sherlock holmes was doing his best to be a good father.

his sincere best. which, admittedly, was rare, as he never seemed to have to try with half the things he did. he knew what he needed, he knew how to earn money– he pretty much knew and/or was an expert with everything he could ever possibly need. give or take a few subjects.

astronomy, personhood, love, and being a father were those subjects, and everything besides the former seemed to be cropping up in his life an uncanny amount as of late.

first it was befriending lestrade and mrs. hudson. then it was john.

and then, most pressingly, it was you.

his child. an actual living, breathing continuation of his- and some woman you hadn’t seen since the birth- genes.

scary, right?

he was doing…surprisingly well with this. maybe it was because he was in his early thirties, and much better at actually communicating with people- and that john was sort of your step-father.

but an unexpected consequence to your appearance in his life was the pure anxiety of it all.

both lestrade and mrs. hudson assured him that it was totally normal– natural, even. a parent should be worried about their child, that’s what parents did. but to this extent?! in his mind, he was going absolutely mad.

he knew that babies were weird. they were unpredictable, and they didn’t always grow or behave exactly the way studies document. he knew that. logically.

but paternal instincts and anxieties were killing him.

you were exactly six months old. great. wonderful. you were rolling over well– you could sit, you were eating well, you’d begun to- he glanced back down at his phone, squinting at the article he’d been reading. were making vowel sounds repeatedly. yeah. you were doing…that.

but you were too small.

fourteen pounds, six ounces and sixty centimeters. you just weren’t growing how you should.

again. logically, he knew that you were fine. knew that you might just be a little tiny for your age, even though you couldn’t have possibly gotten that from his side, the tall bastard.

but it was scaring the everloving hell out of him.

he was trying to feed you as much as you would take. you’d moved from being bottle-fed to eating baby food and other soft foods, most recent venue being an avocado. you’d spat it out with a wrinkled nose.

you were eating more than the average baby, even. he’d checked about a hundred times. but still, you just weren’t growing.

he’d talked to john. to mrs. hudson. to lestrade. hell, he’d pushed down his pride and called his mother.

they’d all given the exact same response. “it’s fine, sherlock, it’s alright. awhh, looka the poppet- you’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

the last bit was baby-talk, if the babbling noises one would hear in their mind weren’t enough of a giveaway.

it was fine. they’d said it was fine. you were fine.

so here he sat, looking at you from where you were perched in your high-chair. blinking at him with eyes the exact same shape as his.

“you need to grow more,” he said plainly, staring at you balefully. as if this were your fault. “you worry me.”

the great sherlock holmes. talking to a baby.