They were the two words that had likely changed more lives than any other in the course of human history, and they were being spoken to Sherlock and John by their daughter right that moment in their living room at 10:29 A.M. UK time on Sunday morning.

"I'm pregnant."

"You—I don't—congratulations!" Finding that words failed him, John decided to let his arms do the talking as he wrapped her in them tightly and kissed her cheek. He went through five different facial expressions in a thirty-second span, then switched to doctor mode. "How far along?"

"About two months. We wanted to wait a little while before telling you so we could be sure everything went well. Relitza wanted to be here too, but she's been so busy with work and we didn't want to wait any longer."

Her second sentence knocked Sherlock out of his stupor. "Went well? How do you mean?"

"At the sperm bank," Rosie said, clasping her hands in front of her stomach, which was still flat. "Relitza and I decided that was the best way for this to work, you know, since we wanted our own and there's no man in the picture. And with her bending over and underneath cars and being around all those chemicals, we decided it was best if I carried—"

"You never told me you were going to a sperm bank," Sherlock said quietly. He was already mourning all the research he hadn't done. The best facility, the best doctors, a background check on all the possible donors to find the perfect and healthiest match.

Rosie knew all of this; he had taught her well in the art of reading peoples' faces. "We wanted it to be a surprise. And I know you would have loved to help me, but Relitza and I agreed that we want to be surprised too. When you hand-pick your donor, there's only so many surprises you can have."

"Oh." Sherlock supposed there was some logic there, even if he himself couldn't see any. His heart was hitting his chest hard.

Rosie came closer. "Are you unhappy?"

She sounded so worried that Sherlock could have slapped himself. What was he thinking? This was their daughter sharing the happiest news of her life with the people she loved most in the world! He stood up and yanked her into an even bigger hug than John had given her.

"Of course not, sweetheart," he said. "I'm just so shocked. This changes everything."

"Damn right. We're grandpas," John said with a grin.

Sherlock shuddered. "Ugh, god, tell me that isn't what we're going to be called."

Rosie laughed. "No, you'll be Gramps and Grandad."

"Dibs on Grandad," Sherlock said as he let Rosie go and pat her stomach.

"All right," Rosie said. "But Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Promise me you won't go crazy with preparing, okay? Relitza and I are doing our research and taking all the classes and reading all the books, and Dr. Misty is handling all my check-ups. It's all under control."

"I promise," Sherlock said. John stifled a giggle.

Four months later, a person couldn't move in the now baby-proofed Baker Street for all the baby supplies packed inside it, and lists occupied every corner of the room. Lists of safe foods, unsafe foods, breastfeeding techniques, prenatal vitamins to take, exercises to do before, during, and after birth, and chemicals to watch out for.

"Sherlock," Rosie groaned from her chair—make that her new ergonomic chair specially designed for pregnant women that Sherlock had back-ordered from some obscure company in another country. "You promised you wouldn't go overboard."

"Actually, this is tame for him," John said, bringing their tea from the kitchen. "You should have seen the way he was when we were planning our wedding. I thought the flat would collapse."

"I think it's cute, and very thoughtful," Relitza argued. She was holding Rosie's hand from the sofa and watching her wife stroke her heavy belly. There were times when Sherlock swore he saw movement from the inside. He pulled his eyes away from it and thanked Relitza.

He had always liked her. A brutally honest, blue-collar woman who was a better mechanic than any man he or John had ever known. But despite her only having been to trade school, Relitza was sharp. She had beaten Sherlock at chess more times than he liked to admit and could do mental math almost as fast. It was only a bonus that when she wasn't greasy and smelling of oil, she was beautiful. Her black ringlets contrasted Rosie's blonde locks nicely; she reminded Sherlock a lot of Janine, only much more interesting. She and Rosie would be the best of mothers.

Rosie nodded. Her cheeks were looking plump and a little swollen, just like the rest of her. I feel like I'm a balloon blowing up until it explodes, she'd complained when her clothes no longer fit. "That he is," she admitted. "Though I hope you're as good at finding room for all of this stuff as you are at finding stuff to buy. Oh! Kicking hard now."

They couldn't help themselves; all six of their hands reached out to feel the kick and Rosie laughed. "Don't all touch me at once now!"

Sherlock thought his mind must finally be starting to go in his old age. He knew pregnancy and a fetus moving were just chemical reactions in the reproductive system designed by evolutionary forces to keep the species going, and yet he almost wanted to weep over them. My grandchild. Our baby's baby. The kick may have been hard to Rosie, but to Sherlock it was amazingly light, and could only have come from the tiniest, most precious of little baby feet.

John must have been struggling with the same thing, because his voice was loaded with suppression when he asked, "Will you let us babysit for you?"

Rosie covered their hands with hers and guided them lower, where an even tinier pulse touched their palms. "I wouldn't think of asking anyone else."

Don't panic don't panic don't panic don't panic but it was easier thought than done. He and Relitza had read all the books, taken all the classes, even watched a few of the YouTube videos (there were some images they would never forget), but they were still utterly unprepared for the moment when Rosie would be hunched over with gritted teeth, hands gripping her hard, mountainous stomach that was stretching her shirt to its breaking point and looked like it would pop any second.

A good minute passed with them standing there like fools until Captain John Watson came out. "All right everybody, listen up! We are going to the hospital and we are going to remain calm. Relitza, get Rosie's bag. Sherlock, start keeping time between contractions. I'll call a cab."

"Cab?" Rosie asked as her wife scrambled to their bedroom and Sherlock started the stopwatch on his phone. "Dad, don't we need an ambulance?"

"We shouldn't, unless you're a lot closer than we thought," John said. Sherlock marveled at the calm in his voice when he spoke to the cab company. All the same there was a hard edge to it when he told them that they were to hurry, they needed someone now.

Relitza dragged two suitcases out of the room. "I've got the bags. Honey, can you stand up?"

"I'll try. Sherlock, help me." He took her hands and carefully pulled her off the bed. Her belly brushed his and he could almost feel how tight it was. If only he had been a few decades younger, he would have carried her to the hospital himself, baby and all. But since he was 68, he had to settle for working with Relitza to help her slowly down the stairs while John took the suitcases.

"I can't believe this is really happening," Relitza said without blinking.

"Owwww, I would say pinch me but I'm already in enough pain," Rosie moaned.

"Eight minutes," Sherlock declared and restarted his stop watch. They waited for the contraction to pass, then kept going. The cabbie was waiting for them and kept eyeing Rosie nervously.

"Not gonna pop one out in me cab, are ya?"

"I don't know; that will depend on how quickly you get us to the bloody hospital!" Rosie snapped. She struggled into the backseat, barely able to fit between it and the back of the font seat with her belly as big as it was. John and Relitza hurried in after her, and Sherlock reluctantly took the front seat. Much as he wanted to be back there with Rosie, he wasn't her partner or a doctor. The most he could do was keep time and remind himself over and over again not to panic.

By the time they reached the hospital, the contractions had increased to six minutes apart and Rosie was nearly screaming. Her cries were so full of frustration and fear that Sherlock was aching to hold and rock her like he had when she was a baby. In the past he'd always had research and preparation on his side, but now it wasn't enough.

Still, he did what he could, which in this case was to throw a few bills at the cabbie and help Rosie into the emergency room, where she was quickly placed into a wheelchair and taken into a room with Relitza following close behind. Sherlock rushed after them, but was held back when John gripped his arm.

"Whoa, hold up, Sherlock. Let's just wait out here."

"What?" Had John gone insane? "We have to be in there. She needs us."

"No, Sherlock, she doesn't," John said with a wistful smile. "Rosie's an independent adult now. Besides, she's got Relitza, Dr. Misty, and several nurses. You and I would just be a fire hazard."

He tried to pull Sherlock to a seat in the waiting room. Sherlock didn't budge. "John. This is our daughter. She's in excruciating pain and she's going through the biggest milestone of her life. How can we not be in there with her?"

John squeezed his hand. "I know waiting is hard, love, but there's really nothing more we can do for her. We're not obstetricians, we've never given birth, and we really don't want to see our adult daughter's vagina. At this point, the most we can do is just be here for her and join her when the baby comes. And it could be hours yet."

Why did his husband have to be woefully logical? That was supposed to be Sherlock's job. He sighed, trying to stir the storm in his stomach. He sat down with John and before even a minute passed, he stood back up again. "I can't sit and wait." He straightened his jacket, wishing he had his full coat; there hadn't been time to grab it in all the chaos.

"Where are you going?" John asked his back.

"To pick up some things for our grandchild."

Hours upon hours, day turning to night, night turning to morning, and finally, an exhausted looking Relitza came to fetch them. She had nearly tripped over everything scattered around their chairs, but smiled when she saw that they were presents wrapped in colorful paper with big bows and curly ribbons. Some Sherlock had picked up from Baker Street and wrapped, while others he'd bought new that night.

"There are two people in that room who can't wait to see you," she said sweetly, hugging them and reassuring them that yes, Rosie was all right, everything had gone well, the baby was healthy.

Fatigue was slowing Relitza down, and it was all Sherlock and John could do not to push her out of the way so they could get to their daughter. When they reached her at last, the room was empty save their beautiful girl—woman—who was cradling a baby so small Sherlock had trouble believing it was hers. Given how far it had stretched Rosie's stomach, he had expected it to be bigger.

"I'm so proud of you," John said, his eyes welling up. He leaned over to kiss her head and Sherlock saw him break into the biggest smile he'd seen him wear in years at seeing the sleeping child in her arms. "Hey there," he whispered.

Sherlock moved closer. If Relitza was exhausted, Rosie was wiped out. Her hair was stringy and tangled and she was struggling to keep her eyes open, but her arms never faltered.

"Dad, Sherlock," Rosie said. "Meet your granddaughter, Shirley Jay Watson-Holmes Ray."

"Shirley Jay." Now Sherlock was crying too.

"That's right," Rosie said softly. "Named after my two favorite people in the world."

Sherlock couldn't speak. The entire English language and every vocal cord in his body couldn't convey how much he loved and needed this wonderful, beautiful family that he spent so many years of his life thinking he would never have. So instead of speaking, he held out his arms, and Shirley Jay passed from Rosie to John to Sherlock, who was entranced by every part of her. He had never gotten to hold Rosie much as a newborn because Mary didn't like it, so this was the first time he'd ever had prolonged contact with one.

And she was his granddaughter. A girl. Another one to go through all the joys of puberty and femininity with, when he wasn't spoiling her rotten, of course. Sherlock couldn't imagine it any other way.

He gently lifted her to his lips so he could kiss her forehead, which was covered in the softest brown baby hair he had ever seen. She may have favored the sperm donor, whoever he was, in terms of hair and eye color, but Sherlock could see bits of Rosie in the shape of the face, and he knew right away that she had John's nose.

Just as he lowered her down, Shirley Jay began to move and whimper. Her face reddened a bit and Sherlock worried he'd done something wrong until Relitza said, "Oh, I think she's hungry."

Rosie held out her arms. "Give her to me so I can feed her."

Reluctantly Sherlock handed the baby back to her mother, who started to open her gown only to stop and look sheepishly at her dads. "Do you um…want to leave for a minute? Or should I get under the covers?"

Sherlock looked to John for guidance and John asked, "Do you want us to leave?"

"To be honest, if you're not too grossed out, I would love for you to stay."

"Course not. It's a perfectly natural process," John said warmly. Rosie gave him a smile and settled back in bed with Relitza snuggling in beside her and Shirley Jay sucking at her swollen breast.

"Besides," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "I think it's finally safe to say that at this point we've handled everything a cis female body can dish out."