Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He notices the changes, however subtle they may be, almost instantly. Before John, it might've been weeks before he paid enough attention to notice, probably not until the changes were so prominent that Sherlock couldn't not notice them. But After John, he's so in tune with his body and the ways that it reacts to John that he notices long before anyone else could.

Sherlock stands, stark naked, in front of the bathroom mirror and examines his stomach. It's still a little less than flat, slightly concave in spite of John's best efforts to "feed him up", with no physical evidence. He doesn't know much about this sort of thing but he suspects it won't stay that way for long. Being tall and slender will actually work against him this time; any weight gain in his stomach will be noticeable before long and that's provided his scent doesn't change first. That means he won't have long to hide it and figure out what to do.

His mind spins uselessly, like a gear that doesn't have enough oil. Normally this means he needs more data but in this case Sherlock has all the data necessary. For once in his life, he wishes that he didn't. It all comes down to two facts that don't work with each other. Two facts that are going to split his life apart.

Fact: Sherlock Holmes is pregnant.

Fact: John Watson doesn't want children.

He and John had this discussion back when they first mated. John had been adamant that having children was out of the question. He'd said it with that fondly exasperated look he wore so often around Sherlock but there was no denying that he was very serious about not having kids. And knowing John, he hasn't changed his mind about it in the past two years, which means that Sherlock is... is...

Well. He's not quite sure what he's going to do.

---

It happened after one of those cases that are so endless that eventually they cross the line from fun to frustrating. Sherlock was exhausted from almost two weeks straight of little sleep and food. His body was running on empty and that’s his excuse, because normally he always remembers to take his birth control pills. They’re so important that not even a case supersedes them, but in this case he honestly can’t recall if he took the pills during those past few days or not. They’re a blur to him, mostly, and he hasn’t told anyone but he doesn’t even remember how he solved the case. The clearest memory he has of that last day is of being carried up the stairs by an equally-exhausted John and being put to bed.

Of course, the next night when they’d both woken up Sherlock had been in heat.

And now, four weeks later...

Sherlock frowns into the mirror and aggressively grabs his clothing, dressing quickly. His hands are shaking but he pretends not to notice. What will John do when he finds out? Insist that Sherlock get an abortion? Put the child up for adoption? Or leave? None of those three options sounds enticing but that’s what he has to work with.

Option 1: John’s a medical man, yes, but Sherlock can’t imagine that he would want to personally make that decision about a child. Of course Sherlock could go out and do it before John finds out. That would solve the problem entirely, really, as long as he makes sure that he’s careful about taking his birth control from now on. But Sherlock’s not sure he could do it. His instinct to protect is already kicking in and he wants to keep this child, this product of him-and-John, safe at all costs.

Conclusion: Not a viable option.

Option 2: Adoption. John could go for this one, possibly. Sherlock knows that John’s sister, Harry, and her mate Clara have been having difficulty conceiving. John might even suggest the baby go to them. Now that Harry doesn’t drink anymore, she would be a good mother, no doubt. The baby would be close enough for them to see on occasion but he and John wouldn’t have to worry about it. But again, Sherlock’s not sure he could do it. He’s not even sure if he likes babies but... but. This is a little him-and-John and Sherlock wants to see it grow up and not as the distant uncle.

Conclusion: Not a viable option.

Option 3: John leaves.

He pauses in playing his violin and feels genuinely sick at the idea. It’s a good thing John is out because he would’ve been quite concerned at seeing that expression on his omega’s face. The problem is John leaving makes the most sense. For all of the things John puts up with, what he gets in return is little by comparison and Sherlock’s always had this hidden fear that someday John might come to his senses and leave. He could still help on the cases without being mated to Sherlock, after all. All of the data supports the fact that this, this little him-and-John that Sherlock so wants to protect, is going to be the thing that pushes John over the edge.

Conclusion: Sherlock will have driven away the one man who he thought might actually stay.

Chapter Text

He tries to act normal during the next few weeks, not wanting to tip anyone off, but it's hard. Knowing that the inevitable is going to happen makes it difficult to pretend that nothing has changed. Sometimes he finds himself dodging John's touch, though he makes a concentrated effort to stop that when John starts looking genuinely concerned, confused and hurt. He takes to spending hours playing the violin so that he won't have to go to bed with John and makes it a point to be a little more careful on cases so that John won't have an excuse to examine him should he get hurt. And - perhaps the biggest concession of all - shortly before his next heat hits he takes a case out of the country at the last minute and spends the next three days holed up in a hotel room in a small town in Germany, missing John desperately.

John is aware that something is wrong – of course he is – but Sherlock is an expert at not talking to people when he doesn't want to; it's a skill that he has carefully cultivated for most of his life. Every time John tries to bring up the subject there is always something that Sherlock can divert him with, whether it's a case or something more boring. Once in a while, in the middle of the night when he’s alone and John is upstairs alone in their bed, he wonders why he bothers. If John is going to leave perhaps it would be best if he just went. Why is he dragging it out? This is torture, counting the seconds down to the moment when John finds out and walks out. Is it not better to pick a fight and make John leave on his own terms?

But then he'll wake up and find himself on the sofa with his head nestled in John's lap, John's hand stroking his hair, and he'll know that's he too weak to chase John away, that he wants to savour every moment he can get so that he can remember them when he has nothing.

He does research, sometimes, when John's not around. Babies are complicated, more so than Sherlock realized. He's not sure he'll be able to do this on his own. How can he care for a child when he's known for getting lost in experiments for hours on end or throwing himself into cases for days without eating or sleeping? He has nightmares about Mycroft declaring him an unfit parent and taking the child away. After having had John, after losing John over this, he doesn't want to be alone. He wakes up in a cold sweat, an agonizing feeling piercing his chest, and just barely makes it to the bathroom to throw up.

That morning, about six weeks into the pregnancy by his best estimation, John sits him down. "What's going on?" he says.

"Nothing."

"There's something, Sherlock. Are you on drugs again?"

"No!" Sherlock can't help but be offended by the suggestion. If he had taken to using again, John wouldn't know. No one would. He won't jeopardize his access to cases like that.

"Then it's something else," John says firmly, looking him over. "I don't know what's wrong with you lately. You never let me touch you. I can't remember the last time I saw you naked. You're sleeping a lot more than you usually do but you've been having nightmares and you just spend the last half hour in the bathroom being sick. Sherlock, please tell me." His warm blue eyes are filled with concern and pleading. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock wants to tell him, wants it so badly it aches, but more than that he wants to tell John and have John be happy. And since he knows that won't happen, he presses his lips together and looks away, sliding one arm protectively around his midsection. John sighs and steps back and a few minutes later the door closes behind him. The flat feels appallingly empty and Sherlock realizes that this is it. This is what the flat is going to be like after John leaves. It's so depressing that he bends in two, covering his face in his hands, physically pushing back the annoying prickling feeling in his eyes. His breathing is shaky and he blames that on the fact that he doesn't hear the door open again until it's too late.

---

There are five of them and they're all tall with broad shoulders and mean little smirks. He goes along with them because he doesn't want to risk it. They blindfold him and take him to an undisclosed location that Sherlock knows is along the Thames and about a mile outside of downtown London. It smells strongly of fish and something rotten. He's led into a room and pushed down in the corner. His hands are cuffed around something solid and steel. He curls up, shielding his belly behind his legs, and doesn't care if it makes him look like he's frightened because when one of them kicks him it lands on his thigh rather than his stomach.

“Bloody interfering detective,” one of them says scornfully. “We should just leave you here to starve.”

He says nothing, has to bite back all of the deductions that threaten to spill from his lips because he wants to be left alone. When he hears the door close and the room has gone quiet he angles his hip, ignoring the pain in his thigh, and twists his hands until he can pull his phone from his pocket. Idiots, not even bothering to make sure he doesn’t have a method of communication. He remembers texting Lestrade last and types out a new message detailing where he is and what’s happened. Then he sends it off and waits. Lestrade will come, he always does.

It takes a while.

The room is cold and after a while he starts to shiver.

He gets thirsty, his stomach aching a little, and he misses John desperately. He wants his alpha more than anything, would happily retire from being a detective if it meant that John would walk through the door and take him home, wants it with a depth of need that’s frightening in its intensity.

But when the door opens again it’s one of them and he’s angry. He storms across the room and grabs the back of Sherlock’s shirt, twisting it tightly in his fist so that it limits breathing. “You little fucker! What the hell did you tell them?”

“The police are here,” Sherlock says and it’s not a question because now he can hear them. The sirens are piercing and make his head ache, or maybe that’s the fact that the man standing over him has just slammed his gun into the side of Sherlock’s head. Things spin horribly and he slumps sideways when the grip on his shirt is suddenly released.

“Oh,” the man says, and there’s a cruel wickedness to his voice now. “Oh, that’s... Come on, you, we’re going to have some fun.”

His cuffs are unlocked and the man hauls him up, marching him out the door. Sherlock is dizzy and things are hazy but he can tell when they move outside because the ground changes under his feet, going from smooth and slick to gritty and uneven. He stumbles and hears someone call his name. The man stops him and then puts something against his head: cold, hard, a gun. Sherlock’s hands are still free and instinctively he cups his belly, hunching his shoulders forward protectively, and the man beside him laughs and Sherlock thinks that means something but he’s not sure what.

“Let him go, Davenport. You won’t win this way.” That’s Lestrade and he sounds strange.

“Only I think I will,” the man, Davenport and Sherlock has no idea who that is, says. “What would you pay for the return of your precious great detective and the little whelp he’s carrying?”

Chapter Text

There’s a tense silence during which no one seems to dare move or speak. Sherlock can hear the wind whistling and the river sloshing over the bank. Davenport’s fingers are digging into his bicep and each one feels like five individual points of burning. He tries to think, tries to assess the situation, but his senses are thrown off by the blindfold and the blood that he can feel trickling down the curve of his cheekbone. He can tell that there are at least a dozen people roughly grouped around them, but since he and Davenport are standing upwind he doesn’t know who else is there aside from Lestrade. For all he knows Lestrade is alone and the rest are Davenport’s associates.

“You bastard,” a familiar voice says roughly, breaking the silence. A desperate sound lodges in Sherlock’s throat. John.

Davenport laughs again and shakes Sherlock a little. “You must be his alpha. Hear that? He’s crying for you.” The gun presses in harder, digging uncomfortably into his flesh. “This is what I want. I want all of you to walk away. The little bitch and I are going to go for a ride. When I can be assured that none of you are going to give chase I’ll think about sending him back to you. Change your minds at any point and I’ll put a bullet in his brain.”

John growls. “Vatican cameos!” he barks, and even through the haze of pain and confusion Sherlock knows instinctively what that means; it’s been engrained into both of them. His legs fold automatically and he drops like a stone, drawing a startled cry from Davenport as the man is yanked off balance by the sudden shift in weight. A split second later there’s a gun shot and Davenport rocks backwards, painful grip releasing as he hits the ground with a heavy thump just behind Sherlock. He sits there for a stunned moment before bringing his hands up and pulling the blindfold off.

As expected, Davenport is dead, a perfectly formed bullet hole directly between his eyes. Sherlock only gets a few seconds to look at him before John is there, eyes wild as he grips Sherlock’s head and gently touches the bleeding wound, searching for any signs of real damage. Apparently he doesn’t find anything because he lets out a sigh, almost a sob, and clutches Sherlock against his chest, a tumble of whispered reassurances flowing from his mouth as he ducks his head and buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair. He’s shaking, or maybe they’re both shaking, and Sherlock wraps his arms around his alpha and clings back.

Lestrade steps past them and kneels down, checking to make sure that Davenport is really dead. By the satisfied look on his face, he is. “Nice shot, John,” he says, not really expecting an answer, which is fortunate because he doesn’t get one. “Donovan!”

“John,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t want to pay any attention to anyone else. He wants his sole focus to be on John, his alpha, who is holding him so tightly that it actually hurts. He wants to stay in this moment forever.

It doesn’t last long.

“Sherlock… God you scared me half to death.” John’s hands rest on his shoulders, pushing him back just a little. The space between them, however small, makes Sherlock feel cold. He looks up into John’s face and remembers what Davenport so blithely announced to the world. It must be his scent, he knows, since typically it changes around the sixth to seventh week and Sherlock has been waiting for this to happen. It’s a cruel irony to know that a man who tried to kill him is the first to work out the difference.

“I’m fine,” he says, wondering how long it will be before John clues in. Yes he’s relieved now, but Sherlock’s not foolish enough to think that this will last. His throat feels suspiciously tight as he squirms away, brushing John’s hands off of his shoulders. John looks confused but Sherlock isn’t going to let it happen like this, he won’t let John see him be torn apart, he has that much dignity left.

“Sherlock?” John says uncertainly.

Sherlock turns away. “Leave me alone.”

---

It’s a testament to how shocked John is that Sherlock actually gets a couple of feet away before John snaps out of his stunned daze. He catches up to Sherlock in a handful of steps and stops him with a light hand to his arm. “Sherlock, what are you talking about? What’s wrong with you?” He looks worried as he stares hard at his omega, searching for signs of drugs or something else that might explain.

“As ever, you see but you do not observe,” Sherlock says dully. “I’m pregnant, John.”

Those two little words, ones that he had hoped he would never have to say, hang in the air between them. John’s eyes widen a little at the declaration and he takes a step back, hand sliding off of Sherlock’s arm to hang limply at his side. Sherlock studies his face briefly, taking in all of the little signs that add up: the arched eyebrow that means surprise, the pinched lips that mean he’s displeased, the lines in his forehead that mean repressed emotion. None of it bodes well. He turns away again and keeps walking and this time John doesn’t try to stop him.

Lestrade, on the other hand, is not quite so amenable. He passes John in an easy stride and jogs over to Sherlock, sliding neatly in front of him. “Hold on there, Sherlock. Where do you think you’re going?”

Sherlock pauses and realizes that he doesn’t actually know. Going back to Baker Street, as long as John is there, is out of the question. Now that the truth is out in the open there’s no point in tormenting himself any longer. “I don’t know,” he says out loud, bewildered.

“The hospital,” Lestrade says gently, looking concerned. “You’ve had a blow to the head and if you’re really… Well…” His eyes flick briefly down to Sherlock’s stomach. “You need to be checked out.”

The thought is unappealing but now that he doesn’t have a doctor he supposes it’s the best solution. He nods silently and allows Lestrade to steer him over to the nearest police car, doesn’t even protest getting into the front seat. He waits there while Lestrade says something to John, voice too low for Sherlock to hear, head purposely turned at an angle to prevent Sherlock from reading his lips. Whatever he says makes John nod and his hands clench into fists. Finally, Lestrade returns to the car and gets into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything at first but he keeps glancing at Sherlock.

“Are you alright?” he asks finally.

“Yes,” Sherlock says shortly, hoping that Lestrade will actually observe for once and understand that he doesn’t want to talk. His head aches and he feels sick with wanting for John, his body can’t grasp why his alpha isn’t here and it actually hurts.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade takes his eyes off of the road to give him a look.

“John doesn’t want children.” The words slip out before he can stop them. Immediately he wants to take them back - he doesn’t need to confide in anyone or any such nonsense like that - but it’s too late. For once in his life Lestrade is putting the clues together quickly and coming up with the right answer. He gives Sherlock a look of such potent sympathy that Sherlock has to turn away, staring determinedly out the window as his eyes prickle uncomfortably. He swears that if Lestrade says anything, anything, he’s going to get deduced to within an inch of his life, but mercifully they spend the rest of the trip in silence.

Chapter Text

When the nurses at the hospital find out that he’s a pregnant omega who was kidnapped, they can’t do enough for him. Even Sherlock’s normal course of action, which is to deduce everything about everyone who steps into his room until they get suitably fed up and kick him out, doesn’t work. The nurse who is attending to him just smiles patiently with every word and continues stitching up the gash on his forehead. When she actually gives him a pat on the shoulder after he points out that she’s been having an affair with one of the doctors, Lestrade, who is hovering in the doorway, makes a vital effort to pretend he’s not laughing and is promptly chased out by Sherlock’s furious glare.

Finally, just as the nurse is finishing her work, the doctor walks in. “Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he says, glancing up from his clipboard. Sherlock bites back the ‘obviously’ that wants to escape and waits. “You’re about seven weeks along, Mr Holmes. I’d like you to have an early ultrasound in light of what’s happened just to make sure that the baby is okay. Our normal policy is to wait until an alpha is present… do you know when yours will be here?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and is fully prepared to give the man a blistering comment in response when a familiar voice speaks up. “I’m here, Doctor.”

The words die an abrupt death on Sherlock’s lips. His mouth opens soundlessly as he stares at the space behind the doctor where John Watson appears to be standing.

“Ah, excellent. I’m Doctor Smith.”

“Doctor John Watson,” John says and Sherlock wonders if he’s hallucinating as John shakes Doctor Smith’s hand. “How is he? Will he be alright?”

“No lasting damage, I should think. Bit of a concussion and we would have kept him overnight, but seeing as you’re a doctor you can take him home if the ultrasound comes out alright,” Doctor Smith says, handing John the clipboard. He sends a cheerful smile towards Sherlock and edges around John before striding out of the room. His absence is like a blast of cold water as Sherlock realizes that John is actually here, that they’re alone, and apparently it’s not enough to know that John is leaving, they have to talk about it and get closure.

Fuck.

“Well.” John flips through the clipboard and seems to agree with what he finds because he puts it back on the shelf. His eyes are strangely bright when he looks at Sherlock. “Let me see.”

Sherlock flinches before he can stop himself and John freezes, hands partially outstretched. “Don’t,” Sherlock says and he hates the note of pleading in his voice. And the truth is he doesn’t even know why he’s saying it but John must because his eyes go all soft and sad.

“Sherlock,” he says, “we have to talk.”

---

At that moment Sherlock actually wishes that the nurses would come back. Anything is better than sitting here and having to listen to this. He says, “I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

“No and I suspect that’s the problem.” John studies him for a long moment. “Sherlock, do you love me?”

“Yes.” The answer springs to his lips before he even fully processes the question. It’s one of the few things that he doesn’t have to think about. It just is. But he doesn’t know why John is asking. Carefully he turns his head to take in John’s expression. By the way John’s lips have curved into a small smile John knows that he’s telling the truth and some part of Sherlock feels a little lighter.

“And you haven’t cheated on me.”

“What?” Sherlock looks at him like he’s stupid.

John laughs. “Yes I know but I had to ask. I didn’t really think that you had but you did spend your last heat in Paris and you haven’t let me touch you for weeks.” His amusement dies swiftly and he crosses his arms. “You still smell like me, though, and so does the baby.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around his belly and turns away. He doesn’t detect any trace of anger in John’s voice but it must be there. He doesn’t want to delude himself anymore. He wishes that John would leave.

“The thing is,” John continues and instead of angry he sounds impossibly gentle, “I couldn’t understand why you were acting like this until today.” He reaches out and takes hold of Sherlock’s chin, guiding his head around until Sherlock has no choice but to look him in the eyes. John’s eyes are a wonderful shade of blue, so many threaded shades that Sherlock has never been able to define the true colour. “How long have you known you were pregnant, Sherlock?”

“A couple of weeks,” Sherlock says numbly.

“I thought as much.” John sighs and rubs his thumb over the sharp curve of cheekbone. Even now he’s still a little bit obsessed with those cheekbones. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The words won’t come. Sherlock licks his lips and tries to speak but his throat is so tight that the words get lost and in the end he just sits there staring at John. He can count on one hand the amount of times in his life that he’s been really and truly frightened and none of them have ever felt like this. He doesn’t know what John reads in his face but there must be something there because John’s lips tighten a little and his grip becomes a bit more firm, though the reassuring circles he’s making with his thumb never stop.

“Sherlock,” he says softly, “do you want this baby?”

“Yes.” Finally a word, and even though he knows he should stop there the rest comes out with it: “But I know that you don’t, so just… just go ahead and leave. I don’t want you here.” Resolutely he pulls away, ignoring the way he feels bitterly cold without John’s warming hand, and turns, curling into a small ball that enables him to hide his face against any further perusal. There is no way to truly describe what goes through him when he hears John’s footsteps moving around towards the door, but he thinks that for once in his life he knows what unadulterated terror is like.

Chapter Text

"You’re an idiot.”

The voice comes from just above Sherlock’s head and he can’t help twitching in surprise, unconsciously inhaling deeply as a result. John’s scent - tea, a hint of gun oil, the stark cleanliness of medicine, and jam, mixed with something that is home, pure and simple - surrounds him as surely as a blanket, sliding deeply inside his body and easing the stark chill. He relaxes without making the conscious decision to do so, his body acknowledging the presence of his alpha and delighting in it, and barely has the strength to tense when John touches him again, this time tilting his head up. Belatedly he realizes that instead of leaving John has merely circled the table to stand on the other side.

He watches in silent bewilderment as John leans in close, examining the stitches with a practiced eye. Apparently the workmanship is acceptable because he nods. “He must have hit you hard,” he says. “I’m shocked you were able to remain conscious.” His voice is forcedly light but there’s a glint in his eyes that is all too familiar. Protective, possessive. “I’m glad I shot the bastard.”

“John?” The name slips out, sounding small and childish and confused in the quiet, and he grimaces. John’s lips parts to respond but the opening of the door silences him.

“Hello.” A tall young woman stands in the doorway, wearing a tentative smile. “Here for an ultrasound?”

“Yes,” John says. “That’s us.”

“Excellent. My name is Maria and I’ll be taking care of that for you.” She pads into the room with a wheelchair. Sherlock casts her a derisive look but unfolds, stepping down off of the counter and seating himself in the chair without saying a word. Though normally he’d protest when he can clearly walk with no problem, he’s too anxious to know about the safety of the baby to care.

Maria takes him up to the next floor and John tags along, walking a half-step behind them and watching quietly. Sherlock ends up on a bed, his feet in stirrups that spread him in a way that feels rather obscene. She proves to be a professional, however, barely blinking an eye at the sight as she sits down on a little stool. “We’re going to be doing an internal ultrasound, Mr Holmes,” she says, her voice quiet and soothing. “You’ll feel a bit of pressure around your entrance and it may be cold. I’m going to ask you to relax and bear down. Try not to tense up. We can take as long as you need, okay? There’s no rush.”

Sherlock stares at the ceiling, a gasped breath escaping when he feels the initial pressure. She’s right, it is cold, and he shivers. A hand slides into his and he opens his eyes, surprised, to see that John is standing at his side. John is watching Maria, though, as she stops pushing and starts looking at the screen, occasionally angling a little differently until she can get a decent read. Her face is perfectly smooth, with no hint as to whether she’s seeing something bad or good, but at last, after what feels like hours, she turns to them with a warm smile.

“Good news. The baby looks fine,” she says. “I can’t see any evidence of damage. You’ll have to come back in at around twelve weeks but for the time being I think you’re doing alright. Would you like to hear the heartbeat?” Without waiting for confirmation she reaches over and flips a switch.

The sound is fast and thready and Sherlock feels like he can’t breathe. John’s hand tightens until it hurts. Maria glances at the two of them and then gets up, gliding out of the room and gently closing the door behind her. Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and stares at the monitor, stunned. Though he’d known this was going to happen, it’s still a shock to see physical proof. This is the little him-and-John that has caused him so much anxiety and grief over the past few months: this is what he had tried, instinctively, to protect from Davenport and his friends.

This is his baby – their baby – and he wants it with John.

---

“Sherlock?” John’s voice, warm and smooth, breaks him from his stunned daze. “Love, you’re crying.”

Him, crying? The very idea is ludicrous and he's about to say as much when he realizes that his vision is a little blurry and that the air feels distinctly cooler against his cheeks. John sighs and sits down next to him, perching on the small expanse of bed available to him. He sets his free hand on top of Sherlock's belly and begins rubbing in little circles, his fingers trailing underneath the hem of the gown to slide over bare flesh. His face is serious and Sherlock can't read anything from him, doesn't know if this is good or bad.

"John," he tries.

"No." John's voice is very quiet, almost inaudible under the sound of the thrumming little heartbeat. "It's my turn to talk and I want you to listen. Sherlock, when you and I first met you were very clear that you did not want anything to develop between us. I respected that and I kept my distance until you told me that you had changed your mind. Only then did the two of us enter into a relationship. I have always been careful to put you first as best that I can. You're my omega and it's my duty, my responsibility, to love you and make sure that you're happy. That's why I want to apologize."

This is so unexpected that for a long moment Sherlock just stares at him in confusion. "Apologize?" he says slowly, wondering if the painkillers that he'd been given had been stronger than he'd realized. There's a strong possibility that he's hallucinating.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I haven't been doing my job very well if you could think for even one second that I wouldn't want this child."

Sherlock keeps staring. It seems to take forever before his mind clicks into gear and even then the information is slow to absorb. Distantly he thinks that this must be what the common masses are like all the time. It's not very pleasant. He looks down at his belly before meeting John's eyes. "But.. you said..."

"I know what I said, you idiot." The soft, affectionate tone takes all the sting out of the insult. "Sherlock, part of the reason I said that was because I didn't think you wanted children. It was a mistake on my part to make that kind of assumption without asking you first, but it was also very foolish of you to assume that my opinion of having children wouldn't have changed in the past two years. I love you. I want to have a family with you. I don't know how you could have ever believed otherwise."

"I thought..." Sherlock lets the words die away before he can finish the sentence. Though he tries hard to hide it, he’s always had a hard time with jealousy; John is a fine alpha, a good catch for any omega and beta, and it’s been difficult for him to accept that John is not interested in anyone else. Some part of him still believes that John has chosen him only because Sherlock is convenient and offers John a life of excitement over tedious boredom. He swallows hard. "You're sure you want... with me?" The words come out clumsy.

"Absolutely," John says without a trace of hesitation. "With the stipulation that, from now on, when you're worried about something you talk to me instead of keeping it a secret. You’re not the only one who isn’t a mind reader.” He smiles crookedly.

Sherlock smiles back hesitantly, feeling stupid for not having put the clues together sooner. But it seems that when it comes to John he possesses something of a blind spot: John is one of the few people that can still surprise him on a regular basis and that means sometimes he can't trust his own senses. "I'm sorry," he says very quietly.

"Shh, love, it's alright." Shifting closer, John reaches out and pulls him down into a hug. "I love you, Sherlock."

With his head cushioned on John's shoulder and the sweet sound of the baby's heartbeat thrumming in his ears, Sherlock feels warm and happy. It's not a new feeling but it's never been this strong. He closes his eyes and nuzzles closer. "I love you too, John."