It's Not Real

Chapter Thirty Two

John walked up the stairs to 221B and knocked on the door. He still had a key, but hadn't used it since the multiple traumatising occasions when he had caught Sherlock and Evelyn in compromising positions. He was on the verge of throwing the key into the river if he was completely honest, he wasn't sure he'd ever feel brave enough to use it without knocking ever again. In fairness, it was probably unlikely they'd be doing anything frisky at this moment, but it wasn't worth the risk.

After a few moments had passed, he knocked again, suddenly fearing the key might need to be used after all. Instead he was startled by the door being flung open.

"What?!"

In front of him stood Sherlock. He was dressed in a tatty t-shirt, that may or may not have a milky spit up stain on the shoulder, and pyjama bottoms, with his hair sticking out all ends and what looked like a few days of stubble around his face. He peered angrily at John through squinted eyes, his infant daughter, who was apparently wide awake, was supported in one arm staring beadily up at him.

"Morning, Sherlock." John said brightly.

"What in the hell could you want right now, John? It's the middle of the night!"

"Er– it's actually just after seven thirty in the morning," John told him, rustling a paper bag in his face. "I'm here to give Evelyn her prescription."

Sherlock scanned him up and down, looking genuinely perplexed. "Is it really seven thirty?"

"Unfortunately so. You gonna let me in?" Sherlock stepped back and opened the door wide, allowing his friend entrance. "Thanks."

Evelyn appeared in the living room in a matching button down pyjama top and shorts. She yawned, pushed her hair out of her face and made an attempt at a smile. "Hey, John," she said, suppressing another yawn before turning to Sherlock. "Will you change her?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, walking to what was once his desk, now covered in packets of nappies and wipes and a rather cute little changing mat with beehives printed on it. "Not a word, Watson," he growled. "This is not a spectator sport."

"Shame," John replied. "I definitely think I could have sold tickets." He turned back to Eve, handing over the pharmacy bag. "Iron tablets. Take two in the morning and one at night, with food and ideally ten to twelve hours apart. Should help with your energy."

"Thanks. Do I need to have another blood test next week?"

"Ideally. Pop by the surgery and I'll get it done for you, just to keep an eye on your levels." John looked around the room quickly. In fairness, not as messy as he was expecting. "How you doing?"

Despite how exhausted she looked, the grin on Evelyn's face was enough to brighten the entire flat. "Good, I think, yeah. Bloody knackered, but I reckon we're doing a decent job so far."

"No doubt about that." John moved to stand by Sherlock at the changing mat. "Lemme get a look at her." He watched Sherlock use a steadying hand over his daughter's middle, while using his other hand to carry out the necessary stages of changing the nappy.

"What are you doing, John?" Sherlock demanded without looking up.

"Just observing. You've got that down to pat."

"It's a nappy. I'm not a complete moron."

"You wait until she's rolling," John chuckled. "Even worse, when she's crawling, that's when the fun really starts."

"Undoubtedly." Sherlock replied, matching his sarcasm. He was finishing up the poppers on the vest when he bent at the waist to capture and kiss the baby's flailing hand. "You're perfect, aren't you?"