Fic: Dustan Seamus Watson - Holmes/Watson; Watson/Mary - PG13
Title: Dustan Seamus Watson
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (canon)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson; Holmes/Mary
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): MPreg, infidelity, canon character (not) death
Summary: When traveling the continent together, Holmes and Watson have one night together that is never repeated.
Word count: 2131
Notes: This was written for a fic exchange some friends and I did for Christmas. Never got around to posting it, and I decided meh let's do it!
It has been quite some time since I have picked up my pen to write of the adventures of my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes. He has been gone these two-and-a-half years, not so long a time in the grand scheme of things, but it seems an eternity for me. Especially now that my Mary has left me. I do not know what I would do without my son.
This is an adventure that shall not be published, and it is purely for my own edification, and that of my son’s, that I bring my pen to paper once more. When Holmes and I spent our time on the continent together before his fall, we were closer than ever, but there were still times when he seemed distant and hidden inside that fine mind of his. On one such occasion, we were curled together on the single bed the room had to offer. It was not the first time we shared a bed in this manner, and we had no qualms about doing so. There was no questioning the fact that we were more comfortable together than we were apart, and we took every opportunity to share that closeness.
I was reading over my notes of our adventure so far, the places we had visited, the others he planned to go, reading aloud as I went along, when Holmes abruptly stopped my lips with his own. I am sure I cannot express to you my shock at his actions, but I must confess that I did not fight him off. On the contrary, I set down my notes to wrap both of my arms around him, and he pushed my unresisting body more fully onto the bed. No words were spoken as we shed our clothes and curled under the covers. We had nothing with which to ease his passage into my body save the saliva from our mouths and the fluid gathering on our erections. It was slightly painful as he entered me after quite a while of preparation, my erection flagging as the burn began to overwhelm me.
I did not stop him, however, because I was almost compelled to allow him, just as he seemed compelled to try. Our mouths met once more, and his hands gently caressed my trembling sides as I tried to relax. It took some time and some more kisses before it was accomplished, but relax I did. He took his time with me, thrusting slowly but deeply until the urgency began to overwhelm him, and I held him as he shuddered through his release. After he had recovered, he rolled my shaking body into the crook of his own and took my erection in hand, stroking steadily until I crested. It took some time for me to regain my sensibilities, but he allowed me all the time I needed, gentling me as he had before by caressing my sides and pressing kisses to my sweat-dampened hair. We dozed for a while before he stood to wet the cloth in the basin and clean himself and me.
Our activities that night were not repeated, but we were still as close as before they had occurred. A week afterwards, Holmes fell with Moriarty, and I returned to England, sick and white-faced the whole journey home. Mary welcomed me home with open arms, and I related the whole tale of our journey together, including that one night. She knew how deeply Holmes and I cared for one another and did not begrudge me that one instance. She was understandably hurt for some time, but I believe that my obvious heartache soothed her own and her compassionate nature won out over pride.
Some time after my return from Switzerland, I began to fall ill. My head ached abominably, as did my abdomen, and I had to rush to empty my stomach every morning under the concerned ministrations of my dear Mary. She bathed my brow with a cool cloth as I lay in bed, and she had our maid send out a letter to my patients saying that she had fallen ill, and I was to tend her alone. They were understandably concerned for her, and insisted I stay home with my wife to take care of her. I was never more grateful for Mary than I was in those first few months before she put a question before me.
“John… This is a question I would normally hesitate to ask, but I believe it must be asked,” Mary began, holding me close to her as she sat on the bed beside me. I nodded weakly to encourage her and closed my eyes against a rising feeling of nausea. “When you and Holmes were together that one night, do you believe it is possible for you to have conceived a child?” Her voice was tentative, and I was still for a moment before I looked up at her incredulously. She correctly read my objection, and she answered it easily, “You have told me stories of things so unaccountably strange that you have seen in your travels. Did you not tell me of times when you saw young men with round stomachs in both India and Afghanistan? And you told me neither time could be explained away as too much food since they were both so thin everywhere else on their bodies?”
I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes even as I tried to blink them back, an occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent as the months went on. I tried to shake the idea from my head even as it took root, turning over and over in my mind and making the more rational part of it sit up and take notice. My abdomen was sore where it should not be, my stomach insisted on emptying itself as often as it liked, and my emotions were erratic at the best of times. If I were a woman, I would have suggested this idea some time before, but I tried to completely discount it based on the fact that I am a man. I tried, and I failed. Mary’s words made sense the more I thought of them and the men I had seen around the world in much the same condition, and I buried my face in her neck as the bitter tears left my eyes. Her arms came around me, and she soothed me as I wept for the child growing in my body that would never know the great man who sired him.
I was silent for a time afterwards, and Mary tended me as lovingly as ever. She was, as we knew early on in our marriage, barren through no fault of her own. A sickness as a child caused her body to be compromised in that area, but it was never spoken of so nobody but we knew. She told me early into our engagement, and I assured her then that it held no bearing on my love for her. It truly did not, and our discretion over it worked in our favor. As my stomach swelled behind the closed door of our bedroom where we had remained except for the few days the servants had off, the announcement was sent out that my Mary was with child.
Four months after our conversation, I delivered a healthy child in an otherwise empty house with Mary helping me along. The servants could not be there, as they would no doubt find it strange that I was the one screaming myself hoarse as Mary’s soft voice urged me on. The last month before my son’s birth was an agonizing one for me: I could barely leave our bed because my body changed once more to allow for a natural birth and the sustenance of my child. The details are somewhat disjointed even now, and my body has since resumed its normal shape. Mary was so strong as she helped me, and she was as natural as any trained doctor could have been. We both had decided once we realized the truth of my condition that no one should know, least of all another doctor. There were treatises coming out around that time of the men Mary and I had spoken of, men who could bare children, but we did not think it would be worth the risk to let anyone else know. As the time grew closer, we told the servants to take a holiday, be with their families, and Mary and I were left alone in our home to welcome my child and that of Sherlock Holmes into this world.
My beautiful son, my Dustan Seamus, was born nine months exactly after Holmes’ death, and I fell immediately in love with him. My body knew what my son needed even when I did not, and as Dustan suckled drowsily at my swollen nipple, Mary sat on the bed to hold us both to her. Running her hand through my hair, she watched the two of us for a moment or two before saying quietly, “He is beautiful, John. His eyes are the most striking I have ever seen, but you know they may not stay that way.”
I smiled at her weakly, shaking my head as I replied just as quietly, “Oh, I know they will, Mary. I know they will.” She shook her head at me with a smile as she gently stroked Dustan’s downy hair, what there was of it, and nestled closer.
We were blissfully happy, the three of us, when our servants arrived once more and were able to share our joy at the newest member of our family. They exclaimed over his eyes and his sweet demeanor, something our maid teased us came straight from Mary, and rushed to put the announcement out that we had had our child. My patients were happy for us, of course, as was Mycroft Holmes. He came by not long after Dustan was born, and I saw the longing in his eyes as I held my son. I caught his gaze as he looked up, and an eternity seemed to pass in an instant. His eyes, usually distant, warmed as he saw the story in my bearing and in my child. I stood with Mary’s help, and I moved to Mycroft’s side, placing the babe in his arms and watching as Dustan curled easily into the man’s embrace as if he had no fear of this new person.
Mycroft has been invaluable to us since that day, acting as Dustan’s godfather and helping me out since my Mary’s death. It was quite difficult for me in those last months, but Mycroft made sure we were comfortable and Dustan wants for nothing with his godfather’s and my doting. He is a sweet boy, and I already see the emergence of a wildly intelligent mind beginning behind those striking eyes. My only regret is that Holmes cannot meet his son.
~*~
As I look over the above words, I cannot help smiling. It is now nearly a year after I wrote this account, and Holmes has returned to me. We solved our case, that of the “Empty House,” and quite a row was had over his activities while we were parted. He came home a changed man for me, and I thank God every day. The look on Holmes’ face when he saw Dustan for the first time will remain in my memory forever. Holmes and my relations have changed from those of friends to lovers, and Dustin will know of his slightly unusual origins in time.
Holmes has read the circumstances surrounding Dustan’s birth, and he seems regretful that he shall not see anything like it. I have told him not to worry about it, but he has gone on one of his usual tirades. When he has calmed, I will show him this page with its additions, and he will know as I do that our Dustan will not be our only child. Perhaps I should take Mycroft up on his offer of the use of his house in the country for a time. It is more than large enough for the three of us, and has plenty of room for anyone who should be arriving within the coming months. Mycroft has mentioned that there is a room not too distant from the main one that used to be Holmes’ nursery, and he decided to restore it on a whim after his brother reappeared. The secretive smile on his face makes me laugh aloud in remembrance, and I feel the identical pairs of eyes staring at me from across the room. The time has come, it seems, for this story to end. For now.
Fin
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (canon)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson; Holmes/Mary
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): MPreg, infidelity, canon character (not) death
Summary: When traveling the continent together, Holmes and Watson have one night together that is never repeated.
Word count: 2131
Notes: This was written for a fic exchange some friends and I did for Christmas. Never got around to posting it, and I decided meh let's do it!
It has been quite some time since I have picked up my pen to write of the adventures of my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes. He has been gone these two-and-a-half years, not so long a time in the grand scheme of things, but it seems an eternity for me. Especially now that my Mary has left me. I do not know what I would do without my son.
This is an adventure that shall not be published, and it is purely for my own edification, and that of my son’s, that I bring my pen to paper once more. When Holmes and I spent our time on the continent together before his fall, we were closer than ever, but there were still times when he seemed distant and hidden inside that fine mind of his. On one such occasion, we were curled together on the single bed the room had to offer. It was not the first time we shared a bed in this manner, and we had no qualms about doing so. There was no questioning the fact that we were more comfortable together than we were apart, and we took every opportunity to share that closeness.
I was reading over my notes of our adventure so far, the places we had visited, the others he planned to go, reading aloud as I went along, when Holmes abruptly stopped my lips with his own. I am sure I cannot express to you my shock at his actions, but I must confess that I did not fight him off. On the contrary, I set down my notes to wrap both of my arms around him, and he pushed my unresisting body more fully onto the bed. No words were spoken as we shed our clothes and curled under the covers. We had nothing with which to ease his passage into my body save the saliva from our mouths and the fluid gathering on our erections. It was slightly painful as he entered me after quite a while of preparation, my erection flagging as the burn began to overwhelm me.
I did not stop him, however, because I was almost compelled to allow him, just as he seemed compelled to try. Our mouths met once more, and his hands gently caressed my trembling sides as I tried to relax. It took some time and some more kisses before it was accomplished, but relax I did. He took his time with me, thrusting slowly but deeply until the urgency began to overwhelm him, and I held him as he shuddered through his release. After he had recovered, he rolled my shaking body into the crook of his own and took my erection in hand, stroking steadily until I crested. It took some time for me to regain my sensibilities, but he allowed me all the time I needed, gentling me as he had before by caressing my sides and pressing kisses to my sweat-dampened hair. We dozed for a while before he stood to wet the cloth in the basin and clean himself and me.
Our activities that night were not repeated, but we were still as close as before they had occurred. A week afterwards, Holmes fell with Moriarty, and I returned to England, sick and white-faced the whole journey home. Mary welcomed me home with open arms, and I related the whole tale of our journey together, including that one night. She knew how deeply Holmes and I cared for one another and did not begrudge me that one instance. She was understandably hurt for some time, but I believe that my obvious heartache soothed her own and her compassionate nature won out over pride.
Some time after my return from Switzerland, I began to fall ill. My head ached abominably, as did my abdomen, and I had to rush to empty my stomach every morning under the concerned ministrations of my dear Mary. She bathed my brow with a cool cloth as I lay in bed, and she had our maid send out a letter to my patients saying that she had fallen ill, and I was to tend her alone. They were understandably concerned for her, and insisted I stay home with my wife to take care of her. I was never more grateful for Mary than I was in those first few months before she put a question before me.
“John… This is a question I would normally hesitate to ask, but I believe it must be asked,” Mary began, holding me close to her as she sat on the bed beside me. I nodded weakly to encourage her and closed my eyes against a rising feeling of nausea. “When you and Holmes were together that one night, do you believe it is possible for you to have conceived a child?” Her voice was tentative, and I was still for a moment before I looked up at her incredulously. She correctly read my objection, and she answered it easily, “You have told me stories of things so unaccountably strange that you have seen in your travels. Did you not tell me of times when you saw young men with round stomachs in both India and Afghanistan? And you told me neither time could be explained away as too much food since they were both so thin everywhere else on their bodies?”
I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes even as I tried to blink them back, an occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent as the months went on. I tried to shake the idea from my head even as it took root, turning over and over in my mind and making the more rational part of it sit up and take notice. My abdomen was sore where it should not be, my stomach insisted on emptying itself as often as it liked, and my emotions were erratic at the best of times. If I were a woman, I would have suggested this idea some time before, but I tried to completely discount it based on the fact that I am a man. I tried, and I failed. Mary’s words made sense the more I thought of them and the men I had seen around the world in much the same condition, and I buried my face in her neck as the bitter tears left my eyes. Her arms came around me, and she soothed me as I wept for the child growing in my body that would never know the great man who sired him.
I was silent for a time afterwards, and Mary tended me as lovingly as ever. She was, as we knew early on in our marriage, barren through no fault of her own. A sickness as a child caused her body to be compromised in that area, but it was never spoken of so nobody but we knew. She told me early into our engagement, and I assured her then that it held no bearing on my love for her. It truly did not, and our discretion over it worked in our favor. As my stomach swelled behind the closed door of our bedroom where we had remained except for the few days the servants had off, the announcement was sent out that my Mary was with child.
Four months after our conversation, I delivered a healthy child in an otherwise empty house with Mary helping me along. The servants could not be there, as they would no doubt find it strange that I was the one screaming myself hoarse as Mary’s soft voice urged me on. The last month before my son’s birth was an agonizing one for me: I could barely leave our bed because my body changed once more to allow for a natural birth and the sustenance of my child. The details are somewhat disjointed even now, and my body has since resumed its normal shape. Mary was so strong as she helped me, and she was as natural as any trained doctor could have been. We both had decided once we realized the truth of my condition that no one should know, least of all another doctor. There were treatises coming out around that time of the men Mary and I had spoken of, men who could bare children, but we did not think it would be worth the risk to let anyone else know. As the time grew closer, we told the servants to take a holiday, be with their families, and Mary and I were left alone in our home to welcome my child and that of Sherlock Holmes into this world.
My beautiful son, my Dustan Seamus, was born nine months exactly after Holmes’ death, and I fell immediately in love with him. My body knew what my son needed even when I did not, and as Dustan suckled drowsily at my swollen nipple, Mary sat on the bed to hold us both to her. Running her hand through my hair, she watched the two of us for a moment or two before saying quietly, “He is beautiful, John. His eyes are the most striking I have ever seen, but you know they may not stay that way.”
I smiled at her weakly, shaking my head as I replied just as quietly, “Oh, I know they will, Mary. I know they will.” She shook her head at me with a smile as she gently stroked Dustan’s downy hair, what there was of it, and nestled closer.
We were blissfully happy, the three of us, when our servants arrived once more and were able to share our joy at the newest member of our family. They exclaimed over his eyes and his sweet demeanor, something our maid teased us came straight from Mary, and rushed to put the announcement out that we had had our child. My patients were happy for us, of course, as was Mycroft Holmes. He came by not long after Dustan was born, and I saw the longing in his eyes as I held my son. I caught his gaze as he looked up, and an eternity seemed to pass in an instant. His eyes, usually distant, warmed as he saw the story in my bearing and in my child. I stood with Mary’s help, and I moved to Mycroft’s side, placing the babe in his arms and watching as Dustan curled easily into the man’s embrace as if he had no fear of this new person.
Mycroft has been invaluable to us since that day, acting as Dustan’s godfather and helping me out since my Mary’s death. It was quite difficult for me in those last months, but Mycroft made sure we were comfortable and Dustan wants for nothing with his godfather’s and my doting. He is a sweet boy, and I already see the emergence of a wildly intelligent mind beginning behind those striking eyes. My only regret is that Holmes cannot meet his son.
~*~
As I look over the above words, I cannot help smiling. It is now nearly a year after I wrote this account, and Holmes has returned to me. We solved our case, that of the “Empty House,” and quite a row was had over his activities while we were parted. He came home a changed man for me, and I thank God every day. The look on Holmes’ face when he saw Dustan for the first time will remain in my memory forever. Holmes and my relations have changed from those of friends to lovers, and Dustin will know of his slightly unusual origins in time.
Holmes has read the circumstances surrounding Dustan’s birth, and he seems regretful that he shall not see anything like it. I have told him not to worry about it, but he has gone on one of his usual tirades. When he has calmed, I will show him this page with its additions, and he will know as I do that our Dustan will not be our only child. Perhaps I should take Mycroft up on his offer of the use of his house in the country for a time. It is more than large enough for the three of us, and has plenty of room for anyone who should be arriving within the coming months. Mycroft has mentioned that there is a room not too distant from the main one that used to be Holmes’ nursery, and he decided to restore it on a whim after his brother reappeared. The secretive smile on his face makes me laugh aloud in remembrance, and I feel the identical pairs of eyes staring at me from across the room. The time has come, it seems, for this story to end. For now.
Fin