So first of all, this Parentlock and not Mpreg!

So we all know that John is quite the ladies' man—with a nickname like "Three Continents Watson" it makes a girl wonder what kind of shenanigans the good doctor got himself into before meeting our consulting detective. What do you suppose would have happened if he wasn't as careful as he should have been in his younger years?

And do I need to say it? I don't own Sherlock.


John's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

"Leave it," Sherlock whispered then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the pressure point just below the doctor's ear.

He threw his head back and moaned. "Oh, God! Yes!"

The detective's hand traveled lower on his lover's body, and then slid around to grip one beautifully tanned arse cheek. "Mmm…I love how responsive you are to my touch…"

The phone buzzed again.

"Should—ah! Get that…"

"Just leave it. Can't be that important."

Sherlock's phone then also buzzed.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" the detective snarled. He grabbed both their mobiles and scrolled through the new messages.

Hello, John. I have an urgent matter that requires your immediate attention. ~MH

Dr. Watson, I assure you, this is quite urgent. ~ MH

Brother, please refrain from defiling the good doctor long enough for me to speak with him ~M

Sod off, Mycroft. We're busy. –S

Get dressed, the both of you. I'm out in the sitting room. This is a matter that must be seen to immediately. ~M

Sherlock groaned. "It's Mycroft. Says it's urgent. He's out in the sitting room."

John buried his face in his lover's shoulder and mumbled, "Your brother certainly has bad timing."

"I know. I was looking forward to shagging you into the mattress this morning," the detective confessed.

"Sherlock—not helping! Hold that thought for later."

With a nod of acknowledgement, the younger man slid off the bed first. They both dressed as quickly as possible, lest Mycroft become impatient and barge his way into their bedroom. The couple walked into the sitting room together, hand in hand, a united front against The Government.

"Ah, there you two are! Good morning! John, why don't you sit down, we have something to discuss," the elder Holmes greeting with false cheer. He looked quite at home in Sherlock's leather chair, right leg crossed over the left, hands clasped on his knee. There was a file perched on the arm of the chair next to him. Something told the doctor that his was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

Cautiously, John sat down in his chair facing the other man. "Ah, what can I help you with, Mycroft?"

"Yes, what do you want, Brother? We were in the middle of something. Kindly tell us what you want and leave," Sherlock stated as he crossed his arms and glared at his sibling.

"Sherlock, why don't you be a dear and make us all some tea," Mycroft suggested with an evil grin.

"Will it get you to leave sooner?"

"Not likely, dear Brother."

"Then no. I don't want you getting too comfortable. Tell John what you want."

The elder Holmes gave the doctor an exasperated look that said I'm sorry you live with this, but this was your choice after all. John smiled apologetically which equivocated to I'm trying to teach him some manners, but it's not going to well.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft said aloud, "Yes. Well, it seems we have a slight…problem on our hands. Do you recall an acquaintance of yours by the name of Alyssa Reins?"

John recognized the name immediately. Alyssa was one of his mates back from his uni days, he told Mycroft so. The elder Holmes nodded then turned to pick up his abandoned file.

"When was the last time you had contact with Ms. Reins, Doctor?"

Thinking back on it, John realized it had been several years. "I guess it's been a little over four years. We used to keep in touch, but I haven't heard from her in awhile. Last time I saw her in person was when I was on leave during my second tour."

"I regret to inform you that that she died last Wednesday afternoon in an unfortunate accident that involved the collapse of an office building," Mycroft informed him as reached into the folder and pulled out a photograph.

The doctor felt a twinge of sadness. He hadn't seen her in years, but she had still been a friend. "That's a shame. She was a good woman. Good accountant as well."

The elder Holmes gave him a peculiar look. "And she hasn't made contact in past several years, you're sure?"

John laughed nervously. "Of course—I would have remembered. What is this really about? I doubt that you would have bothered to come here just to tell me an old uni friend had died."

"Rightfully so. I am assuming that you have never seen this before?" Mycroft asked, handing a photograph to the doctor.

He accepted the picture hesitantly. It was of Alyssa and a little boy. She was laughing into the camera, her arms around a toddler who was draped in a Union Jack quilt. John smiled to himself. Alyssa was always a beautiful woman, with wavy dark sable hair that hung down to her shoulders. The boy was definitely her son, there was no mistaking that. The little one had the same hair color, only it curled wildly and the shape of his nose was different and instead of his mother's brown eyes, his where indigo blue.

Oh. Oh God...

"I thought this was the case," Mycroft said with a sigh and handed John a second piece of paper. "I wouldn't do this to you, John, if I had another option."

With trepidation, John scanned the new evidence. It only confirmed what the photograph had told him. It was a birth certificate for one Benedict Edward Watson. Alyssa was obviously listed as the mother and John discovered that his name was listed as the child's father.

Sherlock had stayed quiet through the whole exchange. He peered over his partner's should to get a glimpse of the picture. He ignored the woman, as she no longer mattered. The detective was easily able to pick out the distinguishing features of the boy's that belonged to his father, for Sherlock was very familiar with those blue eyes, the shape of that nose, and the fullness of those lips. He suddenly needed to sit. He schooled his features as to not reveal his inner turmoil to his brother.

"I've already had a DNA test run just to be sure," the elder Holmes said softly. "It was a match, John. I am truly sorry. I didn't think you would want the boy placed into foster care. Though it is your choice if that's what you decide."

"No," John said hoarsely, then cleared his throat and said again, "No. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. He's my responsibility. Benedict will come live here with us."

Mycroft spared a look towards his younger sibling. Despite Sherlock's calm exterior, he knew that the man was reeling. He truly did feel bad for dropping this on the couple. Their relationship was still new. This was something that could potentially make or break them. He personally was praying for the former. He had no doubt that John would be able to adapt to his new scenario, he was nothing if not a true soldier. Sherlock, however, was an unknown variable.

He rose from his seat and handed John the rest of the file. "I thought that might be the case. You are an honorable man. I expected nothing less from you. Little Benedict is a fan of Manchester United, teddy bears, and any book he can get his hands on. He's fond of wooly jumpers and his favorite color is bumble bee yellow. He also has a propensity to mispronounce the letters R and L if they appear in the beginning or middle of a word. I know that you might need some time to make you accommodations more suitable to a curious toddler—and he is; believe me. I have arranged for him to stay with his mother's friend for the next few days while you made the necessary preparations here. If you like, I can have a car come pick you up this afternoon so that you can meet your son."

John just nodded numbly and mumbled his thanks to the elder Holmes, slightly confused as to why the man who was the British government seemed to care so much about this.

With a nod, Mycroft stated, "I shall take my leave then. The two of you have a lot to discuss." And then he was gone with a swing of his umbrella.


John sat so still that Sherlock was sure the rest of the mundane population would have mistaken him for a living statue, just sitting there staring blindly at the piece of paper in his hand. Growling in frustration, the consulting detective pacing back and forth; traveling from John's chair, to the window, then back again.

When the silence had become so deafening, Sherlock grit his teeth and yelled, "I never thought you were truly an idiot, John, but it seems I was mistaken. What on earth were you thinking? No—my mistake—you weren't! You're a bloody doctor—do you have no idea of what a prophylactic is?!"

"What?" John asked as he tried to shake himself out of his stupor.

Sherlock was now leaning in dangerously close to his face and over-annunciated as if his partner was mentally slow, "Do. You. Know. What. A. Prophylactic. Is?"

"Yes! Alright?! I know how to use a bloody condom!" John snapped back.

"Were you so overcome with passion that you forgot?"

"Of course not! I was on leave—I would never have been careless enough to not use protection!"

"Then explain precious little Benedict!" Sherlock spat the child's name out as if it were poisonous.

John groaned and rubbed his free hand over his face, the anger rapidly dissolving into reluctant resolve.

"I had been friends with his mum at uni. We ran in the same social circles. Kept in touch off and on while I was in med school and exchanged a few letters while I was deployed. During leave from my second tour, I ran into her at a pub one night. We got to chatting and…well, I'm sure you of all people can deduce what happened next. The condom must have been faulty."

His blogger was quite obviously telling the truth and he already knew the answer, but Sherlock wanted verbal confirmation. "Did you know about this?"

The doctor looked at him with a resurgent ping of anger. "What? Did I know that I had a son? Do you think that I would have forgotten to mention that to you? Did you not think that maybe had I know about this sooner, I would have tried to find out about him—seen him? I'm his father, Sherlock!"

"Of course you would have. You're far too honorable not to. I would expect nothing less from you," the consulting detective sighed and ran twitchy fingers through his already tousled hair. He resumed his pacing. "Our lifestyle isn't suited for children, John."

"What are you suggesting we do? His mum is dead—it's not like he can stay where he is," the doctor countered.

"We?"

"Yes, we—unless, you don't want to be with me because of—"

"Oh, don't be silly, John! I'm not going to ask you to choose between our relationship and your infant child. How cold-hearted do you really think I am?"

On Sherlock's next pass by his chair, John reached out and grabbed onto one slender wrist. The detective immediately stilled and glanced down at his partner. "Thank you," the doctor whispered. "He deserves to at least be with one of his parents…"

Sighing in defeat, Sherlock asked, "Is this really what you want, then? I'll be rubbish at being a parent."

John pulled his lover down onto his lap, wrapping his arms around the detective's midriff. "Yes, I want to have Benedict come live here with us. And you'll be just fine, Sherlock. I have never seen you fail at anything. You'll be a brilliant father."

The consulting detective draped his arms around John's shoulder and rested his head on top of the blond's. "I just hope you're right."