Fill 10/? S/J MPREG
anonymous
October 24 2011, 00:50:10 UTC
In the next room Mycroft was waiting, along with a paediatrician who needed to examine the baby, take blood from her heel, weigh her, and stick tiny EKG electrodes on her. Sherlock bristled at him with every step, barely held in check by Mycroft's low words.
Finally he held his daughter in his arms, freshly wiped down, pink cap and babygro in place, her first nappy still clean and dry. Her eyes were still open, and, he imagined, judgmental.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry you've had such a rude introduction to this world. I'd like to tell you that it will get better." He paused and thought for a moment. "Actually, over the next few years, it will be quite a lot better, if I've anything to say in the matter."
Mycroft's smile was downright indulgent, and Sherlock sighed, barely believing that he'd been caught talking to her as if she could understand.
"If I've anything to say about it, too."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "We're raising her, Mycroft. She is no longer the purview of the British government. Never was, really, though her father was as good as a guest of the crown over the last few months."
"You are raising her, but I can spoil her from time to time, can I not?"
"You may as well say yes," Anthea said, walking up behind Mycroft. "He's already added it to his schedules over the next eighteen years."
"An exaggeration," Mycroft said.
Anthea handed Sherlock a bottle. "Try a bit of this," she said. "It's breastmilk."
Sherlock started, and the baby waved her arms, startled.
"It's from a bank, from donors," she clarified.
"Oh, good, then." Sherlock touched the nipple to the side of her face, waited for her turn towards it, mouth open. He bumped it gently against her lips, watched for her wide-open mouth before he pushed it in. He tested her latch by pulling back slightly on the bottle, and she fought him.
"She's strong," he said.
"She is," Mycroft said. "But she needs every advantage."
Sherlock fed and winded her with gentle guidance from Anthea. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the screen that held John's vitals, the steady up and down wave of respirations, the jagged but consistent EKG.
"How much longer?" he asked his brother. His daughter drowsed in his arms, nearly sleeping.
"In surgery, an hour. To wake up, another thirty minutes."
Sherlock sighed.
"She should be wet by now," Mycroft said. "Let me change her."
When he brought the baby back she was wearing only her hat and diaper. He had a pink blanket draped over one arm.
"She'll get cold like that Mycroft," Sherlock said, annoyed.
"Go lie on the sofa," Mycroft said. "We're going to have her lie on you for a while. You'll keep her warm."
Sherlock shifted, lying back on the chaise, feeling dangerously sleepy in the warm room, even more so when Mycroft laid the baby against his chest, her soft warm skin against his, and the blanket over both of them.
"I'm going to fall asleep," he protested.
"We'll watch you," Mycroft said. "You're quite secure. The sofa is wide and you're in a very secure position. Even if she did slip it would wake you immediately."
"Promise me." The soft puffs of her breath against his clavicle were mesmerising.
"I promise. Anthea and I will both watch you."
"All right." Sherlock could feel himself falling asleep, but caught one last thing that Mycroft said.
Finally he held his daughter in his arms, freshly wiped down, pink cap and babygro in place, her first nappy still clean and dry. Her eyes were still open, and, he imagined, judgmental.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry you've had such a rude introduction to this world. I'd like to tell you that it will get better." He paused and thought for a moment. "Actually, over the next few years, it will be quite a lot better, if I've anything to say in the matter."
Mycroft's smile was downright indulgent, and Sherlock sighed, barely believing that he'd been caught talking to her as if she could understand.
"If I've anything to say about it, too."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "We're raising her, Mycroft. She is no longer the purview of the British government. Never was, really, though her father was as good as a guest of the crown over the last few months."
"You are raising her, but I can spoil her from time to time, can I not?"
"You may as well say yes," Anthea said, walking up behind Mycroft. "He's already added it to his schedules over the next eighteen years."
"An exaggeration," Mycroft said.
Anthea handed Sherlock a bottle. "Try a bit of this," she said. "It's breastmilk."
Sherlock started, and the baby waved her arms, startled.
"It's from a bank, from donors," she clarified.
"Oh, good, then." Sherlock touched the nipple to the side of her face, waited for her turn towards it, mouth open. He bumped it gently against her lips, watched for her wide-open mouth before he pushed it in. He tested her latch by pulling back slightly on the bottle, and she fought him.
"She's strong," he said.
"She is," Mycroft said. "But she needs every advantage."
Sherlock fed and winded her with gentle guidance from Anthea. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the screen that held John's vitals, the steady up and down wave of respirations, the jagged but consistent EKG.
"How much longer?" he asked his brother. His daughter drowsed in his arms, nearly sleeping.
"In surgery, an hour. To wake up, another thirty minutes."
Sherlock sighed.
"She should be wet by now," Mycroft said. "Let me change her."
When he brought the baby back she was wearing only her hat and diaper. He had a pink blanket draped over one arm.
"She'll get cold like that Mycroft," Sherlock said, annoyed.
"Go lie on the sofa," Mycroft said. "We're going to have her lie on you for a while. You'll keep her warm."
Sherlock shifted, lying back on the chaise, feeling dangerously sleepy in the warm room, even more so when Mycroft laid the baby against his chest, her soft warm skin against his, and the blanket over both of them.
"I'm going to fall asleep," he protested.
"We'll watch you," Mycroft said. "You're quite secure. The sofa is wide and you're in a very secure position. Even if she did slip it would wake you immediately."
"Promise me." The soft puffs of her breath against his clavicle were mesmerising.
"I promise. Anthea and I will both watch you."
"All right." Sherlock could feel himself falling asleep, but caught one last thing that Mycroft said.
"This is good for her. You're doing well."
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment