A/N: Another fic request from SidMax (Love you BB) a nice little cracky fic about Sherlock babysitting. Fluffy, slashy fun. R&R. Enjoy.

Maybe, Baby

"I hope it isn't too much of a burden-"

"Why would you call your child an 'it,' doesn't he have a name?"

She blankly stared at him, blinked twice and then smiled, giving a cheerful chuckle before putting the baby in his hands.

"I meant to job. But yes, he has a name. Nathan. You can call him Nate. He responds to both-"

"He'll respond to any stimulus that is directed towards him at this age. I could call him biscuit with just the right inflection and he'd react just the same as with his given name."

Another blank stare. This one a bit more agitated.

"I fed him on the way so he'll need a bottle at 9. Then you can rock him to get him to sleep. After that, he'll lay on the bed or the couch fine if you make a little pallet out of some of his blankets, in his bag."

Sherlock nodded, holding the baby out in front of him as if he was a radioactive sack of unidentifiable goo. She put the baby bag on the coffee table and put some toys on the couch.

"He'll need about twenty minutes for tummy time-"

"Tummy time?" Sherlock looked over the baby's shoulder to his mother.

"Yes, you lay down his blanket and put him on his tummy. He's learning to keep his head up and it helps his development."

"I see. Tummy time for 20 minutes, bottle at 9, sleep."

"Don't forget to play with him and talk to him too, he has the sweetest laugh." She steps behind Sherlock to face her son. She smiles really big and makes some noises, making the infant coo and gurgle with laughter.

Sherlock pulls out one of his cheap smiles and responds with, "Charming."

"Okay, I must be off. Thank you again. It was so last minute and you were the only person I would trust with my child after."

"Yes, I understand. It's no problem. Have a good evening, drive safe."

Before he knew it, he was alone with the infant, it might as well have been a pterodactyl; he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Sherlock had done some work for a Mrs. Dunn, her husband's murder case, posed as a suicide that turned out to be a mob hit less than 8 months before. She was going out for a one-night only opera event at Covent Garden, nonrefundable tickets, and with a new beau.

So Sherlock was stuck with a baby for the night. John was at work until quarter past 7, and would be going straight to dinner with Sarah, reservations at 8:15.

He put Nathan in a bouncy seat his mother left and sat it on the coffee table, next to the bag. He tucked his hands under his chin and looked at the infant, sucking on his fist. He drooled and gummed his hands and little toys hanging over the bouncy seat, laughing when it made a noise.

"How do people find this endearing?" When he spoke, Nathan's eyes lit up and went straight to Sherlock. Sherlock deduced that infants respond more to deeper voices and sounds, and that his baritone of a voice intrigued little Nate.

He proceeded to stand and grab his violin from the armchair and play a little melody for the child who looked on him with wonder as the song played out. When he finished, Nathan began to suck on his fist again. Sherlock put down the violin and sat in front of the baby once again.

"What now?" The infant stared back at him, wide-eyed and content.

They stared at each other until Nathan began to fuss. Sherlock checked his phone, 7:45. Not time for a bottle, but it was time for another's feeding. John was off work and heading to dinner.

"Tummy time it is then." He plucked a multi-colored blanket from the baby bag and laid it out on the rug in front of the fireplace. He picked the squirming Nathan from his seat and laid him on the blanket. Nathan cooed some and wiggled on the blanket with joy, finding entertainment in its bright colors and shapes.

Sherlock laid down on the floor beside him, watching him, studying him. "They are so simple, but are so vastly complex. He had so much potential, but it would take time for him to become tolerable, self-sufficient. No use for him until his cognitive functions were more developed. But teenage years are just as painful, he suspected.

Sherlock occupied tummy time with deducing things through the nappy bag. They owned one dog, large, jumpy; not the kind of dog for a small infant to be around. His aunt stayed with the family for awhile, but just long enough to get money from her, for her drinking habit. The new beau wore cheap cologne, smoked and had a taste for Bourbon. He scowled and decided to stop, since it was just upsetting him. But only because his growing fascination with the infant, coupled with his lack of contempt for the child, made these facts seem awfully detrimental.

Nathan began to cry and Sherlock was ripped from his stupor. He picked up the baby and tried to rock him, seeing that it was only 8:10. John was sitting at the table with Sarah, ordering wine. He didn't need to be fed for about an hour. He checked his nappy, barely wet, no defecation.

He couldn't understand why the infant was crying. Sherlock inspected the infant for pain, but found no source of inflammation or maladies. Mrs. Hudson was away, visiting her sister and nephew, she told the boys not to call, family emergency.

He texted John.

Need help with the infant. Now. –SH

John quickly texted back.

Just got to the restaurant. Call Mycroft.

No. I need you. –SH

I know you didn't forget but I'll tell you any way. I'm having dinner with Sarah.

Sherlock sat for a moment, thinking of how to coax John into coming home.

Infant might be ill. Need your expert opinion. –SH

No.

Please. –SH

There was a long beat before the next text.

Let me get an appetizer for her, at least. Be there soon.

Checkmate.

"He looks fine." Sherlock stood, holding out the crying infant.

"I know. I think he needs to eat now." John took the screaming Nathan from Sherlock and cradled him. He shushed him with a lullaby while he took the heated bottle from the kitchen table and fed the boy. Sherlock stood a bit farther, distant from the situation. It was so foreign to him, so alien But John showed no signs of indifference or aversion.

Seeing John holding that infant was doing something to Sherlock. Something was stirring in him as he watched John, looking so in his place, nurturing, soothing. Sherlock studied him, just as he did when observing the child gawk at the colored blanket, but with much more of an emotional response than an intellectual one.

He thought how wonderful John would be as a father. How he was perfect for it. Even the thought of adopting a child with him flashed across his mind, before his logical, calculating part of his mind smashed them apart. But still, he watched, fascinated and in admiration.

John looked up and caught Sherlock's adoring stare.

"You sad I don't do this for you?"

Sherlock grinned and walked over to him.

"I've never seen you like this, John. You look so…handsome like that. Gentle and caring, strong and protective of this little living being you just met. You are a natural, John."

A hurt was growing in Sherlock's eyes as he looked down at the baby, falling asleep with the bottle on his lips. John gave a worried eye.

"You alright?"

Sherlock shook his head and turned, walking over to the couch to make a pallet for Nathan. When he finished, John had finished burping the child and laid him on his back, placing his stuffed lion beside him.

John put a finger to his lips and walked over to the den table. Sherlock sat across from him, and laid a hand on the table. John took it up in his and continued his worried gaze at Sherlock.

"Something is bothering you." After a beat, he spoke. Very low and very small.

"I wish I could give this to you."

He motioned to Nathan.

"I want you to be able to have this, but I don't think I could do it. I'm not any good at it and I don't want you-" Sherlock stopped, not wanting to finish. John shook his head at Sherlock and smiled.

"I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock." Sherlock sat, staring in semi-sorrow.

"Is this about Sarah? I've told you a dozen times, we're friends. She wanted to get away from her nagging mother for awhile and I told her I'd take her to dinner. That's all. I told her you were watching a baby and needed help. She understands. And I wouldn't leave you for not being able to calm down a near-stranger's baby. You aren't good with him because he isn't your child." Sherlock's eyes squinted a bit, not quite understanding John's last few words.

"Some people are better with kids than others, but it still takes time. I don't doubt your ability to love or care for a child in the slightest. Just look at what you were just saying, worrying about my feelings and your own. You care for me and would care a child with me just the same, I know that. And I'd be right here with you to help." He took his hand again.

"It's not like we're going to go out a pick out a baby tomorrow. We'll see what happens. See what the future has in store for us. We're taking it slow, remember? For now, we have each other and the work. And I am perfectly fine with that for now. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, still pouting a bit as John leaned up and gave him a soft peck on the lips.

"You're such a baby, Sherlock, you know that?"

Sherlock gave him and sly grin and pulled John back to his lips. He kissed him harder, biting at his lower lip and gaining a small whimper from the doctor.

"I'm the baby?" He cooed.

As they went in for another kiss, Nathan began to stir and scream bloody murder.

When Mrs. Dunn arrived, the boys were on the couch, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder, Nathan lying on his stomach as well. She smiled, thinking to herself, 'They'll make great parents someday.'