He is so small and I wonder at myself that I'd forgotten how small they can be. So amazingly delicate, so dependent on others for everything – nourishment, warmth, attention, care, movement, safety, love. That such a small thing can be so powerful and fragile all at once is astonishing and I must relearn the tenderness all over again - although, really, I have not forgotten, only put it aside because it was no longer necessary.

Mycroft out grew that utter dependence, as babies do when they become children, and the other two – they were not really there. And I had tucked it away deliberately because I had not thought to need it again, but now I do. And when I held him the first time in the hospital, despite the reluctance of the doctor and the nurses to let me do so, I felt it coming back like rushing flood waters. But it still strikes me sometimes - in the middle of the night, or when rocking him as he falls asleep, or when helping my older son hold my younger son so carefully.

When watching my husband take him with hesitant movements that speak of that nervousness that men have with babies, as though William might drop him or Sherlock might suddenly explode.

Sometimes that thought makes me smile and I bite down on laughter, because how to explain to William what it looks like from this side? Men are like that, most men; I have seen so few men comfortable with newborns. They feel uncertain, almost alien, when confronted with a tiny infant, something that is so small but requires such care, that commands attention simply by existing.

Sherlock certainly commands my attention simply by existing.

He did so for nine months, nine agonizing months in which the attention was terrible and I sought to ignore it, to deny it, never quite able to breathe deeply, never able to relax, even while asleep. Waiting for the worst, hoping for the best. I never stopped thinking about the two others and the likelihood that he would end up the same way, so much so that he had no name – no potential name, male or female – until he was already two minutes old.

When William had come in, his best cool-exterior expression on his face, Adele right behind him, she looking more relieved, I had simply said to him:

"His name is Sherlock Amery, William. Come meet your son."

He had made no arguments nor did he say anything at all, but had come stood by the bed, stiff because he was aware of the nurses in the room and disliking their presence, and had looked at the tiny, red infant who barely had a name and I'm absolutely certain Sherlock had looked at him. It was ridiculous, of course, my own fantasy, probably born of hormones and adrenaline and exhaustion, but those clear grey eyes that remind me so much of my father's seemed to focus even when they surely couldn't.

He has the same eyes his namesake does, and the same eyes I do, the same eyes my sister has, and the same eyes his older brother has. Pale grey, like mirrors really, with such clarity. I find myself watching them closely for any hint of a change, praying that it won't happen. It did not happen to Mycroft, nor to Dorian, but it did happen to Adele's twin daughters, Elizabeth and Victoria. Their pale eyes had darkened, taking on a much bluer hue.

Unlike me, however, unlike Adele and unlike my father, Mycroft and Dorian have lighter hair. Mycroft light brown, Dorian white blonde that will probably darken later in life, at least somewhat.

Sherlock has my dark hair, that stark contrast between light and dark. Moonlit eyes, midnight curls.

I hope he will not lose that dark hair, either.

He should not be able to focus on me yet but I'm certain he can. In the middle of the night there is no one but the two of us, William undisturbed in his sleep – the man has ever been a deep and consistent sleeper - but my youngest son and I seem to share a love of being up in the early hours. He will eat, of course, and then simply stare up at me with those clear eyes and I down at him with the same.

He should not be able to see me fully yet, or so the doctors and the books say, but even now, at ten days old, it seems he is doing more than just looking. Evaluating, learning, judging – not harshly, but delineating me from his father, from his brother, from his aunt, from his cousin. He seems to be forming his own opinions about all of us, but in the near darkness, in this patch of pale moonlight that comes in through the glass terrace doors in the chilly January night, he seems to approve of what he finds.

I let him hold one of my fingers in his tight newborn's grip, both of us watching each other, silent in our contemplation. I wonder what he makes of me, this woman in shades of dark hair and pale skin.

I wonder what he will make of himself as he grows. It seems almost overwhelming to think of the future when I spent the better part of a year trying to deny there might even be one. But he was there, real and undeniable, and he would stay. This house, my family, myself, we had all be waiting with baited breath for his arrival and he had not disappointed.

What will you be? I ask silently, feeling the strong, warm little fingers around my own, seeing the grey eyes meet my gaze without reservation or distraction.

Whatever I want, his expression seems to reply.

A/N: I do not own, nor do I profit from. Etc.