Sherlock Holmes: Medical Firsts {mpreg}
Name: Medical Firsts
Writer: copycatgirl
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson, Holmes/Adler
Warning(s): Male/male romance, mpreg and sexual implications.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement or offence is intended by this story.
Written for the sherlockkink meme!
Medical Firsts
It's certainly not what Holmes is expecting, because Holmes isn't expecting anything.
His professional, working relationship with Watson, and the embarrassing, vivid dreams that make him wake up with blood rushing to his face- and elsewhere- well, in his head they were quite different, quite separate things. That is, until the night Watson sits moodily in his chair for a good thirty-six minutes before he responds to Holmes' badgering him, in the somewhat surprising manner of seizing the detective by the shoulders and pressing a firm kiss to a surprised mouth. Holmes' mind goes Ah, and for the first time in- maybe his entire life- he stops thinking and-
And when Holmes awakes the next morning, he is quite alone in Watson's bed, but that is rather alright because anything else would mean acknowledging, accepting and God forbid talking about the previous night, which is a thought Holmes just cannot compute. It’s easier to throw himself into something else- into a case, into a problem that can be solved in a few days with a little science and logic, because that’s the balance, that’s how problems should be, devoid of emotional weight or volatile affections.
Only Holmes can’t stop thinking about- you see, I deduced that it was Mrs. Smythe that dropped the handkerchief from the- Watson’s tongue on his teeth- She left footprints from when she discarded of the photographs in the coal cellar- warm hands on his hips- it’s simply elementary! Elementary.
*
Holmes feels sick. Twenty minutes past seven, near-exactly, every morning, the first rush of cold sweat awakes him, throat parched, chest burning and he knows before long he’ll be retching over the lavatory, attempting to bring up the non-existent contents of an empty stomach. But once he’s prescribed himself a day of flopping around listlessly, wrapped in a few blankets and trying to convince Mrs. Hudson to tend to his every whim- he’s fine by eleven o clock. He’s more than fine, he’s alive, he’s restless, full of a nervous energy and so hungry. He alarms even himself with the way he’s been eating- he’s never really taken pleasure in food before, it was a necessity, an annoyance more than once, and the idea of eating meals is easily forgotten when he’s wrapped up in a particularly good case. But now, everything tastes so good, every flavour is richer and stronger and he can eat and eat until exhaustion hits him square in the face, and he sleeps like a child until the morning’s nausea greets him.
It’s so damned cyclical that it bores him. He’s a man of habits, that he knows, but never has he fallen into a routine so quickly, strongly. He constantly tries to break this habit, and there’s plenty of things to drive him to do so- he knows his being of no use to anyone at all, and if there’s one thing he loathes it’s being pointless, and his trousers are getting irritatingly tight around his waist- but he can’t stop. And he’s frightening himself.
“Watson?” he says hoarsely, one evening, cradling his pipe but not smoking it. Watson lowers the paper he’s reading and looks at Holmes.
“Yes?”
“I… I think I might be ill, Watson.”
*
Watson’s hands are cold this time. Holmes feels horribly exposed with his shirt off, doesn’t like the way that Watson’s eyes flicker for a moment over the slight curve to Holmes’ stomach before he turns back to the heavy volumes on his desk, flicking the pages desperately whilst trying to retain some of his composure.
“Holmes,” he begins slowly, not meeting the other man’s eyes, “Do you remember that beastly concoction that you tested on yourself a while ago? The one that was intended for- what was the damned thing even for, Holmes?” Holmes gazes at the ceiling, pretending that he has to remember when he knows full well to what Watson is referring.
“That, Watson, will have been the - rather silly, really… I intended it to be treatment for the common cold, but I admit I made some fatal error- it, er, proved to be rather more useful for increasing a man’s… potency and fertility.” Watson swallows.
"Well, I think it must have had some side effect… I’m rather baffled by your symptoms, Holmes, to be truthful. It simply doesn’t add up… it’s impossible.” Holmes clicks his neck, bored of sitting still now.
“Out with it, man! What could possibly be so unspeakable?”
“Holmes, you are- that is, you appear to be- pregnant.” Holmes raises an eyebrow.
“Watson, I’ve been fantastically ill for nigh on two weeks now, so I’d certainly appreciate less of the misplaced humour and more evidence of your degree in medicine.” A muscle twitches near Watson’s pursed lips. Holmes gags. “But- that’s not possible, Watson- don’t be ridiculous! Come now, is this some spiteful joke about my- excess girth? Watson?”
His eyes are pleading now, begging Watson to admit he’s being stupid, he’s trying to be funny, he’s wrong, he’s wrong. It’s always scared him, fainting. Holmes hates fainting.
*
When Holmes comes around, he finds himself tucked up neatly in his own bed, the blankets up to his chin, and there is a slice of buttered bread and a glass of water on the bedside cabinet. His first thought is Watson must have carried me here, and that gives him a little warm feeling in the centre of his chest, until he remembers. What it was that Watson said. What it is that is wrong with him. Holmes bolts the door and remains for as long as he is able. He soon becomes hungry, but doesn’t give in. He’s thirsty, but doesn’t even attempt to sneak out of the room for a moment, even though he knows that the time of day means Watson is making his rounds.
It isn’t those needs that eventually force upon the door and send a tired, disorientated and so terribly confused Holmes stumble out in the house. He doesn’t really understand what this need is. It’s new, and unwanted, that much he knows. On he feels consumed by this horrible empty feeling within him… a loneliness he’s never felt before, even when quite definitely alone. Loneliness rarely bothers him; he likes his solitude, loves the silence and chance to think that being on his own provides. He does want to be alone, now. Just, alone with Watson.
“Ah, you’ve surfaced, have you?” Watson asks, desperately trying to make light of the situation and ignores the blue-grey bags under Holmes’ eyes. Holmes looks at him for a moment, then tosses himself down into his chair, making to light his pipe. Watson clears his throat tentatively.
“Yes?” Holmes asks.
“How are you feeling?”
Holmes cannot think of a time he has felt worse.
“I feel on the right road to recovery, thank you, Watson.”
“Recovery?” Watson asks gently.
“From this odd illness. Who knows what it is, but as long as I am rid of it soon, I’m content with the mystery of it all.”
“Oh.” Watson says softly. He reaches out and places a hand on the other man’s knee. “I know you must be feeling- well, I’m still in shock myself... you- we- need to talk about it, Holmes. We need to sort this thing out- decided on a course of action. You need to clear your head, Holmes. You have a very serious decision to make.”
“Watson.” Holmes rasps, “Stop this nonsense.”
“Holmes, you have to face the- ”
“Watson! You said yourself that it is impossible!” the detective cries vehemently, “It can’t be- it isn’t happening! I’ll go away for a while, get some country air and curtail my odd diet. I’ll be fine. I am fine. God, Watson, don’t you understand? This cannot happen! Because I...” he chokes on the words, “I cannot let it.”
“Holmes,” Watson soothes.
“I would rather be dead.” Holmes’ eyes are full of tears, each one wrenching Watson’s heart. The doctor wraps his arms around his friend, but Holmes shifts awkwardly and they both pause. Holmes breathes heavily, too aware of the fact that if he moves slightly, he will be able to kiss to Watson again, achieve all that he dreams about these days.
“You would rather be dead?” Watson murmurs.
“Than impact upon your life in this hideous way... yes.”
Watson wants to say it, but daren’t.
“But why? Why don’t you want to hurt me, punish me for this? This is my fault. I’m the one destroying your life, not the other way around.”
“I couldn’t bare... to see you suffer on my account. Watson, I...I...”
“I know... I do too... you, I mean.”
“You are talking gibberish, Watson.”
“Christ, Holmes, I love you. I... this, It’s not hideous. In the oddest way... I think it’s beautiful.”
"Well... then... I could. If you wanted..."
Watson looks into his eyes. Holmes stutters, "I'm sorry- I was never a master of expressing feeling-"
And Watson claims Holmes' lips in an effusive kiss, as though sealing the bargain.
*
Irene cannot stop laughing for an irritatingly long time.
“Sherlock Holmes!” she shrieks, “Mother! Holmes and Holmes Jr! Or shall it be Watson Jr? Oh, how outrageous! Imagine the scandal if the news of this broke! Our finest detective, a sodomite! A sodomite who is with child!”
“Of course, we trust you will remain entirely confidential about this, Irene,” Watson says, grinding his teeth with annoyance. She grins wickedly.
“You should know not to trust me!” She exclaims.
“Quite,” Holmes replies, one hand rested on his stomach, “In which case, perhaps you shouldn’t have trusted me with what you told me, quite some time ago now... fascinating story, I’m sure the authorities would delight in hearing it.”
Irene stops, about to speak, and then shuts her mouth again. She smirks.
“Oh, alright. But why have you brought me here to tell me this? Because you adore my company?”
“Actually, Holmes has a favour to ask of you.”
“Oh?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“I need you to pretend that you are pregnant.”
“I beg your pardon?” She enquires with wide eyes. Holmes wriggles a bit in his chair.
“I need you to pretend that you are with child... so that when the time comes... and Watson and I have to care for the baby... when people inquire, we shall say it is yours and mine, and that you abandoned it with me, so I must care for it.”
“What a clever lie,” She comments, “Clever yet predictable in equal measure.”
“Come now, Adler!” Watson scoffs, “I’m sure nothing in this situation is capable of being predictable anymore!”
She rolls her dark eyes dramatically and sighs.
“So, what must I do? Cease being a world-class criminal for the remaining eight months? Wear awkward, unfashionable garments to make myself appear as corpulent as you do?”
Holmes crosses his arms over himself shyly.
“Pay her no attention, Holmes,” Watson tells him quickly, “You look fine, I promise you.”
“He doesn’t!” Irene shrieks, thoroughly enjoying herself, “He looks very odd. He looks comical!”
“Hush, Adler!” Watson barks, “Why do you wish to upset him?!”
“She’s not upsetting me.” Holmes interjects quietly. “I am not disturbed by her.”
She gets to her feet.
“I will do this if I must. Though, I must say,” she fixes her eyes on Holmes for a moment, “I had always thought, Sherlock, that when you had
a child, I would be carrying it.” And she leaves in a ruffle of skirts before either of them can think of something to say.
“I didn’t think.” Watson says, finally.
“I did.” Holmes replies, “I’m sorry.”
And he tucks his knees into his chest and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the afternoon.
*
Holmes is on the floor.
“Get up.” Watson tells him.
“I need a case.” He moans. Watson rolls his eyes, tired of going through this rigmarole all over again.
“You can’t, Sherlock. I’m sorry, it’s just too dangerous. Even if no one enquired about your appearance, you could still get yourself hurt.”
"I shall die of boredom, here," he announces loudly.
"Is that a prediction or a promise?" Watson teases gently. Holmes flops down onto the sofa.
"Both," he wails, as he buries his head in Watson's overcoat, which is draped there. Watson crouches beside him and gives a kiss to the frown.
"It will be worth it. You know it will."
Holmes mutters something and falls asleep almost at once.
*
"The world wonders what illness has befallen you. What has become of Sherlock Holmes? I join in the speculation from time to time, for the amusement of it all, when I'm not griping over "my poor back". My favourite is the horrific return of the black death, brought over by a desperate client from a foreign land."
"Did you bring me anything to read? I'm making my way through Watson's medical journals and they're driving me insane."
Irene sets down her teacup on her lap. She reaches into the (probably stolen) gladstone bag at her feet and tosses a slim volume to Holmes.
"I brought you some Wilde," she explains, "It can shock that baby out of you."
"For one, no dull romance can shock me; secondly, it is a number of months until this child is ready to be born, sadly, and even then I trust no one but Watson to operate." Holmes snaps. She wrinkles her nose.
"I assure you, it's not dull. And do spare me the details. I must say though, you do look remarkable." He snorts.
"That is an interesting insult, even from you."
"I mean what I say. There's something about your appearance that strikes awe in me. I mean it." Holmes looks at her steadily at her, not knowing how to respond. She smiles, and reaches out a hand.
"May I?" she asks. He's about to ask what she means, but then he realises, and a quick thrill races through his body because he's realising how real this all is, and for maybe the first time, it's a good thing; not a bad thing, not something he can handle, just, but something that is actually good. That terrifies and excites him in equal measure, so he nods. Her hand traces over the curve of the bump lightly, then pauses at the rise of his stomach and rests there.
"You look beautiful." she whispers.
"Irene... the way I feel about you... astounds me. But... I..." he tries, hoarse.
"I know." She takes his hand and raises it to her lips. "I love you, Sherlock. That's why I'm letting John take you. I know you love him. And if the best I can do is give you to the person you do love..."
"Thank you." he murmurs.
And it kicks for the first time and he yelps and she laughs.
*
"This is stupid." Holmes states bitingly one evening.
"What is?" Watson asks patiently, spooning some horrid medicine into Holmes' mouth.
"This! This entire thing. It's ridiculous." He makes to punch his own stomach but Watson catches his hand automatically and places it down onto the bed.
"Now don't be silly, Sherlock."
"Don't speak to me as if I'm a child refusing to put on his Sunday best! I don't understand how you can remain so calm about the whole
thing, Watson!"
"What would you prefer, Holmes? Would you like me to scream, and cry; to try and fight it and ignore it? Would you like me to take you away and have you examined and studied? Or perhaps you would like me to terminate it tonight? And then let's pretend nothing ever happened. You can marry Adler, if you like, and live in a cottage with fine china and lace doillies. And then she can bear the children, and everything will be normal and safe. Would you like that?"
"Don't be absurd, of course I wouldn't," Holmes mutters.
"Then please don't refer to our situation as 'stupid'!" he strokes Holmes' hair, "You know, I've written so much about you, even though I can never publish it. It's incredibly frustrating that this has to be a secret. You, Sherlock, are a medical first."
"Fancy that," Holmes says dryly. Watson kisses him carefully, both hands on his protruding stomach. Holmes shifts beneath him and tilts his head, reaching up to grab at Watson's shirt, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss. And then they're tugging off one another's clothes, and gasping for air, and kissing and touching and tasting and-
And Holmes is so happy and scared and excited and everything that he's scared his heart might explode.
*
It's agony. It's so unspeakably painful and Watson is working as fast as he can but Holmes doesn't think it's fast enough. There's a roaring in his head and Give me the anesthetic now, man! and he can't help but think that he is dying.
But, in the end, he isn't. This isn't death, it's life.
*
It's an odd little thing, tiny and funny-coloured and squawking.
Holmes doesn't enquire after the baby straight away, when he wakes up from the anesthetic. He inspects the stitches across his tummy.
"You've done a good job, John." he manages faintly.
"As have you." Watson beams. The baby is wrapped in cloth now, slightly more human-looking but still making an amazing din. Watson rocks it gently. Holmes stares, mesmerised.
"Is it a..?" he trails off.
"A little girl." Watson whispers, tears in his eyes. Holmes takes his daughter into his arms, and she stops crying.
"Hello," he says, and the world is still.
- Fin-
Writer: copycatgirl
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson, Holmes/Adler
Warning(s): Male/male romance, mpreg and sexual implications.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement or offence is intended by this story.
Written for the sherlockkink meme!
Medical Firsts
It's certainly not what Holmes is expecting, because Holmes isn't expecting anything.
His professional, working relationship with Watson, and the embarrassing, vivid dreams that make him wake up with blood rushing to his face- and elsewhere- well, in his head they were quite different, quite separate things. That is, until the night Watson sits moodily in his chair for a good thirty-six minutes before he responds to Holmes' badgering him, in the somewhat surprising manner of seizing the detective by the shoulders and pressing a firm kiss to a surprised mouth. Holmes' mind goes Ah, and for the first time in- maybe his entire life- he stops thinking and-
And when Holmes awakes the next morning, he is quite alone in Watson's bed, but that is rather alright because anything else would mean acknowledging, accepting and God forbid talking about the previous night, which is a thought Holmes just cannot compute. It’s easier to throw himself into something else- into a case, into a problem that can be solved in a few days with a little science and logic, because that’s the balance, that’s how problems should be, devoid of emotional weight or volatile affections.
Only Holmes can’t stop thinking about- you see, I deduced that it was Mrs. Smythe that dropped the handkerchief from the- Watson’s tongue on his teeth- She left footprints from when she discarded of the photographs in the coal cellar- warm hands on his hips- it’s simply elementary! Elementary.
*
Holmes feels sick. Twenty minutes past seven, near-exactly, every morning, the first rush of cold sweat awakes him, throat parched, chest burning and he knows before long he’ll be retching over the lavatory, attempting to bring up the non-existent contents of an empty stomach. But once he’s prescribed himself a day of flopping around listlessly, wrapped in a few blankets and trying to convince Mrs. Hudson to tend to his every whim- he’s fine by eleven o clock. He’s more than fine, he’s alive, he’s restless, full of a nervous energy and so hungry. He alarms even himself with the way he’s been eating- he’s never really taken pleasure in food before, it was a necessity, an annoyance more than once, and the idea of eating meals is easily forgotten when he’s wrapped up in a particularly good case. But now, everything tastes so good, every flavour is richer and stronger and he can eat and eat until exhaustion hits him square in the face, and he sleeps like a child until the morning’s nausea greets him.
It’s so damned cyclical that it bores him. He’s a man of habits, that he knows, but never has he fallen into a routine so quickly, strongly. He constantly tries to break this habit, and there’s plenty of things to drive him to do so- he knows his being of no use to anyone at all, and if there’s one thing he loathes it’s being pointless, and his trousers are getting irritatingly tight around his waist- but he can’t stop. And he’s frightening himself.
“Watson?” he says hoarsely, one evening, cradling his pipe but not smoking it. Watson lowers the paper he’s reading and looks at Holmes.
“Yes?”
“I… I think I might be ill, Watson.”
*
Watson’s hands are cold this time. Holmes feels horribly exposed with his shirt off, doesn’t like the way that Watson’s eyes flicker for a moment over the slight curve to Holmes’ stomach before he turns back to the heavy volumes on his desk, flicking the pages desperately whilst trying to retain some of his composure.
“Holmes,” he begins slowly, not meeting the other man’s eyes, “Do you remember that beastly concoction that you tested on yourself a while ago? The one that was intended for- what was the damned thing even for, Holmes?” Holmes gazes at the ceiling, pretending that he has to remember when he knows full well to what Watson is referring.
“That, Watson, will have been the - rather silly, really… I intended it to be treatment for the common cold, but I admit I made some fatal error- it, er, proved to be rather more useful for increasing a man’s… potency and fertility.” Watson swallows.
"Well, I think it must have had some side effect… I’m rather baffled by your symptoms, Holmes, to be truthful. It simply doesn’t add up… it’s impossible.” Holmes clicks his neck, bored of sitting still now.
“Out with it, man! What could possibly be so unspeakable?”
“Holmes, you are- that is, you appear to be- pregnant.” Holmes raises an eyebrow.
“Watson, I’ve been fantastically ill for nigh on two weeks now, so I’d certainly appreciate less of the misplaced humour and more evidence of your degree in medicine.” A muscle twitches near Watson’s pursed lips. Holmes gags. “But- that’s not possible, Watson- don’t be ridiculous! Come now, is this some spiteful joke about my- excess girth? Watson?”
His eyes are pleading now, begging Watson to admit he’s being stupid, he’s trying to be funny, he’s wrong, he’s wrong. It’s always scared him, fainting. Holmes hates fainting.
*
When Holmes comes around, he finds himself tucked up neatly in his own bed, the blankets up to his chin, and there is a slice of buttered bread and a glass of water on the bedside cabinet. His first thought is Watson must have carried me here, and that gives him a little warm feeling in the centre of his chest, until he remembers. What it was that Watson said. What it is that is wrong with him. Holmes bolts the door and remains for as long as he is able. He soon becomes hungry, but doesn’t give in. He’s thirsty, but doesn’t even attempt to sneak out of the room for a moment, even though he knows that the time of day means Watson is making his rounds.
It isn’t those needs that eventually force upon the door and send a tired, disorientated and so terribly confused Holmes stumble out in the house. He doesn’t really understand what this need is. It’s new, and unwanted, that much he knows. On he feels consumed by this horrible empty feeling within him… a loneliness he’s never felt before, even when quite definitely alone. Loneliness rarely bothers him; he likes his solitude, loves the silence and chance to think that being on his own provides. He does want to be alone, now. Just, alone with Watson.
“Ah, you’ve surfaced, have you?” Watson asks, desperately trying to make light of the situation and ignores the blue-grey bags under Holmes’ eyes. Holmes looks at him for a moment, then tosses himself down into his chair, making to light his pipe. Watson clears his throat tentatively.
“Yes?” Holmes asks.
“How are you feeling?”
Holmes cannot think of a time he has felt worse.
“I feel on the right road to recovery, thank you, Watson.”
“Recovery?” Watson asks gently.
“From this odd illness. Who knows what it is, but as long as I am rid of it soon, I’m content with the mystery of it all.”
“Oh.” Watson says softly. He reaches out and places a hand on the other man’s knee. “I know you must be feeling- well, I’m still in shock myself... you- we- need to talk about it, Holmes. We need to sort this thing out- decided on a course of action. You need to clear your head, Holmes. You have a very serious decision to make.”
“Watson.” Holmes rasps, “Stop this nonsense.”
“Holmes, you have to face the- ”
“Watson! You said yourself that it is impossible!” the detective cries vehemently, “It can’t be- it isn’t happening! I’ll go away for a while, get some country air and curtail my odd diet. I’ll be fine. I am fine. God, Watson, don’t you understand? This cannot happen! Because I...” he chokes on the words, “I cannot let it.”
“Holmes,” Watson soothes.
“I would rather be dead.” Holmes’ eyes are full of tears, each one wrenching Watson’s heart. The doctor wraps his arms around his friend, but Holmes shifts awkwardly and they both pause. Holmes breathes heavily, too aware of the fact that if he moves slightly, he will be able to kiss to Watson again, achieve all that he dreams about these days.
“You would rather be dead?” Watson murmurs.
“Than impact upon your life in this hideous way... yes.”
Watson wants to say it, but daren’t.
“But why? Why don’t you want to hurt me, punish me for this? This is my fault. I’m the one destroying your life, not the other way around.”
“I couldn’t bare... to see you suffer on my account. Watson, I...I...”
“I know... I do too... you, I mean.”
“You are talking gibberish, Watson.”
“Christ, Holmes, I love you. I... this, It’s not hideous. In the oddest way... I think it’s beautiful.”
"Well... then... I could. If you wanted..."
Watson looks into his eyes. Holmes stutters, "I'm sorry- I was never a master of expressing feeling-"
And Watson claims Holmes' lips in an effusive kiss, as though sealing the bargain.
*
Irene cannot stop laughing for an irritatingly long time.
“Sherlock Holmes!” she shrieks, “Mother! Holmes and Holmes Jr! Or shall it be Watson Jr? Oh, how outrageous! Imagine the scandal if the news of this broke! Our finest detective, a sodomite! A sodomite who is with child!”
“Of course, we trust you will remain entirely confidential about this, Irene,” Watson says, grinding his teeth with annoyance. She grins wickedly.
“You should know not to trust me!” She exclaims.
“Quite,” Holmes replies, one hand rested on his stomach, “In which case, perhaps you shouldn’t have trusted me with what you told me, quite some time ago now... fascinating story, I’m sure the authorities would delight in hearing it.”
Irene stops, about to speak, and then shuts her mouth again. She smirks.
“Oh, alright. But why have you brought me here to tell me this? Because you adore my company?”
“Actually, Holmes has a favour to ask of you.”
“Oh?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“I need you to pretend that you are pregnant.”
“I beg your pardon?” She enquires with wide eyes. Holmes wriggles a bit in his chair.
“I need you to pretend that you are with child... so that when the time comes... and Watson and I have to care for the baby... when people inquire, we shall say it is yours and mine, and that you abandoned it with me, so I must care for it.”
“What a clever lie,” She comments, “Clever yet predictable in equal measure.”
“Come now, Adler!” Watson scoffs, “I’m sure nothing in this situation is capable of being predictable anymore!”
She rolls her dark eyes dramatically and sighs.
“So, what must I do? Cease being a world-class criminal for the remaining eight months? Wear awkward, unfashionable garments to make myself appear as corpulent as you do?”
Holmes crosses his arms over himself shyly.
“Pay her no attention, Holmes,” Watson tells him quickly, “You look fine, I promise you.”
“He doesn’t!” Irene shrieks, thoroughly enjoying herself, “He looks very odd. He looks comical!”
“Hush, Adler!” Watson barks, “Why do you wish to upset him?!”
“She’s not upsetting me.” Holmes interjects quietly. “I am not disturbed by her.”
She gets to her feet.
“I will do this if I must. Though, I must say,” she fixes her eyes on Holmes for a moment, “I had always thought, Sherlock, that when you had
a child, I would be carrying it.” And she leaves in a ruffle of skirts before either of them can think of something to say.
“I didn’t think.” Watson says, finally.
“I did.” Holmes replies, “I’m sorry.”
And he tucks his knees into his chest and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the afternoon.
*
Holmes is on the floor.
“Get up.” Watson tells him.
“I need a case.” He moans. Watson rolls his eyes, tired of going through this rigmarole all over again.
“You can’t, Sherlock. I’m sorry, it’s just too dangerous. Even if no one enquired about your appearance, you could still get yourself hurt.”
"I shall die of boredom, here," he announces loudly.
"Is that a prediction or a promise?" Watson teases gently. Holmes flops down onto the sofa.
"Both," he wails, as he buries his head in Watson's overcoat, which is draped there. Watson crouches beside him and gives a kiss to the frown.
"It will be worth it. You know it will."
Holmes mutters something and falls asleep almost at once.
*
"The world wonders what illness has befallen you. What has become of Sherlock Holmes? I join in the speculation from time to time, for the amusement of it all, when I'm not griping over "my poor back". My favourite is the horrific return of the black death, brought over by a desperate client from a foreign land."
"Did you bring me anything to read? I'm making my way through Watson's medical journals and they're driving me insane."
Irene sets down her teacup on her lap. She reaches into the (probably stolen) gladstone bag at her feet and tosses a slim volume to Holmes.
"I brought you some Wilde," she explains, "It can shock that baby out of you."
"For one, no dull romance can shock me; secondly, it is a number of months until this child is ready to be born, sadly, and even then I trust no one but Watson to operate." Holmes snaps. She wrinkles her nose.
"I assure you, it's not dull. And do spare me the details. I must say though, you do look remarkable." He snorts.
"That is an interesting insult, even from you."
"I mean what I say. There's something about your appearance that strikes awe in me. I mean it." Holmes looks at her steadily at her, not knowing how to respond. She smiles, and reaches out a hand.
"May I?" she asks. He's about to ask what she means, but then he realises, and a quick thrill races through his body because he's realising how real this all is, and for maybe the first time, it's a good thing; not a bad thing, not something he can handle, just, but something that is actually good. That terrifies and excites him in equal measure, so he nods. Her hand traces over the curve of the bump lightly, then pauses at the rise of his stomach and rests there.
"You look beautiful." she whispers.
"Irene... the way I feel about you... astounds me. But... I..." he tries, hoarse.
"I know." She takes his hand and raises it to her lips. "I love you, Sherlock. That's why I'm letting John take you. I know you love him. And if the best I can do is give you to the person you do love..."
"Thank you." he murmurs.
And it kicks for the first time and he yelps and she laughs.
*
"This is stupid." Holmes states bitingly one evening.
"What is?" Watson asks patiently, spooning some horrid medicine into Holmes' mouth.
"This! This entire thing. It's ridiculous." He makes to punch his own stomach but Watson catches his hand automatically and places it down onto the bed.
"Now don't be silly, Sherlock."
"Don't speak to me as if I'm a child refusing to put on his Sunday best! I don't understand how you can remain so calm about the whole
thing, Watson!"
"What would you prefer, Holmes? Would you like me to scream, and cry; to try and fight it and ignore it? Would you like me to take you away and have you examined and studied? Or perhaps you would like me to terminate it tonight? And then let's pretend nothing ever happened. You can marry Adler, if you like, and live in a cottage with fine china and lace doillies. And then she can bear the children, and everything will be normal and safe. Would you like that?"
"Don't be absurd, of course I wouldn't," Holmes mutters.
"Then please don't refer to our situation as 'stupid'!" he strokes Holmes' hair, "You know, I've written so much about you, even though I can never publish it. It's incredibly frustrating that this has to be a secret. You, Sherlock, are a medical first."
"Fancy that," Holmes says dryly. Watson kisses him carefully, both hands on his protruding stomach. Holmes shifts beneath him and tilts his head, reaching up to grab at Watson's shirt, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss. And then they're tugging off one another's clothes, and gasping for air, and kissing and touching and tasting and-
And Holmes is so happy and scared and excited and everything that he's scared his heart might explode.
*
It's agony. It's so unspeakably painful and Watson is working as fast as he can but Holmes doesn't think it's fast enough. There's a roaring in his head and Give me the anesthetic now, man! and he can't help but think that he is dying.
But, in the end, he isn't. This isn't death, it's life.
*
It's an odd little thing, tiny and funny-coloured and squawking.
Holmes doesn't enquire after the baby straight away, when he wakes up from the anesthetic. He inspects the stitches across his tummy.
"You've done a good job, John." he manages faintly.
"As have you." Watson beams. The baby is wrapped in cloth now, slightly more human-looking but still making an amazing din. Watson rocks it gently. Holmes stares, mesmerised.
"Is it a..?" he trails off.
"A little girl." Watson whispers, tears in his eyes. Holmes takes his daughter into his arms, and she stops crying.
"Hello," he says, and the world is still.
- Fin-