Holmes fic: Second Chances 3/3
Title: Second Chances 3/3
Rating: R for this part, R overall
Wordcount: 6,125 this part, ~15,900 total
Characters: Holmes/Watson, Mary, Mycroft
Warnings (for whole story): mpreg, canon character death, OC death
Summary: Holmes discovers that he wants something he'd never even considered, then is given the chance to try to obtain it.
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Watson and Holmes end up having sex that night at the gypsy camp. A month or so after Holmes's death, Watson realizes that he's pregnant.
Holmes who is still concealing himself as furniture in Watson's home from time to time (maybe he needs to hide out from the bad guys from a bit..idk) begins to realize that Watson is pregnant and decides to visit more frequently just to make sure Watson and the baby are okay.
As the months pass, it gets harder and harder for Holmes to control himself when he's disguised. He just wants to reach out and comfort Watson when his back hurts or he has a cramp. Touch his stomach and kiss him and do wicked things with him because Watson pregnant is so very wonderful. He knows he can't risk Watson and he makes the decision to not visit anymore.
When Holmes returns from the "dead", he is determed to get Watson pregnant again no matter how long it takes so that he can do all things he wanted to do when he was watching Watson during his first pregnancy.
TL;DR - After AGOS, Holmes finds it harder and harder to not blow his cover when he's hiding out from Watson who is pregnant. After Holmes returns from the "dead" he's determined to get Watson pregnant again.
Originally posted 12 April-17 April 2012
Holmes drifted aimlessly through each day while Watson devoted himself to making the necessary arrangements for his return to the Baker Street rooms. In hindsight, it took Holmes far too long to remember that he could again observe Watson rather than lying about with a bad case of boredom; perhaps it was for the best that he had not resumed his work, if his mind was so impaired.
He eagerly donned the chair suit and crept into the house well before Watson woke. Watson's steps were slow and careful; he must not be sleeping well. He also never set foot in the study that day, instead spending a good deal of time up-stairs.
Holmes waited until the maid departed after teatime to sneak out of the house and hurriedly changed clothes there in Watson's shrubbery. Then he darted down the alley behind the house until he reached the cross-street; he fell in with the flow of foot-traffic and casually strolled back to Watson's street and along the pavement until he was at Watson's front door. He knocked lightly, but there was no answer. Of course.
He went around back and went in through the back door that he himself had unlocked before leaving. Watson was still upstairs, so Holmes went up to find out what he was doing.
The answer was obvious even before he caught sight of his elusive doctor: there were soft sounds of grief coming from the far dressing-room. As the nearer dressing-room was the one belonging to Watson, it was evident he had endeavored to tidy his late wife's effects and found himself caught in memories in the process.
Holmes wavered, uncertain if he would be welcome, but his foot found a creaking board and Watson's tear-choked voice called out, "Who's there?"
"It's only me," Holmes replied, coming just as far as the doorway. His eyes skimmed the room quickly, the open wardrobe and half-full trunk lending credence to his conclusions about Watson's activities. Watson was sitting on the small chair before the dressing-table, a blue dress draped over his lap. "You did say I was welcome to come to the house."
"I did," Watson agreed ruefully. "Maybe I shouldn't have." He stood and busied himself with tucking the blue dress into the trunk.
"It's going to wrinkle terribly if you pack it like that," Holmes commented.
"Why don't you do it then?" Watson snapped, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, there was no call - "
"Give it here," Holmes interrupted, crossing the distance with his hand outstretched. It was the dress Mary had worn for their first, rather brief, meeting; he set it carefully over the back of the chair and turned his attention to righting the mess Watson had made of the dresses already in the trunk.
Fortunately Mary had been fond of serviceable fabrics--easily wrinkled garments would have been a detriment for a governess--and they were easily settled into a better configuration. He had Watson hand him each remaining item from the wardrobe and he carefully packed them, saving the blue dress for last and laying it gently across the top, cushioned in tissue paper.
"Have you already done everything else?" Holmes asked after closing the lid of the full trunk.
"Yes," Watson said, sounding a bit lost. Holmes had him sit atop the trunk and stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder, while he regained his bearings. "Thank you. Her mother is coming tomorrow to pick everything up since I didn't know what to do with any of it. She offered to pack it as well, but I thought I could--thought I should--" he broke off and gasped for breath.
Holmes offered him a handkerchief and remained silent until Watson was breathing normally again. "I am sorry she's gone," he said. "She was worthy of you."
"I think that's the kindest thing you've ever said about her, Holmes." Fortunately Watson sounded like he was close to laughing rather than crying when he said it.
"She looked after you when I could not," Holmes said simply, patting Watson's shoulder and taking a step back to look at him critically. "You look terrible, old boy. Have you eaten today?"
Watson snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."
"I'll take that as a no. Does the maid leave something out for you when she leaves?"
"Usually, but I'm not hungry," Watson admitted. "All I want is a good bit of brandy."
"I'll go fetch it, then."
"I am perfectly capable of going downstairs."
"But will you manage to climb back up afterward?" Holmes asked shrewdly.
"Just go," Watson said impatiently, waving him off.
When Holmes returned, Watson had kicked off his slippers, removed his waistcoat, and was sitting against the headboard of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Holmes sat on the edge of the bed facing him, handed him a tumbler, and poured them both a generous portion from the nearly full decanter.
Watson considered the liquid for a moment, then said solemnly, "To Mary." He touched his glass to Holmes' and drained it in a single motion.
Holmes followed his lead, then poured more. Watson stared morosely at his glass, so, thinking of the cradle he'd seen wedged into a corner in Mary's dressing room, he said, "To the child I never met."
Again they emptied their glasses.
"I never would have expected that to bother you, but it does," Watson said, ruminating aloud.
"Very much," Holmes confirmed as he filled their glasses again. His hands trembled as he did so and Watson watched him with a slightly unfocused gaze; neither of them held their liquor well on empty stomachs.
They sipped in silence, which primarily consisted of Holmes watching Watson drink and faithfully refilling his tumbler, though he also worked his way through one refill--or maybe it was two . . .
When Watson spoke, his words had begun to slur. "Is that why you want another one?"
"I suppose that's part of it," Holmes said agreeably. At the moment, he could not be certain what all of his reasons were, as his mind was a bit of a muddle.
"I don't know if I can do it."
"The outcome is never guaranteed, but we can certainly try."
"I don't mean physically."
"I thought you wanted a family."
"I had one. They died." His breath hitched and he looked away from Holmes toward the empty side of the bed. "I don't know if I can endure something like that again."
"Then why come back to Baker Street? Even I will die eventually."
Watson met his gaze. "You've already died, and more than once. Having you now is . . . extra."
Suddenly Holmes was subject to a torrent of emotion that was not entirely the fault of the brandy, and he did the only thing he could do in the circumstances: he leaned forward and kissed Watson.
Watson kissed him back hungrily, reaching for him and growling with frustration when he realized he still held his tumbler of brandy. They broke apart long enough for Watson to drain his glass and for Holmes to set their glasses and the much-depleted decanter on the bedside table.
Without pulling away from Watson, Holmes shifted onto his knees and shuffled closer, then threw one leg over Watson's thighs and moved so he was kneeling astride Watson's lap.
Watson tried clumsily to remove Holmes' clothing, but he only managed half of the buttons on his shirt and the trousers thwarted him entirely. Holmes had better success with Watson's clothing, able to bare his torso and carefully expose his cock to the open air. Watson retaliated for Holmes' teasing touch by roughly stroking Holmes through his trousers, first palming him, then squeezing his balls firmly.
Holmes groaned and set about raking Watson's chest with his blunt nails and pinching his nipples. Watson moaned, momentarily releasing his grip on Holmes, who leaned down and took Watson's cock into his mouth.
Watson made an inarticulate sound and his head fell back against the headboard with a thump. When Holmes began sucking and applying his tongue, Watson's moans continued and he clutched spasmodically at the bedsheets and Holmes' disheveled hair. Holmes grinned around Watson's cock and set about making Watson howl with strategic application of lips and tongue and teeth.
All too soon Watson reached his peak, then went limp in the aftereffects of his fierce climax. Holmes sat up on his knees again, exceedingly pleased with himself, and worked Watson's trousers the rest of the way off. He also attempted to remove Watson's shirt but instead Watson grabbed him, pulling him down to lie flush against Watson's body.
Watson kissed him messily, sliding one hand down between them to again cup Holmes through his trousers. Holmes had intended to see to himself after Watson was in bed, so it didn't take much encouragement from Watson to renew his desire. He rutted against Watson's hand until the warm rush of his release dampened his trousers, Watson kissing him the entire time.
After that their kisses slackened in intensity; at length Watson murmured, "Stay until morning."
Holmes pulled away without responding and helped Watson out of his shirt. He had not planned to remain--on the contrary, he had limited his brandy intake so he could make his way home mostly unimpaired.
But as he hesitated, continuing the efforts to tuck Watson into bed, Watson's earlier depression seemed to develop before his eyes into an utter devastation that reminded him uncomfortably of his share in Watson's recent unhappiness.
"Please," Watson entreated once more when Holmes offered him one last swig of brandy.
"Yes, I'll stay," Holmes assured him, taking more brandy for himself as well.
~~~
Boxes of Watson's belongings were delivered with some regularity to Baker Street and were often accompanied by the man himself. Holmes was usually there to meet him, but sometimes he was out pursuing his own interests (he had finally notified Scotland Yard of his continued existence--and nearly gave poor Clarkie a heart attack--after Watson discovered him lurking in the study in the chair-suit for the third time and decreed that he wouldn't so much as kiss Holmes again until he started doing something productive with himself). Their visits did not last long--Holmes knew they were merely a means for Watson to reassure himself of Holmes' wellbeing--and never included anything that could have been considered improper.
To have Watson willing and yet remaining out of reach was maddening.
When the time came for Watson to sell the house and his practice, Holmes sent his brother a cryptic note as soon as the advertisement appeared in the papers. A buyer appeared on Watson's doorstep the following morning, ready and willing to pay the full price demanded, no haggling necessary.
Watson turned up at Baker Street with his remaining baggage one week later, looking both pleased and utterly perplexed. "His story seemed perfectly reasonable, but I can't help but think there is something odd about it," Watson admitted as they trudged up the stairs, Holmes preceding him with the heavier of the two bags.
"I can investigate if you'd like, but I don't see why you need concern yourself with it any longer," Holmes said dismissively, setting the bag down in Watson's room and just barely resisting the urge to tackle Watson onto the bed.
"Yes, you're right. As always," Watson said sounding resigned but with a smile on his face. He looked around his room at the boxes and crates still stacked haphazardly about. "I suppose I ought to do something with all of this."
"If you must," Holmes said, leaning against the door frame.
Watson glanced back at him, then squared his shoulders. "I must," he said resolutely.
"Suit yourself." Holmes wandered into the sitting room, stretched out on the settee with his pipe, and settled in to listen.
There were fewer exclamations than he might have expected (he had stacked some of the boxes quite poorly) and a considerable shuffling and sliding about of large items. Watson even emerged periodically and disappeared into the lumber room to store whatever he'd managed to empty.
In the afternoon, Watson suspended his efforts and insisted that Holmes join him for tea. He appeared in good spirits, but Holmes could see the signs that he was beginning to tire and decided to modify his plans for their evening--they could attend a concert another day, and staying in would increase the odds of success for the other activities he had on the agenda.
When Watson returned to his work, Holmes tended to his own. During tea he had determined the two most likely scenarios for the evening, so he prepared for both possibilities. That did not take long and he found himself at loose ends; he ended up lurking in the doorway of Watson's room, watching him without Watson knowing he was there. This watching was different than before; this time he was at full liberty to reach out to Watson should he wish to, but for now he was content to observe. The touching would come soon.
The evening papers arrived with dinner. Watson was quiet and introspective, not inclined to meaningless conversation any more than Holmes was, so they perused the papers rather than strain the comfortable silence. But in his silence, Holmes made sure to be as near to Watson as was possible, brushing his hand as they exchanged papers or passed the butter or salt, leaning close as if reading over Watson's shoulder (even though he'd already seen that paper), and sliding his foot alongside Watson's beneath the table.
Holmes was finished with food and papers well before Watson, but leaving the table would drastically reduce the odds of events going as he'd hoped. Instead of rising, he held the evening Times up as if still reading it and studied Watson over the top edge.
When Watson happened to look up and notice Holmes' gaze, he flushed and dropped his fork, which clattered to the floor. Watson bent to retrieve it, moving quickly at first but stopping abruptly partway down and proceeding slowly and with more care in picking it up and returning it to the table.
Holmes nonchalantly folded his paper and stood, moving around the table toward Watson. "Would a bath ease your aches? Or perhaps a massage?" He stopped behind Watson's chair and leaned over to speak in his ear, his lips brushing it as he murmured, "Or a massage in the bath?"
Watson shivered at the breath ghosting over his skin and swallowed with difficulty. "If you're trying to seduce me--" he started, and stopped when Holmes pressed a kiss to his temple. "It's working," he said breathlessly.
"Splendid. Come along, then." Holmes moved next to Watson's chair and held out his hand.
The bathing room stood ready thanks to Holmes' earlier preparation; all he had to do was turn on the taps while Watson undressed and gingerly climbed into the tub. Holmes stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist, then knelt behind Watson and unstoppered a flask of oil.
Watson sighed when Holmes smoothed oil over his skin and began to knead his shoulders. Holmes was thorough, working down Watson's arms and back up again before proceeding down Watson's back. His shoulder and arm twinged painfully at the awkward angle; a different approach was needed. He slipped into the tub behind Watson, tucking his legs around Watson's waist. Thus positioned, and with Watson leaning forward and holding himself above the water with elbows braced on the lip of the tub, Holmes was able to give the entire length of Watson's back the attention it deserved.
Once Holmes' hands had devoted sufficient effort to the muscles that Watson no longer held himself so stiffly, his touch went from soothing to feeling, sweeping lightly over Watson's slick skin as Holmes leaned forward and buried his nose in the hair at Watson's nape. He peppered kisses along Watson's neck, licking each knob of bone, then dragged his mouth to that spot where neck joined shoulder and nipped lightly.
While his mouth was thus occupied by marking Watson's skin, he embraced Watson and allowed his hands free rein over Watson's torso. Watson leaned back against his chest with a sigh, his head resting on Holmes' left shoulder, his face turning toward Holmes'. Holmes heeded the wordless request and kissed him messily, fervently, deeply, all the while stroking Watson's chest and stomach, moaning into Watson's mouth with the pleasure of finally being allowed to explore him properly.
Holmes felt himself growing painfully hard and he couldn't resist twitching his hips to rub himself against Watson's back. Watson was panting against him, and one of Watson's hands guided his hand down to touch Watson's straining cock. He grasped it firmly and caressed its length, savoring the sound of Watson's groan and feeling his own cock jerk in response.
It was all too easy to bring Watson to completion and, by extension, himself, as the thrill of having Watson shivering to pieces in his arms quickly undid him. He slumped back against the tub and Watson lay limply against him, both endeavoring to regain their breath.
Holmes continued idly drawing his fingers over Watson's skin, so he both felt and heard it when Watson spoke. "You planned this."
"I anticipated it," Holmes corrected. "There is also oil in the bedroom."
"Hm. And what prompted such amorous behavior? This sort of thing is more along my line than yours."
Holmes licked Watson's earlobe and smirked when Watson shuddered. "Welcome home," he said huskily. "I have missed you."
By the time they cleaned and dried themselves, both were more than ready to resume where they had left off, this time in the comfort of Holmes' bed. After much shifting and rolling and one suggestion turned down by Watson, they ended up kneeling, Watson clutching the headboard while Holmes took him from behind, one hand on Watson's cock and the other between his legs, two fingers buried in the slick opening that had birthed their child--and would do so again, if Holmes had anything to say about the matter, despite Watson's earlier refusal to allow him to penetrate him in that manner.
It was quite late before they were finally ready to sleep, tangled in damp and sticky sheets and one another.
That night set the tone for those that followed; while they freely and frequently enjoyed each other's bodies, the one thing that Holmes most desired was strictly forbidden. When he pressed Watson on the subject, Watson would say only that he was still thinking about Holmes' request.
In all other respects, life settled into something resembling the normal state that had existed before . . . well, Before. They--well, Holmes--often preferred to act as if nothing had come between Before and the present, especially once Watson agreed to help Holmes on cases from time to time.
What bothered Holmes was not that Watson didn't accompany him every time--though he would have rather Watson did--but that he could not predict when Watson would say yes or no. Watson's behavior varied wildly with his moods, which also varied wildly depending on the date on the calendar as well as several external stimuli, but Watson's presence on a case seemed to be independent of his mood. Holmes puzzled over this, spending a good deal of time in the Study of Watson, but was not able to draw any conclusions that held true.
Eventually he even asked Watson about it one time when they were in the pleasant post-coital haze, hoping Watson would be forthcoming. Watson merely laughed and teased him for not figuring it out.
Watson also refused to speak on the subject of having another child, but he continually rebuffed Holmes' attempts to have sex in that manner, so that could be considered an answer of sorts. It just wasn't the one Holmes wanted, and he was determined to pester Watson until he received a different answer. (That his different answer might come in the form of Watson pushing him away entirely was something he preferred not to dwell upon.)
The months passed quickly and Holmes knew the anniversary of Mary's death--and that of their daughter? Had they died on the same day? He'd never thought to ask--drew near by a shift in Watson's mood. He became more melancholy and more prone to leave on his own early in the morning, remaining out until evening and returning home with grass-stained knees and a tear-streaked face. When Holmes witnessed his return from such a day, he wordlessly helped Watson from his clothes and into bed, brought him tea, and curled around him protectively.
Then one morning Holmes woke before dawn to find Watson already gone. He hurriedly dressed and checked the calendar; The Day had come.
It was a matter of only a moment's thought to realize where Watson had disappeared to and, after quickly checking a newspaper scrap tucked into the back of the last volume of his commonplace book, he followed.
It was not difficult to find Watson once he arrived at the graveyard, he being the only visitor at such an ungodly hour. Watson knelt before a small grey stone with a smaller one tucked against it; the larger of the two bore Mary's inscription, while the smaller bore just a first name.
Holmes joined Watson in his vigil and, during the ensuing hours as the sun crept carefully into the sky, Watson haltingly spoke of their illness, how the baby had not fussed as her temperature soared and her breathing became labored, how Mary slipped away in the night and he at first thought her stillness was his own fevered imagination, how the baby stopped breathing as she lay in his arms and he could not remember what to do so he just held her until someone took her away, how he nearly succumbed to his own fever and refused for two days to believe that they were truly dead. He had never been willing to speak of these things earlier, and Holmes listened with rapt attention.
When Watson had talked himself hoarse and the position of the sun signaled it was midday, Holmes coaxed him to return to Baker Street and he made no objection.
The afternoon was spent in the sitting room only so they could have easy access to the sideboard and the liquor it held. There may have been tears involved as well, but that could have been the influence of the brandy. And the claret. And the whisky he hadn't remembered was there . . .
When they finally collapsed into bed quite early in the evening, Watson was nearly asleep from the combined effects of excessive alcohol and grief. Holmes flopped down next to him, staring at him for a moment before demanding, "Tell me about her."
Watson dragged his eyelids open. "Who? Oh, Shirley?" At Holmes' nod, he sighed and closed his eyes again. "She was perfect. She looked nothing like you . . . just as well, since we hoped to pass her off as ours . . ." His words were slurred and sometimes were separated by several breaths. "But she could stare at you and it was like she could see into you. It was uncanny, and reminded me so much of you . . ."
He began snoring soon after trailing off the last time, and Holmes let him be. Holmes soon followed Watson into sleep, thinking about blond and blue-eyed children that looked just like Watson.
~~~
Watson continued wearing his mourning clothes for nearly a week after he could have returned to his usual wardrobe. He said he needed to ease into the idea more gradually; Holmes suspected he was using the time to find and reclaim all of the items that Holmes had 'borrowed' while he wasn't wearing them. Several things were missing from his drawers that had been there since Watson moved back in.
The day that changed everything started out quite badly. To begin with, Holmes was just about to sheath himself in Watson's welcoming backside when Lestrade came calling.
Lestrade dragged him off on a case just outside London that turned out to be an exceedingly minor matter that was resolved in less than ten minutes and was most definitely not worth the hour-long train ride each way.
This alone was enough to put him in a foul mood, but when taken in combination with the fact that he and Watson had not had sex in over a fortnight until their attempt that morning and they were interrupted for such an unworthy case, well, to say Holmes was frustrated would be a vast understatement. Murderously annoyed might be closer to the mark and Lestrade was lucky he didn't end up in the Thames.
Holmes maintained his composure on the long trip home by consoling himself that he and Watson could resume where they had left off when he returned. But when he arrived, Watson was absent. Mrs. Holmes assured him that Watson would be back by dinner, but it was only one o'clock and and he wanted Watson now. He flung himself on the settee and had a good sulk.
He was on his feet as soon as he heard Watson's familiar tread upon the stairs, moving quickly as if heeding Holmes' unspoken demand for his presence. Holmes remained in place long enough for Watson to step into the room and close the door, then he threw himself at Watson, pushing him back against the door with a thump and mashing his mouth against Watson's with messy enthusiasm. Watson clutched him tightly when he pulled away long enough to lock the door.
"Where have you been?" Holmes demanded, nipping Watson's collarbone through his shirt with each word.
"I had to see to a few things," Watson gasped, trying and failing to capture Holmes' lips with his own. "I thought you'd be gone longer. Was it really that bad?"
"Worse," Holmes said grimly, grinding his hips against Watson and unbuttoning Watson's shirt. "You wear too many clothes."
"I do not." Watson began to free Holmes' buttons.
"When will you get rid of all this black?" Holmes asked with distaste as he pushed Watson's jacket and waistcoat off his shoulders and into a heap on the floor.
"Tomorrow," Watson said, wrestling Holmes out of his shirt. "That's why I had to go out--I find I'm missing some items. Like this shirt." He waved the offending article in Holmes face, then let it fall to the floor. He stepped away from the door, grabbing Holmes' wrist and tugging him toward the bedroom. "Speaking of clothes, I want to show you something."
"Why are we talking about clothes when we could be naked?" Holmes asked petulantly as he was reluctantly pulled along.
"Because I found these and thought you'd like to see them." Watson propelled him toward the bed where several shirts and pairs of trousers were laid out.
Holmes couldn't think at first; the warmth of Watson beside him quite effectively distracted him from all other things. Then he realized the clothes were of a more generous cut than Watson usually wore and he immediately thought of the large shirt he'd seen Watson wear during his pregnancy.
Watson whispered in his ear, "My answer is yes."
Holmes shivered. "You are certain."
"Absolutely."
Holmes' mouth went dry and his hands shook as he tried to remove his trousers. "You, on the bed, now," he choked out.
Watson understood and finished undressing himself. He kissed Holmes as they advanced toward the bed, then Watson was stretched out atop the clothes.
Holmes pounced, clambering over him and kissing him deeply as he settled between Watson's legs. Watson was so very slick with arousal and so very warm and tight around him that Holmes could hardly bear it. Watson was similarly undone, crying out as he was breached and hooking a leg over Holmes' legs to keep him close.
They rocked frantically, kissing and groping as their hips canted together and brought them ever closer to release. Holmes surrendered first, driving one last thrust deep into Watson before coming with a cry. Watson followed immediately thereafter, clenching around Holmes as he spilled onto their stomachs.
Holmes relaxed atop Watson, feeling quite satisfied with himself and the state of affairs. "Why did it take you so long to decide?" he asked languidly.
"So long? No, I'd decided within a week. But I also decided that we couldn't try until my period of mourning was over."
"And you didn't tell me." Holmes bit down hard the nearest patch of skin, which happened to be the area where the neck meets the shoulder.
Watson nearly threw him off as he jerked in pain and yelled. He swatted the back of Holmes' head half-heartedly and said, "That is exactly why I didn't tell you sooner. You have poor impulse control, and I knew that as soon as I said anything, you'd be trying to talk your way into my pants."
"Is that so wrong?" Holmes asked coyly, pressing kisses to the bite mark he'd left.
"No, but it's going to be bad enough, us having a child. We didn't need a full-fledged scandal on our hands. You'd never be able to work with the police again."
"Rubbish. We would have been fine."
"If I turned out to be pregnant before my mourning was over? It's not a crime, certainly, but no respectable person would countenance that."
Holmes huffed a noise of disagreement and set about shutting Watson up by kissing him, thoroughly and without interruption, until they were both ready for another round. Holmes groaned to feel himself stiffening up while still inside of Watson; evidently it was quite pleasurable for Watson as well, as he quickly reached his climax and took Holmes with him.
After they had been sprawled in silence for several minutes to recover, Watson said lazily, "I need a bath."
Holmes carefully pulled himself away from Watson and gingerly crawled to the edge of the bed. "And you would like to share?" he asked hopefully.
"Sure. You can rub my back," Watson said with a cocky grin.
Now that Watson had agreed to his request, Holmes devoted most of his considerable energies to the care and feeding of his Watson. When they were out, he ensured Watson had his meals even if he himself didn't care to eat. When they were home, he was eager to do things for Watson--fetching things, helping him dress or don his coat and hat.
And, of course, they had sex quite frequently, Holmes all the while hoping that Watson would soon announce their efforts had been successful. When Watson bled for the first time after they began trying, Holmes felt acute disappointment, almost grief, and was irrationally annoyed when Watson didn't seem to share his disappointment.
Watson bore Holmes' attentions patiently at first--he even seemed amused--but when Holmes commented indignantly at his apparent nonchalance concerning his failure to conceive (which, admittedly, may not have been wise to mention while the man was hormonally imbalanced), Watson scolded him sharply and at length before storming out without his hat.
Holmes had a good deal of time to reflect on how poorly the conversation went, as Watson did not return for hours. He contemplated whether to apologize--and if so, how--and decided to wait and see what Watson's mood was like when he returned.
It was raining heavily when Watson returned, but at first he refused the towel Holmes tried to hand him.
"Watson-"
"No. Just let me ask one thing."
He looked uncertain and almost small as he stood dripping on the carpet just inside the door. Holmes stared at him and waited for him to continue.
"If I couldn't have a child, had never had a child, would you still -- would we --" he gestured helplessly toward Holmes then toward himself as he visibly struggled to find the words.
"Would I still want you? Is that the question?"
Watson nodded emphatically. "Yes. Would you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes scoffed, trying again to hand Watson the towel. "Of course I would. You're Watson."
Watson took a deep breath and the towel. "Good. Then I'd like to stop talking about it. Your behavior has been ridiculous and it's all quite unnecessary. I will tell you should our . . . efforts . . . prove fruitful," he said as he briskly rubbed his head with the towel and removed his wet shoes and socks.
"Yes, of course, if that's what you prefer." Holmes wasn't quite certain how to interpret the request. Had he done something wrong?
Watson sighed impatiently. "Oh, don't look like that. I need things to be normal, that's all. And you being considerate isn't what I'd call normal."
"Perhaps I reformed while I was away," Holmes said, feeling somewhat insulted.
Watson made a derisive noise. "This is only a recent occurrence, so I hardly find that likely."
"Next time you won't be getting a towel, then." Holmes threw himself into his armchair, resisting the urge to pout visibly. It wouldn't do to let Watson know his words had gotten to him.
"Don't be absurd." Watson stood in front of Holmes' armchair, though Holmes studiously refused to look directly at him. "Do you want to help me get out of these wet clothes?" he coaxed.
"No," Holmes said resolutely, crossing his arms so he would not have the urge to reach out.
"For heaven's sake." Watson disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door with a bang.
After a few minutes he emerged in his dressing gown and a dry shirt and trousers. He returned to the spot in front of Holmes' chair, but this time he bent over so his face was near Holmes' and his hands were on the arms to keep him from escaping.
"Stop pouting," he murmured, then kissed Holmes gently.
Watson kissing him was the one thing Holmes could not resist, and Watson knew it, the bastard. So Holmes kissed him back, as Watson knew he would; then things took a turn that was not as common but was no less appreciated for it.
While Watson was kissing Holmes, he was also unfastening Holmes' trousers, which Holmes didn't realize until somehow his cock was in Watson's hand being expertly stroked. When Watson stopped kissing Holmes, Holmes started to protest but was halted by that wonderful mouth lavishing attention on his cock instead. It was quite worth the lack of kissing.
Holmes bit his hand rather than cry out as Watson brought him to the brink, then swallowed his release. His hand was still in his mouth when Watson finished tucking him back in his trousers, so Watson gently pulled it away and pressed a kiss to the teeth marks. "Feel better now?"
"Hm?" He couldn't, at the moment, remember what he could have possibly been upset about.
Watson laughed.
Holmes did try to cut back on what Watson called his "hovering", but there were a few things that Watson had in the past called "common courtesy" that he attempted to continue--things like allowing Watson to bathe in peace sometimes, or picking up after himself when he changed his clothes or had to pull out a collection of papers to find something. They still, of course, had sex quite frequently, but not exclusively the kind that might get Watson pregnant.
So their interactions did go back to something like normal, and while Holmes still fantasized fairly often about a pregnant Watson, the subject did not command his every waking thought as it had at first.
Several months passed this way. Holmes had a number of interesting cases in that time and Watson almost always accompanied him, though from time to time he remained behind on account of the weather disagreeing with his scarred leg.
Holmes returned on one such day with some of Watson's tobacco--he'd run low and Holmes knew he wouldn't want to go out for it--and thoughts of a nice warm bath for both of them--just a bath, unless Watson was inclined for more.
Watson met him at the door with a peculiar look on his face. As soon as the door was closed, he said, "Holmes, I've something to tell you."
Holmes clutched the packet of tobacco in his hand, completely forgetting it was intended for Watson.
Watson took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "I'm pregnant."
Holmes blinked once, twice, then fainted dead away.
Rating: R for this part, R overall
Wordcount: 6,125 this part, ~15,900 total
Characters: Holmes/Watson, Mary, Mycroft
Warnings (for whole story): mpreg, canon character death, OC death
Summary: Holmes discovers that he wants something he'd never even considered, then is given the chance to try to obtain it.
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Watson and Holmes end up having sex that night at the gypsy camp. A month or so after Holmes's death, Watson realizes that he's pregnant.
Holmes who is still concealing himself as furniture in Watson's home from time to time (maybe he needs to hide out from the bad guys from a bit..idk) begins to realize that Watson is pregnant and decides to visit more frequently just to make sure Watson and the baby are okay.
As the months pass, it gets harder and harder for Holmes to control himself when he's disguised. He just wants to reach out and comfort Watson when his back hurts or he has a cramp. Touch his stomach and kiss him and do wicked things with him because Watson pregnant is so very wonderful. He knows he can't risk Watson and he makes the decision to not visit anymore.
When Holmes returns from the "dead", he is determed to get Watson pregnant again no matter how long it takes so that he can do all things he wanted to do when he was watching Watson during his first pregnancy.
TL;DR - After AGOS, Holmes finds it harder and harder to not blow his cover when he's hiding out from Watson who is pregnant. After Holmes returns from the "dead" he's determined to get Watson pregnant again.
Originally posted 12 April-17 April 2012
Holmes drifted aimlessly through each day while Watson devoted himself to making the necessary arrangements for his return to the Baker Street rooms. In hindsight, it took Holmes far too long to remember that he could again observe Watson rather than lying about with a bad case of boredom; perhaps it was for the best that he had not resumed his work, if his mind was so impaired.
He eagerly donned the chair suit and crept into the house well before Watson woke. Watson's steps were slow and careful; he must not be sleeping well. He also never set foot in the study that day, instead spending a good deal of time up-stairs.
Holmes waited until the maid departed after teatime to sneak out of the house and hurriedly changed clothes there in Watson's shrubbery. Then he darted down the alley behind the house until he reached the cross-street; he fell in with the flow of foot-traffic and casually strolled back to Watson's street and along the pavement until he was at Watson's front door. He knocked lightly, but there was no answer. Of course.
He went around back and went in through the back door that he himself had unlocked before leaving. Watson was still upstairs, so Holmes went up to find out what he was doing.
The answer was obvious even before he caught sight of his elusive doctor: there were soft sounds of grief coming from the far dressing-room. As the nearer dressing-room was the one belonging to Watson, it was evident he had endeavored to tidy his late wife's effects and found himself caught in memories in the process.
Holmes wavered, uncertain if he would be welcome, but his foot found a creaking board and Watson's tear-choked voice called out, "Who's there?"
"It's only me," Holmes replied, coming just as far as the doorway. His eyes skimmed the room quickly, the open wardrobe and half-full trunk lending credence to his conclusions about Watson's activities. Watson was sitting on the small chair before the dressing-table, a blue dress draped over his lap. "You did say I was welcome to come to the house."
"I did," Watson agreed ruefully. "Maybe I shouldn't have." He stood and busied himself with tucking the blue dress into the trunk.
"It's going to wrinkle terribly if you pack it like that," Holmes commented.
"Why don't you do it then?" Watson snapped, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, there was no call - "
"Give it here," Holmes interrupted, crossing the distance with his hand outstretched. It was the dress Mary had worn for their first, rather brief, meeting; he set it carefully over the back of the chair and turned his attention to righting the mess Watson had made of the dresses already in the trunk.
Fortunately Mary had been fond of serviceable fabrics--easily wrinkled garments would have been a detriment for a governess--and they were easily settled into a better configuration. He had Watson hand him each remaining item from the wardrobe and he carefully packed them, saving the blue dress for last and laying it gently across the top, cushioned in tissue paper.
"Have you already done everything else?" Holmes asked after closing the lid of the full trunk.
"Yes," Watson said, sounding a bit lost. Holmes had him sit atop the trunk and stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder, while he regained his bearings. "Thank you. Her mother is coming tomorrow to pick everything up since I didn't know what to do with any of it. She offered to pack it as well, but I thought I could--thought I should--" he broke off and gasped for breath.
Holmes offered him a handkerchief and remained silent until Watson was breathing normally again. "I am sorry she's gone," he said. "She was worthy of you."
"I think that's the kindest thing you've ever said about her, Holmes." Fortunately Watson sounded like he was close to laughing rather than crying when he said it.
"She looked after you when I could not," Holmes said simply, patting Watson's shoulder and taking a step back to look at him critically. "You look terrible, old boy. Have you eaten today?"
Watson snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."
"I'll take that as a no. Does the maid leave something out for you when she leaves?"
"Usually, but I'm not hungry," Watson admitted. "All I want is a good bit of brandy."
"I'll go fetch it, then."
"I am perfectly capable of going downstairs."
"But will you manage to climb back up afterward?" Holmes asked shrewdly.
"Just go," Watson said impatiently, waving him off.
When Holmes returned, Watson had kicked off his slippers, removed his waistcoat, and was sitting against the headboard of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Holmes sat on the edge of the bed facing him, handed him a tumbler, and poured them both a generous portion from the nearly full decanter.
Watson considered the liquid for a moment, then said solemnly, "To Mary." He touched his glass to Holmes' and drained it in a single motion.
Holmes followed his lead, then poured more. Watson stared morosely at his glass, so, thinking of the cradle he'd seen wedged into a corner in Mary's dressing room, he said, "To the child I never met."
Again they emptied their glasses.
"I never would have expected that to bother you, but it does," Watson said, ruminating aloud.
"Very much," Holmes confirmed as he filled their glasses again. His hands trembled as he did so and Watson watched him with a slightly unfocused gaze; neither of them held their liquor well on empty stomachs.
They sipped in silence, which primarily consisted of Holmes watching Watson drink and faithfully refilling his tumbler, though he also worked his way through one refill--or maybe it was two . . .
When Watson spoke, his words had begun to slur. "Is that why you want another one?"
"I suppose that's part of it," Holmes said agreeably. At the moment, he could not be certain what all of his reasons were, as his mind was a bit of a muddle.
"I don't know if I can do it."
"The outcome is never guaranteed, but we can certainly try."
"I don't mean physically."
"I thought you wanted a family."
"I had one. They died." His breath hitched and he looked away from Holmes toward the empty side of the bed. "I don't know if I can endure something like that again."
"Then why come back to Baker Street? Even I will die eventually."
Watson met his gaze. "You've already died, and more than once. Having you now is . . . extra."
Suddenly Holmes was subject to a torrent of emotion that was not entirely the fault of the brandy, and he did the only thing he could do in the circumstances: he leaned forward and kissed Watson.
Watson kissed him back hungrily, reaching for him and growling with frustration when he realized he still held his tumbler of brandy. They broke apart long enough for Watson to drain his glass and for Holmes to set their glasses and the much-depleted decanter on the bedside table.
Without pulling away from Watson, Holmes shifted onto his knees and shuffled closer, then threw one leg over Watson's thighs and moved so he was kneeling astride Watson's lap.
Watson tried clumsily to remove Holmes' clothing, but he only managed half of the buttons on his shirt and the trousers thwarted him entirely. Holmes had better success with Watson's clothing, able to bare his torso and carefully expose his cock to the open air. Watson retaliated for Holmes' teasing touch by roughly stroking Holmes through his trousers, first palming him, then squeezing his balls firmly.
Holmes groaned and set about raking Watson's chest with his blunt nails and pinching his nipples. Watson moaned, momentarily releasing his grip on Holmes, who leaned down and took Watson's cock into his mouth.
Watson made an inarticulate sound and his head fell back against the headboard with a thump. When Holmes began sucking and applying his tongue, Watson's moans continued and he clutched spasmodically at the bedsheets and Holmes' disheveled hair. Holmes grinned around Watson's cock and set about making Watson howl with strategic application of lips and tongue and teeth.
All too soon Watson reached his peak, then went limp in the aftereffects of his fierce climax. Holmes sat up on his knees again, exceedingly pleased with himself, and worked Watson's trousers the rest of the way off. He also attempted to remove Watson's shirt but instead Watson grabbed him, pulling him down to lie flush against Watson's body.
Watson kissed him messily, sliding one hand down between them to again cup Holmes through his trousers. Holmes had intended to see to himself after Watson was in bed, so it didn't take much encouragement from Watson to renew his desire. He rutted against Watson's hand until the warm rush of his release dampened his trousers, Watson kissing him the entire time.
After that their kisses slackened in intensity; at length Watson murmured, "Stay until morning."
Holmes pulled away without responding and helped Watson out of his shirt. He had not planned to remain--on the contrary, he had limited his brandy intake so he could make his way home mostly unimpaired.
But as he hesitated, continuing the efforts to tuck Watson into bed, Watson's earlier depression seemed to develop before his eyes into an utter devastation that reminded him uncomfortably of his share in Watson's recent unhappiness.
"Please," Watson entreated once more when Holmes offered him one last swig of brandy.
"Yes, I'll stay," Holmes assured him, taking more brandy for himself as well.
~~~
Boxes of Watson's belongings were delivered with some regularity to Baker Street and were often accompanied by the man himself. Holmes was usually there to meet him, but sometimes he was out pursuing his own interests (he had finally notified Scotland Yard of his continued existence--and nearly gave poor Clarkie a heart attack--after Watson discovered him lurking in the study in the chair-suit for the third time and decreed that he wouldn't so much as kiss Holmes again until he started doing something productive with himself). Their visits did not last long--Holmes knew they were merely a means for Watson to reassure himself of Holmes' wellbeing--and never included anything that could have been considered improper.
To have Watson willing and yet remaining out of reach was maddening.
When the time came for Watson to sell the house and his practice, Holmes sent his brother a cryptic note as soon as the advertisement appeared in the papers. A buyer appeared on Watson's doorstep the following morning, ready and willing to pay the full price demanded, no haggling necessary.
Watson turned up at Baker Street with his remaining baggage one week later, looking both pleased and utterly perplexed. "His story seemed perfectly reasonable, but I can't help but think there is something odd about it," Watson admitted as they trudged up the stairs, Holmes preceding him with the heavier of the two bags.
"I can investigate if you'd like, but I don't see why you need concern yourself with it any longer," Holmes said dismissively, setting the bag down in Watson's room and just barely resisting the urge to tackle Watson onto the bed.
"Yes, you're right. As always," Watson said sounding resigned but with a smile on his face. He looked around his room at the boxes and crates still stacked haphazardly about. "I suppose I ought to do something with all of this."
"If you must," Holmes said, leaning against the door frame.
Watson glanced back at him, then squared his shoulders. "I must," he said resolutely.
"Suit yourself." Holmes wandered into the sitting room, stretched out on the settee with his pipe, and settled in to listen.
There were fewer exclamations than he might have expected (he had stacked some of the boxes quite poorly) and a considerable shuffling and sliding about of large items. Watson even emerged periodically and disappeared into the lumber room to store whatever he'd managed to empty.
In the afternoon, Watson suspended his efforts and insisted that Holmes join him for tea. He appeared in good spirits, but Holmes could see the signs that he was beginning to tire and decided to modify his plans for their evening--they could attend a concert another day, and staying in would increase the odds of success for the other activities he had on the agenda.
When Watson returned to his work, Holmes tended to his own. During tea he had determined the two most likely scenarios for the evening, so he prepared for both possibilities. That did not take long and he found himself at loose ends; he ended up lurking in the doorway of Watson's room, watching him without Watson knowing he was there. This watching was different than before; this time he was at full liberty to reach out to Watson should he wish to, but for now he was content to observe. The touching would come soon.
The evening papers arrived with dinner. Watson was quiet and introspective, not inclined to meaningless conversation any more than Holmes was, so they perused the papers rather than strain the comfortable silence. But in his silence, Holmes made sure to be as near to Watson as was possible, brushing his hand as they exchanged papers or passed the butter or salt, leaning close as if reading over Watson's shoulder (even though he'd already seen that paper), and sliding his foot alongside Watson's beneath the table.
Holmes was finished with food and papers well before Watson, but leaving the table would drastically reduce the odds of events going as he'd hoped. Instead of rising, he held the evening Times up as if still reading it and studied Watson over the top edge.
When Watson happened to look up and notice Holmes' gaze, he flushed and dropped his fork, which clattered to the floor. Watson bent to retrieve it, moving quickly at first but stopping abruptly partway down and proceeding slowly and with more care in picking it up and returning it to the table.
Holmes nonchalantly folded his paper and stood, moving around the table toward Watson. "Would a bath ease your aches? Or perhaps a massage?" He stopped behind Watson's chair and leaned over to speak in his ear, his lips brushing it as he murmured, "Or a massage in the bath?"
Watson shivered at the breath ghosting over his skin and swallowed with difficulty. "If you're trying to seduce me--" he started, and stopped when Holmes pressed a kiss to his temple. "It's working," he said breathlessly.
"Splendid. Come along, then." Holmes moved next to Watson's chair and held out his hand.
The bathing room stood ready thanks to Holmes' earlier preparation; all he had to do was turn on the taps while Watson undressed and gingerly climbed into the tub. Holmes stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist, then knelt behind Watson and unstoppered a flask of oil.
Watson sighed when Holmes smoothed oil over his skin and began to knead his shoulders. Holmes was thorough, working down Watson's arms and back up again before proceeding down Watson's back. His shoulder and arm twinged painfully at the awkward angle; a different approach was needed. He slipped into the tub behind Watson, tucking his legs around Watson's waist. Thus positioned, and with Watson leaning forward and holding himself above the water with elbows braced on the lip of the tub, Holmes was able to give the entire length of Watson's back the attention it deserved.
Once Holmes' hands had devoted sufficient effort to the muscles that Watson no longer held himself so stiffly, his touch went from soothing to feeling, sweeping lightly over Watson's slick skin as Holmes leaned forward and buried his nose in the hair at Watson's nape. He peppered kisses along Watson's neck, licking each knob of bone, then dragged his mouth to that spot where neck joined shoulder and nipped lightly.
While his mouth was thus occupied by marking Watson's skin, he embraced Watson and allowed his hands free rein over Watson's torso. Watson leaned back against his chest with a sigh, his head resting on Holmes' left shoulder, his face turning toward Holmes'. Holmes heeded the wordless request and kissed him messily, fervently, deeply, all the while stroking Watson's chest and stomach, moaning into Watson's mouth with the pleasure of finally being allowed to explore him properly.
Holmes felt himself growing painfully hard and he couldn't resist twitching his hips to rub himself against Watson's back. Watson was panting against him, and one of Watson's hands guided his hand down to touch Watson's straining cock. He grasped it firmly and caressed its length, savoring the sound of Watson's groan and feeling his own cock jerk in response.
It was all too easy to bring Watson to completion and, by extension, himself, as the thrill of having Watson shivering to pieces in his arms quickly undid him. He slumped back against the tub and Watson lay limply against him, both endeavoring to regain their breath.
Holmes continued idly drawing his fingers over Watson's skin, so he both felt and heard it when Watson spoke. "You planned this."
"I anticipated it," Holmes corrected. "There is also oil in the bedroom."
"Hm. And what prompted such amorous behavior? This sort of thing is more along my line than yours."
Holmes licked Watson's earlobe and smirked when Watson shuddered. "Welcome home," he said huskily. "I have missed you."
By the time they cleaned and dried themselves, both were more than ready to resume where they had left off, this time in the comfort of Holmes' bed. After much shifting and rolling and one suggestion turned down by Watson, they ended up kneeling, Watson clutching the headboard while Holmes took him from behind, one hand on Watson's cock and the other between his legs, two fingers buried in the slick opening that had birthed their child--and would do so again, if Holmes had anything to say about the matter, despite Watson's earlier refusal to allow him to penetrate him in that manner.
It was quite late before they were finally ready to sleep, tangled in damp and sticky sheets and one another.
That night set the tone for those that followed; while they freely and frequently enjoyed each other's bodies, the one thing that Holmes most desired was strictly forbidden. When he pressed Watson on the subject, Watson would say only that he was still thinking about Holmes' request.
In all other respects, life settled into something resembling the normal state that had existed before . . . well, Before. They--well, Holmes--often preferred to act as if nothing had come between Before and the present, especially once Watson agreed to help Holmes on cases from time to time.
What bothered Holmes was not that Watson didn't accompany him every time--though he would have rather Watson did--but that he could not predict when Watson would say yes or no. Watson's behavior varied wildly with his moods, which also varied wildly depending on the date on the calendar as well as several external stimuli, but Watson's presence on a case seemed to be independent of his mood. Holmes puzzled over this, spending a good deal of time in the Study of Watson, but was not able to draw any conclusions that held true.
Eventually he even asked Watson about it one time when they were in the pleasant post-coital haze, hoping Watson would be forthcoming. Watson merely laughed and teased him for not figuring it out.
Watson also refused to speak on the subject of having another child, but he continually rebuffed Holmes' attempts to have sex in that manner, so that could be considered an answer of sorts. It just wasn't the one Holmes wanted, and he was determined to pester Watson until he received a different answer. (That his different answer might come in the form of Watson pushing him away entirely was something he preferred not to dwell upon.)
The months passed quickly and Holmes knew the anniversary of Mary's death--and that of their daughter? Had they died on the same day? He'd never thought to ask--drew near by a shift in Watson's mood. He became more melancholy and more prone to leave on his own early in the morning, remaining out until evening and returning home with grass-stained knees and a tear-streaked face. When Holmes witnessed his return from such a day, he wordlessly helped Watson from his clothes and into bed, brought him tea, and curled around him protectively.
Then one morning Holmes woke before dawn to find Watson already gone. He hurriedly dressed and checked the calendar; The Day had come.
It was a matter of only a moment's thought to realize where Watson had disappeared to and, after quickly checking a newspaper scrap tucked into the back of the last volume of his commonplace book, he followed.
It was not difficult to find Watson once he arrived at the graveyard, he being the only visitor at such an ungodly hour. Watson knelt before a small grey stone with a smaller one tucked against it; the larger of the two bore Mary's inscription, while the smaller bore just a first name.
Holmes joined Watson in his vigil and, during the ensuing hours as the sun crept carefully into the sky, Watson haltingly spoke of their illness, how the baby had not fussed as her temperature soared and her breathing became labored, how Mary slipped away in the night and he at first thought her stillness was his own fevered imagination, how the baby stopped breathing as she lay in his arms and he could not remember what to do so he just held her until someone took her away, how he nearly succumbed to his own fever and refused for two days to believe that they were truly dead. He had never been willing to speak of these things earlier, and Holmes listened with rapt attention.
When Watson had talked himself hoarse and the position of the sun signaled it was midday, Holmes coaxed him to return to Baker Street and he made no objection.
The afternoon was spent in the sitting room only so they could have easy access to the sideboard and the liquor it held. There may have been tears involved as well, but that could have been the influence of the brandy. And the claret. And the whisky he hadn't remembered was there . . .
When they finally collapsed into bed quite early in the evening, Watson was nearly asleep from the combined effects of excessive alcohol and grief. Holmes flopped down next to him, staring at him for a moment before demanding, "Tell me about her."
Watson dragged his eyelids open. "Who? Oh, Shirley?" At Holmes' nod, he sighed and closed his eyes again. "She was perfect. She looked nothing like you . . . just as well, since we hoped to pass her off as ours . . ." His words were slurred and sometimes were separated by several breaths. "But she could stare at you and it was like she could see into you. It was uncanny, and reminded me so much of you . . ."
He began snoring soon after trailing off the last time, and Holmes let him be. Holmes soon followed Watson into sleep, thinking about blond and blue-eyed children that looked just like Watson.
~~~
Watson continued wearing his mourning clothes for nearly a week after he could have returned to his usual wardrobe. He said he needed to ease into the idea more gradually; Holmes suspected he was using the time to find and reclaim all of the items that Holmes had 'borrowed' while he wasn't wearing them. Several things were missing from his drawers that had been there since Watson moved back in.
The day that changed everything started out quite badly. To begin with, Holmes was just about to sheath himself in Watson's welcoming backside when Lestrade came calling.
Lestrade dragged him off on a case just outside London that turned out to be an exceedingly minor matter that was resolved in less than ten minutes and was most definitely not worth the hour-long train ride each way.
This alone was enough to put him in a foul mood, but when taken in combination with the fact that he and Watson had not had sex in over a fortnight until their attempt that morning and they were interrupted for such an unworthy case, well, to say Holmes was frustrated would be a vast understatement. Murderously annoyed might be closer to the mark and Lestrade was lucky he didn't end up in the Thames.
Holmes maintained his composure on the long trip home by consoling himself that he and Watson could resume where they had left off when he returned. But when he arrived, Watson was absent. Mrs. Holmes assured him that Watson would be back by dinner, but it was only one o'clock and and he wanted Watson now. He flung himself on the settee and had a good sulk.
He was on his feet as soon as he heard Watson's familiar tread upon the stairs, moving quickly as if heeding Holmes' unspoken demand for his presence. Holmes remained in place long enough for Watson to step into the room and close the door, then he threw himself at Watson, pushing him back against the door with a thump and mashing his mouth against Watson's with messy enthusiasm. Watson clutched him tightly when he pulled away long enough to lock the door.
"Where have you been?" Holmes demanded, nipping Watson's collarbone through his shirt with each word.
"I had to see to a few things," Watson gasped, trying and failing to capture Holmes' lips with his own. "I thought you'd be gone longer. Was it really that bad?"
"Worse," Holmes said grimly, grinding his hips against Watson and unbuttoning Watson's shirt. "You wear too many clothes."
"I do not." Watson began to free Holmes' buttons.
"When will you get rid of all this black?" Holmes asked with distaste as he pushed Watson's jacket and waistcoat off his shoulders and into a heap on the floor.
"Tomorrow," Watson said, wrestling Holmes out of his shirt. "That's why I had to go out--I find I'm missing some items. Like this shirt." He waved the offending article in Holmes face, then let it fall to the floor. He stepped away from the door, grabbing Holmes' wrist and tugging him toward the bedroom. "Speaking of clothes, I want to show you something."
"Why are we talking about clothes when we could be naked?" Holmes asked petulantly as he was reluctantly pulled along.
"Because I found these and thought you'd like to see them." Watson propelled him toward the bed where several shirts and pairs of trousers were laid out.
Holmes couldn't think at first; the warmth of Watson beside him quite effectively distracted him from all other things. Then he realized the clothes were of a more generous cut than Watson usually wore and he immediately thought of the large shirt he'd seen Watson wear during his pregnancy.
Watson whispered in his ear, "My answer is yes."
Holmes shivered. "You are certain."
"Absolutely."
Holmes' mouth went dry and his hands shook as he tried to remove his trousers. "You, on the bed, now," he choked out.
Watson understood and finished undressing himself. He kissed Holmes as they advanced toward the bed, then Watson was stretched out atop the clothes.
Holmes pounced, clambering over him and kissing him deeply as he settled between Watson's legs. Watson was so very slick with arousal and so very warm and tight around him that Holmes could hardly bear it. Watson was similarly undone, crying out as he was breached and hooking a leg over Holmes' legs to keep him close.
They rocked frantically, kissing and groping as their hips canted together and brought them ever closer to release. Holmes surrendered first, driving one last thrust deep into Watson before coming with a cry. Watson followed immediately thereafter, clenching around Holmes as he spilled onto their stomachs.
Holmes relaxed atop Watson, feeling quite satisfied with himself and the state of affairs. "Why did it take you so long to decide?" he asked languidly.
"So long? No, I'd decided within a week. But I also decided that we couldn't try until my period of mourning was over."
"And you didn't tell me." Holmes bit down hard the nearest patch of skin, which happened to be the area where the neck meets the shoulder.
Watson nearly threw him off as he jerked in pain and yelled. He swatted the back of Holmes' head half-heartedly and said, "That is exactly why I didn't tell you sooner. You have poor impulse control, and I knew that as soon as I said anything, you'd be trying to talk your way into my pants."
"Is that so wrong?" Holmes asked coyly, pressing kisses to the bite mark he'd left.
"No, but it's going to be bad enough, us having a child. We didn't need a full-fledged scandal on our hands. You'd never be able to work with the police again."
"Rubbish. We would have been fine."
"If I turned out to be pregnant before my mourning was over? It's not a crime, certainly, but no respectable person would countenance that."
Holmes huffed a noise of disagreement and set about shutting Watson up by kissing him, thoroughly and without interruption, until they were both ready for another round. Holmes groaned to feel himself stiffening up while still inside of Watson; evidently it was quite pleasurable for Watson as well, as he quickly reached his climax and took Holmes with him.
After they had been sprawled in silence for several minutes to recover, Watson said lazily, "I need a bath."
Holmes carefully pulled himself away from Watson and gingerly crawled to the edge of the bed. "And you would like to share?" he asked hopefully.
"Sure. You can rub my back," Watson said with a cocky grin.
Now that Watson had agreed to his request, Holmes devoted most of his considerable energies to the care and feeding of his Watson. When they were out, he ensured Watson had his meals even if he himself didn't care to eat. When they were home, he was eager to do things for Watson--fetching things, helping him dress or don his coat and hat.
And, of course, they had sex quite frequently, Holmes all the while hoping that Watson would soon announce their efforts had been successful. When Watson bled for the first time after they began trying, Holmes felt acute disappointment, almost grief, and was irrationally annoyed when Watson didn't seem to share his disappointment.
Watson bore Holmes' attentions patiently at first--he even seemed amused--but when Holmes commented indignantly at his apparent nonchalance concerning his failure to conceive (which, admittedly, may not have been wise to mention while the man was hormonally imbalanced), Watson scolded him sharply and at length before storming out without his hat.
Holmes had a good deal of time to reflect on how poorly the conversation went, as Watson did not return for hours. He contemplated whether to apologize--and if so, how--and decided to wait and see what Watson's mood was like when he returned.
It was raining heavily when Watson returned, but at first he refused the towel Holmes tried to hand him.
"Watson-"
"No. Just let me ask one thing."
He looked uncertain and almost small as he stood dripping on the carpet just inside the door. Holmes stared at him and waited for him to continue.
"If I couldn't have a child, had never had a child, would you still -- would we --" he gestured helplessly toward Holmes then toward himself as he visibly struggled to find the words.
"Would I still want you? Is that the question?"
Watson nodded emphatically. "Yes. Would you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes scoffed, trying again to hand Watson the towel. "Of course I would. You're Watson."
Watson took a deep breath and the towel. "Good. Then I'd like to stop talking about it. Your behavior has been ridiculous and it's all quite unnecessary. I will tell you should our . . . efforts . . . prove fruitful," he said as he briskly rubbed his head with the towel and removed his wet shoes and socks.
"Yes, of course, if that's what you prefer." Holmes wasn't quite certain how to interpret the request. Had he done something wrong?
Watson sighed impatiently. "Oh, don't look like that. I need things to be normal, that's all. And you being considerate isn't what I'd call normal."
"Perhaps I reformed while I was away," Holmes said, feeling somewhat insulted.
Watson made a derisive noise. "This is only a recent occurrence, so I hardly find that likely."
"Next time you won't be getting a towel, then." Holmes threw himself into his armchair, resisting the urge to pout visibly. It wouldn't do to let Watson know his words had gotten to him.
"Don't be absurd." Watson stood in front of Holmes' armchair, though Holmes studiously refused to look directly at him. "Do you want to help me get out of these wet clothes?" he coaxed.
"No," Holmes said resolutely, crossing his arms so he would not have the urge to reach out.
"For heaven's sake." Watson disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door with a bang.
After a few minutes he emerged in his dressing gown and a dry shirt and trousers. He returned to the spot in front of Holmes' chair, but this time he bent over so his face was near Holmes' and his hands were on the arms to keep him from escaping.
"Stop pouting," he murmured, then kissed Holmes gently.
Watson kissing him was the one thing Holmes could not resist, and Watson knew it, the bastard. So Holmes kissed him back, as Watson knew he would; then things took a turn that was not as common but was no less appreciated for it.
While Watson was kissing Holmes, he was also unfastening Holmes' trousers, which Holmes didn't realize until somehow his cock was in Watson's hand being expertly stroked. When Watson stopped kissing Holmes, Holmes started to protest but was halted by that wonderful mouth lavishing attention on his cock instead. It was quite worth the lack of kissing.
Holmes bit his hand rather than cry out as Watson brought him to the brink, then swallowed his release. His hand was still in his mouth when Watson finished tucking him back in his trousers, so Watson gently pulled it away and pressed a kiss to the teeth marks. "Feel better now?"
"Hm?" He couldn't, at the moment, remember what he could have possibly been upset about.
Watson laughed.
Holmes did try to cut back on what Watson called his "hovering", but there were a few things that Watson had in the past called "common courtesy" that he attempted to continue--things like allowing Watson to bathe in peace sometimes, or picking up after himself when he changed his clothes or had to pull out a collection of papers to find something. They still, of course, had sex quite frequently, but not exclusively the kind that might get Watson pregnant.
So their interactions did go back to something like normal, and while Holmes still fantasized fairly often about a pregnant Watson, the subject did not command his every waking thought as it had at first.
Several months passed this way. Holmes had a number of interesting cases in that time and Watson almost always accompanied him, though from time to time he remained behind on account of the weather disagreeing with his scarred leg.
Holmes returned on one such day with some of Watson's tobacco--he'd run low and Holmes knew he wouldn't want to go out for it--and thoughts of a nice warm bath for both of them--just a bath, unless Watson was inclined for more.
Watson met him at the door with a peculiar look on his face. As soon as the door was closed, he said, "Holmes, I've something to tell you."
Holmes clutched the packet of tobacco in his hand, completely forgetting it was intended for Watson.
Watson took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "I'm pregnant."
Holmes blinked once, twice, then fainted dead away.