"Congratulations Mrs. Watson." The nurse said at last, coming around behind the two men with the baby covered in her arms.
"What is it?" Father Holmes asked anxiously, turning swiftly with John in tow to watch the baby be delivered into its mother's arms. Still the thing was crying, as if it was frightened of this room, and those arms, and the woman who was now staring down upon it.
"It's a baby, Sherlock." John insisted.
"No, no." the priest huffed. "What gender?"
"It's a boy." the nurse announced, to which John felt an overwhelming sense of joy. A boy, a boy!
"We're going to be parents." John muttered, pulling Father Holmes's hands closer to him and nearly holding them up to his heart.
"The best parents in the world." the priest agreed. The nurse gave a great smile, looking upon the two with newfound interest.
"Oh my goodness, is she your surrogate?" the woman asked, as if this was a delightful thing to host within her delivery room.
"What?" Mary exclaimed, the first real words she had managed since the last scream left her throat. "No, no! That's just our neighbor."
"Oh, oh I'm sorry." The nurse muttered, her cheeks glowing just about as red as that flushed baby with humiliation. John didn't even understand the situation; he was too entranced with the baby which was being held within his wife's arms. Its eyes were wide open, as if it was terrified to be staring at anything other than darkness, and still it was keeping up its little song of distress. But it was...well it was his, was it not? His child, his creation. That little boy was half of himself, created and raised within the woman he had married, and now sitting here within her arms. That little thing was one more human to the world, one more heart to beat, voice to speak, and mouth to feed. That little thing was, and always will be, his first son.
"He's beautiful." John declared, at last letting his hands fall away and touch upon the baby's little red forehead, minuscule in comparison to all of the other people he was acquainted with. Mary nodded, but she appeared speechless. She was staring down at those eyes, those bright blue eyes, with a very confused look upon her face. It was as if she was trying to figure out how this baby had been inside of her for this whole time, trying to figure out how best to introduce herself to a little creature who didn't yet understand language.
"What will his name be?" Father Holmes wondered from behind, interrupting the couple's first moment with their child as he stuck his head into view.
"Hamish." John said with a little chuckle, catching one of the flailing hands within his own and shaking it quickly. "We decided Hamish, for a boy."
"Your middle name." Mary agreed quietly, as if she was trying to keep her words calm and rational. Her throat was strained, and for now whatever she said escaped as something more of a hoarse cough.
"I think it fits." The priest agreed. "Hello Hamish."
"John, John could you hold him? He's heavy." Mary suggested, raising the crying little boy up towards her husband as if she wanted to reduce the stress on her already compromised body. John received the baby gladly, cradling it within his arms as he had been taught by use of a bowling pin during a strange expecting parent's class he had been forced to attend. Well, the bowling pin hadn't struggled as much as this little child, though its limbs were all wrapped up and secured. The worst it could do was wiggle, and with John's firm grip he wouldn't be going far. John's eyes nearly welled up with tears, staring down upon the face that was still contorted in fear and distress. The baby's cries were nearly deafening, though John's own tears were held off by a chorus of sobs, now coming from two directions. Over his right shoulder John saw that Father Holmes had broken down into tears, and suddenly the priest was huddling upon John's shoulder with his face hidden within the folds of his shirt. For some reason the man seemed perfectly overwhelmed, and for a long time John was covered in tears that were not his own. Though despite these tears which were flowing there was still a smile upon his face, and that smile would remain there for as long as he could see little Hamish and feel all five pounds of him weighting so easily within his arms. 

Sherlock POV: For the first few nights none of the neighbors got any sleep, for Hamish's cries were so loud that they awoke Sherlock from where he was trying to sleep all the way across the parking lot. For some reason that child was perfectly miserable, and it seemed as though the parents just had to keep feeding it and hydrating it to make sure it didn't cry itself into a raisin. Of course Sherlock couldn't stay away for long, and on the second night he found himself huddled upon the Watson's leather sofa, trying to jam his ear into the borrowed pillow to block out the constant wailing of little Hamish Watson. The three of them took turns waiting on the baby, though he never seemed to be satisfied. When they fed him he cried, when they changed him he cried, and when he slept he was even gargling and coughing within his sleep! He was the loudest thing Sherlock had ever seen, though such disturbances would not give him any reason to turn his back on the child. Every time midnight struck he was glad to get to his feet and attend on little Mr. Hamish. The priest would climb the stairs to the balcony, trying to keep quiet to avoid waking the wide eyed Watsons upon the mattress, and sneak into the nursery to attend to the crying thing. Tonight the baby was crying softly, as if it was too exhausted to project its wailing any louder. Tears were bubbling up in its little blue eyes, though as soon as Sherlock switched on the little lamp next to its crib the baby seemed preoccupied with his face, not so much in its misery for the moment.
"Hello Hamish." Sherlock said with a little smile, reaching into the crib and picking the child up from where it lay. Already Hamish was getting big, probably having gained five pounds since he had been released from the hospital. This was a good sign, presumably, and as Sherlock wrapped the baby in its little blue blanket he could feel the significant difference in how the baby had grown.
"So big already." The priest chuckled, walking over towards the cabinet and taking up one of the little sippy cups already filled with warm milk. The baby's nursery was painted a delightful blue, shining brightly even under the dull light of the orange lamp. The window had its curtains drawn, and so together Sherlock and Hamish sat upon the little rocking chair, caressed in pale light as they rocked back and forth ever so softly. It had been noted by both Watsons how good the priest was with the child, in fact Sherlock would be willing to bet that he was the one who could handle Hamish the best. It was within his arms that the baby cried the least, to the point where John was almost becoming jealous. Sherlock claimed that it was because he had read his books and knew how the baby's little mind worked, though he figured truthfully that he just had a softer, gentler air to him. Having lived such a peaceful lifestyle and having regained his youth, Sherlock simply looked calmer, and perhaps more inviting to a little child who was afraid of most everything else. For a while Sherlock allowed the baby to drink his formula, with his little hands waving around in the air, now quite skilled enough to place them upon the bottle quite yet. He was so helpless without the aid of his team of parents, to the point where Sherlock almost felt bad for him and all other babies out there. No sense of responsibility at all, no sense of pride! Sherlock smiled upon the thing, rocking gently back and forth within the chair to lull the baby into a more relaxed mood. The bottle was slowly draining, though already Hamish was spitting up the formula onto his chin and pajamas. The little thing wasn't too good at swallowing what he drank, and his little cheeks continually filled up with formula only to spit it all back up again.
"Silly Hamish." Sherlock chuckled, patting the boy's head and easing the bottle out of his mouth for a moment. Those blue eyes stared up at him in confusion, though the baby didn't seem to think it necessary to cry. Instead he just looked lost, as if wondering where his bottle had gone and why he was still quite hungry.
"It's silent." came another voice, an unexpected voice, from the doorway. Sherlock's head flew up in fright, for some reason not recognizing the familiar tone of the tired John Watson. Sleep deprivation got to them all, in the end, though it was strange to see the man awake when he could be taking advantage of Hamish's contentment.
"It is, isn't it?" Sherlock chuckled, smoothing his hand across the child's forehead and looking up at the father with a grin. "It's nice to hear the sound of my own breathing."
"It's nice to hear anything except crying. I feel like that thing has already cried more tears than any one of us here combined." John decided, abandoning his place in the doorway and taking a couple of strides to meet the priest in the rocking chair. Slowly he knelt down; smiling quietly upon the baby's confused face.
"It's still strange that it's my child. It doesn't feel right, somehow. It doesn't feel like I did anything." John admitted in his soft voice, trying his best not to alarm the baby with any loud voices or powerful words. Sherlock nodded, though he couldn't entirely relate. Being as though he had no part to play in this child's birth he was just happy to be a part of the process, and for every ounce of effort he put forward he felt as though he was returned back with gladness and appreciation. Perhaps little Hamish could tell that he had been studying up on how to be the best Godparent around.
"You did plenty, John. And you've still got a long part to play." Sherlock assured him. John nodded, finally collapsing onto the floor and sitting up against the blue wall of the nursery. He kept his knees bent towards his chest, though he was now almost eye level with where the baby sat upon Sherlock's lap. He was staring at that little bald head, as if he was fascinated even with the skull of his little boy.
"I think he's happy when he's with you, Sherlock." John decided at last. The priest smiled at that name again, feeling his cheeks glow a bit hot in the soft lamplight. He didn't know what was so intimate about the name, only that it made his limbs begin to tingle and his lips begin to curl. How could it be explained without the silly little emotion of love? Oh what a nagging thing it was, and still so unfamiliar! To even admit his feelings to himself felt as if he was playing right within the Devil's hands, but at the moment he felt as though he would be a fool to dispute it. Perhaps it was nothing but a platonic love, a friendship which was growing rapidly within his heart. Though it was a love that made the world seem clearer, it was a love that made it seem brighter. And really, where was the sin in that?
"Well, I'm happy when he's with me too. It's a mutual connection." Sherlock assured at last, giggling a little bit as Hamish's fingers began to clench roughly at the blanket surrounding him. Figuring this meant he was hungry once more, Sherlock raised the bottle back to the little mouth.
"Do you remember what that nurse said?" John laughed for a moment, looking up towards Sherlock as if he had forgotten all about the little baby he was supposed to be focused on.
"That Mary was a surrogate?" Sherlock clarified apprehensively, feeling as though this was a conversation they didn't need to have. It was a simple mistake, perhaps best left behind.
"I only just realized what she meant by it." John admitted, a small blush creeping to his cheeks. Sherlock forced a smile, wiggling the bottle around in Hamish's mouth just to give his nervous hands something to do.
"It was a mistake, I suppose. Nothing wrong with that." Sherlock assured at last.
"I thought about it, Sherlock. I thought about that moment, when Mary was in the delivery room. I thought about what I was doing, where I was. I imagine it would be confusing for anyone...God it was confusing even for me." John groaned, hiding his face within his hands and rubbing his fingers nervously along his forehead.
"What on earth do you mean?" the priest asked with a little chuckle, trying to force humor into this situation that was growing all the more dire by the minute.
"I mean my wife was giving birth, but it seemed as though I was more focused on you." John announced at last. Sherlock gave a sharp, forced laugh that sounded almost like a small shout. He wasn't expecting to hear such a confession; in fact he wished John had never said such a thing at all. What a bold claim to make, and what an even stranger thing to admit to! If that was really the case, what business did John have admitting it to himself or to the priest?
"I'm sure that's not true." Was Sherlock's only logical response, the only real thing he could manage at the moment. What was he supposed to say, what was he supposed to do? To deny it would be fruitless, for his memory served him almost too well. Sherlock did remember that moment; he did remember the hands which were clinging to him like ivy. Could he rationalize the moment then, and try to make it into something less meaningful than it was?
"I almost wish it wasn't. I feel like...well I feel that I've already failed at being a parent, within the first seconds of my baby's arrival. I feel like I've already failed him." John admitted mournfully.
"You haven't!" Sherlock insisted with a newfound sharpness, trying to whip John out of whatever sleepy depressive state he had fallen into. "Don't you dare get those ideas in your head."
"I wasn't even holding her hand, I was holding yours." John pointed out in misery.
"So what?" Sherlock growled. "That doesn't make you any worse of a father!"
"Maybe not in that moment, but what if it just foreshadows the rest?" John whined.
"I'm a priest, John. People go to me for comfort in times of high stress." Sherlock insisted.
"You know I don't believe in that stuff, Sherlock. You know I don't care about God." John pointed out, to which Sherlock flinched and gave a little frown. It was always so shocking to see a man agree to his disbelief, as if there was something to be proud of!
"Well beyond that, John. Beyond that, I am your friend. And people go to friends." Sherlock pointed out at last. John gave a small smile, gathering his knees to his chest with his arms and nodding quietly.
"That one I can't dispute." He agreed. Sherlock smiled calmly, noticing at last that Hamish's bottle had been drained and the baby was sucking on air. He wiggled the bottle out of the baby's mouth, to which he gave a little gurgle of protest, and rose to his feet quietly.
"I think Hamish is going to sleep. I have a good feeling about it." Sherlock decided at last, settling the baby into the crib and tucking up one of his stuffed animals close to his arm. It was a fuzzy little giraffe, already matted with saliva as Hamish often mistook it for another bottle of formula.
"You have a way with him, for sure." John admitted. Sherlock continued to watch as the baby nestled down into his small mattress, getting comfortable upon his back as his little eyes struggled to shut. He heard the sound of movement behind him, the sounds of John's feet steadying themselves upon the hardwood as they bore his weight once again.
"It's because I read the books." Sherlock assured quietly.
"It's because you're a good person." John debated, his voice appearing from right behind Sherlock's back. "It's because you're a pure person. Angelic."
"That's a stretch, Mr. Watson." Sherlock whispered in debate.
"So formal." John protested in a stiff, sleepy voice. Sherlock gave a little grin, just about to turn to face his friend when he felt arms beginning to loop around his waist, hooking around his torso and pulling the two together in a tight squeeze. Sherlock jumped, not having expected such outright intimacy, and it took a while even to allow himself to be held at such an angle. He wasn't so used to being trapped within the arms of another, whether it be a hug or a chokehold. Something about it was suffocating, though he tried to allow himself to melt into the touch, remembering after a moment that he wanted this as well.
"John..." Sherlock whispered, daring to say a word of protest as he felt the man's chin settle atop of his shoulder. He could feel the breaths that were being eased slowly through his nose, the slight puffs of air that came from a relaxed, controlled breathing pattern. John was calm, though it took every fiber within his body for Sherlock to feel the same. It had been a long while since he had been within the embrace of another, especially from behind.
"I'm tired, Sherlock." John whispered at last. "I'm just so tired."
"Why don't you get some sleep?" Sherlock suggested, patting his hands upon the clenched fist that John had made of his hands, a sort of lock that was keeping his arms together around the priest's waist.
"Because I'm still busy." John admitted quietly.
"Busy with what?" Sherlock chuckled in debate.
"With you, Sherlock." John whispered into his ear. "I'm busy holding you."
"That's something that can be postponed." Sherlock reminded him in some nervous debate. He was wondering if God might be watching this very moment, wondering if the man's eyes were squinted in some disappointment. Because of this Sherlock could only downturn his eyes, hoping to avoid any direct glances with the Holy Father.
"No." John sighed heavily, as if it was as much of a burden for him as it was for the priest. "No it can't."
"Alright." Sherlock agreed, now trying to play to the man's wishes. Perhaps John was terribly sleep deprived and should be treated like one who had wandered around during REM. Complete cooperation may be what he needed, to be led eventually back to bed. It was becoming a burden even to allow himself to deny this, it was becoming harder and harder to force his lips to create any sort of dispute. For as time elapsed Sherlock began to feel more comfortable, and suddenly the weight of John's body upon his back was feeling less like a bear trap and more like a soft blanket, one that brought warmth and comfort to his aching muscles and deprived heart. Suddenly it felt as if John's embrace had been perfectly molded to fit him, and together the two men linked together like a puzzle piece completing a beautiful picture. For a moment Sherlock let his hands relax, this time falling away from John's clenched fists and instead trailing along the man's arms, his fingers playing for a while along the shirt sleeves of his fleece pajamas He let his breathing steady, trying to match it to John's to better synchronize their movements. When John breathed in Sherlock tried to exhale, allowing their chests to move together in a strange sort of dance, their lungs filling and draining while their bodies never wavered and never lost contact of the other. Slowly his eyes began to close, the much needed relaxation coming to him in a massive wave and nearly knocking his consciousness right out. For a moment Sherlock felt as safe as any human could be, he felt that he could fall asleep within John Watson's arms and stay undisturbed for the rest of the night.
"Have you ever been held, Sherlock?" John asked at last, his voice coming in soft breaths playing just along Sherlock's ear. The priest sighed heavily, still too sleepy to fully respond with a logical answer.
"Never like this." He mumbled thoughtlessly. It was true, of course, though it was perhaps not the response that would be most appreciated by his Holy Father and all of his vowed priests. Such a response separated this intimate gathering from all of the embraces he had ever encountered, and while this was of course a true statement, while this was quite different from any other experience in his life, well it only validated that this meant something truly special.
"Have you ever been kissed, Sherlock?" John whispered in the same format, as if this was nothing more than a questionnaire. Sherlock's thoughts trailed quickly to the demon, to the lips which were pressed against his own and the tongue which invaded his mouth. He was too tired to comprehend, too sleepy to care much about the truthfulness of his response.
"Never properly." He admitted at last. There was a quick chuckle upon his neck, the feeling of a chin pressing even deeper into his exposed skin as John's weight settled in different spots along his body. Sherlock could only lean back into him, trying not only to bear the weight of the man, but to share his own as well.
"Have you ever been touched, Sherlock?" John asked at last, with his words pressed so close to Sherlock's neck that he could feel each of the syllables roll off of the lips. It was this question which shook him from whatever state he had fallen into, the question which switched this loving embrace to something more of a restraining prison. For a starling moment Sherlock didn't know who was behind him, he couldn't remember which hands were wrapped around his waist. The priest's hands fell hard upon the cradle and his weight shifted, nearly rocking the wooden furniture as his feet gave out and his torso ripped away from the grip of the strange hands. For all he knew it could be him again, that terrible man having captured him within his grip once more.
"Once." was all he could produce as his answer, blinking and seeing that smile once again within his head. "Once!" he shouted again, louder now. He could hear that voice again, filling his ears with the ever present octaves. Sherlock raised his hands to his ears, trying to block out the noise, trying to block out the slow, practiced speech of that predator. His lips let loose a scream, finding himself unsuccessful to block out any memories which were slipping back into his mind like water bursting from a shattered dam. Hamish's eyes flew open in response to the commotion and Sherlock's hands flew once again to his belt, pulling so tightly at the buckle that he nearly cut off the circulation to his lower half. The terrified priest's cries mingled with the baby's, together each one of them falling onto their backs, and while the world spun above the darkness was coming forth. Madness shook him, exhaustion took him, and memories enveloped him with arms he did not want. His eyes were falling shut but the last thing the poor priest could see, the last thing his brain could comprehend, was the fabricated face of Father James kneeling before him, each one of his crooked teeth poised into a smile.