A Genius, A Doctor and...A Baby?

It’s a late spring night on Baker Street in North Manchester, the air smelling of rain and fresh baked goods from a bakery down the road, whose owner was up late preparing for the next day’s business.

A dimly lit apartment, the only lights from a lamp and the blueish glow of a laptop, as the city bustled outside the windows, the pale amber streetlights casting halos on empty sidewalks a deep grey.

A man, dressed in a blue grey bathrobe, lounges on the couch, a pale arm lying over his eyes, thick dark curls on his head in a crazy unkept fashion, soft enough you’d almost want to touch it if it weren’t for the loaded handgun in Sherlock Holmes’ other hand, hanging limply down.

“...John?”

“What Sherlock?”

The detective peeks from beneath his sleeve at his friend, partner, flat mate and one real connection to the outside world with a pale as ice blue eye.

“I’m bored.”

Wearing his favorite burgundy sweater (holding remnants of blood splatters on the right sleeve, lower hem and upper collar), John Watson looks up with slightly annoyed, tired, but ‘I knew this was coming, so I won’t get mad’ dark blue eyes. Soft light dirty blonde hair that was almost spikey (like a hedgehog, as Sherlock liked to muse) bangs almost to his eyebrows, which were arched. 

“…You know we finished a case just before dinner, don’t you?”

“…I’m still bored.”

John rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his blog, his hands typing with a practiced speed.

“Well, ask Lestrade nicely tomorrow and maybe he’ll find us one.”

John looks up a while later to find Sherlock glaring at him, and John, amused at how used he is too it, glares back. But after a long moment, they both start laughing, John setting aside his laptop, before putting his head back and rubbing his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Almost midnight, I believe.”

“Better go off to bed then-“

Just then, the doorbell rings downstairs, and they look at each other.

“Who could that be?”

“…Shall we see?” Sherlock says, shedding his robe and revealing his usual clothes.

“Of course. Bring the gun, just in case.”

“Why else would I have it?” John rolls his eyes, before going downstairs, Sherlock right behind him.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Sherlock?” She peeks from her room. “Are you boys expecting someone?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson, but you should probably go back into your room.” Sherlock says, his eyes almost glowing in the dark. “If you hear gunshots, call Lestrade.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, closing her door, the faint sound of metal against metal signaling she’d locked it tight.

They take either side of the door, and after a quiet countdown, John opens the door and Sherlock holds the gun at point.

But there was no one there, the winds blowing through the empty and deserted street, the sounds only from the otherwise busy city and the wind.

“…Huh.” Sherlock lowers the gun, looking almost disappointed. “Damn.”

John looks out, obviously (to Sherlock) confused.

“Must just be a kid pulling a prank-”

He trails off, and Sherlock looks over.

“What is it, John?”

John walks out of the door, and comes back a moment later, carrying a large dark oak basket, covered in a pale blue blanket. Sherlock looks at it with a curious light (blanket is cheap yarn, badly made, with holes along the middle and edges. Basket is worn, well used and has suffered much abuse.), reaching to lift the cloth up.

“What’s in there?”

John shrugs, pulling it from his reach, motioning to him as he went back upstairs, holding the basket carefully.

“John?”

“Just come on. I haven’t looked in yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a bomb or anything.”

“Alright…”

John sets it down on the kitchen table, and senses Sherlock come up behind him, and he slowly pulls the blanket up.

“Oh, my god…”