Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At three months, Mycroft thought his so-called genius brother would have figured it out. He himself had known for two months, yet Sherlock still hadn't seemed to notice. Was he truly that oblivious? 

Sherlock knew that Gregory and Mycroft were a thing, yes. He seemed to grumble about it on every single case involving Lestrade, about how the man absolutely stunk of his brother. Oh, are you even wearing Mycroft's cologne now? Disgusting. I hate this. Stop being so lovey-dovey. Get a room. No, get two different rooms. Away from each other, in separate countries. Just stop seeing my brother. 

Yet, Sherlock didn't seem to notice the obvious. Mycroft's scent changed to a subtler, yet sweeter one. He had already been to the tailor's on Saville Row to adjust his suits, his hair seemed to be growing back for the first time in years, and his skin had a warm glow to it. 

As he walked into Baker Street that morning, he could hear John and Sherlock arguing over why there was a partially dissected femur in the fridge. However, as Mycroft placed his foot down on the first step and it gave a quiet creak, Sherlock went silent. Then, 

"Piss off, Mycroft!" 

Well. Mycroft was definitely going up to their flat now, just to annoy Sherlock more. By the time he reached the final step, he was lightly leaning on his umbrella. "Good morning, gentlemen." 

"No!" 

"Good morning, John, then." Mycroft stepped into the flat, pulling a face at the offending femur on the table. His morning sickness had somewhat ebbed, but staring at a (hopefully) dead person's leg on the table seemed to bring the dry toast he had had for breakfast back up. Mycroft swallowed heavily, choosing to look around the living room instead, trying to stop thinking about the different layers of decomposing skin he just witnessed. Stratum corneum, stratum lucidum, stratum symposum… Mycroft gagged, but hid it with a well-time cough. "I have some news for the both of you, if you would like to come through here and please put the leg back in the freezer. Honestly…" 

Once Mycroft was sure he had heard the 'thud' of a leg being chucked in a freezer drawer and shoved shut, he turned round to face the two in the kitchen. John didn't even need to listen to anything Mycroft said. He simply sniffed, looked down at Mycroft's stomach, then stared at him with a raised eyebrow. Mycroft gave a slight nod in return, a smile playing on his lips. "Clever, Doctor Watson." 

"Congr-" 

"Clever? Clever how?" Sherlock barged in, his eyes scanning over Mycroft, a deep frown on his face. "What? What's so funny? What do you two see that I'm not seeing?" Sherlock did a full lap around Mycroft, looking him up and down, sniffing and squinting and checking him out from all different angles. John just grinned. He never thought he'd see Sherlock stumped. 

"Can you really not see it, Sherlock?" John asked, leaning back, his arms folded over his chest triumphantly. He was officially better than the great detective in one area. "Mycroft's-" 

"Ah, ah. Don't tell him. It's more entertaining to watch him figure it out for himself." Mycroft chuckled, taking a seat in John's chair. It was higher up, more comfortable on his somewhat aching hips and pelvis. 

"Mycroft's what, John?" Sherlock snarled, sitting down in his chair and staring at the other man. 

"Mycroft's fat? I already know that. But I agree, you've put on… Three pounds since I last saw you?" 

"Two and a half." 

"Three." 

Mycroft glared across at Sherlock. "I assure you, it was two and a half. I weighed myself this morning." 

"Can you even see the numbers on the scale over that stomach of yours? Speaking of, which diet are you doing now?" Sherlock scanned over his face. "You were doing that keto one the last time I checked, but you must have changed. You have changed. You caved in the middle of the night and ate… Oh, chocolate fudge cake, Mycroft, how devilish." 

Mycroft glared, but replaced it with a smile. "That was a while ago. I'm simply just eating healthily now." 

"Plenty of fruit and veg, Mycroft. No raw meat." John reminded him, making Mycroft tut. "And limit your caffeine intake." 

"I do like tartare, but I haven't had the stomach for it recently." Mycroft's fingertips slowly drifted over his stomach. Sherlock was still frowning, still not understanding what the two were connotating. It was like some sort of code, though normally code was easier to decipher than this. "And Anthea has ensured that all the tea and coffee in my house has been replaced with caffeine free versions. It just isn't the same, sadly…" Mycroft sighed, patting his stomach lightly. 

"Why caffeine free?" 

"It's better for Mycroft's health." John explained. "And raw meat's full of fat and possibly salmonella. Just trying to keep him healthy." 

"Right…" Sherlock looked between the two suspiciously. "Well, Mycroft, I've hated every minute you've been here. Don't you have a government to run? You should really go." He said, a too-kind smile on his face. 

"Harry's looking after it for the morning. I have a medical appointment to get to." Mycroft chuckled as once again as Sherlock scanned over him. "Brother mine, if you haven't figured it out yet, then I doubt you will cotton on any time soon."

"Just tell me what's going on. John, tell me." Sherlock said desperately, staring at John. John just grinned in return. It was too fun watching Sherlock be confused. "This isn't funny!" 

"Must be off…" Mycroft groaned quietly as he stood, leaning heavily on his umbrella. John instinctively moved to help him up, but Mycroft waved him off. "Thank you, John, but it isn't needed… Maybe in a few months, however." 

"Tell me if you need any help at home?" John offered. He was a single alpha and Mycroft was a pregnant omega. It was his instinct to help. Even if the omega in question was already bonded to one of his best mates. 

"It is a lovely offer, but Gregory has been absolutely wonderful the past few months. He has truly stepped up to the plate." 

"Yeah, well. It isn't his first, is it?" 

"Isn't his first what? Boyfriend? Yes, he had that one in… Second year of high school." Sherlock frowned as he remembered. "And then he experimented again when he was around twenty, with a man named Maurice Hall. That one lasted quite a while, actually… Two alphas, as well. Would have been interesting. But instead he got stuck with you, sadly. A boring old fat omega." 

"So, you can remember all his love interests, but you cannot remember his first name?" Mycroft smirked, walking out of the room. "I shall see you in a month or so. I hope you have figured out my ailment by then, brother mine." 

With that, Mycroft was gone, leaving Sherlock in confused silence. He turned to John, a somewhat shocked look on his face. "Tell me what's wrong. You're a doctor, tell me what's wrong with him. It's obviously- obviously something of importance, something to do with Lestrade." 

"Afraid I can't. I'm with Mycroft on this one, figure it out on your own." John smirked. "It's really obvious, Sherlock. I don't get how you're not getting it." 

"It's obviously not obvious!" Sherlock snapped, stalking through to the kitchen to retrieve his femur. "Just tell me what it is, John. Tell me what it is and I'll take the child lock off your browser." 

"You put a-" John sighed in exasperation. "Course you did." 

"Wanted to see how long it took you to notice. Surprisingly long, apparently. Anyways. Tell me. The secret." Sherlock grit through his teeth as he slammed the slightly frozen leg down on the kitchen table. 

"I honestly can't, Sherlock! You're amazing at deductions, and this one is staring you right in the face." 

"Staring me. Staring me right in the face, is that a clue?" Sherlock looked up hopefully, but dismissed it just as quickly as he thought of it. Staring, Mycroft already wore contacts and occasionally glasses. Right in the face, no signs of botox. Not that Mycroft hadn't had it in the past. 

"You'll get it eventually, Sherlock. It'll probably be more obvious in a few months, alright?" John soothed, resting a hand on the beta's shoulder as he dug through the layers of muscle in the leg. "You'll figure it out." 

Chapter Text

At four months, nothing much changed for Mycroft. He noticed a slight swell in his ankles if he was to stay on his feet for an extended period of time, Gregory was far more protective of him, and he had to go back to the tailor's. Again. 

At five months, it all happened. Almost overnight, Mycroft's stomach blew up like a balloon, and he refused to leave bed until his tailor gave him a house call in order to quickly whip up a new suit. His chest also became pudgy, not that Gregory was complaining, but it meant that Mycroft had to start wearing brassieres for some sort of support, even if they were just A-cups. His back started twinging if he stood for two long, and his hips absolutely ground in their sockets if he had done a day of legwork.

So, Mycroft was back to Sherlock's. Climbing up those stairs, taking longer than usual. His centre of gravity was further forward than he was used to, but he didn't particularly fancy a short stint in A&E for falling front-first into the stairs, so he took his time. Once he reached the top, he paused, getting his breathing under control, acting like climbing a flight of stairs wasn't hard work. As he paced into the flat, he smiled at the sight before him. 

Sherlock had obviously finished a case the previous night, as he was curled up in his chair, wearing his pyjamas and robe, fast asleep. John was in his chair, watching the telly with the volume down low as to not disturb Sherlock's rest. It was clear he was keeping an eye on him. Taxing case, then. 

"You're a good friend, Doctor Watson." Mycroft uttered softly from the doorway, making John jump and turn around to look at him. Had John really not heard him on the stairs? That man was more oblivious than he thought. John got up, turning off the telly as he did so, and balked at the sight of Mycroft. 

"Woah." He said simply, trying not to stare at Mycroft's stomach. "You've… Fairly grown, eh?" 

"It would seem so." Mycroft looked down at his nails. Shiny, but growing quick with all these extra hormones. He mentally made a note to book a manicure session. "It seemed to happen overnight. Do you have a chair I could sit in? I'm afraid that climbing up those stairs has somewhat exhausted me." My back, ankles, and hips are bloody aching went unsaid. 

"Yeah, yeah. Sit in mine. God, you… Look so different. Woah." John was in a mild shock at the sight of Mycroft. He guided him over to his armchair, carefully sitting him down like a good alpha should. "How's Greg taking it?" 

"I'm afraid I've been quite unkind to him over the past month. Yelling at him, crying, demanding things. I feel like a bloody toddler, yet I cannot stop myself." Mycroft sighed, tilting his head back to look at John. "I don't like all these emotions I'm having. I'm a Holmes, emotions are not our forte." 

"Yeah, I know. I live with one." John laughs quietly, nodding over to Sherlock. The man was now lying on his right side, but was still curled up in a tight ball. Mycroft chuckled softly, then made a quiet 'Hmph' sound. 

"You alright?" 

"Yes, yes. They've started moving in the past few days, which is… Promising, yet annoying." Mycroft pressed the heel of his hand into his stomach, then sighed as they settled. "That's better." 

John and Mycroft chatted for a while, just about Sherlock's most recent case (even though Mycroft had already read the paperwork), and by the time John finished his dramatic retelling, Sherlock was awake. 

"John, I did not 'nearly miss being shot', the bullet was miles away." Sherlock muttered in a sleep slurred voice, his eyes still closed. "I thought I heard you come in, Mycroft. The banging of your footsteps on the stairs woke me up." Sherlock opened his eyes. "Fatty." 

"Sherlock-" John started, but Mycroft placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Doctor Watson, but your defense won't be needed." 

"Ten pounds, I'd say. That's nearly a stone you've put on over three months. What is Gerald feeding you?" Sherlock tipped his head to the side, feigning intrigue. Mycroft just smiled in return, though rolled his eyes when he saw Sherlock staring at his tie, at tiny crumbs that the average person wouldn't pick up. "Digestive biscuits have always been your weakness, haven't they? Looks like dark chocolate ones from the sight of the crumbs. Which is strange. You normally get milk chocolate ones, you dip them in your tea with Anthea before every meeting with me. You always take tea to compose yourself before coming here because you, find me, annoying." Sherlock grinned at him. 

"Astute deduction. Would you care to hazard a guess as to why I have changed from the norm?" Mycroft prompted, but Sherlock shook his head. 

"There's a million different reasons. Maybe the shops didn't have the ones you like, maybe Anthea's on a diet. Maybe you're on a diet." Sherlock said sarcastically. "Maybe you didn't buy them as they're more expensive and you're boycotting the sugar tax, despite you being one of the people who supported that tax when it was being discussed in parliament. Cigarette?" 

"Oh, no, thank you."

"I wasn't asking if you wanted one. I was asking if you had one." 

"No, I… I don't, unfortunately." Had Sherlock finally figured him out? "I stopped smoking a few months ago. Surely you would have noticed from the health of my nails, the whites of my eyes, even my teeth. You're slipping, brother dear."

"Am not. It was just a test to see if you could slip up on your habits." Sherlock smirked, digging into his dressing gown pocket and taking out a cigarette. "Want one? I am actually offering this time." 

"No, thank you. Like I said, I stopped smoking a few months ago." Mycroft said, but did hand Sherlock his lighter to borrow. It was a gift from the German ambassador, and Mycroft liked to keep it on him just in case anyone did need their cigarettes/cigars/pipes lit. 

Sherlock groaned almost erotically as he inhaled the first drag, then blew the smoke out right at Mycroft. Mycroft turned his head, but John was in between them in a second. "Right, take it to a window, Sherlock, or take it outside. I'm not having Mycroft inhale anything that's bad for him." 

"Why not? Why aren't you saying the same for me? I'm inhaling something that's bad for me, aren't I? Mycroft's only getting second hand- ohh." Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. "Mycroft's sick."

"No." 

"Damn it!" Sherlock took an extra long drag on his cigarette, trying to bend around John to blow it out at Mycroft. "Nothing deadly?" Mycroft shook his head. "Are you… Sure? John, give him a medical. Here. Now."

"Brother dear, that isn't necessary." Mycroft said in exasperation, wafting the smoke away, trying not to breathe it in. "The answer is right in front of your nose, though I believe you've deleted the information on it." 

"John, give him a medical." 

"I'm not-" 

"John! Do it!" 

"Right… I'll be back with my bag in a minute, then." 

Five minutes later, Mycroft had stripped his suit jacket and waistcoat, and was standing in the middle of the room, leaning slightly on his umbrella. It was always good to have a check up, he supposed. 

"Right, Mycroft… How have you been feeling in the last little while?" 

"Since I arrived in the flat, I have been feeling absolutely horrific." Mycroft glared over at Sherlock, who just stared in return. "In the past week, I have been fine." 

"Aches and pains?" John pressed down on one of Mycroft's fingernails, watching it go white and then return to pink. 

"As to be expected, in my condition. Backache, ankles, hips." Mycroft shifted from foot to foot to ease some of the discomfort he was feeling, before John pulled out a chair for him, letting him sit. "Thank you." 

"I'll need you to unbutton your shirt. Just the first few buttons, so I can get a listen at your chest." John explained, pulling on his stethoscope. Mycroft looked away for a moment, embarrassed, before undoing his top buttons. The edging of a lacy black bra could be seen by both John and Sherlock. John said nothing, but Sherlock… 

"You're so flabby you wear a bra?!" Sherlock cackled. "Or is this some fetish of yours?"

Mycroft went bright red, covering his chest as John pressed the head of his stethoscope to it. "I'll have you know that this is for… Support." 

"Support?! So you are so fat you need a bra!" Sherlock laughed harder, slapping the arm of the chair. "Oh my god, that is the best thing I've ever seen! It's lacy, too!" 

"They don't make many men's bras…" Mycroft muttered. "I simply went for a comfortable, supportive one that Gregory appreciated."

John moved back from Mycroft's chest after a while, helping Mycroft button up his shirt. "Sherlock, stop being a dick. Mycroft, you're in fit shape." 

"I knew I was." Mycroft smiled, rubbing his back. He pulled on his waistcoat, taking his time as he buttoned It. "Any guesses, Sherlock?" 

"A few." Sherlock muttered, annoyed at John calling him a dick. "Underactive thyroid, cushing's, stress, depression, fluid retention. Am I correct with any of them?"

"No." 

"John? Is he lying?"

"No, Sherlock. I seriously don't get how you're not getting this." John gestured to Mycroft's stomach. "It's a pretty big deal. Pretty obvious. Your whole world's gonna change in… Three months?" 

"Four months." Mycroft blushed. Maybe he was letting his diet slip a bit too much during his pregnancy, maybe he carried big. He didn't know. 

"Four months. So, better get thinking, Sherlock. You're gonna feel like such an idiot when it dawns on you." John grinned, opening the door for Mycroft. "I'll see you in a while, Mycroft. Come visit if anything changes, alright? I'd be glad to give you another checkup any time. Without Sherlock laughing at you because he's an insolent child." 

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. I'll be sure to ask Gregory to go out for drinks with you." Mycroft leaned against the doorframe. "And the clock is ticking, Sherlock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock…" as Mycroft walked down the stairs, he continued to imitate a clock, before finally the front door slammed shut behind him. 

Chapter Text

The last thing John expected at eight in the evening on a cold Sunday was a call from Mycroft.  

"Doctor Watson?" The voice asked, and it had almost a hint of a whimper in it. "I was wondering if you could assist me." 

"Help you?" John frowned, getting up from his seat. Sherlock was locked away in his mind palace across from him, in a huff after his last case. "Yeah, sure. What's up?" 

"Yes, ah… I've taken ill about five minutes from your flat, I was wondering if you could… Assist." 

"Shit, yeah. Right. Right, I'll just be down, are you alright? Just been sick? Are you hurt? Do you feel faint?" John put his phone on speaker as he squeezed into the first set of outdoor shoes he could find, then a coat. He debated bringing his medical kit before deciding against it. 

"Doctor Watson, I assure you. I am completely fine apart from the fact that I have been ill." Mycroft almost soothed down the phone. Hearing the discomforting tone of a panicked alpha didn't help the sick feeling in Mycroft's stomach at all. 

"Right, I- I'll be about five minutes. Okay? Okay. See you soon." 

John yelled to Sherlock where he was going, before sprinting downstairs and out the door. It took him a few minutes to find Mycroft, and he was in a bad way. Sweating, sick on his front and his shoes, pale and clammy. He was leaning against an alley wall, gently patting his mouth clean with his pocket handkerchief. "Ah, Doctor Watson…" 

"Jesus christ, Mycroft… Are you alright?" John placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. In reply, Mycroft gave a weak groan. "I'm not brilliant, to tell you the truth." 

"What were you doing out here at this time of the night?" Carefully, John wrapped an arm around Mycroft's shoulders, walking him back to the flat. Every couple of steps, Mycroft either stumbled or had to stop, a fist clenched to his mouth. 

"I was-" Mycroft stopped, then swallowed roughly. "I was coming to visit you after my work had finished. My physician suggested that I should take some walks to keep healthy, so I…" Mycroft groaned, gripping to a fence post to stabilise himself. "I decided to take a walk. A-A fish van passed as I was walking, and the smell was just so strong… I know it's quite stupid…" 

"Hey. It isn't stupid." John murmured. "Plenty of people find that their senses are heightened during pregnancy. This can lead to their morning sickness being set off." As he talked, John slowly led Mycroft upstairs, murmuring 'nice and steady… We're not racing… Take your time…'. Once inside the flat, John eased Mycroft down onto the sofa.

"Right, shirt off. And your shoes, come on." 

Mycroft just blanched. 

"No, seriously, come on. They're covered in sick." 

With a resigned sigh, Mycroft undressed until he was left in his trousers, socks, and bra, feeling entirely embarrassed at his brother's best friend having to bare witness to this. He tried to remind himself that John was a doctor, he saw hideous bodies day in, day out. It didn't help much, though. It just made Mycroft think about whether or not John thought his body fell into the 'hideous' category. His bump stuck out onto his lap when he sat down nowadays, and he was clearly using sports tape to keep it supported. 

"Doctor Watson… You wouldn't mind bringing me a bucket, would you? Or a bowl, preferably a deep one. A basin would work, too, I suppose." Mycroft looked up at him with what could be described as a begging look on his face. "I still feel slightly terrible and I would hate to make a mess on your floor…" He whined.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. Want me to give Greg a call? Tell him to pick you up?" John asked as he crossed into the kitchen with Mycroft's dirty shirt, waistcoat, tie, and suit jacket, chucking it in the wash. When he returned to Mycroft with a basin, the bottom filled with water, the man looked positively green. 

"I would rather that you don't call Gregory until I feel better, if that's quite alright…" He mumbled, arms wrapping around the basin. "I… He hasn't seen me ill, I'd rather keep that to myself…" 

"He hasn't seen you ill?" John frowned. "In what, six months of being pregnant, he hasn't once seen you get morning sickness?" 

"Normally I'm quite apt at hiding it… I leave for work before he does, so all my sickness is faced either on the drive into work, or at work. If we are out at dinner, I simply excuse myself. I go to the bathroom, I am unwell, I clean up, I finish my dinner with Gregory. For all he knows, he doesn't believe I actually get sick." Mycroft smiled shakily up at John before roughly swallowing again. "Being unwell shows weakness, John, Sherlock will tell you as much. I prefer to deal with it on my own, but I was scared of collapsing in the street. Hence why I called you, as you were the closest doctor I knew." 

"Right… You're looking a little green about the gills, do you want to move to the bathroom, or-" Mycroft wordlessly shook his head, a hand wrapping around his stomach. "You gonna be sick?" Mycroft nodded pitifully, squeezing his eyes shut. "You'll feel better once it's up, Mycroft. Promise." 

Mycroft nodded again, staring down at the basin. His whole body suddenly lurched, and he gagged into it, whimpering as John petted his back. From his chair by the fireplace, Sherlock snapped straight out of his mind palace, awoken by the horrible noise. 

"That sounds like Mycroft." 

"That's because it is Mycroft, you berk. Come comfort him." John muttered, sitting down by Mycroft's side. The man was promptly sick again.

"Why is my brother in my living room, shirtless, vomiting?" Sherlock asked instead of comforting, staring at the sick in the basin, trying to guess what Mycroft had been eating. More digestive biscuits, apparently. Interesting. 

"Because he's sick, Sherlock. I know you have no bloody bedside manner, but please." John growled, and it surprisingly did make Sherlock move. He sat on the other side of Mycroft, opting to hold the basin for him. "You… Don't mind if I borrow this for samples, do you, Mycroft?" 

"We both know…" Mycroft spat into the basin, very ungentlemanly. "That no matter what I say, you will use it anyways." 

"Mm, true. Do you still feel sick?" Mycroft shook his head, waving away the bucket. "Good. I'll be taking that… John, he'll need a glass of water and a napkin for his mouth. I suppose he can borrow my toothpaste… I probably have a spare toothbrush kicking about somewhere…" 

"Don't you dare give him the one you clean bones with." John warned, giving another growl. Growls and snarls and snaps were the only way to keep his mate in line sometimes. "A clean one, Sherlock. Straight out of the packet, alright?" 

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh, trudging through to the bathroom to find a new toothbrush. While he searched for it, John gave Mycroft's arm a gentle rub. "How you feeling?"

"Absolutely terrible. But I feel that Gregory can be called. Just… Don't tell him why I need picked up." Mycroft carefully laid down on his side, a hand on his stomach. "We will have to wait until my shirt is cleaned, however." 

"Yeah, I think Sherlock has some of your clothes, but… I don't mean this in a bad way, by the way, but I don't think you'll fit them right now." John tried to laugh and diffuse the tension, but Mycroft just stared in return. "Alright… Sherlock, grab me one of your dressing gowns." 

"No." 

" Sherlock. "

"No!" 

"Sherlock, your brother is sick and half naked. Give him your least favourite robe for half a bloody hour!" John snapped through the wall. After a while, Sherlock returned with a glass of water and a beige robe. He chucked the robe at his brother, and was tempted to do the same with the glass of water. However, one look from John stopped him in his tracks. 

As Mycroft sat up to dress in the robe and drink, Sherlock stared at him, eyes boring into his face, then his chest, then his stomach. Mycroft placed the glass down, staring back. "Do you mind?" 

"No. I don't. When did you- Have you always been- Mycroft… I… You're not fat. Well, you are. Kind of. You're overweight for- When did you- I- Mycroft…" Sherlock frowned. "It's Graham's, isn't it?" 

"Gregory…" Mycroft muttered, a hand on his stomach. "I'm surprised it took you this long, to be honest. It has been six months."

"No it hasn't. I saw you a month ago, that wasn't there." Sherlock continued to stare. "You were fat a month ago. And now it's all… Rounded and… Gravid… Eugh…" 

"I am glad you find my pregnancy particularly unappealing. I assure you, this in no way affects you apart from the fact that you will be becoming an uncle in no less than three months. If you had noticed sooner, it would have given you much more time to plan for your impending nibling and found a gift for them." Mycroft smiled forcefully, back to his old self. 

John looked between the two, realising that he was completely out-brained here. "Right, Mycroft. I'll… I'll go phone Greg, then, yeah? Yeah." He didn't wait for a reply before leaving straight for the kitchen to phone Greg. It would be a waste of energy if he tried to get between the boys like this. 

Sherlock just stared some more. "So." He looked over Mycroft's body, unsure how he hadn't picked up the clues earlier. Upset stomach, slight limp, obvious swelling to the stomach and chest, sweet scent. "Sooooo…" 

"You're thinking of things to say." 

"Astute deduction, brother mine. I haven't been in this situation many times before." Sherlock muttered, now staring at Mycroft's stomach. Under the robe, it rolled. Physically rolled. Sherlock saw limbs and everything. "What was that. What was that. What did it just do- why is your thing doing that. Make it stop." 

"I cannot simply make it stop , Sherlock. They move when they wish." Mycroft murmured, lightly tapping his fingers over his bump. As if in reply to the touch, Sherlock watched a foot kick out a few times. 

"So, they respond to stimuli?" He tipped his head slightly to the side, then clapped once, loudly. Nothing, no movement from Mycroft's stomach. "Why didn't it do anything?" 

"Sherlock, my child is not a science experiment." Mycroft grumbled. "They respond most to Gregory and I. And cello music."

"Oh, god. You've been playing again? This day just gets worse and worse. You come here, you're sick in my living room-" 

"I provided you with a sample for experiments, you must thank me for that at least." 

"Fine, thank you. But then you're suddenly all pregnant, when were you going to tell me that? And THEN, you ruin my day by telling me that you're playing your cello again." Sherlock huffed. 

"I was letting you figure it out on your own. It seems you had deleted pregnancy from your mind palace, brother dear." Mycroft slowly rubbed the underside of his stomach, making a mental note to get Gregory to pick up bio oil on the way home. He could feel where his skin was being stretched thin and drying out. "Honestly, Sherlock. Fluid retention? You believed that this could be caused by fluid retention?" Mycroft gestured to his bump with his free hand. "Silly boy." 

"I- I am not a silly boy !" Sherlock snapped defensively, glaring at Mycroft. "I'm not. I simply did not entertain the possibility of someone finding my brother attractive enough to sexually reproduce with him." 

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm wounded. Wounded by your words. They make my chest ache and upset the baby." Mycroft whined, a fake pout on his face, before it snapped back to the normal expressionless one. "Gregory is quite in love with me, I'll have you know. I shall not go into detail, but Gregory and I have… Relations, incredibly frequently. They have doubled since I tested positive for HCG." 

"Disgusting. But also, I'll need a sample of urine and blood." Sherlock looked at Mycroft hopefully. "Please? For your darling brother?" 

"No, Sherlock." 

"Hmph." 

"Sherlock, I am not some experiment to-" Sherlock suddenly went 'AH!', then frowned. No movement from that, either. 

"Stop testing for reactivity from the baby. I know how you work, Sherlock." 

"I'm not testing for reactivity…" Sherlock pouted like someone who had definitely just been caught testing for reactivity with their sibling's unborn child. 

Mycroft sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew it was going to eventually come to this, though he didn't want it to. "Sherlock… Would you like to… Feel… The baby?" 

"No. Disgusting." Sherlock said, but kneeled by Mycroft's stomach all the same. "What do I do?" 

"Well, they are currently situated with their head facing downwards and their feet up here, though I believe they will soon flip. But for the moment…" Mycroft rubbed his stomach until there was a soft fluttering under his fingertips. He then took Sherlock's hand, resting it over the activity. Sherlock's eyes widened and he jerked, yet made no move to take his hand off Mycroft's bump.

"They're moving." 

"Babies tend to do that."

"Do they? I didn't seem to notice." 

"Sometimes if you talk to them, they respond." Mycroft murmured. "Talking to them can improve cognitive activity and truly lets them grasp language once they are out of the womb. I like to give them a mix of languages, but plain English will do for the moment." 

"Mhm…" Sherlock was too interested in the feeling of Mycroft's stomach. "Hello, child."

"You could tell them about your day, if you wish. I will even let you describe a case to them." Mycroft prompted, his hand pausing before burying in Sherlock's hair. Silky soft, curl upon curl. "Just… Leave out the truly gory bits." 

Sherlock's eyes glanced up at Mycroft, then back down at his middle. He inhaled, then started spieling off about a case involving two men and how they had used a slab of butter to break into the Bank of England's vault. As he spoke, Mycroft continued to pet his hair, just the way Sherlock liked it when he was a child. After a while of  listening to Sherlock describe the case, Mycroft looked up at the doorway. Gregory was standing there, taking photos on his phone. 

"And then Uncle John and I ran- piss off, Lestrade, turn your flash off. You're the most un-sneaky police officer I know- ran after them. Uncle John was quite unfit at the time, so-" Sherlock continued his story, smiling every time the baby moved in agreement. Greg crossed the room, kissing Mycroft's lips lightly. 

"You alright?"

"I have never been better. Unfortunately, I had a stain on my work shirt and it would have been terribly embarrassing to come home with that, so I walked to Baker Street and put it in the wash." Mycroft blinked innocently up at Greg, but his hand gripped Sherlock's hair tightly for a few seconds, warning 'Don't you dare tell him why I'm really here.' 

"I love you. You're so pedantic." Greg grinned, then looked down. "So, he finally figured it out?"

"Apparently so." Mycroft's hand went back to petting as normal. "I'm surprised it took him this long. Clearly, he deleted it from his mind palace. That or he's slipping. Are you slipping, brother mine?" 

"No. I'm trying to tell a story down here, stop distracting me. I'm getting to the good bit." 

Mycroft laughed softly, nuzzling his nose against Greg's neck gently, breathing in his calming scent. It wasn't long until John walked through with Mycroft's now clean clothes, and the man could dress. Greg insisted on helping, tying Mycroft's tie for him. Once dressed, his patent leather shoes clearly spit shined by John (which Gregory insisted on helping tie, as Mycroft's stomach got in the way if he leaned down), Mycroft rose to his feet. 

"I hardly ever say this, but you two have been such wonderful hosts today." He smiled, slightly leaning against Greg. His hips were hurting. "And congratulations, Sherlock, on finding out. Hopefully when we have our second pup, you shall figure it out much quicker." He gave Sherlock a particularly petty smile. "Good day to you both." With that, Mycroft was gone, leaning on his umbrella as he walked down the stairs. Greg watched Mycroft go, then frowned at the other two men. "Yeah, uhhhh. Thanks for looking after him. John, pint, Saturday?"

"Perfect."

"Great. I'll just… I have to go, don't want him tripping or anything. Thanks, guys!" Greg thudded down the stairs after Mycroft. Sherlock waited until he was sure the two were gone, before pacing around the flat. "A baby?!" 

"Loads of couples have babies when they're in love." John sat into his chair, watching Sherlock, whose brain was clearly fried. "So… How you feeling about it? Excited? Scared? Upset?" 

"Why would I be upset?" 

"Cause it means that Mycroft and Greg have a real baby now. They won't have time to run after you." John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock as the man flopped into his lap. "It's alright. That baby's going to be so spoiled." 

"Mmh." Sherlock was clearly focusing on other things. He buried his head deep in John's neck, humming quietly. 

"Wanna talk?" 

"Not really." Sherlock answered shortly. "I don't understand why I missed it. He was… He was so clearly gravid and I missed it..." 

"Last time he was here, you called him out on putting on a stone and laughed cause he needed a bra." John tried to pet Sherlock's hair like he had seen Mycroft do. "Bet you feel like a proper dick now." 

"Mm. Very slightly, I suppose." Sherlock muttered. John knew that he did feel bad, deep down, just wouldn't admit it. "That child is going to be the most protected child in the whole of Britain. You do know that, yes?" 

"Course I do."

"Good. I'll need you to promise you'll protect them, too." 

"I promise." John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Now go and play with that sick sample Mycroft gave you, alright?" 

Chapter Text

Sherlock had been sitting at his microscope when someone placed two pots of something down in front of him. 

"Not now, John. Busy. I'll do a piss test later." He muttered, without looking up from the microscope. "I'm clean, anyways. Have been for months." 

"I assure you, brother mine, that the tests have already been taken." The voice said with a soft smirk. Not John. That was definitely Not John. 

"Mycroft?" 

"Last time I visited, you asked for a sample of my urine and a sample of my blood." Mycroft said in a haughty voice, leaning back to sit on the edge of the table. "I have provided as such." 

"Why?" 

"Because you required them." Mycroft said entirely too quickly. 

"Wrong. I mean, I did, but that's not why you visited." Sherlock went back to his microscope, moving the dials while he waited for Mycroft to think of another reply. 

"You specifically asked- Fine. I came to check on your welfare." Mycroft tried, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft couldn't see it, but he knew his brother had done it through the viewfinder of the microscope. 

"Nope, wrong again. You spy on me when you're worried about my welfare. I know about that camera in my room, Mycroft, and I know that it hasn't been recording recently." Sherlock moved back from the microscope, his chair screeching on the tiled floor. "Why. Are. You. Visiting. Me." 

"Because I've missed you. I wanted to see you. Is that so much to ask?" Mycroft sighed out, glaring at his brother for making him say such a thing. 

"Nope. Just wanted to hear you say it out loud." Sherlock grinned up at him, a proper shit eating grin. "Thanks for the samples, though." 

"You're… Welcome. What are you using them for?" Mycroft glanced down at the slide in Sherlock's microscope. Skin tissue, of some kind. Mycroft couldn't tell what animal it was from. 

"Dunno yet. I'll figure something out." Sherlock sniffed. "Your vomit sample was interesting, though."

"Was it, really." Mycroft said, completely dead pan. He didn't know why on earth his brother found things like that interesting. It was vile. 

"Mhmm. Digestives, Jammy Dodgers, Bourbons… What happened to eating healthily, brother mine?" Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, then gave the blood sample a little shake, staring at it through the glass. "I specially remember John telling you that you should be eating healthily about… Four months ago?" 

"Yes, but everyone is allowed a little treat now and again…" Mycroft mumbled, his cheeks going a soft shade of pink. "If you remember that conversation, then how did you not pick up that I was carrying?" 

Sherlock shrugged, picking up the urine sample instead. "You're dehydrated." He said plainly, holding the cup up to Mycroft's eye level. Mycroft flinched away with a grimace. 

"Please do not make me look at my own urine, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered in disgust. "That sample was taken about an hour ago. I've had some more water since then."

"Hm, good. Want some tea?" Sherlock paced across the kitchen, peering in the cupboards for the teabags. John always rearranged the cupboards, always. That or Sherlock just deleted the memory of cupboard layout. 

"I… Have my own teabag, thank you." Mycroft reached into his inner suit pocket, where he produced a single-serving teabag, wrapped in its packaging still. 

"Just because you got poisoned with a pot of tea ONCE in 1994, does not mean that you have to bring your own supply of tea wherever you go." Sherlock once again rolled his eyes as he turned on the kettle, then hopped up on the counter, legs swinging over the edge. Mycroft had eased himself onto Sherlock's lab chair, a hand resting on his middle. 

"This is decaf, brother mine, if you had bothered to look at the label." Mycroft chucked the packet at Sherlock with a tut. "Slipping…" 

"Decaf? You don't drink decaf, you only drink tea for the energy from the caffeine and decaf doesn't provide that. And I'm not slipping." Sherlock stared at the packet for a moment, then turned it over in his hands and sniffed it. "You've clearly had this on your person for two… Three hours, now, from the scent of your perspiration. Not slipping." 

"Mm, lovely." Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "I am drinking decaffeinated tea, Sherlock, as I am pregnant. Caffeine isn't good for the baby." 

"Neither is sitting in your car, crying, eating an entire sharing tray of McVitie's Biscuits, but you seem to do that." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at Mycroft's shocked look. "Oh, come on. Red eyes, crumbs on your lapel, tiny bits of chocolate under your fingernails… Even John could have figured that one out." 

"I simply required some comfort after having blood drawn. Blood drawn for you, might I add. Please be a bit more sympathetic with that in mind." Mycroft looked down at his nails, then started picking at the melted chocolate. 

"Ohhh. Oh, yes. Forgot you were scared of needles." Sherlock smirked, but dug into the cupboards and found John's hidden biscuit tin. 'Hidden'. John thought it was hidden, but to Sherlock it was in plain sight. "Want some more?" 

"... I shouldn't." 

"You never normally have tea without biscuits. I know your habits." Sherlock dug in the tin, finding Mycroft's favourites. Milk chocolate Digestives, Jammy Dodgers, Ginger Nuts, and Rich Tea biscuits. Sherlock could see Mycroft almost salivate as he laid the Rich Tea biscuits out on a plate. 

"Don't dribble on yourself, Mycroft. You're not a child." 

"I was not dribbling." The way Mycroft swallowed heavily betrayed him. He crossed into the living room, settling in John's chair, a slight frown on his face as Sherlock walked through with the tea tray. 

"You're making a face." 

"I'm uncomfortable, Sherlock." 

"Why."

"Because I am. Serve the tea, please." 

"Going to need you to be a little more specific before I do anything." Sherlock placed the tray down on the coffee table between them, then flopped into his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. 

"You know what is wrong, you've probably already deduced it. Be a good little brother and serve the tea." Mycroft huffed, a hand lightly touching his side. 

"Can't be bothered. For both of those." 

"For goodness' sakes. I'm not pouring it, my back hurts too much to lean over. You're simply being lazy." Mycroft nagged. "Pour the damn tea." 

"You sound so much like mummy." Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Mycroft, enjoying the annoyed look over his face. "'Don't be lazy, Sherlock! Do as your big brother tells you, Sherlock!'"

"The child is pressing both feet into my bladder and I fear that I will have an accident if I lean over. Pour. The. Tea." Mycroft seethed through his clenched teeth. "Doctor Watson is a good friend and I do not wish his seat to be ruined."

"Tell the baby to get off your bladder. You said it responded to your voice the last time I saw you." 

"Sherlock-" Mycroft scrubbed his face. The man was exhausting. "They do not understand English, Sherlock. They simply understand the sound of my vo- Oh! Oh, oh, oh…" Mycroft's brow furrowed considerably and his mouth thinned, his eyes closing. Sherlock immediately dropped the petulant act, going straight to Mycroft's chair. 

"Are you in labour???" Sherlock asked, panic clear in his voice. Mycroft gripped the arm of the seat, but shook his head. He puffed out a breath, and dug the heel of his hand into his side, unable to talk for some time from sheer discomfort. After a moment, he looked up, seeing Sherlock's face, one of absolute panic, looking right back at him. "Do I need to phone John? I'll do it, you know. I'll-" 

"It was simply a swift kick to my bladder, Sherlock. Followed by a few more." Mycroft muttered, leaning back in the chair, fingers gently rubbing his temple. "Gregory was a footballer and I believe the child has inherited that from their father, annoyingly. Now please, before it gets cold, pour the bloody tea." 

"Was this all a rouse to get me to pour it?" Sherlock huffed, but did as he was told. Finally. "Because if it was-" 

"I assure you, the pain is very much real." Mycroft added a dash of milk, then two sugars. Normally he added three, but he didn't want Sherlock to say anything about him being 'healthy'. Not that Sherlock could talk, with his fasting while on cases, refusal to sleep for days on end, and recreational habits. 

By the time the brothers had finished bickering over who would pour the tea, then adding milk and sugar, then picking a biscuit, the tea had cooled down enough to drink straight away. Mycroft hummed softly as the tea warmed his stomach, settling the baby for a moment. 

"That is quite wonderful…" Mycroft cooed, a hand lightly rubbing under his navel. "Not quite the same as caffeinated tea, but it will do, I suppose." 

Sherlock crunched into his Digestive, taking a look over Mycroft. "The baby's doing… Something." 

"How could you tell?" 

"Your left eyebrow twitches every time they move. Stay still while I try and guess." Sherlock put his cup of tea down, staring at Mycroft's stomach and face for a while. He tipped his head to the side after a moment of watching. "I don't understand." 

"What don't you understand?" 

"Nothing." Sherlock said shortly.

"You don't understand what they're doing?" 

"Maybe." Sherlock looked away, then curled up on his seat, his chin buried against his knees. "Your eyebrow keeps twitching intermittently, too much for them to be kicks. Explain." 

"Maybe I'm faking it." Mycroft smiled. 

"No, you're not. You keep puffing out breaths and shifting. Too much for you to be 'faking it'." Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "So. Explain." 

"They do more than just kick, Sherlock. They can punch, flip, wriggle… Hiccup…" Mycroft chuckled. 

"They're hiccuping?" Sherlock asked, suddenly intrigued. "Let me feel." He dropped to his knees in front of Mycroft, suddenly pressing his ear to Mycroft's bump, his hand on it too. Mycroft jumped at the sudden contact, almost squirming away from it. "Gentle, Sherlock, gentle." 

"I'm being gentle." Sherlock grunted in return, giving Mycroft's bump a soft prod. "Go on. Move. Hiccup." He waited a minute, then sighed up at Mycroft. "They're not doing anything. Can't you send hormones or something through the cord to encourage them?" 

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, Sherlock. You just have to wait." Mycroft gave Sherlock's shoulder an awkward pat. After a moment, his entire stomach twitched. Then it twitched again. "There you are, brother dear. Hiccups." 

"Fascinating…" Sherlock's eyes were wide in wonder. Part of him wanted to run and grab a notebook to catalogue the movements, part of him wished to stay and just feel the hiccups. "Do they get hiccups a lot?" 

"Every so often. It strengthens their lungs, having hiccups." Mycroft smiled down at Sherlock. He hadn't seen his little brother this interested in anything since he had found a triple murder without any weapons. Sherlock sat there for a while longer, his ear rested against Mycroft's stomach along with both his hands, just waiting for movement. Eventually, Mycroft spoke again. "If you like, I could give you copies of a recording of the baby." 

"But I can see it move right now. I don't need recordings." 

"Ultrasounds, Sherlock. 4D ones. You can hear their heart and watch them move from the inside." Mycroft's hand lightly carded through Sherlock's hair, sorting out all his tangles into curls. "You can even see them punch me." 

"Interesting. I like this baby, it gets to punch you." There was no true malice behind Sherlock's words, just playful brotherly hatred. Under his hand, the baby quickened again. "What was that one?" 

"Just a flutter. They're quite an active baby, which is good for them… Less so for me." Sherlock raised an eyebrow up at Mycroft in questioning. "Oh, please, Sherlock. Can you not work out something as simple as that? I have a high-stress job keeping me up for days on end, when I eventually get home, I like to eat and then go to bed. The eating portion with baby in tow creates strange cravings which Gregory judges me for, and the sleeping portion… I cannot comfortably lie on my back without it aching, and if I lay on my sides, the baby kicks. Kick, kick, kick, all night. Half the time I end up-"

"- Sleeping upright on the sofa which in tail makes your back ache. I was wondering why you were supporting your back earlier." Sherlock smiled at the closure. "And the baby doesn't like certain people, do they? Half your meetings are spent in discomfort because the baby kicks- hm, also stands on your bladder and also pushes against your lungs, actually- while you're trying to speak. How very Holmesian of them." 

"Even my unborn child can tell that they are idiots." Mycroft shifted in his seat, quietly puffing out a breath. "Any other deductions, while you are at it?" 

"You've recently been to the tailor's, that's a new suit, I can smell it. Even your socks are new, and your shoes. Spoiling yourself, Mycroft? Not really. Your ankles and feet have swollen so much you've gone up a shoe size. Get Gerald to rub your feet before you get DVT. You've recently been craving crepes, I saw you send a text to Anthea while I was making the tea. You've got bags under your eyes-"

"I always have bags under my eyes. I am a busy man." 

"Fine, more bags than usual. And dark circles. You haven't slept in one, two… Two and a half days. Indicating that you're just back from a business trip, a big one. America, was it?" 

"Houston, yes." 

"Tanlines. You're still adjusting to the jetlag, too. You're exhausted and should really go home to sleep." Sherlock's eyes flicked up at Mycroft's. Though he was still deducing, there was a hint of sympathy, before going back to a straight face. He stood, now walking around Mycroft in his chair as he talked. "Graham's been missing you, too. He can barely focus on cases. Not like he focuses much in the first place, but… Now he's less focused than that. Moody, too. At first I thought it was trouble in paradise, as they say, but now I realise that he was missing you. How horribly sentimental."

"You cannot say that, Sherlock. I see how you get when John is away at medical conferences." 

"Yes- Well- That's- That's different. Anyways. You couldn't cope with the Houston heat, did you? Your skin is tight, you've been having cold showers to cool yourself off. I don't doubt you spent half a day in the bathtub while on that trip. You've never dealt with heat well, even less so when there's a foetus inside of you creating extra warmth. When you get home after leaving here, I guarantee that you will get in the car, pull round the corner, and then Anthea will give you that… Strawberry and melted chocolate crepe you ordered. After that, you will be driven home. Geoff will be waiting, but he'll be in the living room. Arsenal vs Chelsea is on right now. He'll embrace you, tell you how tanned and tired you look, then take you to bed where he'll pay particular attention to your chest because it's gone up two sizes with your milk coming in and he's a breast man."

Mycroft blinked. He cleared his throat, looked down, then blinked at Sherlock again. 

"... I said the breast one, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"I didn't mean to say that one out loud." 

"Clearly." 

"But it's true, though, isn't it?" 

"Maybe so." 

"Knew it." Sherlock helped Mycroft to his feet entirely too quickly, making him wobble momentarily before standing still. "Well, it's been lovely seeing you, brother dear, but I just heard your car pull up. Best get downstairs before your snacks go cold." 

"Snacks, plural?" 

"You know Anthea plays it safe. She's not in the mood for a breakdown from you after that business trip. She bought two crepes, just in case." 

"Clever girl." 

"I know I- oh. You were talking about Anthea." 

"Of course I was talking about her. Who else would I be talking about?" Mycroft took his umbrella from the coat rack. "I shall be checking in in about a month, brother dear, if I am not bedridden by then." 

"If you don't have to be rolled out of the door by then…" Sherlock muttered under his breath. 

"What was that?" Mycroft turned and smiled at Sherlock, a face that showed he knew exactly what Sherlock had said. "Would you like to repeat that?" 

"No, brother mine! Off you go. Your crepes await." Sherlock pushed Mycroft out of the front door, slamming it shut behind him. "Goodbye!" 

"Goodbye, Sherlock." And with that, Mycroft made his slow descent down the stairs, which seemed to be getting much harder with every visit. 

Chapter Text

At eight months, walking was a massive task for Mycroft. He refused to go on maternity leave, but legwork was completely out of the question. He could barely walk from the car to his office without being out of breath. His stomach muscles had been stretched thin with the size and weight of the baby. 'Carrying large', his obstetrician had said. Mycroft couldn't agree more. 

As he climbed the stairs to 221B, he wheezed quietly, trying to hide the fact that he was out of breath. Sherlock heard him by the first step, but only came to the door at the fifth step. He opened the front door, watching as Mycroft struggled up the stairs. "Want-" 

"No, I do not want help, thank you very much. I can do it on my own." Mycroft's grip on the bannister was white knuckled as he climbed up the stairs. "You must get a stair lift for Mrs Hudson…" He panted once he reached the top. "These stairs are quite unforgiving…" 

For Mrs Hudson. Not for Mycroft. Obviously. "I'll think about it. Why are you here?" Sherlock placed a hand on Mycroft's back, and Mycroft didn't flinch away. In fact, he leaned into it, waddling slowly into the living room. 

"I wanted to visit you one last time before the baby comes." Mycroft grunted as he sat down in John's chair, his eyes fluttering shut. "Any week now, Sherlock. Where's the good doctor?" 

"Upstairs. Sleeping. He went out with Stamford last night and he'll be hungover for another…" Sherlock checked his watch. "Half hour, at best. Hour, at worst. Why?"

"I just like to know that there is a doctor nearby if something were to happen." Mycroft looked over his nails, then focused on Sherlock. "Something the matter?" 

"You're not allowed to go into labour in my flat." He muttered, curling up in a defensive ball. "You're banned from Baker Street it you have the child here. It's not allowed." 

Mycroft chuckled, but quickly realised that Sherlock wasn't joking. "Brother dear, it isn't something that I can plan to start. It just… Happens." 

"Well, it won't be happening in my flat." Sherlock huffed. "Where's Lestrade? You're not meant to be away from your bondmate this close to the end of your pregnancy." 

"He's finishing the nursery at home." 

"Oh." 

"Apparently, it's meant to be a surprise. Like I haven't seen the paint flecks on his hands, his Amazon orders, and his plans in a notebook." Mycroft laughed softly. "He must try harder if he is to hide something from a Holmes." 

"Mm." Sherlock stared at Mycroft. He did a lot of staring nowadays. "Something's annoying you. Your left eyebrow is furrowing. Normally it twitches if the baby kicks." 

"Yes." Mycroft replied, smoothing his shirt down over his front. "The child is being particularly irritating today." 

"Definitely your child, then, if it's being irritating. But… Irritating how?" 

"Well, I have a few hours to kill, knowing how slowly Gregory works. Care to make a guess?" Mycroft gave a small smile. He wouldn't get to play deductions much if there was a newborn in the way. "Let's make deductions."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then his face broke out in a devilish grin. "Are you actually asking me to tear you apart?"

"I have nothing better to do." Mycroft gave a slight dismissal shrug. "Go."

"Well… You haven't slept in approximately forty three hours, you should really get on top of that."

"You're one to talk. You haven't slept in fifty." Mycroft sneered. "You're not on a case, so you're just doing it because you can. Incredibly unhealthy, brother dear."

"Hm. Well. Your back is aching, lumbar region. So are your ankles. I see you didn't take my advice on having George rub your legs and feet. Your fault if you get a blood clot from that deep vein thrombosis you're rapidly developing, especially in your right leg. Pull up your trousers." Sherlock lunged for Mycroft's trouser legs to prove his point, but Mycroft flinched back. 

"We don't have to prove anything, brother dearest. I understand the point you are trying to make." Mycroft muttered in embarrassment. He didn't like his legs, or his feet, and he definitely wasn't having Gregory rub them. He'd just keep an eye on them, make sure they weren't getting too swollen.

"Breast-" 

"No. Stop right there. There will be no mention of my chest area." 

"Just because it arouses Graham…" Sherlock muttered under his breath with an eye roll. 

"And that is exactly why we won't be talking about it." Mycroft said sharply, his cheeks and ears heating up. "What Gregory and I do in our spare time is not fair game for deductions." 

"Fine. Boring, but fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're furrowing your brow again, Mycroft. Stop it. It's annoying." 

"Brother dear, I-" Mycroft huffed out a breath, a hand rubbing his stomach slowly. "I cannot help it."

"You're in pain." 

"Clearly." 

"Why." 

"I believe that's why we're doing deductions in the first place." Mycroft murmured, turning on his side but keeping his eyes focused on Sherlock. "I frown when I am in pain. Why am I in pain, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock's blood ran cold. Yes, he disliked his brother, but Mycroft never admitted he was in pain, so that was a concern. Even if he was being tortured, Mycroft wouldn't admit his pain. He had suffered through appendicitis during a meeting at the House of Lords, just because he didn't want to make a scene by leaving halfway through. He had a minor heart attack through dinner with a Russian oligarch and only made it known when he collapsed, face first into his bowl of borshch. So, Mycroft admitting he was in pain was most certainly a Bad Thing. 

"Because- Because-" Sherlock's mind ran at a thousand miles a minute, almost as quickly as it had ran after The Woman gave him a kiss. "You're in pain because-" His brain went through a million possibilities at once, before the haze cleared and left only one possibility. Labour. Labour. Mycroft was in labour . "JOHN! JOHN! GET DOWN HERE NOW!" 

"Goodness, Sherlock, I-" 

"JOHN!!!" Sherlock sprinted out of the room, up the stairs, wrenching the door open. "John. Emergency. Come. Now." He grabbed John's wrist, giving his arm a yank. John squinted up at Sherlock, still mostly asleep, still mostly hungover. 

"'Mergency?" He slurred, giving his face a little rub. "Wha's wrong…? 'Mergency…" 

"Mycroft's in labour. In our flat. Hurry. Medical bag, but what else do you need? Uh. Um. Um. Um." Sherlock spun in a circle, hands frantically running through his hair. "Disinfectant! Boil water. Boil water, surgical equipment, blankets. Blankets? Yes, blankets. Blankets are good." 

"Hold on, Sherlock. Hold on." John held up a hand as he pulled his dressing gown, mostly to shield Mycroft's eyes from his bright red pants if he were to go downstairs in them. "How long has he been in labour? Have you called an ambulance?" 

"No, I haven't called an ambulance! Mycroft hates hospital! I don't know how long he's in labour, do I look like I know how to check?!" Sherlock yelled from halfway into John's wardrobe, digging through it to find John's medical kit. 

"Right. Go downstairs. Keep Mycroft company. I'll be down in a minute, okay?" John sighed heavily. "And you check by asking Mycroft, alright? Not that hard." 

"Right. Okay. Right, right, right." Sherlock sprinted back downstairs, where Mycroft was still sitting in John's chair, his eyes closed, slightly hunched over. 

"How long have you been in labour for? John wants to know. I want to know. I need to call Lestrade, right now. I told you you weren't allowed to go into labour in my flat!" Sherlock snapped, panic evident on his face and in his voice. 

"Shhh." Mycroft hissed, his eyes still closed. "I have a terrible headache alongside the abdominal pain, so please just- just be quiet for… Two seconds, please…"

If he wasn't allowed to be loud around Mycroft, then he'd busy himself with getting things prepared instead. While he was doing that, John got dressed and jogged downstairs, his medical bag in hand. He scrubbed his hands in the sink, then snapped a set of latex gloves on. 

"Right, then, Mycroft." John kneeled in front of Mycroft, who was grumbling quietly in discomfort. "Baby's decided to come?" 

"... Pardon?"

"Sherlock said you were in labour. Have you been timing your contractions? Mind if I give your tummy a little feel?" John's hands rested on Mycroft's stomach. When he looked up at Mycroft, the man had a confused look on his face. John sat back on his heels, looking up at him. "You are in labour, right?" 

"... I'm afraid not, Doctor Watson. Where did you get that idea?" Mycroft rubbed his side. "Simply braxton hicks, I believe. They haven't been getting any worse and are quite sporadic." 

"Sherlock's gonna fucking get it this time, I swear to fuck…" John whispered, snapping off his gloves. "Fucking dick… I was having a right good nap and he comes up there, yelling about 'Mycroft's in labour, Mycroft's in labour!' Mycroft's in labour, my bloody arse…" 

"Doctor Watson?" 

"Nothing, nothing. You… Feeling alright, yeah? You're sure they're just practise contractions?" John tried to keep his calm. "Not delivered a baby since Afghanistan, so it would be great if you could keep it cooking for now."

"Yes, I am sure they're just practises. Thank you for your concern, however." Mycroft gave a small smile. At that moment, Sherlock crashed into the kitchen with a pile of blankets in his arms and a bowl of boiling water in his left hand, filled with scalpels. "John, is he dilated? Is he ready to push?!" 

"You're a dickhead." 

"What?" 

"He's not in labour. He's just having braxton hicks." John sighed. "Practice contractions. He's fine, Sherlock. They're normal." 

"Ah. Right." Sherlock dropped everything in his arms, including the bowl of boiling water. Scalpels went flying over the kitchen and the blankets got soaked in the water. "In my defence, Mycroft was being a drama queen. It looked like real contractions." He climbed over the pile of soggy blankets, tiptoeing through the kitchen to avoid nicking his toes on the scalpels. 

"Shall I clean up that mess in the kitchen, then?" John sighed, standing up. 

"What mess? Oh. Yes. If you don't mind." Sherlock flopped back into his chair, sitting upside down with his legs hanging over the back of the chair. "Don't scare me like that, Mycroft." 

Mycroft gave a small laugh, but it came out somewhat strained as another cramp hit. "It is your fault for just running with a silly idea you had, Sherlock. If you had asked me, I would have told you that they are only hicks. But instead you pulled poor Doctor Watson out of bed and made him clear up your mess in the kitchen." 

"Hardly a mess…" 

"If it isn't a mess, then you should clean it." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"Can't be bothered. John's nearly done, anyways, no point in me helping now." Sherlock heard something that sounded suspiciously like 'dickhead…' come from the kitchen.

"You're a bloody brat, Sherlock. I hope you know as much." Mycroft muttered, picking a piece of thread from his suit. In his pocket, his phone buzzed. 

"Lestrade." 

"I am very aware of who is messaging me, brother dear." Mycroft took out his phone, then laughed at the message. "'Come home, I have a surprise for you'. Oh, Gregory… So Naive… He truly believes I do not know." 

"Read the whole text." Sherlock flipped back up the right way. Too much blood was rushing to his brain after being upside down for so long. "Your eyes skimmed four lines but you only read two." 

"'Come home, I have a surprise for you'..." Mycroft sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He read the next lines deadpan. "'Snuggles and kisses from the best alpha in the world, Greg. That's me by the way'. And then he put six kisses."

"Read them." 

"Read the-" Mycroft sighed again. "Kiss, kiss, kiss… Kiss, kiss. Kiss. Are you happy, Sherlock?" 

"Very. You can leave now." 

Mycroft heaved himself out of John's chair with a loud and embarrassing groan, steadying himself for a moment before setting off towards the door. "Please think about the stair lift for Mrs Hudson, Sherlock." He pressed a hand to his back. "It would be incredibly useful." As he left the flat for the car waiting outside, he leaned heavily on his umbrella, hiding the world from the fact that Mycroft Holmes waddled like a penguin. 

Chapter Text

At three in the morning, Sherlock received a phone call. He was awake, of course, but the call was unexpected. His phone started to buzz next to his laptop, and his eyes flicked down at it from where he had been reviewing security footage on the laptop screen.

Lestrade.

Lestrade was calling him.

Lestrade was calling him at three in the morning.

That meant either one of two things.

1) There had just been a murder
2) Mycroft was in labour

Sherlock took a deep breath, then unlocked his phone. "Lestrade? What do you want?"

"Thank fuck you're awake…" The voice muttered. "Myc's in labour, we've just checked into Bart's. Wondered if you'd like to keep him company for a while, since he's chucked me out of the room. You can bring John, if you want."

Sherlock sat very still. Stared, unblinking at the wall in front of him. Mycroft was in labour. For real this time. Four days overdue, if his maths was correct. Not like Mycroft to turn up late for a party, but very much like Lestrade. His brother was actually having a baby. He was going to be an uncle.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you there?"

More silence as Sherlock ran that through in his mind. Mycroft was having a baby. A baby. Mycroft. And Lestrade. Baby. Baby. Baby. They were seriously having a baby? Apparently so.

"Listen, Sherlock, I need you to answer. I don't want Myc alone in there." Greg pleaded. "Just for-"

Sherlock suddenly snapped back to consciousness. "Yes. Coming. Coming right now. Bringing John. Do we need- should John bring his med kit? No. Stupid question, there will already be stuff there. John can help. John-"

"Right, calm down, Sherlock. I think you're panicking more than me." Greg laughed. To Sherlock, this wasn't a laughing matter. "Just get here quickly, alright? Don't worry about John helping. Myc hand picked all the doctors around him, he's gonna be fine."

"Okay. Alright. Alright." Sherlock hung up straight away, grabbing his coat and sprinting through to the bedroom. "John, wake up. Mycroft's in labour."

"Sure he is… Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf, Sherlock?" John stretched out with a groan. "You woke me up from a nap last month saying exactly the same thing."

"I've just had a call from Lestrade, they're checked into Bart's and he's already been kicked out of the delivery room." Sherlock dug through John's drawers, chucking clothes at him. "Hurry. Please."

"Shit, it's the real deal?" John sat up in bed, yanking off his pyjama shirt and pulling on the soft jumper Sherlock had thrown at him. He soon wriggled into a pair of jeans, and the first pair of shoes he could find. The pair ran down the stairs and hailed the first taxi they saw. John didn't dare mention the crack in Sherlock's voice when he demanded St Bart's hospital.

Once they had arrived, Sherlock sprinted through the hospital, hand held with John's, pulling him along. He couldn't stop thinking, panicking about where Mycroft was and what was happening and how it was so painful that Greg had been kicked out of the room. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, telling him that he was too late. He pushed that thought away and instead ran faster until he reached the maternity ward. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath to calm his panting, and walked in as calmly as possible, even though John's hand was clenched in his own.

Upon arrival, the two were escorted by Anthea to Mycroft's room, where Greg was standing outside. He looked sweaty, his hair ruffled, face red, shirt torn from where Mycroft had obviously grabbed it. It looked like someone had bitten into his hand. He looked extremely relieved to see Sherlock and John quickly approaching.

"Thank god you guys are here… Myc won't let me in, told me that this is all my fault, and that he's, uh… Cutting off my balls with a rusty scalpel once this is through." Greg look genuinely terrified at the thought. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft, to be honest. "You need to go in and diffuse him. Please."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, not bothering to knock before entering. Mycroft was on his knees by the bed, keening into the mattress. He was in obvious pain, sweat beading down his freckled back, every muscle in his body tense. He was letting out a sound halfway between a whimper and a strangled moan, his fingers clutched to the thin bedsheets.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked softly, almost terrified at the sight of him. "Mycroft, are you alright?"

"I-" Mycroft let out another moan, his hand flying to his back. "What- hmnnn- are you- ohh!- doing here?! Oh, buggering hell!"

"Lestrade's sent me in as bomb diffusal, apparently." Sherlock held his breath as Mycroft arched his back and let out a yell, before going suddenly silent, his shoulders rising and falling slowly as he tried to control his breathing. "Are you-"

"I'm fine." Mycroft pressed his forehead into the mattress, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of him as he turned around. Very pregnant, was the only way he could describe it. His stomach sat low, his hips wide-set, his whole body curvy. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his whole face red as he looked up at Sherlock. "I don't like hospitals."

"I know. Ever since you caught scarlet fever." Sherlock sat down beside Mycroft. "I was six. You didn't like the way staff treated you."

"They poked and prodded me with needles, Sherlock…" Mycroft tipped his head down, closing his eyes momentarily before looking back up.

"And that's where your phobia of needles stemmed from, too." Sherlock murmured as it clicked in his head. "How many nurses did it take to get that in your hand?" Sherlock pointed at the IV dug into Mycroft's left hand, connected to a bag of saline solution.

"Six, plus Gregory." Mycroft flexed his fingers, then looked away from his hand with a shudder. Even the sight of the needle in his skin made his stomach turn. "I bit Gregory as the needle went in. He's quite upset about that."

"Understandably." Sherlock shrugged, getting comfortable on the hospital bed. "How long before the baby comes?"

"At the rate I am progressing, possibly within the next two hours." Mycroft smiled, though he looked exhausted. "Are you excited to become an uncle?"

"I suppose. As much as one could be." Sherlock watched as Mycroft moved to his feet, gasping in discomfort. Slowly, he started to toddle around the room, both hands pressed into his back. At various points, he had to stop and lean against the wall and catch his breath.

"I… I believe that I should apologise to Gregory…" Mycroft muttered, his hand clenching into a fist against the wall. "Oh, goodness… I'll have to apologise quite quickly with the way things are going…"

"Another contraction?"

"It should be starting soon, yes… Walk me to the bed, please…" Mycroft grit through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. Sherlock stood quickly, wrapping an arm around Mycroft and guiding him to the bed. Mycroft instantly laid down on his side, an arm wrapped around his middle. "Get Gregory. Now, please. Quickly."

Sherlock rushed out of the room, finding Lestrade sitting in the waiting room, John carefully wrapping a bandage around the bite mark on his hand. "Mycroft's sorry. Get back in there." Sherlock commanded.

"Thank fuck…" Greg muttered, taking the bandage from John and tucking it into itself. "Let's have a baby."

"Good luck!" John grinned, giving Greg's shoulder a pat. "I'll fix your hand up if Mycroft grips it too hard and breaks your fingers."

Greg gave a massive grin, before jogging off to the delivery room, hiding the fact that he was a massive bundle of nerves. Come on, Greg. You've done this twice before. Jesus Christ, Mycroft was having a baby… His baby. God, that was terrifying.