So this is a sequel to an earlier story, 'Completely Backwards'. Both take place after series 4.

Chapter One

After what felt like about ten minutes, Sherlock finally withdrew the bow from his violin and turned to face him with questioning eyes. He was composing again, it seemed, which John took to be a good sign these days; he knew it focused his friend's mind, kept the demons at bay. But for God's sake, he'd been listening to the same refrain on a loop for almost forty minutes.

"Didn't you hear me?" he asked.

"Clearly not," Sherlock replied, slightly tersely.

"Not always that clear, no," John replied. "You have been known to just ignore me." Make that most of the time, he silently added.

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, as though waiting for the reason for the interruption.

"I'm trying to write, Sherlock," John explained, gesturing to his open laptop on the table.

"You have a bedroom," Sherlock replied, jabbing his bow in the direction of the upper floor. "A very nice, completely refurbished bedroom, which I believe has a very favourable wi-fi signal."

Despite the huge structural repair and wholesale refurbishment of 221B, one thing hadn't changed – although John half-heartedly fought against it, the living room was still Sherlock's domain, his possessions, obsessions and ephemera creeping into every corner and sprawling across every surface. All except for the new yellow chair, which Sherlock insisted remain exactly as is.

"Rosie's asleep," John explained. "Although actually…" – he nodded his head towards the violin still in Sherlock's hand – "probably not."

It seemed pointless to go on about it anymore, and he idled into the kitchen to make some tea. As usual, the whole surface of the kitchen table was cluttered with the remnants and apparatus from several different experiments, plus a day's worth of stained mugs and crumb-covered plates.

"You realise this," John said, gesturing towards the table, "will have to change once you have a toddler exploring the place."

Sherlock sighed in response, as though John was stating the obvious. But just a cursory glance of the flat revealed several dozen glaring hazards to life, some of which Sherlock had assured him he would deal with before Rosie found her feet.

"I fully recognise that experiments of a complex and scientific nature are not compatible with a safe developmental environment for an infant," Sherlock replied. "And although I concede that while it's likely my son will inherit his father's early grasp of independent mobility – on that score, amongst many, thank god he's not Mycroft's child – I think I have several months before I need to give that matter any serious thought."

John raised his eyebrows. Despite Sherlock's fairly hands-on approach to being a godfather, his friend hadn't yet experienced that unique, all-consuming cold-sweat fear of what could befall your own child.

"We'll see," John said, his hand on the fridge door. "Although I think you need to keep the midwife visits to Molly's place. I might be wrong, but I don't think she'd look too kindly on body parts in the fridge."

He heard Sherlock sigh, as though he was a teenage boy being scolded by his grandmother.

"No bloody milk. Of course," John said. "Human tissue, but no bloody milk. Don't suppose you fancy popping out to get some?"

"Can't," Sherlock replied, setting down his violin on the desk. It was with a spark of gleeful schadenfreude that John realised there would be sticky, inquisitive hands all in easy reach of that Strat.

"Molly's coming over," he added.

John immediately searched his brain to see whether this rang a bell.

"I told you," Sherlock insisted.

"Are you sure you didn't tell the version of me in your mind palace?"

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, conceding, it seemed, that it could be the case.

"On second thoughts, I will go out for the milk," John said. "I don't want a repeat of last Monday."

It wasn't that John didn't want to see his daughter's godmother, but more that he'd seen a bit too much of her a few days ago. Sherlock, though, seemed typically unrepentant.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he retorted. "Remember? You were supposed to be following up some leads with Lestrade."

John certainly rued the fact that Lestrade had been called away on a case. Arriving home early and finding his friend and his friend's significant other in what could kindly be described as a compromising situation made him wish he could delete things in the way that Sherlock apparently could.

"Isn't Molly working today?" John asked, distractedly, patting his pockets as though small change could miraculously appear.

"Only this morning," he replied. "We've got that appointment."

"Appointment?"

"The twenty-week thing."

It took a couple of moments for the words to sink in and for his brain to catch up.

"Your twenty-week scan is today? That's something you might have liked to mention before."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"Why? Is it imperative that you be there, too?"

It was difficult to tell whether Sherlock was being facetious, but he decided he probably wasn't.

"No," John sighed. "It's just a fairly big milestone in a pregnancy, that's all. Good that you're going with her."

He saw Sherlock frown at this.

"Why wouldn't I?"

He made a fair point; after all, Sherlock had gone along to the twelve-week scan and, from what John understood, had behaved moderately well (though John had been forced to remind him that it's generally not a good idea to piss off the entire obstetric department at the hospital shortly before the birth of your child).

"No reason," John said eventually. "It's just good."

Sherlock was still eyeing him, clearly wounded by John's questioning.

"Cash?" John continued, picking up his jacket from the back of a dining chair. "For the milk?"

A response wasn't even required – a momentary furrow of Sherlock's brow was enough. Of course not.

"Fine," John said, resigned to making an out-of-the-way trip to the cash machine. "Are you going to find out the sex, by the way?"

"Don't need to," Sherlock replied. "It's a boy."

John gave a short, exasperated laugh.

"Right," he nodded. "Allowing for the fact that you obviously have divine powers, wouldn't you at least like science to confirm it?"

Sherlock started to make himself a cup of coffee, his caffeine tastes not hampered by the lack of milk.

"Molly doesn't want to find out," he said, selecting a mug that John could have sworn until recently contained several human toes. "Wants it to be a surprise, or some such thing. I've never understood the point of surprises – why wouldn't a person want to be equipped with all the facts available to them?"

John smiled. At least these days he could be fairly confident that Sherlock wouldn't say such a thing to Molly's face.

"Perhaps it's because facts are so readily available these days," he shrugged. "I guess there aren't many opportunities left in the world for genuine surprises. And I suppose it ultimately doesn't change anything about how you prepare for the next twenty weeks – or the eighteen years after that."

"I think that's more or less what Molly said," Sherlock agreed. "Though I think she might just be trying to torment me, too."

John smirked.

"Well, as long as you resist the urge to crow about it in the delivery room if you turn out to be right," he told his friend. "You might find yourself ejected from the ward – and possibly from Molly's affections."

"A bit Not Good?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, a bit Not Good," John agreed, smiling. He started to head for the door when he heard Sherlock clear his throat with a short cough; John knew this meant that Sherlock had something further to say, something that he was finding it difficult to broach.

"John," Sherlock said carefully, once they were both facing each other again. "You'll tell me, won't you? If I'm doing things – or saying things – that are a bit Not Good."

John smiled. This was a man who, not so long ago, couldn't care less about the opinions and feelings of others, but John understood now what was at stake for his friend – and how the feelings of one person in particular were now at the heart of everything he did. And how his own feelings were now held in the hands of that very same person.

"I always do, don't I?" John said.

Sherlock pursed his lips and then gave a small nod.

"Thank you, John," he replied, a surprisingly serious timbre in his voice.

At that moment, Sherlock's attention was caught by something – the sound of a car pulling up to the kerb beneath them (the sort of commonplace noise that John had filtered out long ago). His demeanour immediately changed, and he sprang over to the window. Sweeping up his coat and scarf in one movement, Sherlock headed towards the door to the flat, almost opening it in John's face.

"Stand aside, Dr Watson," he said with a flourish. "Mustn't keep a pregnant woman waiting."