grudgingly up the stairs. Opening the door as slowly as possible, John prepared himself for the inevitable.
Sherlock whirled around with a face like thunder, plucked the child from his arms and flounced dramatically up the stairs to the attic. Swearing silently, John plastered an exceptionally fake smile on his face and prepared to meet his fate.
"Mycroft. What a pleasant surprise." His tone could have flattened a small city.
Mycroft's smile was as genuine as John's own. "Doctor Watson, I hear congratulations are in order."
John prepared himself for an onslaught of baby questions. Questions concerning his capabilities, his motivation and his commitment. Which meant the blow, when it came, slipped right through his guard.
"Mummy is so pleased to hear the news. Have you two set a date yet?"
Oink? John blinked. "Set a date? For what?"
That supercilious smile was back on the elder Holmes' stupid, smug face. "Why, for the wedding, Dr Watson."
Oh shit…
He'd forgotten about that.