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"It's ginger."
At one point, John might have claimed that nothing horrified Sherlock Holmes more than the thought of grocery shopping alone. The face he was making now, however, looking at the baby cradled in John's arms, rivaled any he had seen thus far from the consulting detective.
"We do share DNA, brother dear, you might have theorized that a child of yours might bear some resemblance to me," Mycroft said coolly, seated as primly in the hospital chair as one might in a throne.
"Ginger!"
"Yes, Sherlock, we heard you. I think he's perfect," John argued, giving Sherlock a look that dared him to disagree.
"He is mine, so perfection is to be expected-- but ginger! His hair is more red than Mycroft's!"
"Mine has darkened with age. Which you would know if you had not decided to delete most of our childhood," Mycroft raised an elegant brow and Sherlock went silent for a moment, stewing in half-vocalized frustration.
Finally, he declared, "Give him to me, John, I need to examine him more closely."
"As long as you remember that he is our baby and not an experiment," John warned, but placed the infant in Sherlock's impatient arms nonetheless.
Sherlock spent several minutes examining the sleeping baby from head to toe, surprisingly careful not to jar and wake him in the process. After some time of just seeming to stare at that little wrinkled face, Sherlock spoke, more softly than before, "He is perfect. Absolutely and entirely."
"Even ginger?" John teased.
"Even ginger," Sherlock agreed with some reluctance. Mycroft chuckled softly.
"And I love you as well, little brother."
John shook his head. Maybe one of these days, he'd come to understand these two and how they communicated, but for now... For now, he had another little Holmes to love. Between the three of them, his heart was bursting with it.
He didn't think he'd ever felt better.