Light From a Distant Shore, Part 1
Title: Light From A Distant Shore
Part 1: Conception
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: M, for sex, some violence, and eventual depictions of labor and birth
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson
Summary: Sherlock convinces Joan to have his baby. Things don’t go quite how either of them expect.
Author’s Notes: This was originally a prompt over at sherlockbbc-fic that I started writing for fun, on a whim, and then it just snowballed and turned into this whole massive THING and now I’m posting genderbent babyfic oh god oh god NO ONE JUDGE ME I HAVEN’T WRITTEN THIS MUCH IN LITERALLY OVER A YEAR.
Joan was at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of Darjeeling and mulling over the syntax of her latest blog entry when Sherlock, after almost three hours of silence, spoke up from the couch. It was just a mumble at first, but Joan knew these things could be important so she shut the laptop with a sigh and called, "What was that?"
"We should have a child," he said again, appearing suddenly in the doorway. His body was all but thrumming with the effort of containing himself, mind racing a mile a minute behind wild eyes. His shirt was rumpled - Joan thought it was the same one he'd been wearing when she'd gone to bed last night - and he looked particularly wan, as though he hadn't eaten in a few days.
She noticed all these things only peripherally, because the larger part of her mind was trying to process the words that had just come out of Sherlock's mouth. After a half a second of consideration, she realized she couldn't possibly have heard him right. "I'm sorry?" she said, pushing her chair out from the table to face him.
"Offspring. A baby," he continued. "You and I."
After a protracted silence, Joan asked, "Have you gone mad?"
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed, having the nerve to look as though she were the one who was out of their mind.
"Are you using?" she continued after another pause. Aside from madness, it was the only explanation she could come up with. He didn't look high - not any moreso than usual - but with Sherlock it was always best to ask direct questions.
He made another face at her.
"You can't be serious!"
"Why not?" he asked. "You want children, and I'm otherwise statistically unlikely ever to have any. We're two perfectly viable genetic candidates."
"My brother inherited my father's alcoholism," Joan cut in, "and I wouldn't be surprised if your family had a history of personality disorders."
Sherlock waved his hand as if to swat away her unwanted comments. "Yes, yes of course there's a risk-"
"And I want to have those children with someone I love," she continued, rising from her chair. Snatching up her mostly-empty teacup, she walked it to the sink, unnerved by the way Sherlock was watching her. It wasn't unusual, the look he was giving her - like he knew at any second that her mind would open up and she would see what he was driving at, if only she'd open herself to the possibilities - but this was something for which she would never be able to make the same deductions.
Sherlock followed her. "It could be argued that we lo-"
"A husband!" Joan exclaimed. The teacup rattled as she dropped it into the sink. "Or a boyfriend even!"
Sherlock changed tactics. "Things aren't going well with Mark."
Joan wanted to scream. "Don't do that," she bit out, grasping the edge of the sink. "I don't like it when you do that."
He continued, oblivious. "It won't last. He's not right for you. Too sedate. Personalities don't mesh well."
"And I suppose we mesh well?" she asked.
“After a fashion,” he said.
Joan was about to turn on the faucet, intent on rinsing out her cup, creating some small amount of order in the chaos that was their kitchen, but then Sherlock said, “A woman's child-bearing years are limited. You’re not exactly young, Joan.”
And somehow, though she knew it for the truth, it was the worst possible thing he could have said.
There was a protracted silence, and in that silence Joan thought about Afghanistan, everyone she’d ever shot and everyone she couldn’t save. She thought about every wrong that had ever been done to her, and every wrong she’d ever done - her mother and father and Harry - and when she was done thinking all she felt was tired.
Sherlock couldn't’ read the mood, she knew, but he would be able to see the subtle slump in her shoulders, the exhaustion on her face.
“That was unnecessary,” he said suddenly, voice low and soft. It was as close to an apology as she was going to get out of him.
“I’m going to bed,” she said quietly. He nodded.
He took the violin out that night. Joan could hear it through the pillow. It was almost four in the morning by the time he quit, but she didn’t bother with tromping downstairs and telling him off. She knew she would have been awake anyways.
***
That Thursday Mark broke up with her after their dinner date. He was nice about it, as nice as one could be, used the whole It’s not you, it’s me excuse (something they were both old enough to know was complete bullshit) but instead of hearing It’s you, not me Joan heard It’s not you, it’s your flatmate.
She tried very hard to be mad at Sherlock on the walk home, but in the end she came to the same conclusion she always did: it was stupid to be mad at someone for being right.
Still, that didn’t stop her from snapping at him when he said, “Mark broke up with you,” without so much as looking up at her, only a few seconds after she’d reached the top of the stairs.
“Look, just because you can put all these puzzle pieces together doesn’t mean you know anything about him, or about us!” Joan barked, yanking her arms out of her coat. “Maybe you’re right, maybe he was boring -”
“Maybe?” Sherlock interrupted, but she rode right over him.
“-but just once it would be nice to be broken up with because I’m... emotionally unavailable! Or because I’ve got trust issues! Not because I live with - with a genius man-child who can’t keep his nose out of my social life!”
Sherlock took a second to really look at her, then said, “You’re not actually mad at me, are you?”
Joan sighed. “No, I suppose I’m not.”
“What then?” he asked, gaze shifting back to the laptop in front of him.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He was nice.”
“Dull.”
“Sweet,” she insisted. “A good man. Just not for me, I suppose.”
“Funny, how that problem keeps cropping up,” Sherlock mumbled. His fingers were flying across the keys, the clicking almost loud enough to obscure his speech. Almost. He met her gaze again. “You’re thinking about my proposal.”
“I’m really not,” she said immediately, even though she was, and had been ever since they’d had the conversation almost a week ago.
“And why is that?” he asked.
Joan dropped onto the end of the couch. “Well for starters, you called it a ‘proposal’. And you’d be a shit father, you know that?”
“And you would be an excellent mother,” he countered. “I’m sufficiently well off to pay for a child - several, in fact - we have a stable, if... eccentric life-”
“Stable!” Joan’s knuckles were white on the couch arm. “I’ve been shot at twice in the last month!”
“I did also say eccentric,” Sherlock replied, making that hand-waving motion at her that suggested she get on with it.
“Oh for God’s sake!” Joan snapped. “I’m not going to have your baby!”
That was, of course, the second she noticed that Sherlock’s eyes had strayed to the doorway, and she realized the faint squeak she’d heard could only be someone on the stairs; two someones, in fact.
Lestrade was there, to her utter mortification, and he was doing his damnedest to look as though he hadn’t overheard anything. He was failing miserably. Mrs. Hudson, for her part, was wearing the same look she wore when Sherlock got bored enough to do his own brand of impromptu redecorating.
Joan closed her eyes, and ran a hand back through her short hair. Somehow she knew it was going to be a long night.
***
Someone shot at her for a third time that month, and Sherlock got stabbed in the arm with a mini-screwdriver off a pocket knife. The thing had gone clean through his tricep, close to the lateral head, and while damage appeared to be minimal Joan knew it probably hurt like hell. He wouldn’t let any of the EMTs get a good look at it, though, so patching it up fell to her.
“Should heal nicely,” she said, mostly to herself. Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. “Looks like the screwdriver was clean, but still... When was your last tetanus booster?”
He made another noise in the back of his throat, and Joan decided they would be stopping by a hospital before they made it home. A glance at her watch revealed it to be just after one in the morning. She finished taping off his bandage, and they sat in silence while he shrugged his shirt back on and did up the buttons. The left sleeve was covered in blood.
The words bubbled up in her before she could stop them, fueled by the rush of adrenaline still pumping through her, the thrill of being alive, the crystal clarity of knowing that there would never be another person, man or woman, who got her the way Sherlock did. There was certainly no one else who knew him the way she did. It was rash and and selfish and stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. There would never be anyone else she could trust with this.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s have a baby.”
***
Joan was very proud of herself when she didn’t immediately back-track the second they’d gotten home. The flat was in a fine state - completely unfit for an adult, let alone a child - but instead of panicking she sat down at the desk, took out a pen and a pad of paper, and made a list. Sherlock watched her disinterestedly for a few minutes, pacing the apartment as he reworked the night’s events in his head. Eventually he retreated to his bedroom to change into a clean shirt, and then laid himself lengthwise across the couch to stare at the ceiling.
It was well after four when she rose and stumbled to the couch, dropping the paper pad on Sherlock’s stomach before shuffling off toward the stairs, and her bed.
“What’s this?” he called after her.
“List,” she yelled back. “Things. Do them.”
Sherlock got up and started to follow her up the stairs. “Move the ‘chemistry lab’? Move it where?”
“Rent out the flat downstairs,” Joan suggested. “Or use your bedroom.”
“I sleep there.”
“No you don’t.”
“Occasionally I do.” He was still following her. Joan really, really wanted to sleep.
Turning to face him, she said, “Just move it. I don’t care where.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, then seemed to think better of it. He gave her a single nod, said, “Goodnight Joan,” and went back to the couch.
***
She slept hard, for almost ten hours, and when she finally made it downstairs, showered and dressed, she found Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sitting in the living room with a man who vaguely resembled a construction worker.
“Sleep well, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “There’s tea, if you’d like some.”
Joan mumbled her thanks and went to pour herself a cup. When she came back the man was gone.
“Client?” she asked, plunking down into the armchair.
“Contractor,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to remodel the flat downstairs. Thought it was about time I had a proper lab.”
***
That night Joan screwed up her courage. She didn’t think Sherlock would ever endeavor to take this particular step on his own, and she was still riding the emotional high from the fact that not only had he done what she’d asked, he’d done it in a timely fashion, and without any of the bitching that usually accompanied such requests. She was feeling very kindly disposed towards him, and knew it would be stupid not to capitalize on that - especially when dealing with someone whose moods changed as rapidly as Sherlock’s.
She waited until the nightly news was over, then got up and went to stand beside the armchair where he was seated, close as she dared without further permission. Her stomach was doing flip-flops in a way that made her feel almost sick - not something it usually did at the prospect of sex.
Sherlock clicked the television off and laid the remote down, then looked up at her like he’d only just noticed she was in the room.
“Yes?” he asked slowly after a long pause.
It was easier, somehow, when she was meeting his gaze, to say, “I thought we could... try.”
There a long pause before it finally seemed to dawn on him what she was proposing. He looked away briefly, then said. “There are other ways.”
“No,” she said immediately. Somehow she knew she needed to be firm on this point. “Not for me there aren’t. If I’m going to get knocked up, I’m at least going to do it the fun way.”
He seemed to take that as a final ruling, but then all he did was sit and look at her, shoulders tense. It occurred to her, and not for the first time, that there was a distinct possibility he’d never been with anyone, and that even if he had it’d probably been long enough for everything to seem new and terrifying all over again. It was strange, to feel herself an expert in an area where Sherlock Holmes was woefully uneducated.
When he finally broke the silence stretching between them, his words were carefully chosen but cautious, almost hesitant. “It wouldn’t surprise you if I said I didn’t - I don’t have much-”
A familiar feeling was rising inside her. It was a strange mixture of pride and protectiveness and wonder, tinged with exasperation and, if she was being honest with herself, love. It was the same feeling that had led her to risk her life for him, to kill for him, and now it moved her to cut him off. “It’s all right,” she broke in. “It doesn’t matter. I think I know enough for the both of us.” She took a deep breath, and her stomach stopped turning. “Do you trust me?”
Joan couldn’t tell if the look on his face was determination or trepidation, but he nodded and laid his hand palm upward on the armrest, his long, pale fingers uncurled in invitation. She put her hand in his and pulled him to his feet.
She led him to the couch and gently pushed him to sit down. Her stomach started flip-flopping again.
“If you get uncomfortable,” she said softly, “if you don’t like what I’m doing, or if you do, or if you want me to do something different, just... say something. All right?”
Sherlock only nodded, gazing up at her with that same ambiguous look, so Joan did the only thing she could think of. Reaching out, she took his face in her hands and kissed him; softly at first, and he tensed just like she’d expected, but after a few moments his mouth seemed to warm beneath hers, responding instinctually.
After a few moments she sat down beside him, half on the couch and half in his lap. She guided his hands to her hips when he seemed at a loss, but he latched onto her willingly, and when his hands moved to her back (trying, she thought, to pull her closer) she took that for the good sign it was and straddled him.
They kissed for awhile, bodies pressed close. Joan familiarized herself with the texture of his hair, the arch of his neck and jaw. He held her firmly, his fingers splayed against her lower back, grasping at her jumper.
She broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against his. “All right so far?” she asked, eyes still closed. Her head rocked up and down when he nodded.
“Good.” She let go of him and reached down to grasp the hem of her jumper. “I’ll just take this off.”
It was easier after that, somehow. Sherlock was tentative to explore, but a quick study when introduced to something new. He helped her unbutton her blouse, shrugged out of his own shirt with minimal prompting, and didn’t balk when, in a sudden fit of lust, Joan couldn’t resist dragging his hand up between her legs and pressing it there. It was simple, working his trousers off enough to touch him. He was so quiet, but he jumped when she took him in hand, bucking involuntarily into her grasp. He was hard as steel, and smooth as velvet, hot in her palm as she worked him slowly. One of his hands was still splayed against her, palm pressing in rhythm with her own motions. It didn’t take long.
His eyes flew open when she broke away from him and rose to kick off her slacks, shedding her panties with them. She couldn’t keep herself from gasping when she straddled him again, and this time his hands came up to her waist of their own volition. She grasped his head in both hands again, fingers fisting in his hair, and kissed him hard. Then, without any preamble or warning, she rose up onto her knees, took him in hand again, and sank down slowly onto him.
It was, in a word, exquisite.
***
Joan was pleased that sex didn’t seem to change anything. Sherlock was still a brilliant, insensitive ass with a half-kicked smoking habit, and she was still in turns awed and appalled - though no longer surprised - by much of what came out of his mouth. She still tried to get him to eat, and keep some semblance of order around the flat, and he still refused and started projects, and got distracted, and left messes, and it still drove her absolutely insane. They bickered and argued and occasionally she shouted at him when he was especially difficult. It was all very comforting in its familiarity.
Only now Joan knew the way he kissed, how he felt pressed against her and moving inside her. After a week and a half of having sex every other night, those things were becoming familiar too.
Familiar enough that she could tell when his head wasn’t in it, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.
Lestrade had called them in for help solving a recent string of connected sexual assaults turned murder. The attacks had left two young women hospitalized, but just last night a body had been found, and Sherlock had been mulling over it ever since they’d visited the crime scene - almost eighteen hours ago, now. Joan had thought she could distract him long enough, and for awhile it seemed to work. He kissed her with all his new-found skill, let her drag him to the couch and push him down, just like she’d done the first time, and every time since.
In the few times they’d been together, Joan had been able to pick out the things that Sherlock seemed to like. When he grew hesitant, or got distracted, she could fist her hands in his hair, or drag her fingernails down the back of his neck to bring him back to the moment. She did both those things now, and was rewarded with a gasp, his fingers spasming suddenly against the bare skin of her back.
And then he was pushing her out of his lap and leaping off the couch.
“The tire tracks!” he exclaimed, pacing through the apartment. “The trash bin! Of course!” He scooped up her shirt and bra and tossed them at her, then plucked his own button-up from the back of the armchair.
Joan knew better than to argue with these kinds of outbursts. She’d already pulled her shirt over her head by the time Sherlock was shrugging into his coat. He was out the door while she stomped into her shoes, and when she finally made it downstairs he’d already hailed a taxi. He was texting Lestrade when Joan climbed in beside him.
“Where are we off to then?” she asked, fighting the urge to squirm in her seat.
“We’re looking for two suspects, one of them quite clever,” he replied.
Joan sighed. “That doesn’t tell me where we’re going.”
“Westbourne Road, scene of the first attack. Hope you grabbed your firearm.”
Of course she hadn’t. She hoped no one shot at her. It really pissed her off when she couldn’t shoot back.
***
Forty minutes later she and Sherlock were both standing over a well-dressed unconscious serial rapist in a dark, wet alley, breathing hard from having chased him down a fire escape and across three blocks of back streets. Sherlock’s knuckles were split, but the suspect’s nose was probably broken, so Joan knew they both figured it a fair trade. She was sweaty from the exercise, and the chill of the early spring night felt good on her damp forehead. Sherlock was was circling the body. Joan knew he was thinking about the one who’d outrun them.
“He won’t get far,” Sherlock said as if he could read her thoughts. He’d taken out his phone and was texting again. “He’s going back to his own flat. If Lestrade works fast they can head him off.”
He tucked his phone away and continued his pacing, trying to work off the same nervous energy she could still feel pulsing around them. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage, and the cold air burned her lungs as she gulped in breaths. Sherlock met her eyes over the body laying between them, and in that instant something strange passed between them. Joan was stepping over the body before she knew what was happening, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock’s coat as she drove him back against the far wall. He opened his mouth - to cry out, she thought, or to protest - but all he did was gasp, and let her pull him down into a hard kiss. He ran his hands through her hair, but she pulled them away as soon as they reached her neck, pinning them to the wall at the same level as his hips. She bit down hard on his lower lip, and reached for his belt buckle.
His was already half hard when she worked a hand down the front of his pants. It didn’t take her long to finish the job, just a few firm, sure strokes. He groaned her name. It was the first time he’d said it during anything resembling sex, and suddenly Joan knew what she wanted to do. Dropping to her knees, her right hand still stroking, she took him in her mouth and licked a hard line up the base of his shaft. In the back of her mind she wondered if she shouldn’t have warned him first (he tensed, like he always did when she introduced something new and unexpected) but with every pass she made he was making the most delicious noises. Everything about him was intoxicating - every thrust of his hips, every guttural intonation - and knowing it was all because of her, and what she was doing to him, only heightened the experience. The ineffable Sherlock Holmes was falling to pieces before her, and it only made Joan Watson want him more.
He kept trying to fist his hands in her hair, until she finally pulled away long enough to say, “Keep your hands on the wall.” It wasn’t that she didn’t like having her hair pulled - she rather did, in fact - but in this moment she wanted to show him what she was capable of, if only he would trust her.
He did was she said, and it took him less than a minute to come. They were both panting when he finished, and Joan could feel her own heart beating double-time between her legs. There were blue and red lights flashing at the edge of her vision by then, and Sherlock was pushing her way and doing up his trousers. The knees of Joan’s khakis were impossibly stained, but she doubted anyone would notice.
It didn’t take long to shake off Lestrade and catch a taxi back to Baker Street. Joan spent the whole ride wondering if she’d crossed a line. Sherlock was more fidgety than usual, drumming his fingers against his knees, his eyes darting every which way, and he answered all her requests for clarification - how did you know where the second suspect was going, how did you know it was two new pairs of the same shoe - with noncommittal grunts.
They got home, and Joan trudged up the stairs after Sherlock, preparing herself for a week of cold shoulders and angry violin playing and mechanical sex. She hung her coat up by the door, watched Sherlock drop his in the armchair, and mentally prepared herself for the onslaught of nothingness.
She was surprised when instead of striding into his bedroom and slamming the door, Sherlock wrapped her up in his arms, pulled her close against him, and kissed her until she couldn’t think straight. When her brain was sufficiently addled, he pushed her down on the couch, and laid his long body over hers.
Three weeks later, at approximately 10:30 in the morning, a doctor told her she was pregnant.
Part 2
Part 1: Conception
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: M, for sex, some violence, and eventual depictions of labor and birth
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson
Summary: Sherlock convinces Joan to have his baby. Things don’t go quite how either of them expect.
Author’s Notes: This was originally a prompt over at sherlockbbc-fic that I started writing for fun, on a whim, and then it just snowballed and turned into this whole massive THING and now I’m posting genderbent babyfic oh god oh god NO ONE JUDGE ME I HAVEN’T WRITTEN THIS MUCH IN LITERALLY OVER A YEAR.
Joan was at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of Darjeeling and mulling over the syntax of her latest blog entry when Sherlock, after almost three hours of silence, spoke up from the couch. It was just a mumble at first, but Joan knew these things could be important so she shut the laptop with a sigh and called, "What was that?"
"We should have a child," he said again, appearing suddenly in the doorway. His body was all but thrumming with the effort of containing himself, mind racing a mile a minute behind wild eyes. His shirt was rumpled - Joan thought it was the same one he'd been wearing when she'd gone to bed last night - and he looked particularly wan, as though he hadn't eaten in a few days.
She noticed all these things only peripherally, because the larger part of her mind was trying to process the words that had just come out of Sherlock's mouth. After a half a second of consideration, she realized she couldn't possibly have heard him right. "I'm sorry?" she said, pushing her chair out from the table to face him.
"Offspring. A baby," he continued. "You and I."
After a protracted silence, Joan asked, "Have you gone mad?"
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed, having the nerve to look as though she were the one who was out of their mind.
"Are you using?" she continued after another pause. Aside from madness, it was the only explanation she could come up with. He didn't look high - not any moreso than usual - but with Sherlock it was always best to ask direct questions.
He made another face at her.
"You can't be serious!"
"Why not?" he asked. "You want children, and I'm otherwise statistically unlikely ever to have any. We're two perfectly viable genetic candidates."
"My brother inherited my father's alcoholism," Joan cut in, "and I wouldn't be surprised if your family had a history of personality disorders."
Sherlock waved his hand as if to swat away her unwanted comments. "Yes, yes of course there's a risk-"
"And I want to have those children with someone I love," she continued, rising from her chair. Snatching up her mostly-empty teacup, she walked it to the sink, unnerved by the way Sherlock was watching her. It wasn't unusual, the look he was giving her - like he knew at any second that her mind would open up and she would see what he was driving at, if only she'd open herself to the possibilities - but this was something for which she would never be able to make the same deductions.
Sherlock followed her. "It could be argued that we lo-"
"A husband!" Joan exclaimed. The teacup rattled as she dropped it into the sink. "Or a boyfriend even!"
Sherlock changed tactics. "Things aren't going well with Mark."
Joan wanted to scream. "Don't do that," she bit out, grasping the edge of the sink. "I don't like it when you do that."
He continued, oblivious. "It won't last. He's not right for you. Too sedate. Personalities don't mesh well."
"And I suppose we mesh well?" she asked.
“After a fashion,” he said.
Joan was about to turn on the faucet, intent on rinsing out her cup, creating some small amount of order in the chaos that was their kitchen, but then Sherlock said, “A woman's child-bearing years are limited. You’re not exactly young, Joan.”
And somehow, though she knew it for the truth, it was the worst possible thing he could have said.
There was a protracted silence, and in that silence Joan thought about Afghanistan, everyone she’d ever shot and everyone she couldn’t save. She thought about every wrong that had ever been done to her, and every wrong she’d ever done - her mother and father and Harry - and when she was done thinking all she felt was tired.
Sherlock couldn't’ read the mood, she knew, but he would be able to see the subtle slump in her shoulders, the exhaustion on her face.
“That was unnecessary,” he said suddenly, voice low and soft. It was as close to an apology as she was going to get out of him.
“I’m going to bed,” she said quietly. He nodded.
He took the violin out that night. Joan could hear it through the pillow. It was almost four in the morning by the time he quit, but she didn’t bother with tromping downstairs and telling him off. She knew she would have been awake anyways.
***
That Thursday Mark broke up with her after their dinner date. He was nice about it, as nice as one could be, used the whole It’s not you, it’s me excuse (something they were both old enough to know was complete bullshit) but instead of hearing It’s you, not me Joan heard It’s not you, it’s your flatmate.
She tried very hard to be mad at Sherlock on the walk home, but in the end she came to the same conclusion she always did: it was stupid to be mad at someone for being right.
Still, that didn’t stop her from snapping at him when he said, “Mark broke up with you,” without so much as looking up at her, only a few seconds after she’d reached the top of the stairs.
“Look, just because you can put all these puzzle pieces together doesn’t mean you know anything about him, or about us!” Joan barked, yanking her arms out of her coat. “Maybe you’re right, maybe he was boring -”
“Maybe?” Sherlock interrupted, but she rode right over him.
“-but just once it would be nice to be broken up with because I’m... emotionally unavailable! Or because I’ve got trust issues! Not because I live with - with a genius man-child who can’t keep his nose out of my social life!”
Sherlock took a second to really look at her, then said, “You’re not actually mad at me, are you?”
Joan sighed. “No, I suppose I’m not.”
“What then?” he asked, gaze shifting back to the laptop in front of him.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He was nice.”
“Dull.”
“Sweet,” she insisted. “A good man. Just not for me, I suppose.”
“Funny, how that problem keeps cropping up,” Sherlock mumbled. His fingers were flying across the keys, the clicking almost loud enough to obscure his speech. Almost. He met her gaze again. “You’re thinking about my proposal.”
“I’m really not,” she said immediately, even though she was, and had been ever since they’d had the conversation almost a week ago.
“And why is that?” he asked.
Joan dropped onto the end of the couch. “Well for starters, you called it a ‘proposal’. And you’d be a shit father, you know that?”
“And you would be an excellent mother,” he countered. “I’m sufficiently well off to pay for a child - several, in fact - we have a stable, if... eccentric life-”
“Stable!” Joan’s knuckles were white on the couch arm. “I’ve been shot at twice in the last month!”
“I did also say eccentric,” Sherlock replied, making that hand-waving motion at her that suggested she get on with it.
“Oh for God’s sake!” Joan snapped. “I’m not going to have your baby!”
That was, of course, the second she noticed that Sherlock’s eyes had strayed to the doorway, and she realized the faint squeak she’d heard could only be someone on the stairs; two someones, in fact.
Lestrade was there, to her utter mortification, and he was doing his damnedest to look as though he hadn’t overheard anything. He was failing miserably. Mrs. Hudson, for her part, was wearing the same look she wore when Sherlock got bored enough to do his own brand of impromptu redecorating.
Joan closed her eyes, and ran a hand back through her short hair. Somehow she knew it was going to be a long night.
***
Someone shot at her for a third time that month, and Sherlock got stabbed in the arm with a mini-screwdriver off a pocket knife. The thing had gone clean through his tricep, close to the lateral head, and while damage appeared to be minimal Joan knew it probably hurt like hell. He wouldn’t let any of the EMTs get a good look at it, though, so patching it up fell to her.
“Should heal nicely,” she said, mostly to herself. Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. “Looks like the screwdriver was clean, but still... When was your last tetanus booster?”
He made another noise in the back of his throat, and Joan decided they would be stopping by a hospital before they made it home. A glance at her watch revealed it to be just after one in the morning. She finished taping off his bandage, and they sat in silence while he shrugged his shirt back on and did up the buttons. The left sleeve was covered in blood.
The words bubbled up in her before she could stop them, fueled by the rush of adrenaline still pumping through her, the thrill of being alive, the crystal clarity of knowing that there would never be another person, man or woman, who got her the way Sherlock did. There was certainly no one else who knew him the way she did. It was rash and and selfish and stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. There would never be anyone else she could trust with this.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s have a baby.”
***
Joan was very proud of herself when she didn’t immediately back-track the second they’d gotten home. The flat was in a fine state - completely unfit for an adult, let alone a child - but instead of panicking she sat down at the desk, took out a pen and a pad of paper, and made a list. Sherlock watched her disinterestedly for a few minutes, pacing the apartment as he reworked the night’s events in his head. Eventually he retreated to his bedroom to change into a clean shirt, and then laid himself lengthwise across the couch to stare at the ceiling.
It was well after four when she rose and stumbled to the couch, dropping the paper pad on Sherlock’s stomach before shuffling off toward the stairs, and her bed.
“What’s this?” he called after her.
“List,” she yelled back. “Things. Do them.”
Sherlock got up and started to follow her up the stairs. “Move the ‘chemistry lab’? Move it where?”
“Rent out the flat downstairs,” Joan suggested. “Or use your bedroom.”
“I sleep there.”
“No you don’t.”
“Occasionally I do.” He was still following her. Joan really, really wanted to sleep.
Turning to face him, she said, “Just move it. I don’t care where.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, then seemed to think better of it. He gave her a single nod, said, “Goodnight Joan,” and went back to the couch.
***
She slept hard, for almost ten hours, and when she finally made it downstairs, showered and dressed, she found Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sitting in the living room with a man who vaguely resembled a construction worker.
“Sleep well, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “There’s tea, if you’d like some.”
Joan mumbled her thanks and went to pour herself a cup. When she came back the man was gone.
“Client?” she asked, plunking down into the armchair.
“Contractor,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to remodel the flat downstairs. Thought it was about time I had a proper lab.”
***
That night Joan screwed up her courage. She didn’t think Sherlock would ever endeavor to take this particular step on his own, and she was still riding the emotional high from the fact that not only had he done what she’d asked, he’d done it in a timely fashion, and without any of the bitching that usually accompanied such requests. She was feeling very kindly disposed towards him, and knew it would be stupid not to capitalize on that - especially when dealing with someone whose moods changed as rapidly as Sherlock’s.
She waited until the nightly news was over, then got up and went to stand beside the armchair where he was seated, close as she dared without further permission. Her stomach was doing flip-flops in a way that made her feel almost sick - not something it usually did at the prospect of sex.
Sherlock clicked the television off and laid the remote down, then looked up at her like he’d only just noticed she was in the room.
“Yes?” he asked slowly after a long pause.
It was easier, somehow, when she was meeting his gaze, to say, “I thought we could... try.”
There a long pause before it finally seemed to dawn on him what she was proposing. He looked away briefly, then said. “There are other ways.”
“No,” she said immediately. Somehow she knew she needed to be firm on this point. “Not for me there aren’t. If I’m going to get knocked up, I’m at least going to do it the fun way.”
He seemed to take that as a final ruling, but then all he did was sit and look at her, shoulders tense. It occurred to her, and not for the first time, that there was a distinct possibility he’d never been with anyone, and that even if he had it’d probably been long enough for everything to seem new and terrifying all over again. It was strange, to feel herself an expert in an area where Sherlock Holmes was woefully uneducated.
When he finally broke the silence stretching between them, his words were carefully chosen but cautious, almost hesitant. “It wouldn’t surprise you if I said I didn’t - I don’t have much-”
A familiar feeling was rising inside her. It was a strange mixture of pride and protectiveness and wonder, tinged with exasperation and, if she was being honest with herself, love. It was the same feeling that had led her to risk her life for him, to kill for him, and now it moved her to cut him off. “It’s all right,” she broke in. “It doesn’t matter. I think I know enough for the both of us.” She took a deep breath, and her stomach stopped turning. “Do you trust me?”
Joan couldn’t tell if the look on his face was determination or trepidation, but he nodded and laid his hand palm upward on the armrest, his long, pale fingers uncurled in invitation. She put her hand in his and pulled him to his feet.
She led him to the couch and gently pushed him to sit down. Her stomach started flip-flopping again.
“If you get uncomfortable,” she said softly, “if you don’t like what I’m doing, or if you do, or if you want me to do something different, just... say something. All right?”
Sherlock only nodded, gazing up at her with that same ambiguous look, so Joan did the only thing she could think of. Reaching out, she took his face in her hands and kissed him; softly at first, and he tensed just like she’d expected, but after a few moments his mouth seemed to warm beneath hers, responding instinctually.
After a few moments she sat down beside him, half on the couch and half in his lap. She guided his hands to her hips when he seemed at a loss, but he latched onto her willingly, and when his hands moved to her back (trying, she thought, to pull her closer) she took that for the good sign it was and straddled him.
They kissed for awhile, bodies pressed close. Joan familiarized herself with the texture of his hair, the arch of his neck and jaw. He held her firmly, his fingers splayed against her lower back, grasping at her jumper.
She broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against his. “All right so far?” she asked, eyes still closed. Her head rocked up and down when he nodded.
“Good.” She let go of him and reached down to grasp the hem of her jumper. “I’ll just take this off.”
It was easier after that, somehow. Sherlock was tentative to explore, but a quick study when introduced to something new. He helped her unbutton her blouse, shrugged out of his own shirt with minimal prompting, and didn’t balk when, in a sudden fit of lust, Joan couldn’t resist dragging his hand up between her legs and pressing it there. It was simple, working his trousers off enough to touch him. He was so quiet, but he jumped when she took him in hand, bucking involuntarily into her grasp. He was hard as steel, and smooth as velvet, hot in her palm as she worked him slowly. One of his hands was still splayed against her, palm pressing in rhythm with her own motions. It didn’t take long.
His eyes flew open when she broke away from him and rose to kick off her slacks, shedding her panties with them. She couldn’t keep herself from gasping when she straddled him again, and this time his hands came up to her waist of their own volition. She grasped his head in both hands again, fingers fisting in his hair, and kissed him hard. Then, without any preamble or warning, she rose up onto her knees, took him in hand again, and sank down slowly onto him.
It was, in a word, exquisite.
***
Joan was pleased that sex didn’t seem to change anything. Sherlock was still a brilliant, insensitive ass with a half-kicked smoking habit, and she was still in turns awed and appalled - though no longer surprised - by much of what came out of his mouth. She still tried to get him to eat, and keep some semblance of order around the flat, and he still refused and started projects, and got distracted, and left messes, and it still drove her absolutely insane. They bickered and argued and occasionally she shouted at him when he was especially difficult. It was all very comforting in its familiarity.
Only now Joan knew the way he kissed, how he felt pressed against her and moving inside her. After a week and a half of having sex every other night, those things were becoming familiar too.
Familiar enough that she could tell when his head wasn’t in it, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.
Lestrade had called them in for help solving a recent string of connected sexual assaults turned murder. The attacks had left two young women hospitalized, but just last night a body had been found, and Sherlock had been mulling over it ever since they’d visited the crime scene - almost eighteen hours ago, now. Joan had thought she could distract him long enough, and for awhile it seemed to work. He kissed her with all his new-found skill, let her drag him to the couch and push him down, just like she’d done the first time, and every time since.
In the few times they’d been together, Joan had been able to pick out the things that Sherlock seemed to like. When he grew hesitant, or got distracted, she could fist her hands in his hair, or drag her fingernails down the back of his neck to bring him back to the moment. She did both those things now, and was rewarded with a gasp, his fingers spasming suddenly against the bare skin of her back.
And then he was pushing her out of his lap and leaping off the couch.
“The tire tracks!” he exclaimed, pacing through the apartment. “The trash bin! Of course!” He scooped up her shirt and bra and tossed them at her, then plucked his own button-up from the back of the armchair.
Joan knew better than to argue with these kinds of outbursts. She’d already pulled her shirt over her head by the time Sherlock was shrugging into his coat. He was out the door while she stomped into her shoes, and when she finally made it downstairs he’d already hailed a taxi. He was texting Lestrade when Joan climbed in beside him.
“Where are we off to then?” she asked, fighting the urge to squirm in her seat.
“We’re looking for two suspects, one of them quite clever,” he replied.
Joan sighed. “That doesn’t tell me where we’re going.”
“Westbourne Road, scene of the first attack. Hope you grabbed your firearm.”
Of course she hadn’t. She hoped no one shot at her. It really pissed her off when she couldn’t shoot back.
***
Forty minutes later she and Sherlock were both standing over a well-dressed unconscious serial rapist in a dark, wet alley, breathing hard from having chased him down a fire escape and across three blocks of back streets. Sherlock’s knuckles were split, but the suspect’s nose was probably broken, so Joan knew they both figured it a fair trade. She was sweaty from the exercise, and the chill of the early spring night felt good on her damp forehead. Sherlock was was circling the body. Joan knew he was thinking about the one who’d outrun them.
“He won’t get far,” Sherlock said as if he could read her thoughts. He’d taken out his phone and was texting again. “He’s going back to his own flat. If Lestrade works fast they can head him off.”
He tucked his phone away and continued his pacing, trying to work off the same nervous energy she could still feel pulsing around them. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage, and the cold air burned her lungs as she gulped in breaths. Sherlock met her eyes over the body laying between them, and in that instant something strange passed between them. Joan was stepping over the body before she knew what was happening, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock’s coat as she drove him back against the far wall. He opened his mouth - to cry out, she thought, or to protest - but all he did was gasp, and let her pull him down into a hard kiss. He ran his hands through her hair, but she pulled them away as soon as they reached her neck, pinning them to the wall at the same level as his hips. She bit down hard on his lower lip, and reached for his belt buckle.
His was already half hard when she worked a hand down the front of his pants. It didn’t take her long to finish the job, just a few firm, sure strokes. He groaned her name. It was the first time he’d said it during anything resembling sex, and suddenly Joan knew what she wanted to do. Dropping to her knees, her right hand still stroking, she took him in her mouth and licked a hard line up the base of his shaft. In the back of her mind she wondered if she shouldn’t have warned him first (he tensed, like he always did when she introduced something new and unexpected) but with every pass she made he was making the most delicious noises. Everything about him was intoxicating - every thrust of his hips, every guttural intonation - and knowing it was all because of her, and what she was doing to him, only heightened the experience. The ineffable Sherlock Holmes was falling to pieces before her, and it only made Joan Watson want him more.
He kept trying to fist his hands in her hair, until she finally pulled away long enough to say, “Keep your hands on the wall.” It wasn’t that she didn’t like having her hair pulled - she rather did, in fact - but in this moment she wanted to show him what she was capable of, if only he would trust her.
He did was she said, and it took him less than a minute to come. They were both panting when he finished, and Joan could feel her own heart beating double-time between her legs. There were blue and red lights flashing at the edge of her vision by then, and Sherlock was pushing her way and doing up his trousers. The knees of Joan’s khakis were impossibly stained, but she doubted anyone would notice.
It didn’t take long to shake off Lestrade and catch a taxi back to Baker Street. Joan spent the whole ride wondering if she’d crossed a line. Sherlock was more fidgety than usual, drumming his fingers against his knees, his eyes darting every which way, and he answered all her requests for clarification - how did you know where the second suspect was going, how did you know it was two new pairs of the same shoe - with noncommittal grunts.
They got home, and Joan trudged up the stairs after Sherlock, preparing herself for a week of cold shoulders and angry violin playing and mechanical sex. She hung her coat up by the door, watched Sherlock drop his in the armchair, and mentally prepared herself for the onslaught of nothingness.
She was surprised when instead of striding into his bedroom and slamming the door, Sherlock wrapped her up in his arms, pulled her close against him, and kissed her until she couldn’t think straight. When her brain was sufficiently addled, he pushed her down on the couch, and laid his long body over hers.
Three weeks later, at approximately 10:30 in the morning, a doctor told her she was pregnant.
Part 2