Tentacanthropy
Okay, I lied. I have two new fandom obsessions. The second is Sherlock, is developing entirely because of the kink meme, and... well...
Title: Tentacanthropy: Infection (John's POV)
John groaned a little louder than he meant to. Everything was so sensitive during this part of the cycle - not time, not quite, but so close that his skin was starting to feel elastic, switching between too tight and too loose, and he knew that touching himself was a bad idea right now, but he just needed some, a little -
"John?"
Sherlock's voice, sounding vaguely curious about the fact that his flatmate had barricaded himself in his room and was making unusual noises. John tried to clear his throat, tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't stop touching himself and all that came out was another groan, louder than the first one.
"John. Your behaviour over the last few days has been a distinct departure from your usual routines. Please explain why."
John glared at the door. Bloody Sherlock, with his always-being-right and his arrogance and his long fingers and his lithe movement and why the hell did his brain have to go on holiday now, dammit, he hadn't managed to find anyone yet -
The door thumped. Sherlock was trying to get in. John could feel his body stirring at the thought, parts that normal people - normal humans - never had to worry about starting to twitch eagerly. Sherlock, pale skin and dark hair and pretending to be so cold, surely it would be worth it to make him seem alive, make him show interest in something other than some puzzle for once, make him see John as more than his partner(pet) and have something real show in his face -
"Don't!" John managed to shout, trying to force down the darkness rising in his thoughts. "Don't come in." Four words, and he was amazed that he got that many out, because he'd never tried to time his cycle when there was someone around who he was interested in and what do you know? It had sped up drastically as soon as Sherlock started making it so obvious that he was close (close enough to grab, close enough to hold down and -)
"Don't be foolish, John." A careless rebuttal he'd heard far too often; of course Sherlock knew better than him.
Except this time, he didn't. And he was about to get that fact thrown in his face in the worst way possible.
John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and stretched. Arms, legs, and newly-extended tentacles all reached out.
The tentacles quickly reached into the pile of furniture in front of his door and sent it scattering, leaving nothing to hold the door closed as Sherlock tried - again - to break it open.
He fell into the room - literally - and any other time, John would probably have been trying not to laugh at him, but at that moment all that mattered was that he was in reach, finally -
"Homo Sapiens Tentaculigerous. Of course," was Sherlock's only reaction as John's tentacles slid inside his clothes and burst the seams, leaving him naked and tightly wrapped. "During the fertile period of your biennial cycle, I see," he added as John tugged him over to the bed, barely hearing what he was saying. "Honestly, you could have done better than to - John? John? JOHN!"
John snapped back to something approaching sanity. "Sherlock," he panted, one of his tentacles starting to probe at Sherlock's anus, "you picked a really bad time to try and come in."
"Evidently." Sherlock wriggled slightly, managing to twist himself in a way that made John's tentacles loosen automatically. "Next time, you should mention this before I'm driven to try and knock your door down. And, please, ask. I believe it's considered polite to hold negotiations beforehand?"
"Ah," John was blushing furiously, and it wasn't all - or even mostly - because of the fact that he couldn't stop himself from molesting Sherlock even for long enough to get his permission (what if he said no?). It was because of the sheer amount of physical contact he had with Sherlock, with his tentacles -
He'd heard others like him trying to describe how it felt to sense someone during this part of their cycle. Something like touch, and something like taste, and something that just didn't fit human terms enough to be explained.
Whatever it should be called, though, Sherlock felt/tasted/whatever fantastic. And then he rolled his eyes, and caught a handful of one of John's tentacles and rubbed it against his (half-hard, when did he start responding?) dick, and John made a noise that would have been truly embarrassing if he'd still been aware enough to be embarrassed and yanked Sherlock down on top of him.
Sherlock had the temerity to smirk. "I've heard some -" John coiled one tentacle around Sherlock's dick and started squeezing gently, making him gasp - "truly fascinating stories about tentacle-sex during the fertile period, and I'm ex-" his voice actually broke as John carefully slid the tip of one tentacle inside him "-pecting this to be -" another tentacle came up to hover expectantly in front of his face - "- John?"
Normally, hearing Sherlock sound so worried would have stopped John - it already had, earlier - but Sherlock had more-or-less given his consent (he hadn't left, and if he could wriggle out of a full hold, he could leave if he really wanted to), and John was too caught up in what he was feeling to notice the buried panic in his voice. The tentacle pressed on Sherlock's lips as the first one slid deeper inside him and was joined by a second. John groaned with pleasure, head falling back, and tightened his grip on Sherlock. He hadn't done this for so long; he'd been taking hormone suppressants since before he went to Afghanistan, and he'd never have stopped if his regular supplier hadn't been killed while he was out of the country. He'd made himself forget just how good it was; how no one and nothing mattered but having (someone)Sherlock here with him, and having (someone)Sherlock.
He forced his eyes open again, and looked up at Sherlock's face. The sight of those pale lips stretched around one of John's tentacles brought yet another groan from his throat, the two tentacles working their way into Sherlock's body from the other end spasming and surprising a muffled cry from his (mate)(victim)(prey)lover. John absently tightened his hold on Sherlock's dick in a complicated gesture that human fingers (or other body parts) could never hope to imitate. The cry changed tone, Sherlock's eyes half-closing. John smiled, twisting his tentacles together inside Sherlock and seeing him shudder in reaction. It wouldn't take much more. He pulled Sherlock into position, kneeling astride him, and shifted the tentacles inside him until there was enough room for him to really fuck Sherlock, with more than just his tentacles.
Something in the back of his mind protested: he shouldn't, it's a bad - but the thought was lost, drowned under the feel/taste of Sherlock in his tentacles, Sherlock straddling him, Sherlock sinking down willingly onto his dick and moaning around the tentacle that still filled his mouth as John swore breathlessly. He'd never had a partner like this, he'd never had someone he wanted for them instead of just for being there and interested, he'd never had someone whose name he remembered even when he was so blissed out that he forgot -
forgot -
Sherlock cried out again, louder, tightening around John as he finally came, and John thrust up desperately and joined him.
John's tentacles slid out of Sherlock, heavy and limp, already harder to move. He just barely tugged Sherlock down to lie on top of him, where he could wrap him in his arms while his tentacles retreated into their usual places inside his body (coiled around his torso, between the upper muscle layer and his ribcage).
Sherlock stretched contentedly. "So. I assume that you have successfully infected me with tentacanthropy?"
John froze. Oh. Oh, God, that was it, that was the thing he'd forgotten (how had he forgotten?); tentacles were fine, but do not come inside someone else. Not unless they've already got the same problem.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his horrified expression. "Honestly, John, don't tell me you didn't realise for yourself that it makes far more logical sense for the both of us to be infected. This way, there's no need to worry about Moriarty somehow arranging for your next pick-up to be one of his people, we can simply take care of each other. Much more efficient."
John stared at him. "You got yourself infected intentionally."
"Yes."
"By me."
"Yes."
"Because it's logical?"
"Obviously. Does sex usually have this unfortunate effect upon your intelligence?"
John let his head fall back against the mattress (he'd lost his pillow at some point). "For - you didn't even know I was a tentacanthrope! Did you?"
"Not until I saw the reason you'd hidden yourself away," Sherlock admitted huffily. "I fail to see what that has to do with anything, however."
John rubbed at his forehead, trying to soothe away the slowly-growing ache that came from trying to follow Sherlock's more bizarre leaps of thought. "Why?" he asked plaintively.
Sherlock raised himself on his arms, leaving most of his body still pressed against John's. "I told you," he said with exasperation. "It makes far more sense if we act as each other's mates, instead of you going off with other people chosen at random when your hormones overload your common sense."
(mates)
John blinked at him, instincts combining with the time he'd spent living with this man and adding up to - "You know, normal people just propose. Rings or something. Not, 'infect me so that it's more logical for us to be together'."
Sherlock snorted, flopping back down onto John. "Boring." He paused, raised his head far enough to see John's face, and added with a touch of uncertainty, "Do you want rings?"
John grinned at him ruefully, and shook his head. "I don't really think we need them by now, do we?" Sherlock looked relieved, and wriggled into a position that he apparently found more comfortable.
John rolled his eyes at the ceiling as Sherlock's knee dug into his thigh and his hand somehow wormed its way under John's uninjured shoulder. "Don't know why I'm surprised," he murmured, dropping into sleep in spite of himself, "you've never done anything normal..."
--
Sherlock spent the next four days seeming deathly ill as the tentacanthropy took firm hold. John made sure he ate enough to provide raw material for the developing tentacles, and tried not to cringe too obviously whenever he thought of Mycroft's likely reaction to what he'd done.
He hadn't expected the semi-sarcastic Congratulations! card, but, he thought wryly, he really should have. And binned it before Sherlock could get annoyed over it.
And, once Sherlock was over the transformation stage, nothing really changed in their lives. Well, not for the two years it took to find out that their mating cycles were concurrent...
-0-0-
Title: Tentacanthropy: Infection (Sherlock's POV)
Sherlock actually hesitated outside the door of John's bedroom. Not from any personal sense that his behaviour was inappropriate, but he knew that there was quite a strong possibility that John would see it differently.
A muffled groan sounded from inside the room. Sherlock nodded, convinced that if absolutely necessary he could claim concern (or curiousity, whichever John was more likely to believe) and tried to open the door.
It was blocked.
"John?" he asked, meaning 'Please move whatever is in the way so that I can come and see what you are doing'. The only response was another groan, so he continued, "John. Your behaviour over the last few days has been a distinct departure from your usual routines. Please explain why."
He waited, but there was no indication of any reaction from John. That was unacceptable. John always reacted to him. He looked more carefully at the door (not overly strong; should only need moderate force to open) and braced himself.
Clearly he'd made a miscalculation somewhere, as the door was still closed and his shoulder was bruised. He did, however, gain a reaction from John.
"Don't! Don't come in."
"Don't be foolish, John," Sherlock dismissed the warning. Of course he was going to come in; John was trying to hide something from him, and that was simply unacceptable. (He must have barricaded himself in, blocking the door with furniture; more force would be required.) It was possible that he'd need to build momentum by a short run, but he decided to try once more from a standing position before going to those lengths.
-0-0-
Title: Tentacanthropy: Impregnation
John had let Lestrade know that they wouldn't be available. Sherlock let Mycroft know that he'd put a lot more effort into sabotaging his diet if he interrupted them. Mycroft (John suspected) let Moriarty know that any attempts on either of them would bring his game with Sherlock to an abrupt end. Mrs Hudson already knew, and Harry was out of contact anyway.
They had successfully arranged to be left alone while they found out just how compatible their mating cycles were. They seemed to have thought of everything.
So, of course, something happened that they hadn't planned for...
John writhed on the bed, unable to speak, tentacles firmly wound with Sherlock's own and probing with abandon. He'd never been with one of his own kind before (not counting the time that got him infected); he knew that it happened, but tentacanthropes didn't exactly walk around with signs hung around their necks saying 'Tentacanthrope here!', and he'd never been in a situation to meet any who were interested in him. He'd never felt another set of tentacles pulsing against his own, sliding around his and inside him and taste/touching him everywhere while he did the same back. He couldn't have imagined how good it felt, how much it meant, how special it was...
Besides, there was something special anyway about being with someone who you'd infected yourself, he thought muzzily, and thank God Sherlock had wanted it or that would have been a horrible thing to think. He thrust up, tentacles holding him and Sherlock firmly together. Neither of them had wanted to penetrate the other with anything more than tentacles this time -
He wanted - he wanted -
Sherlock wrapped his lips and tongue around the tentacle in his mouth, sucking determinedly -
He lost the thought in a starburst of white behind his eyes, and slumped on the bed, mind utterly blank.
(mate hasn't come yet) His tentacles worked Sherlock's body with a sudden urgency (soon soon soon NOW) until Sherlock gave a muffled yell and came all over John, his come mixing with John's own (yes good needed like this both).
Sherlock looked as mindless as John, his keen attention due to habit instead of intent. They both watched as one of the small tendrils surrounding John's penis soaked up the fluid around it, detached itself, and crawled up to John's navel, where it burrowed in.
(good)
John smiled crookedly at Sherlock and curled up around him, already drifting to sleep.
He almost made it before his mind came back on line.
"WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!"
"Ah." Sherlock blinked at him. "I take it you haven't studied the less obvious alterations to our anatomy, then."
"Less obvious -?" John burrowed desperately into his memories, searching for something, anything, that would explain why he was happy about a tentacle burying itself inside his stomach -
"Wrong, by the way."
Attempt at a panic attack disrupted, John blinked at Sherlock with a weary, 'I know having to ask proves I'm stupid, but why?' expression. Sherlock was fascinated by just how much John could say with such minute changes to his expression. "Where did it - oh. Oh. Oh, bloody hell!"
Clearly John had finally remembered. Sherlock smiled slightly, patting at John's stomach. "The physical alterations involved in tentacanthropy are truly fascinating. Internal organs rearranged, not only to provide space for the tentacles themselves, but also to make room for the development of a functional uterus which can be reached through the navel, which itself is altered to become an involuntary sphincter which will only loosen under specific circumstances to allow the entrance of a -"
"I'm pregnant."
"For the past minute or so. Yes. The tentacle which absorbed our genetic material will act as an ovum, providing the necessary cellular structure to combine our contributions into a healthy embryo, which should develop along similar lines to that of a regular homo sapiens, leading to your giving birth - by Caesarian, I'm assuming - at approximately nine months from now, all going well." Sherlock grinned at John. "Isn't it brilliant?"
John heaved a deep sigh, and pulled Sherlock down on top of him. "How come I'm the one who's pregnant, anyway?" he grumbled, pretending to be more angry than he was.
"Honestly, John, do you really fancy trying to explain to Mycroft that you just knocked me up?"
John froze, and shuddered. "Sherlock. Don't scare me like that while I'm pregnant." He didn't argue as Sherlock arranged himself in yet another uncomfortable position (apparently, it was for an experiment. Somehow, John found himself utterly unsurprised by that news). John chuckled suddenly.
"What?"
"Next time Anderson says something, I can smack him a right one and blame it on the baby hormones."
"Babies don't typically have - ah. Yes. Yes, you can, can't you?" Sherlock's voice turned thoughtful, and John raised an eyebrow at him.
"You get to give our kid a brother or sister."
Sherlock sniffed. "Naturally. Once I've observed your own pregnancy, I'll be in the best possible position to make use of personal observations on the experience."
"Christ, never talk like that in front of the kids! They don't need to hear that one of their dads thinks of them as a science project!"
Sherlock looked slightly confused. "I don't think of our children as a science project. I think of the pregnancies as a science project. I assure you, the two are vastly different."
John rolled his eyes. "Remind me in the morning why I think having children with you is a good idea."
"First of all -"
"In the morning, Sherlock."
Title: Tentacanthropy: Infection (John's POV)
John groaned a little louder than he meant to. Everything was so sensitive during this part of the cycle - not time, not quite, but so close that his skin was starting to feel elastic, switching between too tight and too loose, and he knew that touching himself was a bad idea right now, but he just needed some, a little -
"John?"
Sherlock's voice, sounding vaguely curious about the fact that his flatmate had barricaded himself in his room and was making unusual noises. John tried to clear his throat, tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't stop touching himself and all that came out was another groan, louder than the first one.
"John. Your behaviour over the last few days has been a distinct departure from your usual routines. Please explain why."
John glared at the door. Bloody Sherlock, with his always-being-right and his arrogance and his long fingers and his lithe movement and why the hell did his brain have to go on holiday now, dammit, he hadn't managed to find anyone yet -
The door thumped. Sherlock was trying to get in. John could feel his body stirring at the thought, parts that normal people - normal humans - never had to worry about starting to twitch eagerly. Sherlock, pale skin and dark hair and pretending to be so cold, surely it would be worth it to make him seem alive, make him show interest in something other than some puzzle for once, make him see John as more than his partner(pet) and have something real show in his face -
"Don't!" John managed to shout, trying to force down the darkness rising in his thoughts. "Don't come in." Four words, and he was amazed that he got that many out, because he'd never tried to time his cycle when there was someone around who he was interested in and what do you know? It had sped up drastically as soon as Sherlock started making it so obvious that he was close (close enough to grab, close enough to hold down and -)
"Don't be foolish, John." A careless rebuttal he'd heard far too often; of course Sherlock knew better than him.
Except this time, he didn't. And he was about to get that fact thrown in his face in the worst way possible.
John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and stretched. Arms, legs, and newly-extended tentacles all reached out.
The tentacles quickly reached into the pile of furniture in front of his door and sent it scattering, leaving nothing to hold the door closed as Sherlock tried - again - to break it open.
He fell into the room - literally - and any other time, John would probably have been trying not to laugh at him, but at that moment all that mattered was that he was in reach, finally -
"Homo Sapiens Tentaculigerous. Of course," was Sherlock's only reaction as John's tentacles slid inside his clothes and burst the seams, leaving him naked and tightly wrapped. "During the fertile period of your biennial cycle, I see," he added as John tugged him over to the bed, barely hearing what he was saying. "Honestly, you could have done better than to - John? John? JOHN!"
John snapped back to something approaching sanity. "Sherlock," he panted, one of his tentacles starting to probe at Sherlock's anus, "you picked a really bad time to try and come in."
"Evidently." Sherlock wriggled slightly, managing to twist himself in a way that made John's tentacles loosen automatically. "Next time, you should mention this before I'm driven to try and knock your door down. And, please, ask. I believe it's considered polite to hold negotiations beforehand?"
"Ah," John was blushing furiously, and it wasn't all - or even mostly - because of the fact that he couldn't stop himself from molesting Sherlock even for long enough to get his permission (what if he said no?). It was because of the sheer amount of physical contact he had with Sherlock, with his tentacles -
He'd heard others like him trying to describe how it felt to sense someone during this part of their cycle. Something like touch, and something like taste, and something that just didn't fit human terms enough to be explained.
Whatever it should be called, though, Sherlock felt/tasted/whatever fantastic. And then he rolled his eyes, and caught a handful of one of John's tentacles and rubbed it against his (half-hard, when did he start responding?) dick, and John made a noise that would have been truly embarrassing if he'd still been aware enough to be embarrassed and yanked Sherlock down on top of him.
Sherlock had the temerity to smirk. "I've heard some -" John coiled one tentacle around Sherlock's dick and started squeezing gently, making him gasp - "truly fascinating stories about tentacle-sex during the fertile period, and I'm ex-" his voice actually broke as John carefully slid the tip of one tentacle inside him "-pecting this to be -" another tentacle came up to hover expectantly in front of his face - "- John?"
Normally, hearing Sherlock sound so worried would have stopped John - it already had, earlier - but Sherlock had more-or-less given his consent (he hadn't left, and if he could wriggle out of a full hold, he could leave if he really wanted to), and John was too caught up in what he was feeling to notice the buried panic in his voice. The tentacle pressed on Sherlock's lips as the first one slid deeper inside him and was joined by a second. John groaned with pleasure, head falling back, and tightened his grip on Sherlock. He hadn't done this for so long; he'd been taking hormone suppressants since before he went to Afghanistan, and he'd never have stopped if his regular supplier hadn't been killed while he was out of the country. He'd made himself forget just how good it was; how no one and nothing mattered but having (someone)Sherlock here with him, and having (someone)Sherlock.
He forced his eyes open again, and looked up at Sherlock's face. The sight of those pale lips stretched around one of John's tentacles brought yet another groan from his throat, the two tentacles working their way into Sherlock's body from the other end spasming and surprising a muffled cry from his (mate)(victim)(prey)lover. John absently tightened his hold on Sherlock's dick in a complicated gesture that human fingers (or other body parts) could never hope to imitate. The cry changed tone, Sherlock's eyes half-closing. John smiled, twisting his tentacles together inside Sherlock and seeing him shudder in reaction. It wouldn't take much more. He pulled Sherlock into position, kneeling astride him, and shifted the tentacles inside him until there was enough room for him to really fuck Sherlock, with more than just his tentacles.
Something in the back of his mind protested: he shouldn't, it's a bad - but the thought was lost, drowned under the feel/taste of Sherlock in his tentacles, Sherlock straddling him, Sherlock sinking down willingly onto his dick and moaning around the tentacle that still filled his mouth as John swore breathlessly. He'd never had a partner like this, he'd never had someone he wanted for them instead of just for being there and interested, he'd never had someone whose name he remembered even when he was so blissed out that he forgot -
forgot -
Sherlock cried out again, louder, tightening around John as he finally came, and John thrust up desperately and joined him.
John's tentacles slid out of Sherlock, heavy and limp, already harder to move. He just barely tugged Sherlock down to lie on top of him, where he could wrap him in his arms while his tentacles retreated into their usual places inside his body (coiled around his torso, between the upper muscle layer and his ribcage).
Sherlock stretched contentedly. "So. I assume that you have successfully infected me with tentacanthropy?"
John froze. Oh. Oh, God, that was it, that was the thing he'd forgotten (how had he forgotten?); tentacles were fine, but do not come inside someone else. Not unless they've already got the same problem.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his horrified expression. "Honestly, John, don't tell me you didn't realise for yourself that it makes far more logical sense for the both of us to be infected. This way, there's no need to worry about Moriarty somehow arranging for your next pick-up to be one of his people, we can simply take care of each other. Much more efficient."
John stared at him. "You got yourself infected intentionally."
"Yes."
"By me."
"Yes."
"Because it's logical?"
"Obviously. Does sex usually have this unfortunate effect upon your intelligence?"
John let his head fall back against the mattress (he'd lost his pillow at some point). "For - you didn't even know I was a tentacanthrope! Did you?"
"Not until I saw the reason you'd hidden yourself away," Sherlock admitted huffily. "I fail to see what that has to do with anything, however."
John rubbed at his forehead, trying to soothe away the slowly-growing ache that came from trying to follow Sherlock's more bizarre leaps of thought. "Why?" he asked plaintively.
Sherlock raised himself on his arms, leaving most of his body still pressed against John's. "I told you," he said with exasperation. "It makes far more sense if we act as each other's mates, instead of you going off with other people chosen at random when your hormones overload your common sense."
(mates)
John blinked at him, instincts combining with the time he'd spent living with this man and adding up to - "You know, normal people just propose. Rings or something. Not, 'infect me so that it's more logical for us to be together'."
Sherlock snorted, flopping back down onto John. "Boring." He paused, raised his head far enough to see John's face, and added with a touch of uncertainty, "Do you want rings?"
John grinned at him ruefully, and shook his head. "I don't really think we need them by now, do we?" Sherlock looked relieved, and wriggled into a position that he apparently found more comfortable.
John rolled his eyes at the ceiling as Sherlock's knee dug into his thigh and his hand somehow wormed its way under John's uninjured shoulder. "Don't know why I'm surprised," he murmured, dropping into sleep in spite of himself, "you've never done anything normal..."
--
Sherlock spent the next four days seeming deathly ill as the tentacanthropy took firm hold. John made sure he ate enough to provide raw material for the developing tentacles, and tried not to cringe too obviously whenever he thought of Mycroft's likely reaction to what he'd done.
He hadn't expected the semi-sarcastic Congratulations! card, but, he thought wryly, he really should have. And binned it before Sherlock could get annoyed over it.
And, once Sherlock was over the transformation stage, nothing really changed in their lives. Well, not for the two years it took to find out that their mating cycles were concurrent...
-0-0-
Title: Tentacanthropy: Infection (Sherlock's POV)
Sherlock actually hesitated outside the door of John's bedroom. Not from any personal sense that his behaviour was inappropriate, but he knew that there was quite a strong possibility that John would see it differently.
A muffled groan sounded from inside the room. Sherlock nodded, convinced that if absolutely necessary he could claim concern (or curiousity, whichever John was more likely to believe) and tried to open the door.
It was blocked.
"John?" he asked, meaning 'Please move whatever is in the way so that I can come and see what you are doing'. The only response was another groan, so he continued, "John. Your behaviour over the last few days has been a distinct departure from your usual routines. Please explain why."
He waited, but there was no indication of any reaction from John. That was unacceptable. John always reacted to him. He looked more carefully at the door (not overly strong; should only need moderate force to open) and braced himself.
Clearly he'd made a miscalculation somewhere, as the door was still closed and his shoulder was bruised. He did, however, gain a reaction from John.
"Don't! Don't come in."
"Don't be foolish, John," Sherlock dismissed the warning. Of course he was going to come in; John was trying to hide something from him, and that was simply unacceptable. (He must have barricaded himself in, blocking the door with furniture; more force would be required.) It was possible that he'd need to build momentum by a short run, but he decided to try once more from a standing position before going to those lengths.
-0-0-
Title: Tentacanthropy: Impregnation
John had let Lestrade know that they wouldn't be available. Sherlock let Mycroft know that he'd put a lot more effort into sabotaging his diet if he interrupted them. Mycroft (John suspected) let Moriarty know that any attempts on either of them would bring his game with Sherlock to an abrupt end. Mrs Hudson already knew, and Harry was out of contact anyway.
They had successfully arranged to be left alone while they found out just how compatible their mating cycles were. They seemed to have thought of everything.
So, of course, something happened that they hadn't planned for...
John writhed on the bed, unable to speak, tentacles firmly wound with Sherlock's own and probing with abandon. He'd never been with one of his own kind before (not counting the time that got him infected); he knew that it happened, but tentacanthropes didn't exactly walk around with signs hung around their necks saying 'Tentacanthrope here!', and he'd never been in a situation to meet any who were interested in him. He'd never felt another set of tentacles pulsing against his own, sliding around his and inside him and taste/touching him everywhere while he did the same back. He couldn't have imagined how good it felt, how much it meant, how special it was...
Besides, there was something special anyway about being with someone who you'd infected yourself, he thought muzzily, and thank God Sherlock had wanted it or that would have been a horrible thing to think. He thrust up, tentacles holding him and Sherlock firmly together. Neither of them had wanted to penetrate the other with anything more than tentacles this time -
He wanted - he wanted -
Sherlock wrapped his lips and tongue around the tentacle in his mouth, sucking determinedly -
He lost the thought in a starburst of white behind his eyes, and slumped on the bed, mind utterly blank.
(mate hasn't come yet) His tentacles worked Sherlock's body with a sudden urgency (soon soon soon NOW) until Sherlock gave a muffled yell and came all over John, his come mixing with John's own (yes good needed like this both).
Sherlock looked as mindless as John, his keen attention due to habit instead of intent. They both watched as one of the small tendrils surrounding John's penis soaked up the fluid around it, detached itself, and crawled up to John's navel, where it burrowed in.
(good)
John smiled crookedly at Sherlock and curled up around him, already drifting to sleep.
He almost made it before his mind came back on line.
"WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!"
"Ah." Sherlock blinked at him. "I take it you haven't studied the less obvious alterations to our anatomy, then."
"Less obvious -?" John burrowed desperately into his memories, searching for something, anything, that would explain why he was happy about a tentacle burying itself inside his stomach -
"Wrong, by the way."
Attempt at a panic attack disrupted, John blinked at Sherlock with a weary, 'I know having to ask proves I'm stupid, but why?' expression. Sherlock was fascinated by just how much John could say with such minute changes to his expression. "Where did it - oh. Oh. Oh, bloody hell!"
Clearly John had finally remembered. Sherlock smiled slightly, patting at John's stomach. "The physical alterations involved in tentacanthropy are truly fascinating. Internal organs rearranged, not only to provide space for the tentacles themselves, but also to make room for the development of a functional uterus which can be reached through the navel, which itself is altered to become an involuntary sphincter which will only loosen under specific circumstances to allow the entrance of a -"
"I'm pregnant."
"For the past minute or so. Yes. The tentacle which absorbed our genetic material will act as an ovum, providing the necessary cellular structure to combine our contributions into a healthy embryo, which should develop along similar lines to that of a regular homo sapiens, leading to your giving birth - by Caesarian, I'm assuming - at approximately nine months from now, all going well." Sherlock grinned at John. "Isn't it brilliant?"
John heaved a deep sigh, and pulled Sherlock down on top of him. "How come I'm the one who's pregnant, anyway?" he grumbled, pretending to be more angry than he was.
"Honestly, John, do you really fancy trying to explain to Mycroft that you just knocked me up?"
John froze, and shuddered. "Sherlock. Don't scare me like that while I'm pregnant." He didn't argue as Sherlock arranged himself in yet another uncomfortable position (apparently, it was for an experiment. Somehow, John found himself utterly unsurprised by that news). John chuckled suddenly.
"What?"
"Next time Anderson says something, I can smack him a right one and blame it on the baby hormones."
"Babies don't typically have - ah. Yes. Yes, you can, can't you?" Sherlock's voice turned thoughtful, and John raised an eyebrow at him.
"You get to give our kid a brother or sister."
Sherlock sniffed. "Naturally. Once I've observed your own pregnancy, I'll be in the best possible position to make use of personal observations on the experience."
"Christ, never talk like that in front of the kids! They don't need to hear that one of their dads thinks of them as a science project!"
Sherlock looked slightly confused. "I don't think of our children as a science project. I think of the pregnancies as a science project. I assure you, the two are vastly different."
John rolled his eyes. "Remind me in the morning why I think having children with you is a good idea."
"First of all -"
"In the morning, Sherlock."