Rolling in the Deep (4/?)
Rolling in the Deep
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Chapter Four! I'm glad people liked Ben and generally seemed to find the last chapter a little less heavy. Sorry the chapters are still a little bit shorter, but with putting more of Sherlock and John in we're switching voice a lot more often leading to shorter bits at a time. We're right back in to the angst for this one I'm afraid so...
Warnings: Fertility Issues and associated angst
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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“Come on, John. I’m going back to work on Monday. He’s been in London for two weeks.”
John sighed and rubbed his hand backwards through his hair as his sort-of-brother-in-law tried to weedle an agreement to come and meet his nephew out of him.
“Yeah, Greg, but-”
“I know it’s hard for him, but this is his nephew.” Greg continued. “It’s kind of a big thing he meets him.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Mycroft’s already burying himself in work and I’m going to have a hard enough time getting him home, so this weekend before he decides to fly to, I don’t know, Timbuktu really is the best.”
John just sighed again.
“Come on, John, in the interest of Holmes family unity and fixing broken bridges, yeah?”
Greg sounded ridiculously hopeful despite his pleading.
“I can’t promise-”
“Thanks, John. Really.”
“I’ll ask, but-”
A distorted electronic wail made itself distantly known.
“Oh, that’s the baby monitor.”
“Greg-”
“Got to go. Ta, mate. Appreciate it.”
“Gre-”
John didn’t bother finishing; the dial tone really wouldn’t care. Instead he slowly lowered the mobile from his ear and sighed again for good measure, slumping against the wall in the entry. It wasn’t the first time Greg had called about them going over and meeting Ben. To the DI’s credit, it was only the third, though each had become increasingly pleading and less inclined to take no for an answer.
It was completely understandable. Greg was entirely besotted with his son, as any new father was, and honestly couldn’t comprehend why anyone wouldn’t want to luxuriate in Ben’s presence and heap him with praise. Considering there was no one else Greg could show off to and that he really did seem to see Ben as the cure-all for all relationship ills, John really had to try and give him credit for only calling thrice, even if he really didn’t want to.
He hated being rational sometimes, hated it with all the anger, frustration and hurt he couldn’t bring himself to direct at a person. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, it wasn’t Greg’s fault, it certainly wasn’t Ben’s fault, all he’d done was be born, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a lot of feeling that had to go somewhere.
He and Sherlock hadn’t had sex since the Omega’s Heat. Sherlock had pulled away from him to the point their fingers didn’t so much as brush when John handed him the never ending cups of tea he made, because when John Watson was stressed, he made tea. Sherlock didn’t even come to bed anymore, at least not at night. John knew he was sleeping while John was at work because excellent memory or no, Sherlock couldn’t imitate the effect of over a decade in the army with a drill sergeant bouncing coins off covers with sadistic glee on tucking in corners.
So Sherlock was sleeping. He was even sleeping in a bed not on the couch. He just wasn’t doing it while John was there.
It all made John feel worse. Sherlock was his Sub; it was John’s responsibility to look after him. He should be making Sherlock talk; he should definitely be putting Sherlock under and dragging him out of his chaotic head before it churned and clanked its way to a meltdown. That was his job, the burden he’d agreed to when he first clasped the plain leather band around Sherlock’s wrist because it was all he could afford.
He couldn’t though. Not now, not at that minute with all the anger and frustration bubbling under the surface. He didn’t trust himself to hold it in check, and taking a scene with all those emotions ready to burst out and cause actual harm would be blatantly irresponsible of him. Especially as he didn’t trust Sherlock to safeword if John was out of control instead of suffering through as though the punishment were his due.
He could still put Sherlock on his knees, wrap his forearms in bindings and set him kneeling at John’s feet until the tireless machine of his mind gave way under John’s force of presence. A lot of Doms would argue he was obliged to, that he was doing Sherlock a disservice and even additional harm by not, but John couldn’t. Sherlock’s independence was his Sub’s most prized possession, possibly second only to his mind, and the trust it had taken to put it in John’s hands knowing that as a Dom, his Dom, John could rip it to shreds…
John couldn’t do it, couldn’t force Sherlock under for anything - needing sleep, needing food, needing a mental time out from his own thoughts. He’d made a promise when Sherlock had chosen to go off his suppressants and through Heat, no less valid because it was unspoken, that he’d never betray that trust. If Sherlock didn’t want something, John would only ever use words, logic and none of his dominant will to reason with him.
It was part of why he was so scared about what might happen if they did conceive. Keeping his silent vow was hard now, and he wasn’t sure he could if there was also a baby in play.
Maybe this was the universe’s way of ensuring he never had to find out.
The worst part was that no matter how much he tried not to, he did blame Sherlock. Not for suppressing his cycle or wanting to lead a life outside what his biology decreed, never for that, but… If only his arrogant idiotic genius had swallowed his pride and put enough of their feud aside to go to Mycroft for suppressants, or even just to get the same doctor rather than bullheadedly insisting on creating his own. Mycroft’s fertility was completely unaffected, John was fielding less and less gracious begging to come and see proof of that, but no, Sherlock just had to … be Sherlock.
It was hard, so hard to stop the frustration building to repressed anger and from there the short hop-skip-jump to repressed hate. John didn’t want to end up there. It was the last place on heaven or earth he wanted to end up, hating Sherlock.
He should ask about Ben, at least put the option in front of Sherlock if he wanted to take advantage of it. They hadn’t talked about their nephew since John had clinically delivered the news after Sherlock finally arrived back at 221B, same as they hadn’t discussed the equally clinically delivered theories the specialist had about treatment and probabilities of success.
He really should.
It there was one thing that annoyed John even more about the whole situation he found himself in, it was the way his leg twinged with pain as he climbed the stairs, forcing him into an uneven gait as he landed more heavily on the other foot each time. He hated the way it made him look invalided, the instant sign it was to anyone who knew that he was worried, and most of all, that he couldn’t stop it, every time.
The icing on the unwanted cake.
Sherlock was lying on the couch in full sprawl, toes digging into the arm rest and fingers steepled under his chin. He was fully dressed, getting creases in clothes that would have paid their rent for a month rather than his worn pyjamas, another carefully erected barrier between him and the world. Despite John’s progress up the stairs being punctuated loudly by his limp, Sherlock neither opened his eyes nor commented.
It was tempting, so tempting not to broach the subject, to leave the invisible line Sherlock had drawn around himself in silence and stony exclusion and just lie to Greg, say they weren’t going to come, but ta and good luck. It was the most likely response anyway, so it wouldn’t be that much of a lie. Not really. On the other hand, the uneasiness of the situation seemed to be increasing, John finding it hard to be in the same room as his brooding love for long periods of time before the sheer uncomfortable nature of the silence forced him out, and if they didn’t break it now, how long before he was finding it hard to stay in the flat?
“Sherlock…” John’s voice trailed off as he suddenly decided that maybe he wanted tea for this discussion, or to put it off until he could justify a whisky or three.
When he looked back, slivers of Sherlock’s mercurial grey-blue-green eyes could be seen glinting palely up from beneath sweeping eyelashes that made models cry. Only once, but it had actually happened during a case, right before John had punched a designer for saying Sherlock needed to lose weight if he wanted to ‘make it’ and giving him drugs to ‘help with his extra pounds’.
Having Sherlock’s attention unfortunately overrode the pressing desire for tea, if only so he’d have something in his hands to fiddle with. He walked over, supressing his limp as much as possible with as much success as he’d anticipated. Sherlock’s eyes ran a long sweep along his body, observation not lust, as he collected whatever little fragments of data he’d been missing.
John had never truly appreciated how useful Sherlock deducing everything and spitting it out in the open was. John was British, an Alpha, and ex-Army - if there was a combination less willing to talk about feelings he didn’t know it. Usually Sherlock flung everything out in public for him, and while John ended up wrong footed and embarrassed, at least it was said and he could take it from there.
All Sherlock did this time was let his eyes fall closed and tilt his head so his long nose poked even higher in the air.
John hovered uncertainly at the end of the couch, just outside Sherlock’s extended personal space. He had intended to go to his armchair, but somehow that felt wrong as though by moving away he was conceding ground.
“Greg called.” He stayed where he was, looking anywhere except at Sherlock.
In the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock’s toes twitch just slightly.
“He wants us to come over on Sunday sometime, before he goes back to work. Apparently quite a lot given this is the third call.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything and John wasn’t going to look over and risk meeting his eyes.
“Anyway, it’s up to you, but I said I’d ask so there, the option is yours if you want it.”
It seemed slightly ridiculous, the way neither of them were actually saying it - Greg wants you to meet your nephew, his son, your brother’s baby. Ben.
Feeling that way didn’t inspire the need to force the words out in the open though, avoided so long they felt taboo.
There was still no response from Sherlock and John was tempted, so tempted, to walk away and make a cup of tea, knowing that the topic would be closed if he did, another of the links binding it shut work hardened by the silence. His feet felt locked to the floor though, the same inertia that kept the status quo now rooting him to the spot.
Ben wouldn’t, couldn’t, go away. Ceasing to exist was beyond the baby’s abilities, even if he was a Holmes, and he would grow and his presence in their lives, wanted or not, would grow. Greg would keep pushing the point, and dammit John didn’t want to grow old as a stranger to his own nephew, but neither did he want to go through that yet. That was a whole bucket of pain still coming, held back by the chains of the ever strengthening silence.
Except the stronger something became the more brittle it was, and could they afford to let that binding snap for fear of using the key?
“Greg will keep pushing.” John said out loud, heart leaden in his chest.
“Why?” Sherlock’s voice was slightly rough from not speaking all day.
John couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken at all.
“Because he wants you to meet him. You should. We both should.”
“Why would I care about meeting Lestrade’s progeny?”
Sherlock sounded coldly dismissive, but there was a venomous undertone that made his emotional involvement in the subject all too clear.
“Because he’s your nephew, Sherlock.” John replied, bristling a little in instinctive response to the unfeeling tone.
“So? The fact that my brother briefly had an excuse to eat his own body weight in cake does not mean I have any obligation to meet the result.”
John bit his lip rather than give his automatic “He’s family” reply. Being family to the Watsons meant struggling through phone calls and trying, trying, trying even as Harry dove head first into a bottle on the basis of the way things once had been. For Sherlock, family didn’t seem to have anywhere near the same meaning, a cold word rather than the rougher and careworn lingering warmth it held for John.
An obligation, a duty.
“Look, I know it’s hard.” He spoke to the floorboards, chin tucked practically into the collar of his shirt. “I don’t really want to do this either, but it means a lot to Greg, and like it or not he is our nephew and God knows he’s going to need all the support he can get growing up.”
John could almost feel the quick flick of Sherlock’s gaze passing over him.
“This is hard for me too,” he repeated, “but-”
“But he’s the only baby we’re ever going to have in our lives so we might as well meet him?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with loathing. “You can’t even say his name.”
“Neither can you.” John shot back.
“Just go then.” There was a rustling of material from the couch and Sherlock’s toes disappeared from the extremities of John’s vision. “Go and meet him on your own if it’s such a big deal to you.”
John turned his head so he could finally see the couch and his Sub properly. Sherlock had flipped onto his side from his “I’m thinking” sprawl to his “I’m sulking” ball, only this time he was curled a little too tightly to pass it off as petulance and his knuckles were visibly clenched against his shirt.
“You don’t know that.” John moved to sit on the arm of the couch, straddling the neutral zone with one foot in Sherlock’s territory. “We may still have a baby of our own. The doctors said it wasn’t certain, not impossible.”
Sherlock started to curl more tightly into his ball, before arresting what must have been an involuntary movement, unwilling to show how much the topic affected him.
“They were optimistic, really,” John continued, “especially if we try fertility treatment. I don’t like the idea of them using you as a guinea pig, but someone has to be first… I guess…”
Still no response, if the stiffening of Sherlock’s shoulders didn’t count.
“Course it’ll take time and there’s no… guarantee… that there won’t be long term… complications… if we do that, which we certainly don’t have to…” John trailed off as he realised he was babbling.
Avoiding the issue.
Well, one of them anyway.
The one he really didn’t want to acknowledge, but had been tapping at him from the back of him mind since well before this last Heat.
“Sherlock,” he started, then stopped studying his fingernail.
It really was now or never. Getting himself psyched up for this talk, getting Sherlock to listen to it, neither would be happening any time soon if he didn’t just push through now.
“I meant it, you know, when I said I didn’t mind if we never had children. It would be… great, but I’m not going to leave and it’s fine, all fine, really.” He continued cautiously.
Still no response, and a quick glance provided nothing extra, so John looked back at his fingers.
“The treatment, if you want it, it won’t be easy. There’ll be injections, doctors, and it’ll be hard emotionally even before all the interference with your hormones. It’ll get in the way of things, cases and the Work, and we’ll probably end up doing a lot of fighting, with no guarantee at the end that even if we manage he’d be… healthy and…” John took a deep breath.
“Look Sherlock, what I’m trying to say is… If you want to try it, I will be there for you and I will help you through all of it, all the fights, all the appointments,… but it’s not necessary for me to stay, we don’t have to have a baby, and while I’d love one, I just want to make sure you’re doing this, if you decide to because it’s up to you, for the right reasons.”
Sherlock’s head turned enough that John could see his face, and even though he was glaring at him, John took that as permission to slide off the arm and sit on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly, but securely, around Sherlock’s ankle.
“And what precisely would you define as the right reasons?” Sherlock sneered.
He didn’t kick his ankle free like he would have if he’d been really disgruntled, and John delighted in their first skin to skin contact in weeks, even if it was only a hand to Sherlock’s ankle.
“The right reasons are because you want a baby, because you want to see our child and raise him and know that it will involve us giving up some of our lives, but feel that it’s worth it and you want to, so you can meet him.
“It’s because you feel like it’s right, not, not” John took a deep breath and ploughed on, “not because you feel like a failure if you can’t or you think you have to.”
The ankle in his grip involuntarily twitched as Sherlock flinched. John mentally sighed and hung his head. He’d worried about that, deep down and unmentioned, since he’d been dragged to Mycroft’s house last time.
I’m a failure… Words he felt like torching the rotten remains of Siger Holmes’s corpse over. It was all too easy to imagine the constant lectures about an Omega’s proper place, an Omega’s role, an Omega’s sole purpose, and what it meant for an Omega who wouldn’t, couldn’t, fulfil it.
Sherlock had rejected most of the vitriol, but obviously deep down a life of what John hatefully considered abuse had set down some roots. Maybe Sherlock had been able to ignore it when it was a choice, a deliberate up you to his Sire, but now could not as opposed to would not appeared to be letting it run rampant.
“You’re not a failure, Sherlock,” John willed him to understand. “I don’t care what you’ve been told, your Sire was wrong, and you were not put on this Earth just to breed. Any idiot can have kids; you’re a genius, you do so much more. Wasting you on breeding would be a failure.”
Sherlock studiously looked at the back of the couch. “Any idiot except me, you mean.”
“You’re not a failure.” John repeated stubbornly. “If your Sire had got his way and made you into nothing more than a baby machine that would have been a failure.”
Sherlock’s shoulders hunched slightly in what John though was a lacklustre shrug. John wanted to sigh, but kept it in knowing that Sherlock would hear it as condemnation, not disappointment in John’s own ability to get through to him. So many issues, all nested together, and all centred around an Alpha sadly out of John’s reach. It would take time, years, to lance these hidden wounds, but for now, for now he needed an answer so he could start to deal with his own demons and, if he needed to, pack some of his own dreams and expectations away.
“Really, Sherlock, and don’t lie to me, do you want to try for this child because you want us to have a baby, in which case just say and I will make you an appointment, or is it because you feel you’re obligated to have one because that’s what you’ve grown up with, because if that’s the case, I think… I think we’re better off with the Work and spoiling our nephew rotten.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, dull eyes still focused on the back of the couch.
“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. Then when there was still no response, “Sherlock, I need an answer. Do you want to have a baby or not?”
The detective’s mouth opened and closed without a sound.
“Yes or no?” John pressed, heart racing painfully in his own chest.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible.
“Okay.” John said into the oppressive silence threatening to fall, hands teetering on the edge of shaking from the adrenaline spike and sudden release of getting it out in the open and not hearing a no. “If that’s the case, I think that’s something we need to work out first.
There was no reply, but John didn’t expect one. Instead of waiting he rose, saying “I’ll make us some tea” and went to brew the great British staple while he worked up the strength to call Greg and meet the littlest Holmes.
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Ironically, the chapter I'm working on at the minute, somewhere around the 13, 14 mark, I'm still at 221B and Sherlock is still curled up on that couch. I blame the fact that he sulks so beautifully...
Until next week
Previous - Next
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Chapter Four! I'm glad people liked Ben and generally seemed to find the last chapter a little less heavy. Sorry the chapters are still a little bit shorter, but with putting more of Sherlock and John in we're switching voice a lot more often leading to shorter bits at a time. We're right back in to the angst for this one I'm afraid so...
Warnings: Fertility Issues and associated angst
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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“Come on, John. I’m going back to work on Monday. He’s been in London for two weeks.”
John sighed and rubbed his hand backwards through his hair as his sort-of-brother-in-law tried to weedle an agreement to come and meet his nephew out of him.
“Yeah, Greg, but-”
“I know it’s hard for him, but this is his nephew.” Greg continued. “It’s kind of a big thing he meets him.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Mycroft’s already burying himself in work and I’m going to have a hard enough time getting him home, so this weekend before he decides to fly to, I don’t know, Timbuktu really is the best.”
John just sighed again.
“Come on, John, in the interest of Holmes family unity and fixing broken bridges, yeah?”
Greg sounded ridiculously hopeful despite his pleading.
“I can’t promise-”
“Thanks, John. Really.”
“I’ll ask, but-”
A distorted electronic wail made itself distantly known.
“Oh, that’s the baby monitor.”
“Greg-”
“Got to go. Ta, mate. Appreciate it.”
“Gre-”
John didn’t bother finishing; the dial tone really wouldn’t care. Instead he slowly lowered the mobile from his ear and sighed again for good measure, slumping against the wall in the entry. It wasn’t the first time Greg had called about them going over and meeting Ben. To the DI’s credit, it was only the third, though each had become increasingly pleading and less inclined to take no for an answer.
It was completely understandable. Greg was entirely besotted with his son, as any new father was, and honestly couldn’t comprehend why anyone wouldn’t want to luxuriate in Ben’s presence and heap him with praise. Considering there was no one else Greg could show off to and that he really did seem to see Ben as the cure-all for all relationship ills, John really had to try and give him credit for only calling thrice, even if he really didn’t want to.
He hated being rational sometimes, hated it with all the anger, frustration and hurt he couldn’t bring himself to direct at a person. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, it wasn’t Greg’s fault, it certainly wasn’t Ben’s fault, all he’d done was be born, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a lot of feeling that had to go somewhere.
He and Sherlock hadn’t had sex since the Omega’s Heat. Sherlock had pulled away from him to the point their fingers didn’t so much as brush when John handed him the never ending cups of tea he made, because when John Watson was stressed, he made tea. Sherlock didn’t even come to bed anymore, at least not at night. John knew he was sleeping while John was at work because excellent memory or no, Sherlock couldn’t imitate the effect of over a decade in the army with a drill sergeant bouncing coins off covers with sadistic glee on tucking in corners.
So Sherlock was sleeping. He was even sleeping in a bed not on the couch. He just wasn’t doing it while John was there.
It all made John feel worse. Sherlock was his Sub; it was John’s responsibility to look after him. He should be making Sherlock talk; he should definitely be putting Sherlock under and dragging him out of his chaotic head before it churned and clanked its way to a meltdown. That was his job, the burden he’d agreed to when he first clasped the plain leather band around Sherlock’s wrist because it was all he could afford.
He couldn’t though. Not now, not at that minute with all the anger and frustration bubbling under the surface. He didn’t trust himself to hold it in check, and taking a scene with all those emotions ready to burst out and cause actual harm would be blatantly irresponsible of him. Especially as he didn’t trust Sherlock to safeword if John was out of control instead of suffering through as though the punishment were his due.
He could still put Sherlock on his knees, wrap his forearms in bindings and set him kneeling at John’s feet until the tireless machine of his mind gave way under John’s force of presence. A lot of Doms would argue he was obliged to, that he was doing Sherlock a disservice and even additional harm by not, but John couldn’t. Sherlock’s independence was his Sub’s most prized possession, possibly second only to his mind, and the trust it had taken to put it in John’s hands knowing that as a Dom, his Dom, John could rip it to shreds…
John couldn’t do it, couldn’t force Sherlock under for anything - needing sleep, needing food, needing a mental time out from his own thoughts. He’d made a promise when Sherlock had chosen to go off his suppressants and through Heat, no less valid because it was unspoken, that he’d never betray that trust. If Sherlock didn’t want something, John would only ever use words, logic and none of his dominant will to reason with him.
It was part of why he was so scared about what might happen if they did conceive. Keeping his silent vow was hard now, and he wasn’t sure he could if there was also a baby in play.
Maybe this was the universe’s way of ensuring he never had to find out.
The worst part was that no matter how much he tried not to, he did blame Sherlock. Not for suppressing his cycle or wanting to lead a life outside what his biology decreed, never for that, but… If only his arrogant idiotic genius had swallowed his pride and put enough of their feud aside to go to Mycroft for suppressants, or even just to get the same doctor rather than bullheadedly insisting on creating his own. Mycroft’s fertility was completely unaffected, John was fielding less and less gracious begging to come and see proof of that, but no, Sherlock just had to … be Sherlock.
It was hard, so hard to stop the frustration building to repressed anger and from there the short hop-skip-jump to repressed hate. John didn’t want to end up there. It was the last place on heaven or earth he wanted to end up, hating Sherlock.
He should ask about Ben, at least put the option in front of Sherlock if he wanted to take advantage of it. They hadn’t talked about their nephew since John had clinically delivered the news after Sherlock finally arrived back at 221B, same as they hadn’t discussed the equally clinically delivered theories the specialist had about treatment and probabilities of success.
He really should.
It there was one thing that annoyed John even more about the whole situation he found himself in, it was the way his leg twinged with pain as he climbed the stairs, forcing him into an uneven gait as he landed more heavily on the other foot each time. He hated the way it made him look invalided, the instant sign it was to anyone who knew that he was worried, and most of all, that he couldn’t stop it, every time.
The icing on the unwanted cake.
Sherlock was lying on the couch in full sprawl, toes digging into the arm rest and fingers steepled under his chin. He was fully dressed, getting creases in clothes that would have paid their rent for a month rather than his worn pyjamas, another carefully erected barrier between him and the world. Despite John’s progress up the stairs being punctuated loudly by his limp, Sherlock neither opened his eyes nor commented.
It was tempting, so tempting not to broach the subject, to leave the invisible line Sherlock had drawn around himself in silence and stony exclusion and just lie to Greg, say they weren’t going to come, but ta and good luck. It was the most likely response anyway, so it wouldn’t be that much of a lie. Not really. On the other hand, the uneasiness of the situation seemed to be increasing, John finding it hard to be in the same room as his brooding love for long periods of time before the sheer uncomfortable nature of the silence forced him out, and if they didn’t break it now, how long before he was finding it hard to stay in the flat?
“Sherlock…” John’s voice trailed off as he suddenly decided that maybe he wanted tea for this discussion, or to put it off until he could justify a whisky or three.
When he looked back, slivers of Sherlock’s mercurial grey-blue-green eyes could be seen glinting palely up from beneath sweeping eyelashes that made models cry. Only once, but it had actually happened during a case, right before John had punched a designer for saying Sherlock needed to lose weight if he wanted to ‘make it’ and giving him drugs to ‘help with his extra pounds’.
Having Sherlock’s attention unfortunately overrode the pressing desire for tea, if only so he’d have something in his hands to fiddle with. He walked over, supressing his limp as much as possible with as much success as he’d anticipated. Sherlock’s eyes ran a long sweep along his body, observation not lust, as he collected whatever little fragments of data he’d been missing.
John had never truly appreciated how useful Sherlock deducing everything and spitting it out in the open was. John was British, an Alpha, and ex-Army - if there was a combination less willing to talk about feelings he didn’t know it. Usually Sherlock flung everything out in public for him, and while John ended up wrong footed and embarrassed, at least it was said and he could take it from there.
All Sherlock did this time was let his eyes fall closed and tilt his head so his long nose poked even higher in the air.
John hovered uncertainly at the end of the couch, just outside Sherlock’s extended personal space. He had intended to go to his armchair, but somehow that felt wrong as though by moving away he was conceding ground.
“Greg called.” He stayed where he was, looking anywhere except at Sherlock.
In the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock’s toes twitch just slightly.
“He wants us to come over on Sunday sometime, before he goes back to work. Apparently quite a lot given this is the third call.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything and John wasn’t going to look over and risk meeting his eyes.
“Anyway, it’s up to you, but I said I’d ask so there, the option is yours if you want it.”
It seemed slightly ridiculous, the way neither of them were actually saying it - Greg wants you to meet your nephew, his son, your brother’s baby. Ben.
Feeling that way didn’t inspire the need to force the words out in the open though, avoided so long they felt taboo.
There was still no response from Sherlock and John was tempted, so tempted, to walk away and make a cup of tea, knowing that the topic would be closed if he did, another of the links binding it shut work hardened by the silence. His feet felt locked to the floor though, the same inertia that kept the status quo now rooting him to the spot.
Ben wouldn’t, couldn’t, go away. Ceasing to exist was beyond the baby’s abilities, even if he was a Holmes, and he would grow and his presence in their lives, wanted or not, would grow. Greg would keep pushing the point, and dammit John didn’t want to grow old as a stranger to his own nephew, but neither did he want to go through that yet. That was a whole bucket of pain still coming, held back by the chains of the ever strengthening silence.
Except the stronger something became the more brittle it was, and could they afford to let that binding snap for fear of using the key?
“Greg will keep pushing.” John said out loud, heart leaden in his chest.
“Why?” Sherlock’s voice was slightly rough from not speaking all day.
John couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken at all.
“Because he wants you to meet him. You should. We both should.”
“Why would I care about meeting Lestrade’s progeny?”
Sherlock sounded coldly dismissive, but there was a venomous undertone that made his emotional involvement in the subject all too clear.
“Because he’s your nephew, Sherlock.” John replied, bristling a little in instinctive response to the unfeeling tone.
“So? The fact that my brother briefly had an excuse to eat his own body weight in cake does not mean I have any obligation to meet the result.”
John bit his lip rather than give his automatic “He’s family” reply. Being family to the Watsons meant struggling through phone calls and trying, trying, trying even as Harry dove head first into a bottle on the basis of the way things once had been. For Sherlock, family didn’t seem to have anywhere near the same meaning, a cold word rather than the rougher and careworn lingering warmth it held for John.
An obligation, a duty.
“Look, I know it’s hard.” He spoke to the floorboards, chin tucked practically into the collar of his shirt. “I don’t really want to do this either, but it means a lot to Greg, and like it or not he is our nephew and God knows he’s going to need all the support he can get growing up.”
John could almost feel the quick flick of Sherlock’s gaze passing over him.
“This is hard for me too,” he repeated, “but-”
“But he’s the only baby we’re ever going to have in our lives so we might as well meet him?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with loathing. “You can’t even say his name.”
“Neither can you.” John shot back.
“Just go then.” There was a rustling of material from the couch and Sherlock’s toes disappeared from the extremities of John’s vision. “Go and meet him on your own if it’s such a big deal to you.”
John turned his head so he could finally see the couch and his Sub properly. Sherlock had flipped onto his side from his “I’m thinking” sprawl to his “I’m sulking” ball, only this time he was curled a little too tightly to pass it off as petulance and his knuckles were visibly clenched against his shirt.
“You don’t know that.” John moved to sit on the arm of the couch, straddling the neutral zone with one foot in Sherlock’s territory. “We may still have a baby of our own. The doctors said it wasn’t certain, not impossible.”
Sherlock started to curl more tightly into his ball, before arresting what must have been an involuntary movement, unwilling to show how much the topic affected him.
“They were optimistic, really,” John continued, “especially if we try fertility treatment. I don’t like the idea of them using you as a guinea pig, but someone has to be first… I guess…”
Still no response, if the stiffening of Sherlock’s shoulders didn’t count.
“Course it’ll take time and there’s no… guarantee… that there won’t be long term… complications… if we do that, which we certainly don’t have to…” John trailed off as he realised he was babbling.
Avoiding the issue.
Well, one of them anyway.
The one he really didn’t want to acknowledge, but had been tapping at him from the back of him mind since well before this last Heat.
“Sherlock,” he started, then stopped studying his fingernail.
It really was now or never. Getting himself psyched up for this talk, getting Sherlock to listen to it, neither would be happening any time soon if he didn’t just push through now.
“I meant it, you know, when I said I didn’t mind if we never had children. It would be… great, but I’m not going to leave and it’s fine, all fine, really.” He continued cautiously.
Still no response, and a quick glance provided nothing extra, so John looked back at his fingers.
“The treatment, if you want it, it won’t be easy. There’ll be injections, doctors, and it’ll be hard emotionally even before all the interference with your hormones. It’ll get in the way of things, cases and the Work, and we’ll probably end up doing a lot of fighting, with no guarantee at the end that even if we manage he’d be… healthy and…” John took a deep breath.
“Look Sherlock, what I’m trying to say is… If you want to try it, I will be there for you and I will help you through all of it, all the fights, all the appointments,… but it’s not necessary for me to stay, we don’t have to have a baby, and while I’d love one, I just want to make sure you’re doing this, if you decide to because it’s up to you, for the right reasons.”
Sherlock’s head turned enough that John could see his face, and even though he was glaring at him, John took that as permission to slide off the arm and sit on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly, but securely, around Sherlock’s ankle.
“And what precisely would you define as the right reasons?” Sherlock sneered.
He didn’t kick his ankle free like he would have if he’d been really disgruntled, and John delighted in their first skin to skin contact in weeks, even if it was only a hand to Sherlock’s ankle.
“The right reasons are because you want a baby, because you want to see our child and raise him and know that it will involve us giving up some of our lives, but feel that it’s worth it and you want to, so you can meet him.
“It’s because you feel like it’s right, not, not” John took a deep breath and ploughed on, “not because you feel like a failure if you can’t or you think you have to.”
The ankle in his grip involuntarily twitched as Sherlock flinched. John mentally sighed and hung his head. He’d worried about that, deep down and unmentioned, since he’d been dragged to Mycroft’s house last time.
I’m a failure… Words he felt like torching the rotten remains of Siger Holmes’s corpse over. It was all too easy to imagine the constant lectures about an Omega’s proper place, an Omega’s role, an Omega’s sole purpose, and what it meant for an Omega who wouldn’t, couldn’t, fulfil it.
Sherlock had rejected most of the vitriol, but obviously deep down a life of what John hatefully considered abuse had set down some roots. Maybe Sherlock had been able to ignore it when it was a choice, a deliberate up you to his Sire, but now could not as opposed to would not appeared to be letting it run rampant.
“You’re not a failure, Sherlock,” John willed him to understand. “I don’t care what you’ve been told, your Sire was wrong, and you were not put on this Earth just to breed. Any idiot can have kids; you’re a genius, you do so much more. Wasting you on breeding would be a failure.”
Sherlock studiously looked at the back of the couch. “Any idiot except me, you mean.”
“You’re not a failure.” John repeated stubbornly. “If your Sire had got his way and made you into nothing more than a baby machine that would have been a failure.”
Sherlock’s shoulders hunched slightly in what John though was a lacklustre shrug. John wanted to sigh, but kept it in knowing that Sherlock would hear it as condemnation, not disappointment in John’s own ability to get through to him. So many issues, all nested together, and all centred around an Alpha sadly out of John’s reach. It would take time, years, to lance these hidden wounds, but for now, for now he needed an answer so he could start to deal with his own demons and, if he needed to, pack some of his own dreams and expectations away.
“Really, Sherlock, and don’t lie to me, do you want to try for this child because you want us to have a baby, in which case just say and I will make you an appointment, or is it because you feel you’re obligated to have one because that’s what you’ve grown up with, because if that’s the case, I think… I think we’re better off with the Work and spoiling our nephew rotten.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, dull eyes still focused on the back of the couch.
“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. Then when there was still no response, “Sherlock, I need an answer. Do you want to have a baby or not?”
The detective’s mouth opened and closed without a sound.
“Yes or no?” John pressed, heart racing painfully in his own chest.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible.
“Okay.” John said into the oppressive silence threatening to fall, hands teetering on the edge of shaking from the adrenaline spike and sudden release of getting it out in the open and not hearing a no. “If that’s the case, I think that’s something we need to work out first.
There was no reply, but John didn’t expect one. Instead of waiting he rose, saying “I’ll make us some tea” and went to brew the great British staple while he worked up the strength to call Greg and meet the littlest Holmes.
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Ironically, the chapter I'm working on at the minute, somewhere around the 13, 14 mark, I'm still at 221B and Sherlock is still curled up on that couch. I blame the fact that he sulks so beautifully...
Until next week
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