Note: And so the epilogues begin! There will be a total of 3 separate epilogues, each with multiple chapters. This one has 3 chapters, as does the next one. The third and final epilogue, however, is not yet completed, but it will either keep up the trend of having 3 chapters or it will only have 2. I'm just now wrapping up the first chapter on that one.

But anyway, buckle up for some fluffy domestic goop (with the exception of the beginning of the 3rd epilogue, which is opposite of all of those things. Eesh. What can I say, it's Moriarty and Moran.)

When Abby started saying his first words, John was relieved that they really weren't all that remarkable.

Perhaps that was the wrong way to put it. After all, he was always amazed how adorable it was to hear him fumble a bit over each new word as he learned it, repeating syllables for far too long ("nanabananana") or being a bit too young to successfully make certain sounds ("Unca Mycough", to Sherlock's endless delight). And it was always phenomenal to see realization click in Abby's deep blue eyes as his vocabulary expanded word by word.

It was simply that he had been dreading that something odd or inappropriate might tumble from the baby's lips, given that he was the genetic product of two extremes. Mycroft had told him that Sherlock's first word was "no", which in itself wasn't terribly unusual. However, that was all he said until he was months into his third year of life, when he suddenly began speaking in full sentences as if he had been doing that all along. Count on Sherlock to cut out the inefficient baby talk stage of his life altogether.

John, on the other hand, had begun to speak relatively early. He didn't attribute it to anything special on his end, especially given the type of words he said. No, he just had a mischievous sister five years his senior who was enthusiastically willing to work a long con. When their parents were around, his sister always seemed to be trying to teach infant John sweet words: "Johnny, say 'love'!", "Johnny, say 'happy'!", "Johnny, say 'smile'!" But as soon as they were alone or at least out of ear-shot, Harry showed her true colours: "Johnny, say 'tits'!", "Johnny, say 'arse'!", "Johnny, say 'sod'!" She repeated the filthy words she'd picked up from friends' older siblings much, much more than the nice ones.

And that was how John Watson's first word came to be 'wanker', lovingly exclaimed at his mother. Harry always brought the story up at least once whenever they were trapped together at a family gathering and had been doing so for as long as John could remember.

So when Abby - 18 months old and absorbing words like a sponge - suddenly began saying something new, John nearly had a heart attack, terrified that history was repeating itself.

"Bug!"

John turned slowly from the kitchen sink, eyes wide and face pale. He had only turned his back for a moment to fetch a cleaning rag when he'd heard that. "Wh-what was that, Abby?" he asked in a slightly choked voice.

Abby was sitting in his high chair, grinning brightly and staring intently at a rogue splotch of vegetable puree that had landed on the edge of the chair's tray. John had allowed Abby to try feeding himself a little during his lunch, hoping to promote hand-eye coordination. What he got was a few spoonfuls that happened to make it to the baby's mouth and about twice as many spoonfuls smeared against his cheeks, nose, and even – somehow – in his dark curly hair. At least he got a few laughs and some good future blackmail material out of the ordeal.

"Bug!" Abby said again jovially. He pointed at the splotch.

The only thing that ran through John's head as he approached the baby was, Please don't be trying to say 'bugger'. Please don't be trying to say 'bugger'. Please oh please oh please don't be trying to say 'bugger'.

To his relief, a housefly had landed on the dollop of puree. "Oh, thank Christ," John mumbled. Louder and more exuberantly, he added, "Yeah, that's a bug, Abby. It's called a fly. Fly. Ffflyyy. Can a smart boy like you say it?"

"Fffffwyyyy,"

John chuckled. "Good job! You'll get those L's figured out in no time." With a bit of effort, he got the slightly creaky kitchen window open. "Now, unfortunately, Mr. Fly can't really stay here, since he doesn't pay rent. Can you say bye-bye to Mr. Fly, Abby?"

Abby clenched and unclenched his slightly sticky right hand repeatedly, wiggling it back and forth in an awkward wave. "Bah-bye!" he crowed.

Several minutes (and quite a few stifled swears under his breath) later, John managed to shoo the fly out the window, which he promptly shut. When he turned back to Abby, the messy baby had a confused and slightly sad expression on his face.

"Fwy?" the baby asked.

"He had to go, Abby," John said. He sighed, looking thoughtful for a moment before something seemed to occur to him. "How about this: I start up my laptop, and I can show you loads and loads of pictures of other bugs, okay?"

"Bug!" Abby exclaimed happily, clapping his hands together.

John smiled, reaching down to ruffle the baby's puff of hair fondly. When his hand came back smeared with some of the stray baby food, he scowled slightly. "But first, you need a bath."

"No baff!" Abby cried, kicking a little as John lifted him up. "No, no, no!"

"Sorry, not open for negotiation."

Abby squealed in displeasure, continuing to kick a bit. After a moment, he went limp, accepting his damp fate with a resigned pout. "Buggah," he grumbled.

"Oh, God," John moaned.

When Sherlock returned from working on a case, John had to explain why he was showing their baby pictures of black widow spiders.

"It isn't a complaint," Sherlock said, peering over John's shoulder at the pictures. "Latrodectus mactans is not a boring species. Any creature that lends its name to a certain type of female serial killer deserves a second look. Although I expected you to be more of a 'The cow goes moo' sort of parent, not the 'The venomous spider eats her mate to sustain her babies' sort."

John sighed. "To be honest, it started with 'The cricket goes chirp', 'The caterpillar turns into a pretty butterfly', and 'Let's count the spots on the ladybird', but once we got to praying mantises, one thing led to another and things got a bit out of hand."

"Ah," Sherlock said in understanding. "A 'whazzat' loop."

"Yep."

As if on cue, Abby wriggled on John's lap and pointed to another picture in the Google Image results and loudly asked, "Whazzat?"

"Try to say 'What's that', Abby. And it's a scorpion," John said. "See the tail? It's another type of inse-"

"Arachnid," Sherlock corrected. "As was the spider. Arachnid."

"Nawackny," Abby tried to repeat. He clapped happily and babbled something less coherent.

"Yeah, well, they're all crawly things you don't want to find in the flat uninvited," John said. "I'll make that its own phylum. Oh, and Sherlock, don't think that I haven't noticed your new look. Why, exactly, are you covered head-to-toe in flour?"

Sherlock shrugged, causing a bit of the white powder to puff into the air. "Murderous baker," he said, as if that explained everything about his situation.

"Right," John said. He nodded and then adjusted Abby so he could see Sherlock. "Abby, look at Daddy." The baby squealed in surprised mirth and laughed so hard he gave himself hiccups. "Can you think of something he needs?"

Abby continued to giggle, occasionally interrupted by hiccups. After a moment, he responded, "Baff!"