In the end, it was all rather anti-climactic. Not having a Holmes baby. That was brilliant. But it was surprisingly—normal. As normal as anything so mundane as becoming a father could be for Sherlock Holmes.

True to Sherlock's assessment, Molly felt the first labor pangs not long after finishing her bag of crisps, shortly after John's departure. Just as John's plane was taking off, she and Sherlock were taking off in a cab to the hospital. No criminal madman showed up to threaten or kill. Lestrade did not phone with an urgent case. Sherlock was a steady and involved presence through the entire process. The fact that he was studying her laboring with a scientific and analytical eye, and reporting his findings as they went along, Molly couldn't blame him. That was just who he was. Somehow he thought the fact that she dilated 2 centimeters in an hour and did not like having her feet touched while contracting might be useful to him someday. For whatever reason. Molly told him to shut up only once. He didn't even notice.

He did insult the doctors, but thankfully, Mycroft was there to smooth things over. If Molly felt any uneasiness at having both her husband AND brother-in-law at her side as she gave birth, she just chalked it up to Mycroft's need to mother everyone in his frightening, icy way. Besides, it was due to him that she had the best possible care in the best possible hospital money could buy. If it meant that he wanted to be present as she gave birth to his much anticipated nephew, well, she wasn't shy. She knew what this baby meant to him. He kept Sherlock in line, too. When her red-faced, squalling son was handed to her and she gazed up adoringly at her husband, it was Mycroft's presence that kept Sherlock steady, though he was completely overwhelmed emotionally, and Sherlock, buoyed by his brother's hand on his shoulder, bent over his wife and declared that the boy had an extraordinarily healthy and vigorous placenta and umbilical cord. Then he kissed her and sniffed, eyes suspiciously bright. Molly laughed and held her son tight.

"Your father," she cooed to the scowling, wrinkled face, "is ridiculous, and he loves you very much."

Sherlock, offended, opened his mouth to respond, but his wife cut him off.

Molly smiled and winced, and reached out to him, "Sometimes you forget to say. I just wanted to let him know you did." Sherlock gazed at her before giving a small nod and bending over the tiny child.

"In that case, Benjamin, you should know that Uncle Mycroft is a mad man who will try to control your every movement. Don't trust him." Mycroft sighed heavily, but Sherlock continued, "and he loves you very much as well."

"Well, this is all getting rather sentimental," Mycroft tried to sound bored and unmoved, but somehow in the wonder over the little boy in Molly's arms made that impossible.

John was almost disappointed when he returned from Paris to find that he had missed the excitement. Due to the fact that all his texts and calls to Sherlock had been ignored, he made his way to Baker Street just as soon as he and Mary had settled in and dropped off their luggage. The door to the flat was ajar and as he pushed it open, John was greeted with a most unusual sight. Mycroft was lifting a naked newborn baby off of a scale placed upon the kitchen table, while Sherlock read the number and scribbled the data into a logbook at hand.

"2.3 ounces," Sherlock's baritone rumbled. He sounded tired, but there was a note of victory in his voice. "That's the most he has taken at any feed yet." Sherlock perused the data before turning to where Mycroft had fastened the diaper and was in the process of expertly dressing and swaddling the little, pink fellow who had begun to whimper.

"You left his socks off again. It is the middle of winter, Mycroft." Sherlock glanced at John where he stood agape in the doorway but said nothing, his focus on his newborn son.

Mycroft frowned but accepted his little brother's chiding. Mycroft held the squirming child while Sherlock gently wrestled kicking, wrinkly feet into tiny socks. Sherlock relinquished control to Mycroft, who was the better at swaddling, apparently, before taking the bundled baby boy and turning to his best friend. The smile on Sherlock's face was decidedly new.

"He's here."

"Y-yes," John uttered. "Brilliant. He's brilliant." Sherlock flashed his smuggest grin. Of course his son was brilliant.

"You didn't think to let anyone know, I guess?" John was stunned. It was supposed to be dramatic—this was a Holmes baby, after all. Where was the daring rush to the hospital in the nick of time? Surely Scotland Yard would be involved somehow. At the very least, John thought he would be summoned.

"When?" John began, still amazed, "When was he born?"

"Friday. Friday night." Sherlock grinned again.

"Friday's child is loving and giving…" quoted Mycroft, "Hopefully that bit of folklore will hold true if he takes after his mother." He was hovering over Sherlock, a fond expression on his face. Sherlock frowned at him and leaned away, holding the baby closer to his chest.

"Where is Molly?" John asked, his gaze on the frowning red face of the son of Holmes. He was absurdly like his father—at least the grouchy expression was spot on. Too soon to tell about any other feature.

"Here I am," Molly emerged from the bedroom. Clad in a robe and pajamas, she was rumpled and sleepy eyed and absolutely beautiful as she smiled at the sight of her baby. Sherlock followed her to the sitting room and gently laid the child into her outstretched arms.

"Mummy's here," she sang, stroking a plump little cheek with one finger, "Did Daddy and Uncle take good care of you?" The baby blinked dark little eyes at her, turning his little head at the sound of her voice. She looked up proudly at John.

"Not bad, eh, Uncle John?" she grinned. John sat down next to her and laid a gentle hand on the baby's head, covered in a soft cap. Sherlock and Mycroft stood sentry over them both. Molly shared the details of the birth, how well she felt, how perfect Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and especially Sherlock had been with the baby. Eventually, under three pairs of watchful eyes, John was allowed to hold the baby and agreed that he was, indeed, the finest specimen of babyhood he had ever seen. Soon enough, the snuffling whimper signaled that it was time to eat, and Molly took her baby to the nursery to attend to him.

"Oh, Sherlock, before I forget," John seemed to recall himself. He reached into his jacket pocket, "here is the fossil, straight from the curator, and the data file—," John was no Sherlock, but this case did seem to warrant the trip out of country. It was leaning toward a ten, in his humble opinion.

Sherlock waved a careless hand toward his desk.

"Oh, just put it there. I'll get to it tomorrow—," Sherlock rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "it's almost Benjamin's bath time."