Sherlock had been acting odd all day. 

John had spent most of his time curled up in his chair, unable to keep his hands from running furiously over his belly. He couldn't believe that there was something - someONE - in there, a living person that was the results of him and Sherlock, something that would inherit (he hoped) his strength and courage and Sherlock's brains (though perhaps not his snark and antisocial tendencies). 

But upon their return, Sherlock had grabbed his long black Belstaff coat and his blue scarf, and a black satchel with mystery contents, and said that he would be back later. And then he had left in a swish of coat and scarf and a barked command at Clara to keep watch on John. 

Clara, true to her sweet and tender nature, sat in Sherlock's seat, poring over a thick OBGYN textbook with a pencil behind each ear and a highlighter cap in her mouth, slashing bright streaks of color onto her notes every few minutes. One earbud dangled loosely from the cord, while the other rested in her left ear. Music spilled softly from the dangling earbud - some odd hipster band from New Zealand, he thought. Eventually, John grabbed his laptop and opened his blog (out of habit, of course). And as he stared at the blinking cursor, the full weight of what they were doing sank upon him. 

There was a person inside of his stomach. An actual human baby, inside the body of a man, where it was most definitely not supposed to be. He couldn't hide it forever; he was going to be getting huge. Absolutely massive, and he wouldn't be able to go on cases anymore. It was bad enough going public with his relationship to Sherlock - the stares and the comments and the whispers and the judgement. Even though John was a soldier, an army doctor, overflowing with courage and bravery, he was still hurt and terrified about the stinging comments. 

He was going to have to reveal his pregnancy to the world. Taking in a huge gulp of air, he could almost picture the headlines swimming in front of him. Freak of Nature Exposed! Male Pregnancy Shocks and Horrifies All! Scientific Blunder Locked Away! Mad Pseudo-Scientist Detective's Boy-Toy Knocked Up? How? Who? When? Where? 

"John? Oh my god, JOHN!" All of a sudden Clara was dropping the textbook and capping the highlighter, throwing the school material aside with heartless abandon to join the rest of the room's clutter. She was snatching the laptop away, setting it down, and she was gripping his head in her hands, and wow Clara's hands were so warm, why were they so hot? What was happening here?

"John, listen to me. You're having a panic attack." Clara was speaking slowly, and why was she talking so slow? John tried to respond, but all that came out was a garbled string of nonsensical words. Jumbled, mixed-up syllables flowed out, and then Clara was grabbing him and pulling him into a tight tight hug. His head pressed against her chest, and she smelled sweet and clean and fresh, like lilies and the earth after spring rain and the clean outdoors. Why was her heart beating so slow? he wondered, before the thought that maybe his heart was racing floated into his dizzy and disoriented mind. 

"John, you need to breathe. Breathe in through your nose and count to four, slowly. Hold your breath, count to eight slowly, let it out through your mouth and count to ten slowly. Feel your sympathetic nervous system calming down, feel your parasympathetic nervous system taking control. Caaaaaaaalm down." Clara's voice sing-songed in and out of his consciousness, and to his faint horror the breaths he took were shaky and quick, barely-restrained hyperventilating. 

"John, this isn't gonna work if you don't breathe. With me, okay? In through the nose and count to four, okay? One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . " John inhaled through his nose, a single deep shuddering breath. "And now hold it while I count to eight. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. Good, and now let it out through your mouth slowly. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . " 

Clara's voice, soft and soothing, echoed in John's mind as he released the pent-up air, and he imagined that he was releasing his worry and anxiety and regret. "Good. Now, again," Clara ordered gently. The music still spilled from her headphones, and she began to sing along quietly while John breathed.  

"What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all round the sun . . . What a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen in the blink of an eye and be gone from me . . . Soft and sweet, let me hold it close and keep it here, with me-ee-ee-eee . . . " 

John slowly calmed himself down, suddenly extremely embarrassed. "Right. Er . . . thanks, Clara. Sorry about that." 

"Not a problem," Clara hummed, handing his laptop back and settling down with her textbook again. 

"Clara? We won't . . um . . . mention this to Sherlock, right?" 

"Of course not, John," Clara laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it." 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sherlock returned around ten o'clock at night, red-faced and flush, hair disheveled and eyes searching rapidly. "John!" 

The army doctor peered out of the kitchen, cup of tea sitting on the table. "Oh - Sherlock! I just put a pot on, if you'd like some - what are you doing?" Sherlock was dropping the bag then, rushing forward, cupping John's face with his hands (still clad in cold black leather gloves) and roaming eyes over every inch of his face, as though he couldn't get enough of him. 

"Sherlock, you great bloody git, what in the hell - " 

And then John was cut off, because Sherlock's lips were crashing against his in a powerful kiss. Sherlock was sliding his tongue into John's mouth, roaming around, exploring every inch. John gasped in, surprised by Sherlock's ferocity. When they pulled apart, Sherlock was grinning like an idiot in the special unreserved way that was only for John. 

"I love you," Sherlock said. "No two ways about it. I love you and we're having a baby and I know I'm a terrible parent but I'll try not to give the baby shock from deduction, although I make no promises if it turns out to be an Anderson or God forbid - "

"Sherlock!" John cut him off, and the detective stared at him with with kaleidoscopic eyes. "Stop worrying about that and tell me where you've been all day, you prat, because it can't have taken you that long to come up with that speech. Out with it. What have you been up to?"

"Come on!" Sherlock pulled John into the living room (with a bit more care than usual, the ex-soldier noted) and even did him the courtesy of bringing in the tea from the table. Then he pulled, from the black bag, his violin case, which he snapped open. After a brief tuning and rosining, he arranged a few pieces of sheet music on the stand before flashing the title at John. 

Lullaby for John and _______

"I'll have to fill in the name later, of course, once we actually name it, but I did spend all day writing it." 

"Play, then! Stop prattling and play!" John laughed. 

Softly, the haunting strains of a gentle, lovely violin filled the flat. Each man was so enthralled with the other and the music that neither noticed Clara in the kitchen, recording Sherlock's gentle swaying and John's raptured face on her phone.