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"We should have a baby."
A lesser man, having heard those words from Sherlock Holmes, would have dropped the (expensive) lab equipment they were clearing from the table and choked on their morning coffee. John, after several years, was no longer a lesser man. Sherlock spouted absolute nonsense on a daily basis. "Last week you wanted a bloodhound." He reminded him, settling down at his newly made space to eat his breakfast.
"And this week I want a baby. Or, more particularly, I want you to have a baby."
"Bit lacking in the equipment, mate."
"You're not even paying attention to me."
"Nope." There was an absolutely fantastic article on page three. Much more sensible than Sherlock was choosing to be.
_____
Sherlock tried again that night, when they were both slick with sweat and sated. John was sprawled half over him, trying to catch his breath, because he was no longer as young as he used to be and not all of his aches and weaknesses were psychosomatic.
"We should have a baby."
"Right now? Are you just going to get up and pop into the store for one? Since I can't get you to go buy milk."
Sherlock shifted, 'accidentally' dislodging John from his comfortable position. John reached out to swat at him half-heartedly. "John."
"Sherlock, not now. I promise, you can tell me all about whatever crazy scheme you've cooked up tomorrow." Sherlock looked mildly affronted, but allowed John to pull him close. He was often lazy post-coital. And in general, but after John had vigorously worn him out, he tended to be more complacent than usual. He would allow himself to be coddled, if only because John craved touch in the aftermath and he enjoyed being the reason John was happy.
"I won't forget."
"Sure you won't. Go to sleep, love."
_____
"So, on the subject of the baby."
John blinked blearily. He had not actually managed to get out of bed yet, staring up at Sherlock from his position, perched on the edge and trying to work up the strength to grab his dressing gown.
"Sherlock, coffee."
"You said tomorrow. It's tomorrow. Baby."
"Coffee."
Sherlock sighed, and moved out of John's way.
_____
"You can't tell me you've never thought about children."
"What, I don't even get to enjoy my coffee?"
Sherlock waved at the steaming cup. "It's in your hands. You can talk and drink."
Out of spite, John collapsed into Sherlock's favorite chair, forcing him to take John's. "You cannot possibly be serious about this."
"After four years together, John, you should know I'm always serious."
John sighed and took a sip of his coffee. "What's this really about, Sherlock? You've never liked children. I'm not entirely sure you've ever actually met a child that wasn't part of a case."
"I don't particularly care for them, no, but you dated a series of young women before me, at least one of them must have made a suitable maternal candidate."
"Suitable- Sherlock, they're women, not incubators. Besides, not everyone wants to have children. Not even 'everyone who isn't you.'"
"But you do. I'm many things, John, not all positive as you've helpfully informed me, but I am most certainly not blind. You like children.You smile at them and you let them prattle on at you, and you let them climb all over you. Lestrade's niece put a lollipop in your hair and you didn't even frown."
John's face softened. "Sherlock... You know none of that matters more than you, right?" It had been a long time since he'd had to deal with any of Sherlock's isolation-induced insecurity, but he should have known from the start that was what this was. "I knew when we started this that there were things I'd be giving up. Yeah, I like children. I love children. But I love you more, you insufferable prat. I gave up on that notion years ago, and I don't regret it."
Sherlock looked torn between pleasure and embarrassment, as he always did when John turned to affectionate words. He had mastered the social interactions involving reassuring touches and hugs, but pretty words and speeches would never be his territory, and he had never quite adjusted to them. John privately hoped he never would.
"John-"
Sherlock's cell phone rang, with Lestrade's ringtone. A case, then. Something to distract them both and bring Sherlock back into his usual self.
_____
"John."
John nudged Sherlock out of his way so he could have some of the shower spray for himself. "Get my back, will you?" They were both covered in muck and blood and John-didn't-even-want-to-know-what. "No more sewer trips for a while, deal?"
Sherlock hummed something that was probably not agreement, but lathered up his hands and began to rub at John's back. He dug his long, thin fingers into the knots gathering there. John sighed in relief, letting Sherlock ease the tension from his body.
"John," Sherlock repeated, in a low, sultry voice. "About the baby..."
Single-bloody-minded determined prat. John shook his head. "Sherlock. Love of my life. If I buy you a damned dog, will you please stop?"
"No." Sherlock said, but he sounded the slightest bit curious, as if he wasn't quite sure whether John would actually do it.
_____
John bought Sherlock a dog anyway, dipping into the Christmas money from Mycroft that Sherlock had refused out of misplaced sibling rivalry, and which John had quietly accepted when he wasn't looking. Sherlock would happily spend all of Mycroft's fortunes, provided he could find a way to get his hands on it without actually letting Mycroft know he wanted it.
The dog was a floppy eared short little thing, but the breeder had assured him that he was of good stock, whatever the hell that meant, and brilliant. John sincerely hoped he was, for all their sakes. If he was smart enough to keep up with Sherlock, he might serve as a decent distraction.
Sherlock named the dog Tobias, which John immediately shortened to Toby, because honestly what sort of name was Tobias for a puppy? He bought it a dog bed and bowls and immediately set forth a set of strict rules that John completely ignored, happily offering Toby whatever table scraps he asked for. He had fond memories of childhood pets, and a little spoiling would hardly hurt.
Toby lasted in the dog bed for all of six and a half minutes before he nosed their door open and crawled in between them. Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but John smirked and tucked the blanket over Toby. "Just think. A baby would be even more demanding."
_____
For three blissful days, Sherlock was too busy training Toby to bother him. John thought for sure he had won. Dogs, particularly well-trained bloodhounds, took far too much time and attention, and while Sherlock enjoyed the progress and the challenge, he surely had to see how much harder it would be to care for an infant whose mental growth was significantly slower.
And then, during dinner, while John slipped Toby bites of pork and Sherlock frowned disapprovingly, it began again. "It's good that we have Toby. The baby will have someone to play with."
"Sherlock, we are not having a baby."
"You gave up on the idea of children because you thought I wouldn't want one. Now I want one. Your problem no longer exists."
"Sherlock, you'd be bored within five minutes."
"On the contrary, I'm given to understand that children are constantly changing, and that they are all in fact different."
"Why do you want this so badly."
"Because it's something you want that won't kill me to give to you."
John smiled thinly. "Sherlock, it's not like 'Should we get a telly' or 'what kind of milk should we buy.' If we had a baby, we would be responsible for it for at least the next two decades."
"I'm thirty four, John, and you're not yet forty. We've got more than two decades left ahead of us."
Desperate, John tried another tactic. "You'd make a terrible father."
"Agreed. I haven't the time for football games and concerts and cuddles, those will likely fall to you."
"No, you can be affectionate when you choose. If you choose." Sherlock was not a physical being, but he knew what made John happy, and John was pleasantly surprised by how frequently he was greeted with little displays of affection. "I was thinking more along the lines of forgetting to feed it and not knowing the first thing about nappies, and then deleting whatever you learned to make room for something else."
At this, Sherlock bristled. Apparently, John noted with a surprise -which, in retrospect, he should not have felt -the idea that he couldn't have a child because he was so special and non-human entertained Sherlock, but the idea that he was incapable was offensive. John realized with dread that if there was one thing to say to ensure Sherlock forced some poor child on them, that was it. Desperately, John tried to fix his mistake. "Sherlock, we don't have time for a baby, you just said so yourself! You wouldn't be able to take it with you on cases, and if you think I'm going to stay home and play housewife-"
Sherlock waved him off, already texting away on his bloody phone. "It will be too young to notice anything dreadful for a long while, and Mrs. Hudson-"
"Mrs. Hudson is not our housekeeper!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and dismissed that entirely.
_____
"What is this?" John asked the pile of papers currently residing in his lap. Sherlock answered for them, looking pleased with himself.
"Proof that I would be an adequate father."
John rifled through the paper. "Is this... Sherlock, this is a twenty page essay on early child development."
"I've included a section on nappies." Sherlock informed him, sounding as if he thought that might be helpful.
Oh god. There were footnotes and a citation page.
"I need a drink."
"Alcohol dependency is bad for child development. I read about it."
John moaned and hid his face in his hands.
_____
"We're going to have a baby." Sherlock informed him when he came home from the shopping Sherlock had once again 'forgotten' to do. He sounded almost gleeful, looking at John with that irritatingly smug smirk he sometimes got.
That didn't phase John. He'd been hearing it for two weeks now. What worried John was that Sherlock was sharing his afternoon tea with Mycroft, who had an eerily similar expression.
"All the necessary arrangements have been made." Mycroft said, smiling in a way that made John's blood run cold.
Oh, bollocks...
"I thought you were supposed to be the sensible one." John said, sitting down at the third place setting, clearly meant for him. He noticed, belatedly, that Sherlock had cleaned.
"Of course." Mycroft said. "And since I'm far too busy 'running the world' as you have so eloquently put it, someone has to give Mummy grandchildren."
Sherlock nodded, as if this was all perfectly normal conversation.
"Who on earth do you think is going to let us adopt a child?"
Mycroft waved dismissively. John noted that it was the exact same way Sherlock had been doing it all week. Of all times for them to develop a familial bond... "That's already been taken care of. Surrogacy is much simpler. Your sister-"
"My sister is an alcoholic!" John said with alarm, nearly bolting back out of his seat.
"As I was saying," Mycroft said in his sharp 'ruler of the known world' voice, "Your sister graciously agreed to donate eggs-" That would explain the thirty-seven missed calls, though John suspected money might have changed hands, "-while Sherlock was responsible for the other half of the genetic material. This way the child will have a link to each of you. Saves a lot of trouble and 'you're not my real father' arguments down the line."
"This is ridiculous. I can't believe you are actually thinking about this-"
"Actually," Mycroft interrupted, "The surrogate has already been successfully impregnated."
At this, John slumped forward in his seat. He did notice, almost gratefully, that Sherlock at least seemed as surprised as he was.
"We agreed to talk to John first." Sherlock said, and there was the irritation he usually had with Mycroft, what a welcome throwback to normalcy. "We were going to have tea and lay out a list of pros and cons. We were going to convince him tonight and call the surrogate tomorrow."
Mycroft shrugged and did not look nearly as contrite as John wanted him to be. "John would have said no, and you were very clear when you said you both wanted this. Why let a misplaced sense of compromise get in the way?"
And then they began to argue. John couldn't even focus on it, though the familiar sound at least calmed him slightly. Dear god, they were going to have a baby.
_____
Nine months later, they did indeed have a baby. 8 pounds 3 ounces, with dark hair that might have had the slightest bit of curl, had she not been damp from her first 'bath.' John chose her first name, Olivia, because otherwise Sherlock would have named her Calanthe, claiming it was an old family name, and John wanted their daughter to like them. He conceded the middle name, though and the last, and so Olivia Calanthe Holmes joined the world.
"Here." John said, trying to pass her to Sherlock. Sherlock was seated in a chair by the now-empty hospital bed, the surrogate having retreated to a different room to recover. He appeared to be in shock, staring wide-eyed at Olivia. John had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had not until now truly grasped the fact that an infant was being brought into their lives. He shook his head sharply, pressing further against the back of the chair. "For goodness sake, Sherlock, she's not going to bite you, she's not even awake."
Throughout the months of preparation, Sherlock had repeatedly reassured John that he was ready for a child, that he did indeed want this. He'd gone out of his way to help with setting up John's old room as a nursery, as well as baby-proofing. He'd even taken to putting his experiments away when he was done, though he frequently pointed out that they had plenty of time before Olivia would be able to move enough to inspect them. He'd been on board with everything, and quite rightly so since it was basically all his fault. Now, though, there was a look that very well might have been terror on his face. "Infants are breakable." He informed John. "It was in my essay. Page seven. They're fragile. They require special care."
"Special care which you thoroughly researched. " John reminded him. "You wanted a baby, now you have one." Sherlock shook his head.
"I've never held anything living smaller than Toby, except for lab rats. I'll drop her."
John rolled his eyes and promptly plopped Olivia into Sherlock's lap. "Hold your daughter." He had no choice but to wrap his arms tight around her, immediately adjusting to a stiff version of cradling. He glared at John, but then Olivia made a soft little noise in her sleep and he became distracted.
There was no melting, no instant change in Sherlock's eyes that their might have been in another man, but he did seem to soften a bit around the edges, and he mechanically attempted to imitate John's rocking motions. Sherlock Holmes would never be caught singing a nursery rhyme, and that was probably better for John's sanity. The sight of Sherlock rocking a baby was disturbing enough. Instead, he appeared to be murmuring scientific theories to her, but it was something. It was communication and effort, and John thought, maybe, this might work out ok.