Papa's Mockingbird: Three.

Sunday's were perfectly perfect if you were a resident of 221B Baker Street. Not being a great believer in a God of any kind, Holmes lay sprawled across the couch in the drawing room with Beatrix resting on his chest. Both were sound asleep, the child's head was buried into the fabric of Holmes' jacket, his hand was slung beneath her bottom and his other wielding a child's book. It was a somewhat bizarre scene, the heart less detective laying with a child in his arms, but it was one the people who entered 221B had become accustomed to.

Beatrix Holmes was now nine months and five days. Her blonde curls had darkened to the colour of coffee and her fear knew no bounds.  She was crawling, rather early for her age, and getting into all sorts. She was no longer allowed into 'Daddy's' rooms unless she was lifted (due to the mass amounts of awful things to be found in there) and it was becoming harder to keep hold of her. She was simply ruthless. Not a bump on the head or a trip phased her; she kept on going.

**

"Are you sure you are not this child's biological father?" Watson asked while nursing his daughters scrapped shin. 


Holmes' made a face at the child and received a giggle for his efforts. 


"She is not mine, no, but if she were; I would be very proud." 


"Beatrix, " Watson poked her noise playfully, "You are a devil of a child. Just like your father over there."


"That makes you Mummy John." Holmes smirked, "I always knew I wore the trousers in our relationship." 


"Honestly, most of the time, I'd prefer you wouldn't." Watson whispered with a grin. 

**

"It's quarter past eleven, Beatrix should be in bed!" Watson gently shook his partner by the shoulder.

"What'sat?" Holmes snorted and opened one eye, "I have a case?"

Gently, Watson lifted his daughter from Holmes' chest and cradled her to his. She stirred and gave a small grunt, not unlike her father's, before beginning to cry.

"Well done, mother hen."

"Hush now. Don't cry, my love."

Holmes sat proudly on the couch, enjoying Watson's frustration over the crying child.

"She doesn't like being woken, my dear, you know this."

"That may be so. But she is not, and will not, get into your bad habits of sleeping where she falls. Understand?"

"Pity."

Watson laid her over his shoulder and patter at her back. Still, she cried.

"Perhaps she needs fed? Or changing?" Holmes suggested.

"Excellent. Would you like to do the changing?"

Holmes wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"I think I see enough of that when running the streets of London."

"Delightful." Watson sighed, "She doesn't need changing, Mrs Hudson must have taken care of that sometime during the last two hours, nor, I am sure, does she need feeding."

"So?"

"So, I hate to admit it, but she'll stop crying for you."

Holmes stretched out his arms for the child. She sat up against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck and her head buried into his shoulder. Beatrix was still crying but her wails became less frequent as the detective rubbed at her back and cooed into her ear. Until, finally she lay down in his arms, placed a fist into he mouth and slept.

"And that, my love, is how you do it."

Watson sat unamused.. He had watched the whole display and was rather hurt. How could Sherlock be a better dad than him? The man had little emotion for anything and, suddenly, he was head over heels for this young child.

"Lets get her into her crib."

Holmes followed Watson to Beatrix's room and followed normal procedure. Crib, tuck, kiss and stare. They both stood, each night, and watched the young child for at least five minutes. Watson would hold onto Holmes hand and, on occasion, the detective would lay his head against the taller man's shoulder. But tonight, the doctor was straight out the door and into his own quarters.

Sighing, Holmes followed.

"Watson? Love?"

"Just leave Holmes. You are the last person I want to see right now."

"W-what is it? John, tell me."

He sat next to Watson, took hold of his hand and kissed it gently. His kisses gained no reaction, so , Holmes frowned and moved closer to him. Still nothing, not even a twitch.

"Mother hen -"

"Do not -" Watson shouted, but he composed and lowered his voice to a whisper, "call me mother hen."

"Love, what is going on inside your head?"

Watson lay back against the pillows and Holmes followed suit.

"I am not a good father to Beatrix."

"You- wha-" Holmes balanced himself on an elbow, "How can you say that? Who buys her things? Who changes her nappies? Who sings her a lullaby when she can't sleep and I'm not around?" He poked the man in the chest, "You, sir, are a great father. And a great partner."

He leant in and captured Watson's lips in his. The doctor pulled him in, hugged him, held him and touched him  as if the world were to end tomorrow. Sherlock tugged him by the lapels and bit down hard on his bottom lip. Watson gasped.

"So, mother hen, are we done judging ourselves or do you believe me when I say; you are a great father?"

"She cries when I hold her -"

"That was the once. You woke her. If you woke me I would cry too."

"You wouldn't cry. You would hit me and tell me to bugger off."

Holmes smiled. He kissed the other man deeply once again before starting to unbutton his waistcoat.

"My dear John, I promise to be the one to wake you in the morning with breakfast in bed. But only if you promise me that you'll do that thing with your tongue."

Watson smirked.

"You have a strange way of changing my mind."