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Sherlock himself had never wanted this, never expected it, actively avoided it at all costs. But then the Universe had presented John Watson, and suddenly every fibre of Sherlock’s being had been infused with new desires, new life.
And even, to his immense surprise, the desire FOR new life. Something he could call forth into being. Something new.
Mycroft had been less skeptical than either he or John might have feared. Thank God his older brother nurtured a sentimental streak underneath his exterior of tweed-covered steel. And thank God, too, that Mycroft had always felt guilty for his complete refusal to produce darling, photogenic grandchildren for Mummy.
Over a series of weeks, Mycroft and Sherlock had winnowed the list of potential surrogates down to five, then three, then two. John was given the final choice. Sherlock had hoped John would pick the blue-eyed woman with hair nearly John’s color and skin which hinted at the rose hue he saw in John’s face during the man’s most tender and beautiful moments. Instead, predictably, John had chosen the slender, pale, dark-haired woman — the one who most resembled the love of John H. Watson’s life.
Each of the men had provided their “contributions to the cause,” as John had jokingly put it. To be honest, Sherlock had nearly considered opting out of that; yes, he wanted to create new life, but for him, that life could just as easily flow from John’s DNA and still be, without a doubt, part of Sherlock’s body and soul. Every living part of Dr. John H. Watson was connected to Sherlock’s body and soul, now. Connected inextricably. Forever.
Sherlock didn’t ask for DNA testing at any stage. And somehow, he even managed to pretend that he was glad when the child arrived with a mass of dark curls, prominent cheekbones, and an obvious pale cast to his skin. The love pouring from John at the moment they first held their son radiated out of John’s fingertips and tear-filled eyes, out of every beautiful pore, and it softened the stabs of disappointment Sherlock felt.
“Hamish,” Sherlock had whispered. ”His name will be Hamish, after you.”
John didn’t bother to wipe away his own tears. “No, Sherlock, we’d already decided—”
“He’s your son, John. Our son. Let me give him this part of you, too.”
John had only swallowed and nodded, too overcome to speak.
Sherlock studied the small creature in John’s arms. Truly, the child was beautiful, even now. He could see him growing into a slender, brooding, well-dressed young man. Sherlock would be “Father,” no doubt. John had claimed “Dad” with Sherlock’s full blessing.
Gently, Sherlock caressed the tiny face. The baby’s eyes would be blue for a while yet, but Sherlock knew what they would become. He could only hope that the eyes would not have the coldness that had plagued the man who was obviously the boy’s biological father.
He will have my physical form, even, perhaps, my intellect, Sherlock thought. But please, he pleaded to an unknown and unseen force in the Universe, Please let him have John’s heart.
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For more stories (many by other authors) based on this character I created, please see Hamish's blog on Tumblr.