It was beginning to look like Sherlock wanted it more than John. Which was unusual, seeing as how just four years ago Sherlock expressed how much he desperately did not want a baby. But somewhere along the line came the final argument, the final, "Ok, John. Yes, by every bone in my body. Let's have a baby." And John cried, "We're going to be parents, Sherlock. We're going to be dad's."

Of course John thought he was too old to become a father. He was an old age of 44, but honestly John didn't feel a day over 34. It was all that running around they did. He was in the best shape of his life, he might have been in better shape than Sherlock with all the junk that man eats.

It was perfect, they thought. They traveled meet the woman that would be their surrogate. Her name was Amy, and honestly she was perfect. She looked a lot like John, including glowing bronze skin, sandy-blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. She was smart, which the men loved. She was funny, which John loved. She was pretty, which Sherlock loved.

"Why do you like that she's pretty?" John had asked.

"Because she looks like you, and I think you're pretty."

Five months after meeting Amy, they went to a doctors appointment with her to find out the sex of the baby. Sherlock was dead set on wanting to know. He wanted to know so badly that it hurt, but John was all for the surprise. Sherlock raced to the doctor's office, but John strutted along behind him in no hurry at all.

When they got there, Sherlock insisted on finding out.

"Are you sure?" the technician asked.

"Of course I'm sure."

She glanced at John. "Oh, just let him." John said, waving his hand in that air and closing his eyes.

John heard everything, of course. He heard Amy sort of whimpering, "I'm so happy for you guys." And he heard Sherlock asking a thousand questions.

"What's that part?"

"That's an arm."

"What's that?"

"That's an elbow."

"What's that?"

"That would be the nose."

"Well, where's the-"

"Right there."

John heard Sherlock sort of squeal. John heard Sherlock clap his hands in front of his face. John felt Sherlock wrap his arms around his own neck and hold tight, pressing light kisses onto the top of the smaller man's head.

They left without John knowing the sex of their baby, and the whole way home Sherlock and Amy were giggling like school kids. They felt like they were keeping a real secret from John. When they got back to 221B, Sherlock immediately went into Mrs. Hudson's apartment to tell her. She, too, squealed in delight.

"Oh, a little Holmes-Watson-"

"No, no! John doesn't know!"

"Oh, oh right! How romantic, in a way, you know, Sherlock? That's quite sweet!"

"I know, I'm dying to tell him, though. I don't know how long I can keep the secret!"

Sherlock went upstairs and got Amy a glass of milk. She craved milk, which Sherlock thought was very curious. He charted anything she wanted, just for experimental purposes.

John liked how quickly Amy became comfortable with them, and soon wondered why it was Sherlock's never had any friends. Any body that cares to get close to him -himself and Amy- instantly feel attached, like they've known him forever. Amy and Sherlock got along quickly, which Sherlock took as a sign it was ok for him to, sort of, experiment on her.

At first it didn't end well.

"Sherlock! I'm not an experiment!"

"Oh, come on! You kind of are!"

"How, Sherlock? How am I an experiment?"

"Well, well," Sherlock looked around the room, "That's my baby!"

"So? Stop experimenting on me!"

"Fine!"

And he stopped. Well, he stopped letting her know.

Around the third month of pregnancy, she just let him. She actually gave him new ideas, which he loved. Nothing harmed the baby, of course, but it was great for Sherlock and great for John to see his husband getting along with their 'baby-mama' so well.

Yes, Sherlock also took the term of calling Amy 'baby-mama' and Amy called him 'sugar-pie'. Why? John had no idea. He just laughed. To any one else, Sherlock and Amy either fought and looked like brother and sister, or were sweet and endearing and looked like an old married couple.

But don't worry, John wasn't jealous. Of course not, why should he be? He liked Amy too, he had to. The woman was carrying his child. But Amy is seven years younger than Sherlock, so John saw her more as a little sister or one of Sherlock's school friends.

Amy spent a lot of time at their flat. She'd go shopping with them, she'd go to Bart's with them, she'd watch crap telly with them. 45% of the time, the night ended with her and Sherlock arguing.

One night, their argument was so stupid, John stood in the corner and damn well laughed himself into hysterics.

"I'm leaving!"

"Good! Leave!"

Amy headed for the door.

"Wait! Put your coat on!" Sherlock called at her.

Amy sighed loudly and threw her coat on.

"Wait!"

Amy came stomping back into the flat. She pulled her coat open and lifted her shirt up, revealing her growing belly. Sherlock pressed his hand to it, covering her belly button. He breathed in, as if he could somehow smell the baby, and shut his eyes. Amy stood still and let Sherlock do what he always did, feeling his baby.

Sherlock was certain, positively, absolutely certain that the baby was biologically John's. He was so certain, in fact, that in three months he allowed himself to grasp the fact that the baby wasn't going to be his.

One night, three weeks after Sherlock found out the sex of the baby, he woke up crying from having a dream about being taken away from John and the baby because, legally, neither are really, really his.

"Sherlock? Are you crying?"

"N-no," Sherlock sobbed and sniffled.

"Baby, what's wrong?"

"Just a bad dream," Sherlock sighed and pulled John as close as possible.

"About what?"

"Just that," Sherlock sniffled, "That I was taken away from you and the baby."

"No, baby. It's ok, that will never happen."

"I know the baby won't be mine, John. I can feel it. The baby's yours, what if-" Sherlock began to cry, again.

"Stop, Sherlock. Don't think that. The baby is ours. Just yours and mine. And you will love our baby more than anything, right? As will I. Our baby. I don't care whose DNA he or she has,"

"He."

"What?"

"It's a boy, John. We're having a boy."

John smiled and teared up a little bit. "Really?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry. I just can't keep it in any longer, really, I'm sorry. But now we can paint his room and-"

"Shh, shh," John covered Sherlock's mouth with his hand, "Don't be sorry. I couldn't be more happy, honestly. We're having a boy, Sherlock. And he'll be perfect, like you."

"And you."

They smiled at each other and kissed.

The very next morning, they started painting. They decided, for their son, to paint the walls sky blue with clouds, and hang airplanes from the ceiling. Sherlock had his fascination with airplanes as a kid, and John has his fascination for anything fast. It was perfect.

As they were beginning to put on a second coat, Sherlock's phone rang. Only four people ever call Sherlock, and seeing as how one was in the room with him, it was one of three other people: Lestrade, who was least likely because he gave Sherlock and John two days off; Amy, who usually called John and ended up talking to Sherlock; or Marie, Sherlock's mother. John checked the date: Tuesday. It was Marie.

"Hello, mother?"

John smiled at his own deduction skills.

"We're just painting the room," Sherlock continued. "Blue. - With clouds. - Airplanes. - Yes, like mine when I was a baby. - No, you don't need to, - Sure, I'll email you a photo. - Not until next week, I think. - Yes, I know. -" Sherlock smiled at John and left John to paint. He returned an hour later. "Boy, that woman can talk your ear off."

"I couldn't imagine which son she gave that trait to."

Sherlock scowled at John. "You know our son is going to talk a lot? I talked a lot. Did you, when you were a child?"

"No, not really. I was very quiet, actually. Mostly because Harry talked so damn much."

"Ahh, I see. I talked a lot more than Mycroft."

"You talk a lot now."

"Because you listen."