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It was late afternoon. The day had been spent as quietly as was possible for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes without the latter causing mayhem due to boredom. John didn’t have a shift for a few days, so spent his time writing up the cases they’d had for the last couple of weeks and taking a chance to relax while his partner was laying stretched out on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin as he thought.
“What name should we use?”
The question broke the silence that had reigned for at least a few hours. Therefore, it was only after a moment or two that it actually registered with the doctor that words had not only been spoken, they’d been addressed to him. He looked up from his laptop, a small frown on his face as he regarded the other.
“I thought we’d settled on Hamish,” he said. Then a thought struck. “Oh, you mean surname! Don’t know, really. Would probably be better for him to be named Holmes, it’d open doors and all that. Though that makes it alliterative, that might get him teased. Middle name, then –“
“Don’t blabber, John,” Sherlock interrupted a bit snappishly, waving a hand at hm, “it makes you sound far dumber than you actually are. Of course I don’t mean surname.”
“Well, someone has to balance things out, smart alec. Go on, then. Why didn’t you mean surname and what did you mean?” It was a good thing sometimes that continued exposure had lessened the sting of the brunette’s usual barbs.
“Because I’ve already had Mycroft register the child as Watson-Holmes.”
“Already reg- !” John spluttered, completely unprepared for this particular brand of weird Sherlock-conversation. “Sherlock, he’s not even born yet!”
“Your point being?”
The doctor stared at the recumbent figure on the sofa, then sighed and shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing, I suppose. Forgot who I was talking to for a moment, dunno how.” A small, rueful smile crept onto his lips before he continued speaking. “The other question, then – not going to answer that?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. You’re always going on about how we should be prepared, so I thought it prudent to work out what he’ll call us.”
“That’s not going to be important until…alright, alright.” John conceded, raising a hand in defeat when an eyebrow was raised at him. “I don’t know, really. I can’t imagine you being called ‘Dad’ or ‘Da’. ‘Father’ sounds a bit of a toff choice, but that wouldn’t be far off...” He trailed off for a moment while he considered. “Papa, then? Yeah, posh, but it’ll get shortened to Pa, so that works.” He nodded, as if in satisfaction with a job well done.
“And?”
“What?”
Sherlock propelled himself upward and turned so that he could face his partner straight on. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you utterly failed to mention yourself in all of that.” He was glaring slightly, his pale eyes boring holes into the doctor.
The doctor that frowned in turn in puzzlement. “Being called John isn’t something that needs mentioning, so why would I?” he asked, sounding genuinely nonplussed.
That only seemed to make the consulting detective’s hackles rise further. “Why on earth would he call you John?”
“Because it’s my name?” John blinked, still not understanding the problem.
“And my name is an anagram of Father, is it?” Now the tone was reminiscent of the falsely sweet one he used when mocking people.
“Now you’re being childish, Sherlock.”
The younger Holmes stood up like he’d been shot out of a box and strode towards the one sitting in his armchair. “My flatmate, best friend and lover sits there and claims he cares so little for our child that he doesn’t even mind being called by his given name by it and I am the one being childish?” His eyes never left John as he walked ever closer.
“Who said anything about not caring?” John asked, anger infusing his bewilderment. “Of course I care!”
“Enough not to want him to call you Dad?” The words were almost sneered.
“What?! No! No, that’s not it at all!”
“Then what is it?!” By that point, Sherlock was in front of John, standing hunched over him with his hands on the arms of the chair and his face right up close to the other.
The silence stretched between them as they stared at each other. Then John looked down and sideways. “I’m not going to be his dad, am I?” he muttered, but wished he hadn’t when he felt his partner begin to pull away. “No, no, no, Sherlock, I didn’t mean it like that,” he quickly, urgently reassured as he raised his head and cupped the cheek of the other. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. It’s just...” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue, letting his hand fall back into his lap.
That concern wasn’t one Sherlock shared at all and so he continued for him. “You think that just because we settled on me as the sperm donor, you don’t get the rights of a biological father.” The incredulous anger was still simmering in the baritone voice.
“...Yeah. Pretty much.” To his credit, John did look uncomfortably embarrassed at the admission.
“Then you really are stupid.”
“Sherlock...”
“No, you are,” the brunette insisted. He stood up straight and moved over to his own chair where he sat down and fixed his lover with a narrowed stare. “The notion that you are somehow less just because you won’t be biologically related to the child is nothing short of asinine and I would have thought that you at least had a more progressive view than that!”
“I do! It’s just –“
“Just what?!”
The constant snapping spurred on John’s own anger and he glared back. “Just that he’s going to be just as clever as you and he deserves to be proud of the man he’s going to call Dad!” He was shouting slightly by the end of the sentence and his hands had balled into fists on the arms of the chair.
Sherlock didn’t say anything in reply for a while. Instead his gaze became scrutinizing, as if he was trying to work out what defect could possibly make John believe such a ludicrous thing. It became ever so slightly uncomfortable the longer it went on, melting the anger in the doctor and turning it into embarrassment over his reasoning once more.
“He’ll be over the moon to call you his dad, just as I am beyond proud to call you my lover.” The words were quiet when they finally came, but in the silence they carried eminently.
“You –“
“You know the only reason I agreed to be the donor?” Sherlock asked, completely ignoring the fact that he was interrupting the other. “It wasn’t because I wanted our child – our child, John – to be clever or that I thought myself better.” He saw the blonde’s mouth open in protest. “No, shut up, it was not. Even my narcissism doesn’t stretch that far.” A disbelieving snort was his answer and he cracked a small smile. “Alright, perhaps it does, but that’s beside the point.”
The consulting detective rose from his chair and once again walked over to his partner, but this time he grabbed hold of the hands of the other and pulled until they were standing face to face. “It was because I knew you would wish that for my sake, stupid as you are, and that you would be able to impart the compassion that is you without the need for a biological relation to the child. That is more than sufficient grounds for deserving the title of ‘dad’, I should think.” The slightly bushy eyebrows were raised and there was just a hint of a smug smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. The expression in his eyes was earnest and honest, however.
“That’s...astonishingly sweet, coming from you.” John was smiling, too, though; a soft smile that said he understood all that wasn’t being said.
“Even I have my moments.”
“...Thank you.” John leaned upwards to plant a soft kiss on cupid bow lips.
“You’re welcome.” Sherlock wound long arms around his partner, pulling him close and planting another kiss.
“Tosser toff,” John said affectionately.
“Imbecile,” Sherlock returned easily.
“Mmh. If you say so – any chance of retiring to the bedroom?”
“Oh, most definitely.”