Chapter 1Chapter Text
The most ridiculous thing was that the child looked like Sherlock.
He was so tiny that he was still flailing around, not in control of any of his limbs, barely able to hold up his head on his own, and yet he looked like Sherlock, his hair in dark swirls on his skull and his eyes the pale blue-green-gray that John had almost grown immune to. And, when he screwed up his face and wailed his displeasure with the universe, John had to admit that the resemblance was complete.
Sherlock was staring at the small bundle of irritation in their sitting room with what was obviously shock, and John would have relished the unusualness of that look on Sherlock’s face, except that he was busy being shocked, too.
Mycroft held the baby away from him, distaste on his face, and the baby cried and cried and beat his fists and kicked his legs, and Mycroft said, “He never stops with this,” and Sherlock said, “Oh, my God, Mycroft, it’s obvious he doesn’t like you,” and reached for the baby and snatched him from Mycroft’s grip.
“Careful,” John started to say, except that as soon as Sherlock took hold of the baby, he stopped crying. Sherlock held him at arms-length and studied him, and the baby studied him right back, and the expressions were mirror images of each other.
Mycroft looked even more displeased at the quiet baby than he had when the baby had been wailing at him.
“Explain,” commanded Sherlock, in clipped tones, not taking his eyes off of the baby.
“It appears,” remarked Mycroft, trying for an imperious sniff, “that this baby contains your DNA.”
“Obviously,” snapped Sherlock. “But how?”
Trust Sherlock not to have a child in the usual way, thought John. In any usual way. “Drunken one-night stand?” John suggested, trying for a joke.
Sherlock gave him a withering look. So did the baby. John wasn’t sure he could take two of them in the flat.
Mycroft was examining his cufflink very closely. “Your DNA was—”
“Used to create a baby without my permission?” Sherlock practically screeched it, and the baby looked at Mycroft with disapproval, and John didn’t blame either one of them for that.
“How did you even get his DNA?”
“How else was I supposed to fake verification of his death without his DNA?”
“You took the DNA from his…” began John, delicately.
Mycroft, Sherlock, and the baby all turned a glare on him.
“From my hair, of course,” Sherlock informed him.
“And then you…made a baby from just that? You can do that?”
“They can do almost anything, John, didn’t Baskerville teach you that?” asked Sherlock, impatiently, and then turned back to Mycroft. “But you weren’t supposed to make a baby with my DNA. Not without my permission.”
“I didn’t. It just happened. Accidentally.” Mycroft looked as if he had bit into a lemon.
“Accidentally? You accidentally cloned me?”
“Do you really think that you would be my choice for the first ever human clone?”
No, thought John, staring at the baby in Sherlock’s arms, now contentedly gnawing on his fist, that was definite proof this was an accident. An accidental clone. What the hell.
“Well, what are we going to do with this?” demanded Sherlock, and the baby seemed to take offense to being called a “this” and wriggled about in Sherlock’s arms.
“Well, there are options,” replied Mycroft. “But once they’d told me what had happened, I thought it would have been…unfair for me to make a unilateral decision. He is, effectively, yours.”
“He’s a clone of me,” Sherlock pointed out.
“He’s a baby,” said John, and the baby seemed to look at him in relief. “He’s just a little baby.”
“A clone baby,” corrected Mycroft.
“And your point is?” asked Sherlock.
“You can’t just…You can’t just…You can’t just toss him out with yesterday’s smashed beakers and moldy petri dishes. He is a baby.” John looked at Sherlock. “He’s your son.”
“He isn’t. He is, actually, me.”
“What are your options?” John asked Mycroft.
“He’s the first successful human clone. The first known one, anyway. The government has a lovely facility where he can grow up, well-supervised and well-monitored.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” John started to interject, but Sherlock frowned and said, shortly, “No.”
John and Mycroft both looked at him in surprise.
“No?” echoed Mycroft.
“You’re not sticking him in some sort of hospital, Mycroft, where he’s going to be poked at and prodded at like an experiment for the entirety of his life, the way you did to me.”
“You grew up in an…institution?” John said, because he hadn’t known that.
“Of course not,” answered Mycroft. “He’s being overdramatic, as usual.”
“But I grew up being endlessly examined by specialists, over and over. ‘What does this ink blot look like?’ and ‘Maybe one more test of his brainwaves to see what happens whilst we do this to him,’ and ‘What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word “blue”?’ Absolutely not. You already got to do that to one of me, I won’t let you do it to the next me, too.”
“What about adoption?” suggested John, because that seemed like a good option to him. Some young childless couple, desperate for a baby to love.
“What couple would want to adopt the world’s first human clone?” asked Mycroft.
“He’s a baby, Mycroft. He’s a beautiful baby, and he’s the clone of a clever individual who—”
“No.” Sherlock’s voice was low and quiet and firm.
John looked at him. His head was down, close to the baby’s, the tip of his nose almost touching the tip of the baby’s tiny replica of that nose. “What?” asked John.
“No.” Sherlock looked up from the baby, straightening a bit, his face set into a stubbornness John knew well. “I’m going to raise him.”
John stared at him. “I…what?” Sherlock had never expressed any interest in children. He didn’t seem to dislike them any more than he disliked the rest of humanity, but John had never thought that he’d wanted one.
Sherlock met his gaze evenly. “He’s me, John. I’m not going to let him be raised by people who won’t understand him. I’m not going to let him—No. He’s staying here.”
There was so much underneath that proclamation, so much John wanted to unpack, so much suddenly being revealed about that childhood Sherlock never spoke of. But he looked at Sherlock, holding tight to the baby, and he looked at the baby, who was now reaching for the shiny, pearlescent button on Sherlock’s shirt of the day, and even though the whole thing was utter madness and he didn’t know how they were going to even begin to work a baby into the insanity of their lives, he nodded and turned to Mycroft. “Yes,” he said. “Right. The baby’s staying here.”
And Mycroft said they were being ridiculous, they weren’t equipped to take care of a baby, and it’s true that John’s mind was whirling with all the practical things Sherlock wasn’t going to think of, with cots and clothing and nappies and bottles, but he shoved Mycroft out the door because Mycroft wasn’t helping, and when John went back upstairs Sherlock was standing by the window holding the baby up to it.
“And there is your horrid brother Mycroft leaving. He always comes back. More’s the pity.”
“You ought to say ‘uncle,’ not ‘brother,’” said John.
“‘Brother’ is technically correct,” replied Sherlock, not turning around.
“Sherlock,” John began, on a sigh.
“I’ll understand if you want to leave,” said Sherlock, abruptly, still facing the window. “After everything…A baby’s not what you signed up for.”
“I signed up for not knowing what I signed up for,” said John, honestly. “But I’m not sure you have any idea the responsibility of a baby. Sherlock, we could find someone to adopt him. An open adoption, you’d know everything about him, he’d—”
“They would try their best, John,” said Sherlock, softly, to the windowpane. “And they’d mean well. And he’d be so lonely…”
John thought again of all the things Sherlock wasn’t saying, he thought of the lonely little boy Sherlock must have been, he thought of the lonely little boy the baby could become. And he thought how neither of them needed to be lonely anymore, because now there were two of them. And it was odd and unnatural but it was true.
John said, “He’s going to need a name.”
***
While he was in the process of making a shopping list, the baby began to fuss. John reached for his jacket and stuck his head into the sitting room, where Sherlock was holding the baby away from him, looking stricken, while the baby made displeased noises.
“I’m going shopping,” said John. And then, “Why are you holding him like that?”
“He’s complaining,” Sherlock complained.
“Right.” John shrugged his jacket on. “Because he’s a clone of you. That’s pretty much what you do.”
“You are leaving me now? With…this?” Sherlock nodded his head in the baby’s direction.
The baby seemed to take offense and opened his mouth in a full-fledged wail.
“Oh, my God,” said Sherlock, staring at the baby in horror. “What is he doing? Why is he doing that?”
“He’s probably hungry. Or possibly his nappy needs to be changed.”
Sherlock turned his horror to John. “What?”
“Sherlock. What did you think was going to happen when you proposed taking care of this baby ourselves?”
The most ridiculous thing was that the child looked like Sherlock.
He was so tiny that he was still flailing around, not in control of any of his limbs, barely able to hold up his head on his own, and yet he looked like Sherlock, his hair in dark swirls on his skull and his eyes the pale blue-green-gray that John had almost grown immune to. And, when he screwed up his face and wailed his displeasure with the universe, John had to admit that the resemblance was complete.
Sherlock was staring at the small bundle of irritation in their sitting room with what was obviously shock, and John would have relished the unusualness of that look on Sherlock’s face, except that he was busy being shocked, too.
Mycroft held the baby away from him, distaste on his face, and the baby cried and cried and beat his fists and kicked his legs, and Mycroft said, “He never stops with this,” and Sherlock said, “Oh, my God, Mycroft, it’s obvious he doesn’t like you,” and reached for the baby and snatched him from Mycroft’s grip.
“Careful,” John started to say, except that as soon as Sherlock took hold of the baby, he stopped crying. Sherlock held him at arms-length and studied him, and the baby studied him right back, and the expressions were mirror images of each other.
Mycroft looked even more displeased at the quiet baby than he had when the baby had been wailing at him.
“Explain,” commanded Sherlock, in clipped tones, not taking his eyes off of the baby.
“It appears,” remarked Mycroft, trying for an imperious sniff, “that this baby contains your DNA.”
“Obviously,” snapped Sherlock. “But how?”
Trust Sherlock not to have a child in the usual way, thought John. In any usual way. “Drunken one-night stand?” John suggested, trying for a joke.
Sherlock gave him a withering look. So did the baby. John wasn’t sure he could take two of them in the flat.
Mycroft was examining his cufflink very closely. “Your DNA was—”
“Used to create a baby without my permission?” Sherlock practically screeched it, and the baby looked at Mycroft with disapproval, and John didn’t blame either one of them for that.
“How did you even get his DNA?”
“How else was I supposed to fake verification of his death without his DNA?”
“You took the DNA from his…” began John, delicately.
Mycroft, Sherlock, and the baby all turned a glare on him.
“From my hair, of course,” Sherlock informed him.
“And then you…made a baby from just that? You can do that?”
“They can do almost anything, John, didn’t Baskerville teach you that?” asked Sherlock, impatiently, and then turned back to Mycroft. “But you weren’t supposed to make a baby with my DNA. Not without my permission.”
“I didn’t. It just happened. Accidentally.” Mycroft looked as if he had bit into a lemon.
“Accidentally? You accidentally cloned me?”
“Do you really think that you would be my choice for the first ever human clone?”
No, thought John, staring at the baby in Sherlock’s arms, now contentedly gnawing on his fist, that was definite proof this was an accident. An accidental clone. What the hell.
“Well, what are we going to do with this?” demanded Sherlock, and the baby seemed to take offense to being called a “this” and wriggled about in Sherlock’s arms.
“Well, there are options,” replied Mycroft. “But once they’d told me what had happened, I thought it would have been…unfair for me to make a unilateral decision. He is, effectively, yours.”
“He’s a clone of me,” Sherlock pointed out.
“He’s a baby,” said John, and the baby seemed to look at him in relief. “He’s just a little baby.”
“A clone baby,” corrected Mycroft.
“And your point is?” asked Sherlock.
“You can’t just…You can’t just…You can’t just toss him out with yesterday’s smashed beakers and moldy petri dishes. He is a baby.” John looked at Sherlock. “He’s your son.”
“He isn’t. He is, actually, me.”
“What are your options?” John asked Mycroft.
“He’s the first successful human clone. The first known one, anyway. The government has a lovely facility where he can grow up, well-supervised and well-monitored.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” John started to interject, but Sherlock frowned and said, shortly, “No.”
John and Mycroft both looked at him in surprise.
“No?” echoed Mycroft.
“You’re not sticking him in some sort of hospital, Mycroft, where he’s going to be poked at and prodded at like an experiment for the entirety of his life, the way you did to me.”
“You grew up in an…institution?” John said, because he hadn’t known that.
“Of course not,” answered Mycroft. “He’s being overdramatic, as usual.”
“But I grew up being endlessly examined by specialists, over and over. ‘What does this ink blot look like?’ and ‘Maybe one more test of his brainwaves to see what happens whilst we do this to him,’ and ‘What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word “blue”?’ Absolutely not. You already got to do that to one of me, I won’t let you do it to the next me, too.”
“What about adoption?” suggested John, because that seemed like a good option to him. Some young childless couple, desperate for a baby to love.
“What couple would want to adopt the world’s first human clone?” asked Mycroft.
“He’s a baby, Mycroft. He’s a beautiful baby, and he’s the clone of a clever individual who—”
“No.” Sherlock’s voice was low and quiet and firm.
John looked at him. His head was down, close to the baby’s, the tip of his nose almost touching the tip of the baby’s tiny replica of that nose. “What?” asked John.
“No.” Sherlock looked up from the baby, straightening a bit, his face set into a stubbornness John knew well. “I’m going to raise him.”
John stared at him. “I…what?” Sherlock had never expressed any interest in children. He didn’t seem to dislike them any more than he disliked the rest of humanity, but John had never thought that he’d wanted one.
Sherlock met his gaze evenly. “He’s me, John. I’m not going to let him be raised by people who won’t understand him. I’m not going to let him—No. He’s staying here.”
There was so much underneath that proclamation, so much John wanted to unpack, so much suddenly being revealed about that childhood Sherlock never spoke of. But he looked at Sherlock, holding tight to the baby, and he looked at the baby, who was now reaching for the shiny, pearlescent button on Sherlock’s shirt of the day, and even though the whole thing was utter madness and he didn’t know how they were going to even begin to work a baby into the insanity of their lives, he nodded and turned to Mycroft. “Yes,” he said. “Right. The baby’s staying here.”
And Mycroft said they were being ridiculous, they weren’t equipped to take care of a baby, and it’s true that John’s mind was whirling with all the practical things Sherlock wasn’t going to think of, with cots and clothing and nappies and bottles, but he shoved Mycroft out the door because Mycroft wasn’t helping, and when John went back upstairs Sherlock was standing by the window holding the baby up to it.
“And there is your horrid brother Mycroft leaving. He always comes back. More’s the pity.”
“You ought to say ‘uncle,’ not ‘brother,’” said John.
“‘Brother’ is technically correct,” replied Sherlock, not turning around.
“Sherlock,” John began, on a sigh.
“I’ll understand if you want to leave,” said Sherlock, abruptly, still facing the window. “After everything…A baby’s not what you signed up for.”
“I signed up for not knowing what I signed up for,” said John, honestly. “But I’m not sure you have any idea the responsibility of a baby. Sherlock, we could find someone to adopt him. An open adoption, you’d know everything about him, he’d—”
“They would try their best, John,” said Sherlock, softly, to the windowpane. “And they’d mean well. And he’d be so lonely…”
John thought again of all the things Sherlock wasn’t saying, he thought of the lonely little boy Sherlock must have been, he thought of the lonely little boy the baby could become. And he thought how neither of them needed to be lonely anymore, because now there were two of them. And it was odd and unnatural but it was true.
John said, “He’s going to need a name.”
***
While he was in the process of making a shopping list, the baby began to fuss. John reached for his jacket and stuck his head into the sitting room, where Sherlock was holding the baby away from him, looking stricken, while the baby made displeased noises.
“I’m going shopping,” said John. And then, “Why are you holding him like that?”
“He’s complaining,” Sherlock complained.
“Right.” John shrugged his jacket on. “Because he’s a clone of you. That’s pretty much what you do.”
“You are leaving me now? With…this?” Sherlock nodded his head in the baby’s direction.
The baby seemed to take offense and opened his mouth in a full-fledged wail.
“Oh, my God,” said Sherlock, staring at the baby in horror. “What is he doing? Why is he doing that?”
“He’s probably hungry. Or possibly his nappy needs to be changed.”
Sherlock turned his horror to John. “What?”
“Sherlock. What did you think was going to happen when you proposed taking care of this baby ourselves?”
