After the successful end to their most recent crime-solving expedition, Sherlock, John, and Hamish made their way to Anthony's.
Both John and Sherlock remained relatively quiet until the food was delivered to their table, at which point Sherlock asked, in a carefully nonchalant tone—
"So, have you and Mary picked out baby names yet?"
"We've got a few contenders, but nothing certain."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
"Come again?"
"In case you were looking for baby names."
"Ah, very funny, Sherlock, but this is really more Mary's area."
"Very well, although it does only seem fair given the circumstances."
Sherlock looked significantly in Hamish's direction. For his part, Hamish was currently lying on the floor, licking a serving bowl which had only moments before contained a generous portion of rare beef.
"No. Just—no."
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and gave Hamish a 'what can I do?' look, before turning back to John.
"Hamish and I look forward to meeting the latest addition to your family."
"Um, thanks, I guess."
They ate in silence for a little while before a thought suddenly occurred to John.
"So your full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"
"Yep."
"And you went with Sherlock?"
"Do I seem like a 'William' or 'Scott' to you?"
"No, but—"
"It was Mycroft's fault, really. His full name is Henry Mycroft Andrew Holmes, and my parents started off by calling him Henry—Mycroft was just an old family name—but when he was three years old, he apparently decided that 'Henry' was too common and refused to answer to anything other than Mycroft."
"What does this have to do with you?"
"Well, when I was born, my parents intended to call me William, but Mycroft insisted that no brother of his would bear such an ordinary name, and that's without even considering all of the painful nicknames I could have been saddled with: Bill, Billy—the potential indignities are endless, really."
"So you're saying Mycroft did you a favor?"
"No, I'm saying that Mycroft is an insufferable stuffed shirt, but on occasion, it works out to my advantage."
That last comment was enough to surprise a true laugh out of John, and Sherlock—always appreciative of a laugh at Mycroft's expense—joined in as well.
Once they had both quieted, though, Sherlock said, in a more serious tone—
"While we're on this topic, we need to discuss your failure to use my new charge's name."
"I refuse to call him 'Hamish.'"
"You certainly can't keep saying 'it' or 'that thing' or 'the dog.' How would you feel if I called your future baby 'it'? Or 'the parasite'? Because, if you really consider it, fetuses and parasites have a number of commonalities—"
"Sherlock—"
"They grow inside of you, steal precious nutrition from the host—I mean, mother—cause temporary and often permanent disfigurement, require lengthy doctor visits, cause nausea and eventually excruciating pain—and that's not even considering—"
John held up his hands in surrender.
"Fine! Enough. I'll call him by a name, but it won't be Hamish."
"What do you suggest?"
John paused, for a few moments. He stared at Hamish, and Hamish stared back.
And then it came to him.
"Hank."
"No, absolutely not."
"Too late. Look, he likes his new name. Don't you, Hank?"
Sherlock looked disgusted, but 'Hank' just wagged his tail.
"But John, you're going to confuse him!"
"I thought you said he was clever? If he's clever enough to investigate a crime, surely he's clever enough to learn more than one name."
Sherlock didn't say anything at first, and John smiled to himself triumphantly.
But John should have known better than to think he could win against Sherlock Holmes.
"That's fine, John. You can just go ahead and call Hamish—who is in fact very, very clever—whatever you choose. But remember, soon you're going to have a baby. A very impressionable baby, whose neurons will be at the height of their plasticity— "
"You cannot seriously be considering doing experiments on my future child."
"Why does everyone always think that!"
"I don't know. Maybe it's because you casually drug everyone from your best friend to casual acquaintances. Or how about all the dismembered corpses in the fridge—"
"That only happened a few—"
"More than a few times. Then there were the explosions in our kitchen. And what about all the dishes that were sacrificed in the service of your 'experiments.'"
"Yes, all right, you've made your point."
John looked skeptical. "Have I?"
"Yes, you have. I solemnly promise not to do any experiments on this baby—"
John cleared his throat pointedly.
"On any of John Watson's future children."
John continued staring expectantly.
"Or grandchildren. Or relatives. There, satisfied?"
"What about me? How about no more experiments on my best friend, John Watson?"
"I promise not to do any experiments on Mary. That's good enough, right?"
John sighed in defeat and said, grudgingly. "I guess it will have to be."
"Good, I'm glad that's settled."
"Cheers. How about dessert—"
"Of course, you can't blame me if your child's first word is something obscene. Or if they somehow learn to speak French before English. Or if they start calling you Doo-Doo instead of Da-Da. Children can be so dense sometimes."
John looked like he was preparing to strangle Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to John's distress.
"The sad truth is, babies aren't that clever. Now dogs, they're clever. After all, your child won't learn how to use the toilet until it's two years old. How stupid do you have to be—"
"Sherlock—"
"No need to fret, John. Your wife is very clever, and you're of moderate—well, average—intelligence, so there's a good chance your child won't be completely obtuse."
"Ha, I'm so relieved now. Thanks for setting my mind at ease."
"And look at all the great influences your child will have!"
"Like, you?"
"Me? Be serious, John. I'm a terrible influence. I'm sure your child will have better manners than me by the time it's able to speak its first horribly mispronounced, unintelligible syllables."
"Okay, but—"
"I was talking about Hamish, naturally! He's very well mannered."
John seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech.
"No need to be nervous, John. Like I said at your wedding, you've managed to handle me all these years. I'm sure a child will be much easier to manage. At the very least, you'll have a significant size advantage. For a few years, at least."
Sherlock either didn't care or didn't notice that John was turning a remarkable shade of red.
"Sherlock, can you please just—"
John must have realized he was shouting, or maybe he noticed the other restaurant patrons staring at him, because he stopped mid-sentence and audibly started counting to 10.
Sherlock considered asking John whether that was the latest anger management technique from his therapist but ultimately thought better of it. No need to enrage John further.
A few moments later, John was much more composed—in fact he seemed positively serene.
Sherlock was caught off guard by the quick change in John's countenance, but it all became clear when John said—
"If you want to try to teach my child a foreign language or how curse like a sailor, I probably can't stop you. But just remember—"
John paused, for dramatic effect.
"You're going to have to answer to Mary."
At that, Sherlock immediately sobered up.
"No need to take everything so literally, John. I was only joking about teaching your child profanity."
John gave him a knowing look, but all he said in response was, "Now, how about dessert?"
A/N: I hope you liked this latest chapter! Not much plot, mostly just some fun. Also an attempt to provide some backstory as to why on earth Sherlock's parents named their children "Sherlock" and "Mycroft."
I don't have any immediate plans for continuing this story, but if something comes to mind later, I might go further with this. I'm always open to requests, as well.
Thanks for reading, and if you get a moment, I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter :)