Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Adventure of the Expecting Detective

Part 1 : Sentiment.
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Chapter 1

That moment, when you think that you are finally safe only to realise you were oh so very wrong.

John is getting seriously pissed-off.

Sherlock’s gun moves from Moriarty to the stack of explosives lying between the three of them. The heavy scent of chlorine hangs heavy in the air, making John sick to his stomach. Nevertheless, he feels like he can think clearly for the first time in the last couple hours. When his mad, brilliant, courageous best friend turns his head toward him, John nods. If he has to die in an explosion he wants to say, it will honour to do it with Sherlock at his side. As long as Moriarty dies, preferably suffering the most horrible pain while doing so, it is all worth it.

John Watson hates Moriarty for all the hurt and pain he had caused to people, all the deaths he is accountable for, and he hates him even more for two specific reasons, the first one being how he had played Sherlock and enjoyed doing so, putting John’s friend under incredible strain by forcing him to follow his deathly, crimson trail. The second reason, the most personal one, is because he had forced doubt in John’s mind, his actions making John wonder if, in fact, Sherlock and Moriarty were the same at the end of the day, like two sides of a coin. For a few, dreadful hours, John had regarded Sherlock in the most horrid light, and had feared the feeling that was twisting his guts was hate.

Hating Sherlock? John feels a lot of things for the man : admiration, wonder, exasperation, desire, frustration, but most of all something fierce and intense like he has never felt before. He can't deny anymore that it’s pretty close to love. And it’s all fine. Sorting those feelings out took a lot of energy out of John, knowing they would never be reciprocated, but he can deal with it if it means sharing Sherlock’s chaotic, violent, addictive way of life.

Nevertheless, hate just doesn't do. It had forced John back in a dark, gloomy corner at the edge of his mind, a place he thought he had left behind under the intense hot sun of Afghanistan.

« I’ve disappointed you, » Sherlock had said in a cold voice, although John had thought he had been surprised, and a little taken aback.

Now, John wonders if he has time to tell Sherlock that no, he isn’t disappointed at all. In the end, he had understood that it is because Sherlock did care about those hostages and innocent victims that he couldn’t allow himself to care, not if he wanted his incredible brain to work as efficiently as possible. As with everything else regarding the man, his mind is made of contradictions. And John had been stupid to think that maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong, and that Sherlock’s self-proclaimed sociopathy was an undeniable fact.

There it had been. Disappointment, yes. And the first tendrils of an invading, sickening wave of hate. Not for long, but it’s still too much for John.

Moriarty is scared. For the first time since he had kidnapped John on his way to pick up a medical file at Sarah’s, the crazy bastard is scared. He knows Sherlock can shoot any second. Not even his hidden gunmen can kill him fast enough to prevent it. Moriarty’s face crumple; he suddenly looks like a whiny, ugly little kid about to wet his trousers. John represses a nervous laugh bubbling in his throat. He wishes Sherlock would just shoot his gun and get it over with.

And maybe Sherlock is not only brilliant but a bloody mind reader because at this exact moment, he speaks, just loud enough for John to hear him.

" Aim for the pool, John. "

Then, he fires the gun.

Following the shot, for a fraction of a second there is absolute silence, and that moment seems to last forever, frozen in its own time.

Then the world explodes. John crouches, caught in the incredibly hot wave of air that pushes him backward. He’s going to fall on his back, and he knows that's not good. The debris will hit him on the ground -that is, if he doesn’t hit his head in the fall, and-

(oh my god this is war all over again)

His right arm is suddenly yanked with incredible force, and John’s body is dragged against the blow, toward the pool. He can only let himself go, whatever is happening. The shock of the cold water surrounding him is paralysing. Don’t fight, let it happen, he thinks, except it’s Sherlock’s cold, logical voice in his own head.

John tries to breathe and chokes. There is no air, his lungs are filled with chlorine tasting water. He needs to vomit. He needs to breathe.

But he’s drowning.

::: :::

“John!”

Cold.

Hurts.

His head throbs.

Something. Something is wrong with his right arm. It feels too heavy, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore, but is just a pound of dead flesh attached to his body.

The pressure on his chest is intolerable. And then air is pushed into his mouth, something warm and wet covering it.

John coughs, feels his stomach flip, the pressure giving way.

He’s vomiting, held on his side, and an incredible amount of water mixed with bile and blood flows onto the cement floor.

John groans through the pain. Nothingness tries to swallow him.

No. He stays. He’s on his back, again, doesn’t know how it happened. Time is all wrong.

He remembers. The explosion. The pool. Drowning.

Sherlock.

John’s heartbeat accelerates brutally. He’s suddenly very aware of everything. The first pulses of panic seize him. Sherlock. Is Sherlock okay?

He blinks. It’s hard to open his eyes, but then, it’s worth it, because all he can see is Sherlock. His face is inches away from John’s, his long dark curls dripping wet on John’s face, some of them plastered on his pale skin. His nose is bleeding, a steady flow mixed with water, but his eyes are clear and aware.

John lets out a sigh of relief.

“There you are,” Sherlock croaks. “Don’t move, you are going to be fine.”

John knows he is. Just in case, though, he needs to say something. He stretches his left arm –the right refuses to cooperate, protesting by sending a sharp, fresh wave of pain all through John’s nervous system. He holds back a moan and concentrates on his left hand. The movement is clumsy and shaky, but he finally succeeds in grabbing a handful of Sherlock’s wet shirt.

“John-“

“I am not disappointed in you,” John states as loud as he can, although it sounds weak, barely a murmur.

Sherlock looks at him for what seems like a whole minute, then nods. “You’re an idiot,” he replies, finally.

A thought occurs to John, a funny one, and he welcomes it, the sweet warmth that comes with it.

“You gave me mouth-to-mouth. Wow. Now, not only people will talk, they'll suggest kid's names to us.

“I had to,” Sherlock replies, managing to look disdainful despite his bleeding nose and wet curls. “You weren’t breathing.”

“Ah, excuses,” John mumbles, smiling.

It doesn’t take long before Sherlock smiles back. He tilts his head, staring at John with the intensity he usually reserves for a clue, and keeps smiling until, apparently despite himself, he begins to laugh, open mouthed and unguarded.
John laughs too. It hurts like hell, but he doesn’t care. He’s alive, Sherlock is as well, and for now, it’s more than enough.

::: :::

If John were the narrator of his own life story, just like he is of Sherlock’s (part of his life, at least - there is so much more to tell than the work he does), now would be the time where he would stop the narrative to allow the reader to breathe. It’s a very common strategy writers use: to begin a story right in the middle of the action, hoping to get the readers hooked as soon as possible. Then, when the narrative allows it, the author takes a step back, exposes his characters, some of their back story, the meaning to their previous actions and the direction they’re heading toward. It’s called exposition. John, who does not, for a second, consider himself as a real writer, finds this part especially difficult. Luckily, he’s only the narrator of Sherlock Holmes’ exploits, and he can spare himself the intellectual pain of context and exposure. Of course, he tries, in a paragraph or two, to add texture at the beginning of each new case, ,but it’s still pretty thin.

Now though, if he were to write about himself, and the way his life has changed since he moved in with Sherlock, the timing would be perfect. Here he is, laying on his hospital bed, drifting in and out of the stupefied artificial sleep of morphine. He has survived the explosion with very few consequences: some bruises and scratches, a couple of cracked ribs and a broken wrist –which explains the strange alien sensation John had been feeling. The pain came later, during the ambulance ride, to be precise. At the A & E, John’s wrist had to be set before being immobilized, and the doctor hadn’t been cheap on the morphine dosage. Not only does John not remember the actual setting of his broken bone, but he’s lost all sense of passing time. He could be lying in this dark hospital room for hours or weeks, and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. His thoughts are following him in and out of consciousness, and would probably make zero sense if they could be accessed, but to John, they are clear and logical. He's living through his own very private exposition.

Moriarty’s madness manifesting into a psychotic game seems to be, for John, one of those events in life that mark a new beginning -one of the many in a lifetime- another chapter, another episode. It’s been almost a year since an ex-army doctor and the only consulting detective in the world had moved in together at 221b Baker Street. At first, John had thought his fascination with Sherlock, and in return Sherlock’s indulgence at having his genius praised, would be the only link that would tie them together. John had originally taken Sherlock’s self-proclaimed diagnosis of sociopathy as a fact. Yes, he was brilliant, complex, unique, and John would never not be fascinated with him, filled with admiration. He was also like a statue made of ice : cold and unwelcoming, beautiful, but untouchable. John had taken in the bizarre habits, the difficult character traits, the disdain for others and had accepted it all. He wasn’t looking for a friend, anyway. He wasn’t looking for anything, except Sherlock’s life had given him back what he had missed so much : excitement, and chaos, and the incredible feeling of being alive. John could feel his blood moving through his veins, his heart pumping ; a tingling sensation into his brain making him overly aware and always ready to jump into action. Just like during the war.

John would take all the inconveniences just to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with Sherlock’s work, all the aspects of it. He tried not to bother for the fact that he had been from the start sexually attracted by Sherlock. Who wouldn’t be attracted by the too pale skin surrounded by those dark curls, the ridiculously plump lips, the eyes - piercing, stunning. And those cheekbones... John thinks he likes Sherlock's elegance even more than his delicate, lovely features, though; he moves his long, thin body with a grace that’s almost otherworldly, wearing those stupidly expensive clothes which he likes fitting, very fitting.

John has known since he was a teenager that he is bisexual, but he’s always been more into women – maybe it’s a personal preference, maybe it’s the still complicated social position that comes with dating someone from the same sex. The result is the same nevertheless; John can count on the fingers of one hand his sexual encounters with men, and of those five, only one had turned into more. He has to feel with intensity to bother interesting himself in another bloke, and it never came close to his desire for Sherlock, because not only his physical appearance is responsible, but his intellect as well. John hadn’t known he could get hard from a series of deductions, but apparently, when it comes to Sherlock, the normal rules don't apply.

From that first impression – the desirable but untouchable Sherlock Holmes, who did not care for John except when he wanted to impress someone or to think out loud - it came as a surprise that they actually got used to each other and warmed up enough to become friends. With that came John’s realisation that he had been wrong about Sherlock - he’s no sociopath. So very far from it.

Sherlock Holmes is a very socially awkward man with a genius mind. He has had to deal with being different his whole life. He was probably very isolated as a kid, not understanding how the people around him couldn’t think and use their intellect as he himself did. John can picture a kid in a class asking with all sincerity why they were learning stuff surely everybody knew already, and not understanding why the other kids would shoot him dark looks. It must have started that way until Sherlock began pretending he was the one who wanted to be alone, until he worked to perfection his disdainful attitude and superiority complex. It had come as a relief, really, for John to realize Sherlock would wear his genius like he was wearing his coat, hiding in a cloak of disregard for others so that he would not get hurt. Better to throw the first punch than to wait to be punched. Sherlock had pushed the illusion to the maximum, and had in the process become a master at imitating the sociopath persona. Was it surprising? Another paradox was that Sherlock never ceased to be as clever as be wanted people to think he was. A total lack of self-confidence had created an absurdly huge ego, almost the parody of oneself, just like the more non-human Sherlock had pretended to be, the more humanity he had been trying to hide.

With those revelations, John soon began to feel something more than desire. Was it love? It was becoming damn close to it, which was why John had been so upset during those hours of doubts and so scared it would turn into hate. John sincerely thought he's okay with the resolution he has taken, that is to never, ever act on his feelings. Sherlock seems to be asexual, or maybe has consciously convinced his body that he was. John can’t risk losing their friendship and marvellous life to a declaration of feelings that would most certainly be unwelcome. As long as Sherlock's alive and kicking, John can live with his crush. ¸

Another wave of wakefulness. John blinks slowly. The world is steadier. His arm is numb and scratchy; he can feel the heaviness of the cast covering it. It comes to his still drug-hazy mind that he doesn’t know if Sherlock is okay. He did seem to be earlier, but then, John had been a bit confused. His last memory of Sherlock is of him fighting with the paramedic trying to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his bicep, which is, in itself, reassuring.

And what about Moriarty?

A shiver goes through John’s body at the memory of the man’s crazy voice, going up and down, his disconcerting dead brown eyes, and how he had appeared to him at the corner of the street, smiling like a lunatic before using a Taser on him.
“I am fine. Moriarty was killed in the explosion. Lestrade texted me an hour ago to confirm it. I suggest you try to slow down your breathing. Your heartbeat is picking up.”

Sherlock’s voice is as sweet as the morphine. John doesn’t have the energy to wonder when the hell he did became a mind reader, or how he hadn’t noticed him in the room. The beeping vital signs monitor he’s connected to slows down before it becomes silent, when the cardiac rhythm returns to normal. John turns his head just in time to see Sherlock elegantly standing up from the chair he was occupying in a corner of the room, walking through the soft ray of light trailing from the corridor. It makes his entry theatrical, with him as the lead of a Greek tragedy, silence and dignity personified. Sometimes John thinks of Sherlock’s life is obeying its own rules, estranged from the rest of mankind, a life where theatrical entrances are possible, as well as dramatic exits, and earth-shattering revelations.

The only thing contrasting with it is the fact that Sherlock wears scrubs and that he looks exhausted, his eyes swollen and reduced to slits, a long scratch on his cheek, his curls a mess of strands standing in every direction. God, he looks. So… young.

“You think so?

“Oh, did I say that out loud?”

John is awake enough to blush. Sherlock freezes. “It must be the weak light in which I’m standing,” he explains, like the moment isn't awkward enough as it is.

Sherlock seems to realize his mistake and takes a deep breath before taking a step toward John’s bed. He points at the side of the mattress. “Can I?”

“Oh, please,” John shrugs.

“How are you feeling, John?” Sherlock asks, sitting very carefully.

“Fine. Head’s still a bit blurry. Feel like they gave me all the morphine in the hospital.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically, “Ah, you lucky man.”

John snorts. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Of course I am. Oh. Is it about the scrubs? I just borrowed them because my clothes were drenched in water.”

“So, Moriarty’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“And the bastards that were pointing guns at us?”

“They took advantage of the chaos following the explosion and fled the scene.”

Sherlock pauses, looking down his long hands that are laid on his lap, fingers joined together. He is nervous, John realizes. It isn’t surprising, given that they both just escaped death, but ... there is something more to it. It's as much as a guess as it is an evidence.

“John, I owe you an apology. I should have been honest with you earlier. It would have prevented you getting abducted and used as a human bomb.”

Oh. Okay. Sherlock feels guilty. John wonders if he should be mad. He doesn’t feel mad. Hiding his intention of setting a meeting with Moriarty to show him the damn Bruce-Partington plans is so... Sherlock. He had to win, though he hadn’t approved of the game he had been forced to play.

“It’s okay,” John says, because it is.

“It shouldn’t be, John.”

Sherlock’s voice is reduced to a murmur. He still can’t seem to look at John in the eyes. “Despite the fact that you were put in a terrible position by a major failure in my deductions, you offered me to run when you would have stayed there and died.”

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off, using his Captain Watson voice although he doesn’t quite know why. “I knew you would get us out of there. I knew. I’m not mad. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Sherlock shakes his head violently and stands up, pacing back and forth at the side of John’s bed.

“Shooting at the explosive was our best chance. I calculated the course the bullet would take, and the ideal place for it to hit the explosives so that the blow would mostly damage the side of the pool where Moriarty was standing. I had beforehand, of course, evaluated the force of the explosion, basing my prediction on the previous bomb that had exploded, and judging by the kind of explosives used and-“

“Sherlock, slow down, you -“

“...couldn’t be certain it would work. I had to take certain facts into consideration, because if a basic physic equation could…”

“Sherlock.”

John has the feeling that if he doesn’t stop him, Sherlock will never shut up. It’s not that John isn’t interested in the story, it’s the fact that Sherlock is working himself up, his voice harsher and higher than usual, his eyes wide and staring everywhere but at John’s. Speech is one of Sherlock's most evident and used coping mechanisms, but right now, it’s not calming him, it’s leading him to a full nervous breakdown. John can’t remember having seen him in such an anxious state before.

“... and of course, if I was quick enough to shoot then drag you into the pool with me, our chances of survival were greatly improved. I knew that the hidden shooters would most likely be shocked by the explosion, and since they were located at a higher-“

“SHERLOCK.” John doesn’t raise his voice; he just adds more authority to it. This time, Sherlock freezes mid-sentence and turns to look at him, mouth slightly open. His lips are trembling.

“My head hurts, will you just shut up, you stupid git,” John goes for grumpy Doctor Watson, hoping to defuse the situation.

After a long second, Sherlock seems to get a hold of himself. He sighs and lays his arms down close to his body, as if to steady himself. “Of course. You need the rest. It is a quarter past three in the morning. According to your doctor, you will be allowed to go home in a few hours if you keep improving. I have asked Mycroft to have clean clothes sent to us.”

“Oh, by the way, how did Mycroft react to your plan of giving away top secret information to a crazy man?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a quick, satisfied smile. “Who cares. It was never my intention to actually give Moriarty the plans. Obviously.”

“He must have been pretty pissed,” John can’t help but feel amused. Sherlock’s pleasure at pissing off his brother must be contagious.

“Nevertheless,” Sherlock says calmly, adjusting his scrubs top like it’s a posh two hundred pound shirt, “I should leave you to rest.”

“You can go home, you know,” John says, feeling the need to sleep overtaking him. “Get some rest. You haven’t slept much in the past few days.”

“Oh, it is more convenient to just wait for you. I will occupy myself until then.”

John doesn't question Sherlock's lack of logic, because let's be honest, having him so clearly worried has John’s stomach flipping and a warm sensation blooming in his belly. He doesn’t see why he shouldn’t indulge himself a little. It’s quite new –John had known, on a cerebral level, that Sherlock treated him as a friend and was often trying to demonstrate his affection in his strange, clumsy way. Like calling John an idiot - that had stopped being an insult and had turned into an affectionate banter. Or showing a little bit of guilt for waking him up with his violin when John had just returned from a twenty-hour shift at the surgery. This, though, whatever it is, is different. Sherlock wants -needs, maybe?- to show that he cares, and it isn’t any less clumsy, but the fact that he is trying is endearing.

Or the morphine is transforming John into a sap. Could be.

“I know you. You’ll occupy yourself by sneaking into other patients’ rooms to deduce their illness, or you’ll find a way to steal cigarettes -which is, by the way, a euphemism for hard drugs.”

Sherlock seems surprised for a second, then he laughs, a full body laugh, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. It’s sexy as hell.

“So, no. You stay here and you try to get a couple of hour of sleep in that very uncomfortable looking chair."

Sherlock scoffs, but he slowly retreats to his corner of the room. “Your snoring is worsened by the drugs, and given that it’s already terrible, I doubt I will have the opportunity of falling asleep.”

“Shut up.”

It’s a shut up, but it’s also a thank you for staying, and I’m fine, I’m not mad at you, and also a what is going on in that giant brain of yours?

"John?" Sherlock asks while twisting himself in the plastic chair, trying to find a position for his long limbs.

"Wha' ?" John slurs, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"I see it all the time on people's faces, their anger or hate toward me, and God only knows I do not care. I enjoy triggering this reaction."

"Yeah, no kidding," John says, or at least he thinks he says. He really cannot stay awake any longer.

"However, when I came to the realisation that I had disappointed you, it upset me, which I find very surprising. I felt the emotional hurt. So, um... I am glad for the fact that you are not disappointed in me, after all.”

John's sleepiness takes a step back, a tiny one, but still. Something important is happening, he thinks, between Sherlock and him. He would like to hold onto it and gather the energy needed to at least look at his friend. All he can do, sadly, is to smile - even then, he is not sure he succeeds, or that Sherlock sees it. John just hopes he'll remember all of it once the morphine wears off.

John Watson falls asleep, relaxed and content, despite having barely escaped a horrible death just a few hours earlier. Sherlock's presence is enough. He feels it, drifting and weaving, all around him, in his head and in his heart.

And that is a good feeling.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The death of Jim Moriarty is only the beginning of a long and complicated investigation. Sherlock spends a couple of days with the special team put up by Scotland Yard, to "get them going," he says. Moriarty's criminal organisation isn't your typical one. He doesn't have a whole hierarchy of people working for him, from the second in command to the stupid goon throwing fists. There is no financial aspect to it, no fake legal business behind the façade of criminal activities related to drugs, prostitution or weaponry. It isn't even an organisation, per se. "He was alone. No one knew whom he was exactly, or what he did. He was like a puppeteer, holding the strings of all the people that gravitated around his consulting business and making sure they had as little contact with the others as possible while doing precisely what Moriarty wanted," Sherlock told John.

"Hum... Puppeteer isn't the correct term for Moriarty. He was a predator. Yes. A spider tending a gigantic web and playing with the flies caught in it at his convenience. He did not lead a luxurious life, wasn't looking for power, or fame. The only desire Moriarty had was to spread chaos, death and misery. Once the puppet show was over, all he had to do was to retreat in the darkness while other people paid for the crimes he was consulted for. There would always be another representation, Moriarty made sure of it. Why? Moriarty did all this because he liked it. He was a psychopath with a genius mind, and boredom was slowly but surely killing him. Doing what he did not only made his brain work to its full potential but helped alleviate the apathy that was plaguing him. Long story short, he did it for the simple pleasure of it. Oh, Donovan, I see how eager you are to point out how much alike Moriarty and I are. Please let me help you with that. As I'm referring myself to the only consultant detective in the world, he was the perfect antagonist, being the only consultant criminal in the world -well, as far as we know anyway, right? He was a psychopath, and I a sociopath, and although the terms are meant to have different meaning, they are constantly muddled up, even amongst specialists, because of the very subtle differences between the two. Moriarty's genius was the only reason he became interested in me in the first place, because he felt we were the same. It is true that carrying the burden of a superior mind can isolate oneself when amongst ordinary people, and... Where are you going? It is quite rude to leave in the middle of discussion."

After that expose, Sherlock refuses the invitation from Lestrade to lead the investigation team. Greg had come to John, hoping he could get Sherlock to change his mind. Yeah. As if. For Sherlock, the game is over. He has no desire to pile up names and evidence, to look for multiple bank accounts, aliases and such, following never-ending trails all over the world.

"Boring," he tells John. "All that's left is a quite high number of small time crooks that have no idea who their allies and enemies are. With Moriarty dead, they're going to be at each other's throats in no time. If Lestrade's team is smart enough -which I highly doubt, but let's say they are- they can practically sit back and watch. I've given them enough elements to go on and have no inclination to play the babysitter for a bunch of aspiring James Bonds. And now, now please can we drop the subject. I have a potential new case at hands and I need to rearrange my hard-drive."

Although Sherlock makes a point of not mentioning Moriarty again, to prove he's done with him, John knows the mad man is still pretty much alive in his mind, and that if Sherlock had just wanted to piss Sergeant Donovan off by establishing the resemblance between him and Moriarty, the thought is nevertheless quite disagreeable to him.

John has no way of knowing if the face off with Moriarty is responsible for it, but there is something different about Sherlock ever since that night. It began right after, and as days, then weeks, go by, John begins to think the subtle changes are there to stay. Which isn't a bad thing.

For the most part, though, their life goes back as it was before. With the help of John's blog, an increasing public interest following Moriarty's death makes Sherlock busier than ever , and oh gosh, is he having fun playing the consulting detective slash high-functioning sociopath. That at least keeps John grounded. They work together, stalking potential murderers on cold nights, running through London, eating at impossible hours. Sherlock is more disagreeable than ever with the Yard’s officers, especially Anderson. At three different times, he gets Mycroft so exasperated at him the older man storms out of their flat, draped in his hurt dignity. All that is pretty much the Sherlock John has come to know (and, well, love).

What changes is his attitude toward John, and at first John is unsure if it’s a good or bad thing. It starts immediately after Moriarty's death. John comes home feeling fine, his broken wrist more of an annoyance than anything else. It doesn’t prevent Sherlock from being overly cautious with him, as if John is recovering from a terrible disease. Of course, with Sherlock being who he is, the care taking is unorthodox at the very least. It’s in the very small things: offering tea and actually making it himself once in a while, running errands now and then, keeping quiet at night, his violin reserved for daylight for the time being. Sherlock even takes it upon himself to order take out (with his phone, and interacting with another human being and all) and to be the one to open the door to the delivery guy - he even pays a couple of times, dear god.

More generally, there isn't much ordering John around anymore, borrowing his laptop just because it's one foot closer than his own, or waiting for John to become exasperated and do the flat chores even though it's Sherlock's turn.

And for anyone who knows Sherlock, that is huge. That is care taking. It’s clumsy, and singular, but still. John doesn’t make anything of it. He even finds it endearing, telling himself it will all go back to normal as soon as the cast is off, probably before that, even, once the novelty of the situation is gone. It doesn’t, though.

There is more to it. It’s subtle but definitely there. After all, John and Sherlock not only live but also work together, and given John’s infatuation with the man, he notices everything that is new in Sherlock’s attitude. He then spends long hours at night tossing and turning in his bed, wondering what it can mean.

It's hard to explain but Sherlock is... quieter. It’s not at all like he’s brooding, those long days spend on the couch, barely moving, speaking only to provoke a reaction from John, when he’s in need of attention to say how miserable he is, and how boring life can be when surrounded by idiots and criminals that seem to do everything to get caught. No, Sherlock isn’t moody, he’s just quiet. There is no other word John can find that describe it better. With the quietness also comes a visible effort to act more like a normal flatmate. He greets John when he comes back from work, sometimes even going to the length of asking how was his day. He’s more polite, adding “please” and “thank you” when he does orders John around, once the cast is gone. He will more likely spend time with him watching telly on rainy evenings instead of analysing fungus he’s been growing in Tupperware in the fridge. Of course, for that last part, John is divided between pleasure and frustration, since Sherlock is prone to yell at stupid telly shows, guess the plot of movies, then yell some more when he doesn’t get it right, because the killer should have been the old lady, right? Every evidence pointed in that direction. In the end, though, John has to admit it’s a lot more fun than watching alone.

Sometimes, John will feel Sherlock looking at him, and when he looks back, his friend is quick to lower his eyes, a pink colour tinting his cheeks. It is strange, because Sherlock has never been shy about observing John openly, sometimes for long minutes, until John would give in and ask if he had something on his face, to which Sherlock would reply that he was to which Sherlock would reply that he was simply trying to follow John's chain of thought. Not anymore. Sherlock watches John when he thinks John doesn't notice, and stays quiet.

Early on after their first meeting, John had remarked how Sherlock would avoid being touched. The glove wearing is borderline compulsive. Sherlock can very well point out the logical reason behind it, which is that it makes him less likely to contaminate a crime scene, but that doesn’t explain wearing them in spring when he goes out for a walk. John had once, maybe a week after he had moved in, patted Sherlock on the back for some reason. He had felt how Sherlock’s whole body had gone as tense as a bow string. An awkward silence had followed. John could’ve taken it personally, if not for the fact that he had started noticing how Sherlock didn't stand too close to other people, and how his mood changed each time someone invaded his personal space.

(Then again, this is another example of the contradictions defining Sherlock. Not liking being touched apparently doesn't apply when it comes to everybody else's personal space. There is a world between Sherlock being touched and Sherlock touching, but is it really that surprising for a man who needs to be in control so badly?)

With John, Sherlock had gotten used to some amount of touching and proximity, especially if it served purpose (like having John getting his mobile out of his coat’s pocket as he was wearing it, or being examined after receiving a nasty blow from a drug dealer), which had still surprised him because he would not get within a foot of his own brother (although Mycroft really didn’t seemed to mind. Maybe it is a family character trait). Even with John, though, it remained quite rare.

Not anymore. It takes John some time to catch on, but it seems like Sherlock is consciously trying to accept and even initiate physical proximity –nothing suggestive, just a more casual, friendly manner. And well, John likes it. He likes how Sherlock sometimes will leave the other side of the couch to sit closer to him – not touching, but closer - always with a good excuse, like needing more light to read, or moving to fetch the popcorn bag they are sharing, but remaining in his spot afterward. He walks closer to John, too, always, slowing his pace when John dawdles, or accelerating to catch up with him. And then, there are the pats on the back. It seems that Sherlock had stored in his memory hard drive - maybe since John did it to him - the fact that men pat each other on the back to congratulate each other, to say “hi”, or to provide manly, alpha male comfort. In the beginning, it’s funny, because the gesture is stifled, forced, and it seems to drain Sherlock of all his energy. John doesn’t dare to laugh, of course, or to even mention it. Just observing his friend afterward, how red his face gets as he does his best to avoid John’s gaze, the doctor knows one remark could put an end to it, indefinitely.

All those changes adding up, it sometimes makes John doubt his theory about Sherlock’s asexuality. What if by saying women were not his expertise, what he really meant that evening at Angelo’s was that he was gay. He hadn’t exactly contradicted John when he had mentioned awkwardly that it was all fine. John himself had messed up, almost proclaiming his heterosexuality to the whole restaurant. He had been caught off guard, and hadn’t wanted Sherlock to think he was flirting with him –which he wasn’t. Not so early on. And then, they had both been trapped by what they had said. What if Sherklock?...

No. John refuses to go there. Sherlock’s change of attitude toward him most certainly has another explanation. He had worried about John that night at the pool; he had been scared his secret, stupid plan to prove to Moriarty he had won the game would be the cause of John’s death. He had also discovered that John cared for him. Anyone else would have realised this much sooner, but Sherlock’s lack of understanding about relationships –all kind of relationships- had prevented this realisation. John cared about him, and he cared about John. Maybe that’s all there is to it. Sherlock trying to settle in the knowledge that he does have a friend, a close one that is. Of course, that would mean that Sherlock never did before, which is upsetting, and sad, but not unrealistic. His efforts to show John he does appreciate their friendship, if that is actually what is going on, are touching. Sherlock really does hide himself under his disdain and genius because he doesn’t know how to react in contact with people. If that’s what he is learning with John, it makes him proud.

Because let’s be serious, how could Sherlock Holmes, so beautiful and graceful, the man with the incredible mind, the incomparable genius... how could he be interested in John? Short, soft around the edges John Watson, with his round nose and funny ears. John had always felt confident when flirting with women because he knows there is much more than physical appearance alone when it comes to the opposite sex. His wit has won him more conquests than his soldier’s broken body, that is for sure. With men, though, and most especially with Sherlock, John is self-conscious to the point of losing any bit of confidence he ever had. He can’t let himself think he could be attractive to Sherlock. As John's mother used to say, It can only end in tears.

Three months after Moriarty’s death, John gets kidnapped again. This time, he isn’t electrocuted and shoved into a car’s trunk.

Mycroft Holmes simply wants to see him.

::: :::

This time, the meeting place isn’t some damp abandoned building ready to collapse. The ever-silent and disdainful Anthea takes him to what seems to be a three-storey office building, except it’s in the middle of nowhere, in a field just outside St Albans.

“What the hell is this place?” John can’t help but ask, stretching his legs outside of the car.

To no one's surprise, Anthea gives him that slightly amused-slash-condescending smile she should get trademarked and tells him to follow her.

“It’s getting old,” John announces himself when he’s introduced in a cosy library.

Mycroft is sitting in a leather patted chair and inviting him silently to sit in front of him. A glass of scotch is placed delicately in John’s hand. When he lifts his head to thank Anthea, she’s already gone. John is careful to keep an annoyed expression, although he doesn’t really mind, if he’s honest. He’s come to consider Mycroft as an almost-friend. He doesn’t know what went down between the brothers –it might only be sibling rivalry- but he’s certain Mycroft cares deeply about Sherlock, and that Sherlock’s hate is all pretend, the Holmes equivalent of a snotty-nosed, irritating little brother

“What is it this time?” John asks, trying not to look too comfortable, but damn that chair feels heavenly to his strained back –he should have it replace his chair back in Baker Street- and the scotch is freaking awesome, leaving a slow, voluptuous burn down his throat.

“How are things at Baker street, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asks, playing with his closed umbrella resting at the side of his chair.

“Really? Small talk, Mycroft?”

Mycroft answers with one of his pinched smiles, tilting his head to the left. His eyes are searching John with an intensity that is usually more of the Sherlock variety. He’s upset, John realizes. He can feel the nervousness hidden behind the posh, disdainful facade. Another Holmes boys character trait.

“Is something going on?” John demands, forgetting he’s supposed to be annoyed and bored.

“You tell me.”

“Tell you... What? Look, if this is about Sherlock-“

“Isn’t it always about Sherlock?”

John shakes his head. He doesn’t feel like speaking in enigmas. “He’s doing fine. We’ve just booked a case –a rare book amateur turned thief turned murderer-“

“It was the Batman first edition that gave him away, right?”

John frowns. Sherlock had spent four days trying to make sense of the case before he discovered the hand written notes in the album. Gosh, if Mycroft ever decided to turn against his country they were all lost.

“Hum. Yes. So, there is that. Hasn’t smoked in weeks, and is currently conducting an experiment about the toxicity level of... actually, I have no idea what is it about but yeah, Sherlock is fine.”

Another disdainful smile.

“Dr. Watson. Have you noticed... any change in my brother’s behaviour recently?”

John freezes. Is Mycroft referring to what he himself had noticed? It seems improbable –even for Mycroft. Sherlock and him have seen so little of each other.

“Oh, so you’ve noticed as well. It shouldn’t surprise me, Dr. Watson, since the current matter concerns you. “

“And what is the matter, actually?”

“It appears that my little brother has grown quite fond of you.”

John knows exactly what Mycroft is implying. However, since it’s obviously a lie, some kind of test, maybe –because Mycroft is aware of John’s feelings toward Sherlock, of course he is, must have read it on John’s shirt collar or something- he prefers to feign ignorance.

“What are you saying?”

“I think you know.”

“Okay, huh, first of all: can you stop being so cryptic? What purpose does it serve when there is no one here but us? Second, I do know what you are saying, but I also think you are wrong and I have no idea what I’m doing here."

“It’s not something I made up from deducing my brother, Doctor. It is a fact, that he has...” Mycroft shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “Feelings for you.”

“How can you know, then? Do you read tarot cards, or is it-"

“Because he told me.”

"... just another mind game you.... What?”

John’s reply dies on his lips. He’s hot suddenly, and slightly nauseous. The smell of the scotch alone is too much. John puts the glass on the floor and sits back slowly, keeping his eyes down.

“Despite what Sherlock has everyone believe, he doesn’t hate me. My brother calls and visits me on a regular basis. You two are not attached to the hip, you know. Sherlock still does things without you, although it appears to be less and less frequent lately.”

“Sherlock doesn’t do relationships, he’s married to his work,” John protests weakly.

Mycroft lays back in his chair, crossing his right leg over the left, and without looking up, John just knows the older Holmes is studying his face. John's throat is closing, as if he’s getting close to tears. It’s ridiculous.

“Yes, that is also true. Would it surprise you, Dr. Watson, if I were to tell you that Sherlock never had a romantic relationship, or a single sexual encounter? The furthest he got was kissing a boy when he was fifteen. He’s disciplined himself ever since to treat his body like transport and eliminate everything that could get in the way of his thought process. Is it the real reason? Well, it’s not my story to tell. The fact remains. At thirty-six years old, my brother is in love for the first time, and you are the object of his affection.”

That last sentence is uttered like Mycroft is announcing that Sherlock has been struck by a rare and mortal disease.

“The object of his affection? Me?” John tries to laugh it off but the noise doesn’t go past his lips.

But what if? What if Mycroft speaks the truth? Hope swells in John’s chest, and he would very much like to bathe in it, but panic mixes with it, probably triggered by Mycroft’s sinister way of announcing the new.

“I know you are not opposed to the idea, Doctor.”

“I’m not going to ask how. I supposed you have known for a while?”

“It’s quite apparent.”

“And I guess Sherlock knows as well?”

Mycroft smiles, almost sincerely. “He doesn’t. He should have deduced it by now. Sentiment. My genius of a brother has been rendered stupid by love.”

John should be angry at Mycroft’s way of referring to Sherlock, but what he sees in his eyes is only affection, with a pinch of exasperation.

Oh Jesus. The enormity of their conversation is hitting John like a punch in the guts. Mycroft Holmes, the man who is practically the British Government, is playing matchmaker."

“Of course,” Mycroft adds, his expression serious once again, “Sherlock will be angry with me for having this conversation with you, and he has the right to be. The only reason I’m doing this is because Sherlock has made it clear that he has no intention of acting upon his feelings. He pretends that despite what I told him, you are not interested in him, and that he only needs to discipline himself more carefully to resolve the problem.”

“Oh.” John is aware of how disappointed he sounds, but come on. There is nothing worse than the feel of having lost something you didn't even get to have in the first place.

“Sherlock has been through rough patches over the years. He’s been doing better ever since he began to work with the Yard, and I intend for it to stay that way.”

Mycroft looks down at his glass and swallows its content in one gulp. He seems old and tired, all of sudden. “His feelings won’t simply go away,” he murmurs, as if he’s talking to himself. “That’s not how it works. Sherlock convinced himself he didn’t care about anything when he was still a young child. His view of love seems to be one of a child as well. That’s the problem with lying to yourself for so long - after a while, you start to believe it. The other night, Sherlock asked me how I did it, how do I push sentiment and feelings aside so easily. I taught him, when we were young, and I believed at the time I was doing the right thing. I thought it would work for Sherlock like it did for me, but that was before I realized how different we are. The truth is, what my brother pretends to be, is who I really am. I am the high-functioning sociopath so of course, it’s easy for me. Sherlock is over sensitive, always has been. I would have never tried to shape him like myself if I had known, but I was young and very stupid. Long story short, I don’t need to spend so much energy into convincing myself that I really don’t care; I just don’t. With some exceptions, of course. Sherlock had to go to extreme lengths to achieve the same, and he can very well pretend he successfully achieved his goal - it's a lie he tells himself. One of many.”

Mycroft’s face shifts into a grimace of self-loathing and disgust. Both directed toward himself, John is certain of it. A question is burning on his tongue. He waits, wants to be certain Mycroft doesn’t have anything to add. Apparently, he’s done.

“So, you want me to push him into admitting his feelings, and then I’ll share mine, and we’ll live happily ever after?”

“Maybe.”

“I... I’ve been with men before, but this... It’s Sherlock. I’m terrified. I'm not... he's exceptional. I am so far from it."

The confidence is out of John’s mouth before he realises what he’s about to say. He then feels frozen, unable to move or speak.

“Oh dear God, love really does that to people,” Mycroft whispers, shaking his head. “Sherlock said the same thing. How terrified he was. It would be funny if it wasn’t a pathetic cliché. But I’m not one to judge."

“He was supposed to be cold and unattainable,” John says, whispering as well, without knowing why. “A bloody magnificent marble statue.”

“It will eat at him from the inside,” Mycroft says, staring into nothingness. “He thinks he can remain in control, but then he will realize it’s impossible. It will distract him from The Work. And The Work is what saved him in the first place. I can’t allow it. Sherlock needs it, it’s a question of mental health. You might think I exaggerate but it is the truth. I don't believe Sherlock would still be alive if he hadn’t discovered his detective work was better than drugs."

It makes John shiver. After the first time he had found Sherlock completely high (on a mix of morphine, cocaine and ketamine that could have very well killed him) and got out of him that it did happen on a more or less regular basis, he had made his absolute priority of getting him off the drugs, for good. And it had worked, but John doesn't lie to himself; an addict will always remain an addict, even after years of abstinence. Accepting to share Sherlock's life, as a friend, is to accept that the watching over him will never stop, and the crawling fear will remain at the back of his mind like a ghost companion. John hasn't told anyone about this, but he has brought back from the surgery everything he would need if he ever found Sherlock over dosing. Every three months, he goes over his emergency kit, to be sure the drugs haven't expired and Sherlock hasn't messed with it, because well, he must know. That is the man who ordered John's birth certificate to learn what the "H" in his name stood for.

"Let's say we do start a relationship," John murmurs, getting out of his thoughts. "Wouldn't I be like work for him, something he would become addicted to?"

Mycroft considers John in silence, something like sympathy and surprise washing over his features.

"I am glad you came to understand him so well, John. I really am."

John. Why does John feels so ridiculously privileged to hear Mycroft call him by his first name? He even feels a blush rising over his face, a pleased blush, that is.

"I do believe, though, that it will be unavoidable, given my brother's dependant personality. And it shouldn't forbid him to be... well, happy seems a ridiculous word. Let's say, satisfied with his life. So, let's weigh in the inconvenience of sharing an intimate relationship with you. It will distract him from his work and this will irritate him greatly. He will learn to work with it, nevertheless. He believes you make him a better person, and I tend to agree. He has this romantic vision of how working with you is twice as satisfying as it used to be, and he is terrified of you leaving him, in any way, on a partnership or romantic level. I know what it is to love Sherlock, John. It comes with a great amount of frustration, and it also implies caretaking. It's inevitable.”

“It’s a hell of a weight you just put on my shoulders.”

“Because I know you can take it. I misjudged you, upon our first meeting. You are far more complex than what meets the eyes. Your intellectual capacities can’t compare to Sherlock, of course, but are above average, by a long shot. You are fiercely loyal and morally incorruptible. I don’t know what clicked between you and my brother, but one thing is for certain, you seem to be exactly what he was missing in his life. As you didn't know him then, you can't understand how difficult he was before you moved in together. I do, and I have to come to the conclusion that you archived something I never could. You gained his trust.”

“But what if it doesn’t work between us, won’t it leave Sherlock worse for wear?” John asks shyly, trying to process the fact that Mycroft keeps complimenting him.

“It could. I don’t believe in romantic love that could last a lifetime. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe in love at all, only chemical reactions. But I’ve been thinking, weighed the pros and cons, calculated the probabilities and imagined many different scenarios. And I just cannot see a reality where you and my brother are estranged from each other.”

“That is a freaking faith leap for someone who doesn’t believe in love. “It is, isn’t it?” Mycroft’s disdainful smile is back, with a vengeance, it seems. “I am not arrogant enough to think I’m infallible, though, so I need to conclude our little conversation with a warning.”

Mycroft leans forward on his chair. His eyes are dark and cold. When he speaks next, it’s with a low, slow voice, articulating each word with perfect clarity. “Of course, if you were, in any way, to hurt Sherlock, the planet won’t be big enough for you to hide. I am more powerful than you can imagine, Dr. Watson, and twice as dangerous as my brother. Never forget that.”

::: :::

The stairs leading to the flat float in front of his eyes. John’s not drunk: he had Mycroft’s driver drop him to a pub ("any pub, the first one you see on our way back", which owned him a severe and disapproving look from the driver, fuck him,) with the intention of getting properly plastered. After a shot of tequila and half a beer, he had felt like nothing would go far down his throat anymore. He had walked for a couple of miles, his head filled with too many thoughts, unable to concentrate on any of them. Then, the icy cold February wind had gotten the best of him, and John hailed a cab, because as many hours it would take to get back home, John would have to face Sherlock sooner or later.

Better sooner.

John still has trouble believing Sherlock really does have feelings for him. He should be happy -hell, he should be ecstatic, but really, all he can feel is an acute sense of nervousness that makes the colours too bright and the sounds too loud. John's heart is beating fast, his breathing is shallow, like something is weighting on his chest, forbidding him to fill his lungs -and God, his body is covered in a sheen of cold sweat. It’s ridiculous. After Afghanistan, John has had enough panic attacks to recognise the symptoms. He knows he must either get himself under control, and quickly, or get ready to breath in a paper bag while Sherlock deduces him on and on. Not good.

The thing is, John would have liked to be prepared; to have some time to digest Mycroft’s revelations. That is what is making him so anxious, right there, because John knows as soon as he gets in the door, Sherlock will ask casually how Mycroft is doing, or something similar; he always can deduce when John has had a meeting with him. And then, of course, he will want to know what he wanted with John - Sherlock hates above all how Mycroft insinuates himself in his private life. He won't drop the subject before knowing exactly what he wanted with John this time. And then, he’ll only have to look at John’s face to get the truth, as inconvenient and embarrassing t is for the both of them.

John is not a bad liar but he learned very soon after his first meeting with Sherlock that he wouldn't stand a chance against him. Even Sherlock once admitted his extraordinary deduction talent - his own words, of course - was sometimes an inconvenience, even for himself.

"Especially for myself, John. I can turn it off, of course, if I find myself in a delicate position. Obviously, most of the time it doesn't work like that -the deduction will have been made before I realise I shouldn't have. You think I really want to know you have masturbated in the shower when I see you eating breakfast afterwards?" Count on Sherlock to find the most humiliating example, and then complaining like a bloody martyr. "I've been perfecting my science for so long now that I'm not even conscious I am doing it. The gears in my head, they can't be stopped that easily."

But.

Back to John standing at the bottom of the stairs, still postponing his entry for no reason at all.

Here’s the dilemma. John has only two choices. If he tries to make something up, Sherlock will figure out he’s lying and will quickly deduce what Mycroft wanted with John so soon after his own drunk confession. Then, well... there really is no way of knowing how he will react.

The other choice would be to walk in and take the lead, stating the truth before Sherlock guesses it –it would save the both of them time and energy. It is, clearly, the best way to go, but John find himself at loss of how to do it. He finds it difficult to talk about his feelings, and it doesn't get better with years, or the regular therapy session. Hell, at this point, even beer can't go down, and John is supposed to speak? About feelings, using actual words?

Yeah, right. Plus, it's not like Sherlock will be able to help, buried as he is at the heart of all those layers. Speaking of his feelings, when he never experienced intimacy with another person... John sighs and begins his ascension. He walks as slowly as possible but still, in a matter of seconds –not even a damn minute to try and put himself together one last time- he’s facing the door.

He still doesn’t know what to say -and that is, if he is even able to say something.

"Stop fussing and open the damn door, John," he grumbles.

Hey, great news: his voice still works.

So, John stops fussing and opens the damn door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Sherlock is in the same position as John left him in three hours ago, sitting at the kitchen table looking down his microscope. He’s still wearing his pyjamas and blue dressing gown. When John doesn’t say “hi”, just walks into the kitchen and fills the kettle, he pushes himself away from the table.

“I believe, considering that Tesco is located down the street, at approximately six hundred meters, that two hours fifty-four minutes is a little exaggerated to go buy some milk.”

John still doesn’t answer. He takes two cups out of the pantry.

“Oh,” Sherlock says after a few seconds. “That smell, Hypnotic Poison. it's Anthea's perfume. Tell me John, how is my dear brother?”

Sherlock’s face has tensed and his mouth has quirked into a little grimace. If he knew he actually looks a little like Mycroft when he does that, it would probably set him off like a rocket.

John takes a deep breath. There is a third option he hadn’t thought about, that doesn’t involve trying to lie –it doesn’t even involve talking. And it’s so, so much better.

Putting the pack of Earl Grey on the counter, he turns toward Sherlock. He doesn’t have much time, he knows. Sherlock’s brain gears are in motion, and moving fast. It’s a matter of seconds before he figures out why Mycroft had wanted to see John.

He can see Sherlock’s eyes widening in surprised confusion as he takes the two steps separating them.

John steps in front of the chair, tilting his head down. Sherlock lifts his, still staring at him in complete perplexity. Careful to move slowly, John cups Sherlock's face, holding it delicately between his hands. The skin is soft and warm. John’s heartbeat picks up again, but this time, it’s not from nervousness.

He realises right then that he can have this. He can touch Sherlock. It’s a thrill that runs through his veins, setting him on fire. His cock gives a soft twitch.

It’s exhilarating.

John bends down and presses his lips on Sherlock’s; he doesn’t try to move, to open up or use his tongue. He needs to feel Sherlock’s reaction first.

He was aware that Sherlock would tense first. For a man who doesn’t like being touched and has only recently shown he’s getting used to it when it’s John, not tensing would have been the abnormal reaction.

Sherlock’s lips are wet and plump. It takes all but one second before they part open, while the rest of his body relaxes. A little. An almost inaudible noise escapes Sherlock’s throat, a short whine, high-pitched and trembling. John has to part his lips, then, because he needs to swallow it. It’s his. He’s responsible for that sound, and it’s going straight to his groin.

It’s hard to break the kiss, but John does it anyway. He has to keep in mind that Sherlock has never had anyone. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him.

John stays close, a few centimetres separating him from Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes are shut tight. He licks his lips.

“Was that okay?” John asks, stroking Sherlock’s face with both his thumbs, rubbing little circles on the heated skin.

Sherlock opens his eyes with a frown. “You kissed me,” he murmurs. His words are full of surprise, and confusion, just like when he's baffled by something on a case.

“I did.”

Sherlock lifts a hesitant hand and brushes his lips with his fingers. “Why?”

John can’t help but smile at that. “Because I wanted to do it ever since I saw you for the first time.”

Sherlock is breathing fast. His face is pink, his lips red and wet. John waits. He has no idea what to do next.

Apparently, Sherlock does. He lifts his arms and grabs John’s jumper with both hands, tugging on it until John gets the message and kisses him again. Sherlock, although he initiated the kiss, doesn’t move his lips, seems to wait for John to take the lead. Only then does he follow, breathing into John’s mouth little whines of pleasure and contentment.

John has thought about it before, about how it would feel to finally kiss Sherlock. If reality enhances the hesitation and clumsiness, it is still so much better. John is fully hard, he needs to touch, to caress, to whisper obscenities into Sherlock’s ear, and oh God, his hair. John doesn’t want to deprive himself anymore –he shoves both hands in the silky curls and runs them along Sherlock’s scalp, his fingers pressing softly, his nails scratching at it. Sherlock groans loudly, presses his face forward like he wants to be closer to John, like he wants them to be one. He bites at John’s lower lip, softly, then begins to suck on it, panting rhythmical moans straight into John’s mouth.

This is all going to be over very soon if John doesn’t break the kiss. The realisation that he’s about to come when his cock hasn’t been touched, still trapped in a layer of cotton and jeans, makes him as giggly as a teenager. He lets go of Sherlock’s mouth and stands straight, smiling when Sherlock groans in frustration.

Looking down at him, he inhales sharply. He has never seen Sherlock in such a state, with his hair messy, standing up in every direction; his face a deep, dark pink, his lips trembling. And his mouth, swollen, with that incredibly sexy cupid’s bow standing out against pale skin, a trail of saliva on his chin. Sherlock is still panting. He can’t seem to stop staring at John, his eyes looking like they’ve changed colours, with the blown pupils making them so much darker. He blinks, several times. He seems to not know what to do with his hands - they roam all over John’s back and sides, pressing here and there, then caressing lightly.

John’s smile grows wider. He lowers his head to look at the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, and he can almost make out the shape of his cock pressed against the soft fabric.

“Oh, god, look at you. Fuck, Sherlock, you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock shakes his head and shoves it between trembling hands. “John. I’m not... I’ve never...”

“Hey,” John coaxes in a softly commanding tone. “Hey, look at me.”

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously, like a child would do. It’s endearing. Emotion swells in John’s chest, expanding. It’s intense, almost painful, like he’ll never be able to fill his lungs again. He takes Sherlock’s large hands, intertwining his fingers between the other man’s long, pale ones. Even then, Sherlock’s eyes remain tight shut.

“What do you say we finally drink that tea, huh? We’re in no hurry, right?”

“I...” Sherlock seems to be unable to speak. He shakes his head again, wraps his arms around John’s waist and holds him close, pressing his head against his stomach. John is in an awkward position, his legs slightly bent, his upper body tilted forward, and only the feet of the chair offer support so that he doesn’t fall over Sherlock. He manages nevertheless to hold himself still, one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, the other busy, his hand reaching for Sherlock’s hair once more, caressing the messy strands as his fingers untangle them.

Sherlock sighs deeply. He’s shaking. Overwhelmed. It reminds John how important it is to take things slow. For Sherlock, who always needs to be in control - of himself as well as of people around him - it must be an alien sensation, letting go. He hasn’t yet. Not completely.

They have time. I’m holding him, John thinks in wonder. It’s far more intense than just a sexual attraction, so much deeper, and maybe Sherlock isn’t the only one to be overwhelmed. John hadn’t realized yet that he had never felt something close to what he feels for Sherlock, and it takes hold of him, making it hard to think, to breath. This is it. If you let me have you I will never ever let you go.

He feels honoured, although he can’t quite understand that someone as exceptional as Sherlock Holmes wants this. Wants him. Ordinary, broken ex-soldier John Watson.

John doesn’t know how long they stay that way, but his back starts to feel strained, and his knees are shaking. With regret, he pushes himself up and takes a step back. Sherlock lifts his head to look at him. He seems calmer.

“Tea would be nice,” he says. And because he’s still Sherlock, what he means is: why don’t you make us some tea.

John kisses his forehead and lets go of him.

“Why don’t you wait for me in the living room?”

Sherlock nods.

::: :::

Sherlock is visibly lost in his own head, sitting on the couch with his knees drawn up, wrapped in his night gown. He takes the cup from John with a nod of acknowledgement and wraps both hands around it, as if to warm himself up.

John sits beside him, their thighs touching. A moment passes, swelled with awkwardness. John has time to think that maybe Sherlock just isn’t ready to talk. He might need time to process a handful of new facts and sensations. But then, the detective clears his throat.

“So hmm... That was huh... unexpected.”

His tone is so serious and dramatic John feels the need to lighten the mood. After all, what just happened is quite wonderful. If you ask him, it’s a bloody miracle.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“Can you tell me why on earth you choose your brother as a confidant? I mean, Mycroft, really?"

Sherlock can’t repress a quick smile. “Yes, I can see how surprising it must have seemed to you.”

“You should have seen him, speaking about... feelings with the expression of someone who just bit into a lemon.” John snorts.

“That is why,” Sherlock says. “Of all people, I thought Mycroft would be the one to help me get over my...romantic notions."

“What?”

John tries not to feel hurt -at least not to show it. He fails, because Sherlock casts him a very soft look, his cheeks turning red once more. “Yes, I know. Let me explain to you John, that I never imagined my feelings could be reciprocated. I am fabulously ignorant when it comes to intimate relationships, which I am sure comes as no surprise for you. I never... I never had friends, only acquaintances, and it was crucial for me not to let my infatuation destroy what I came to understand was the most important thing in my life.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gives John a stern look. It’s familiar and somewhat reassuring. John shrugs, as if saying that yes, he is a romantic, and Sherlock will have to deal with it.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock points out. “So, yes, I went to see my dear brother, and since my personal doctor has insisted that I should give up on hard drugs altogether I decided to get drunk. Which wasn’t very clever of me. I have a very low tolerance when it comes to alcohol.”

John nods. He can’t remember Sherlock having more than one drink, on occasion - most often after a case, when he’s high on adrenaline and success.

“It did allow me to speak to Mycroft, but I might have underestimated the quantity of wine I imbibed. I was... not in control anymore and I might have said things I didn’t meant to say. Mycroft, the insufferable block head, wasn’t of any use, since he tried to convince me that you were interested in me and that I should... act on my feelings. It was surreal.”

“Why...” John clears his throat. “Why on earth would you think it wasn’t possible for me to be head-over-heels in love with you?”

“Well, the "I’m not gay" part was a crucial factor,” Sherlock says with a sarcastic tone.

“Oh, please, don’t tell me you hadn’t deduced that I was a bisexual.”

“You give my intelligence too much credit,” Sherlock replies, looking pleased, of course, because he’s always been sensitive to John’s praises. “Of course, I did,” he adds after a second, smiling. “But it didn’t change who I was, and I made it clear from the start that I wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship. That said, I’m sure you have thought about it and deduced yourself that I might be inexperienced. A virgin, that is to say.”

Sherlock shivers, like the word disgusts him. John tries not to show the sudden burst of desire rising in him. He shouldn’t be this aroused by the fact. Sherlock trusts him enough to be frank and honest, open in a way he has never been before. John doesn’t want it to seem like the reason he’s interested in him has anything to do with his virginity. It’s more than a sexual thing, though; it’s knowing that he’s the first for everything. It’s incredibly empowering, but it’s also unnerving. What if John just can’t be that person to give Sherlock what he needs? What if, once he’s familiar with physical intimacy and sentiment, Sherlock realises that he could choose someone better, wiser, more good-looking? It’s not like Sherlock would have problems regarding the choice of a partner. On the contrary, he must have had to turn back advances on a pretty regular basis.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"What now?"

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not good at speaking about these things but I am going to try. I know you don't have a lot of experience and I assure you we can take things as slowly as – “

"Would you kiss me again? Sherlock cuts him off. "I quite enjoyed the kissing part."

"Huh. Me too. So, um... "

John feels himself blush, setting things into motion. He's struck by how Sherlock looks. It's not just about the obvious signs of physical desire - the way he's leaning toward John, breathing already picking up - it's also about what can be read in Sherlock's eyes: uncertainty and arousal, anticipation, shyness and affection. John has never seen him so open before and it triggers a burning fire in the pit of his stomach. He's already hard and he hasn't even kissed Sherlock yet, but then he goes for it, starting by pressing small kisses all over the other man's face.

"God, look at you, I can't believe you're letting me touch you, I can't... " John brushes his lips against Sherlock's cupid bow, and oh, feeling those small puffs of warm breath against his cheeks...

It's so lovely. So arousing.

John grabs Sherlock's face without finesse, eliciting a surprised huff from Sherlock who, once he gets with the programme, closes his eyes and grabs the front of John's shirt, waiting.

John crushes their mouths together, smiling at Sherlock's startled grunt. He doesn't participate much as first, but is quick to relax, then, finally, reciprocate, licking inside John's mouth, gently biting his bottom lip, then sucking on it. His movements are inelegant and uncoordinated: he clashes his front teeth with John's a couple of times, but his inexperience is widely compensated by his resolute enthusiasm. Sherlock kisses like he's chasing a suspect, giving himself wholly to it, body and mind, serious and driven and single-minded.

John is amazed to find himself grunting, marvelling at the assault of sensations. He lets Sherlock push him on his back until he's stretched on the couch, so that Sherlock can settle over him, aligning their bodies just right. John makes himself pliant. He's used to taking the lead -has always had a dominant side in bed- but right now, he holds back, letting Sherlock decide what he wants and how he wants it. It seems to work, because Sherlock is overtaken by a whole body-shudder, and for a moment, he stops moving altogether. He presses his forehead against John's, plastering himself against his body. Then, short of breath, he smiles -a soft, shy smile. John smiles back, sharing the air between them, rubbing at Sherlock's back with his hands, pressing them here and there because he needs so much. Needs to be in contact with as much skin as possible, feeling the hot, lean body so close, like he doesn't know where he himself ends and Sherlock begins anymore.

"John, I am... hard," Sherlock tells him. "Because of you. It... never happened before." A light press of his hips downward has John moaning from the delightful pressure on his cock.

"John?"

"What?" He asks, breathless. He lifts his head long enough to nip at Sherlock's neck. That beautiful, creamy neck he's been staring at for so long.

"It's always been difficult for me, getting sexually aroused," Sherlock explains, starting to undulate his hips, his cock -swollen, soft but firm under the cotton of his pajamas- rubbing against John's right hip. "You... only you... John... it...ah! God... Because of you, I had to formulate another hypothesis to replace the assumption that...oh.... I was asexual. Then, then-"

Sherlock's breath hitches as John lift his hips to meet his. Their dicks are pressed together, through too many layers, but it's still so good -it's heaven, humping each other like that. Anyway, John doesn't think he can stop, even if only to undress himself. He could spend an eternity on that old couch with his arms full of Sherlock.

As far as Sherlock is concerned, his usual grace is absent. It's like he doesn't know what to do with his too-long limbs, and can't coordinate pressing his groin to John's and kissing him -his expression is one of wonder and confusion, and between wet kisses, he can't seem to be able to stop talking.

"I never thought it could feel so good, how is it feeling so good," he pants, shoving his head in the crook of John's neck, sucking at the skin there. "I am obviously demisexual."

"Sherlock..." John groans, grabbing Sherlock's slender hips to rub their cocks together more efficiently. Sherlock lifts his head and lets out a long whine, looking utterly debauched, and innocent, and sexy, and wicked all at once.

"John," he murmurs between short intakes of breath, "demisexual... It huh... means I need to feel a deep, affective connection, to be physically attracted to someone... And you... oh god, god, John..."

Sherlock is moving faster, pressing all of John's body down onto the couch cushion, rubbing himself all over him. John can't believe how Sherlock's boyish enthusiasm gets to him. To think of everything he can show Sherlock, of what they can discover together, it's dizzying, and John's cock approves by hardening further and adding another drop of precome to the patch of wet cotton in his pants.

"Sherlock, I won't last long," John warns, taking a handful of hair and tugging to get Sherlock's mouth in kissing range.

The tugging in itself has the effect of an electric shock. Sherlock lets out a yelp and tilt his head back, panting loudly. Too bad for the kiss, John thinks, and doesn't care. He could easily finish just by watching Sherlock coming apart.

"It appears I am... quite sensitive to my hair being pulled," Sherlock feels the need to explain, looking down at John. "Oh... It's been... John, you have to understand how new it all feels to me. I did try masturbation from time to time but it was so unsatisfying. Too many distractions and... it never felt as good as it does now."

Sherlock's hips are moving quicker, harder.

"You are close, too," John wonders, tilting his basin up. "Christ, Sherlock, you're going to come in your pants by rubbing yourself all over me…Jesus. Do it. I want to see."

"I... " Sherlock closes his eyes shut and circle his hips. "I wish you would touch my arse, John...please."

And who is John to refuse such a lovely demand? He hasn't done it yet, only because he wasn't sure of how Sherlock would react, but the man's arse has been the main attraction in John's favourite jerk off fantasies. Before Sherlock has finished speaking, John's hands have found their way under the loose elastic waist of his sleeping pants, grabbing hands full of firm flesh. Oh, he wishes he could touch bare skin, although Sherlock's silky pants are so thin it's almost as good.

Sherlock moans long and harsh, shaking from head to toes, and his hips stutter in quick, unorganized movements. The redness of his cheeks rises to the tip of his ears and down his neck, where his jutting out jugular shows the strong, rapid beating of his heart.

"Oh! John I think, I... I am going to... my orgasm, it's coming," Sherlock croaks.

"Yes, love, do it, come for me," John coaxes, lowering his hands to solidify his grip on Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock pushes and presses, mouth opened, eyes shut tight, letting out a series of high-pitched "oh, oh, ohs," and at that moment, when his whole body begins to tense, John feels the wetness of his arse cheeks. It's strange because even if Sherlock is dripping like crazy, the precome should be gathered in the front, not...

Without thinking, John parts the plump cheeks with one hand and slides a finger down Sherlock’s arse crack. It's not only wet there but dripping, enough for John's finger to be coated in a liquid a little thicker than water, and so warm. He knows what he's looking for now, so he let his finger brush over Sherlock's arsehole, feeling the small fluttering muscles trembling and tender, the source of the wetness that escapes it with each spasm that goes through it.

"You're a carrier," John says in awe, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock can't answer, though. He most probably hasn't heard, too busy chasing his orgasm, pressing his cock against John's so hard it's bordering painful, his series of "oh’s" growing louder, harsher.

"John... I... can't..." he breaks off the rhythm, keeping his eyes closed and shoving his head once more in the crook of John's neck. His breath hitches several times, as if he's about to cry, and maybe he is. His cock is rock hard. He must be so close to coming, and it seems to John as if he doesn't know how to just let it happen. Maybe he needs a little more stimulation, and encouragement.

John, still coming back from his surprise at the revelation of Sherlock’s status - and incredibly turned on - knows very well how sensitive carriers are when it comes to their arsehole, so he leaves a finger hovering there and, with his free hand, caresses Sherlock's head.

"It's ok, Sherlock, I got you, you can let go. I got you, you hear me? Let go," he murmurs softly while rubbing Sherlock's entrance, "show me how beautiful you are when you come."

He presses the open wet hole a little firmer, and that does it. Sherlock shakes violently and begins to tense, humping John's groin quick and uneven. His back bends, just as his legs stretch, so tensed that they shake.

His expression is one of bewilderment. He looks at John, not breathing, mouth slack, and tries to choke out his name before finally, finally he starts coming, wave after wave of tremors going through him, his cock twitching violently while wetness spreads on the front of his pyjama pants.

When the last aftershock subsides, Sherlock is still looking down at John. His eyes are wet, his expression the closest to ecstasy John has ever seen on anyone. It feels, for a long, delightful second, like Sherlock is pouring his soul -his feelings, his sentiments - straight from his shocked eyes to John's. And he won't stop shaking. John tries to ground him. "Ah, there's a good lad... You were great, Sherlock. God, it's... Thank you, thank you for giving this to me."

Exhaustion seems to suddenly grasp Sherlock's body. He collapses onto John, finding what seems to be his favourite spot to lick at his neck, and begins to move his hips once more.

"You, now," he says in a weak voice. "You."

"It's okay, we're in no rush," John lies. Well, kind of; his cock is definitely impatient to be taken care of. But John also wishes to let Sherlock bask in his afterglow and relax, feel the marvellous boneless fatigue that follows an orgasm. Sherlock, though, won't have any of it. He manages to unbutton John's trousers and slide a hand inside his pants, wrapping it around John's shaft. They both shiver.

"You're bigger than me," Sherlock wonders. "Oh, you feel so good in my hand. I want to help you, let me help."

"Oh god, yes," John is shaking. He's not sure he'll last long enough for Sherlock to actually help him, just the feel of those long, elegant fingers around his burning flesh is almost too much.

Sherlock has lifted himself on one elbow, lying his head in the crook of his hand while the other jacks John's cock slowly. He seems fascinated. "Although I already had an orgasm," he explains, voice still raw form all the groaning earlier," this excites me enough for my penis to try getting hard again. Your dick is lovely, John, bigger but also a little longer than mine. Oh... I like it, your pre ejaculate is sliding on my fingers and it's... I don't know why but I want to taste it."

"Sherlock!" John warns, the ball of white hot pleasure in the pit of his stomach beginning to expand. He doesn't know what did it, Sherlock's sloppy hand job or the way he spoke, managing to sound dirty and polite at the same time -the cleanest dirty talk John's ever heard.

"Your orgasm is impending, I can feel you swell further," Sherlock announces, like John doesn't know, as his balls are drawing up closer to his dick and it hardens to a point it becomes painful.

And then the pleasure overtakes him. It's long, intense, a series of aftershocks that makes him fear they won't even stop. Sherlock holds his penis still, his fingers coated in John's sperm. He has a little satisfied smile, looking up at John.

"I did that," he says.

"Damn right, you did," John replies, shaken by a nervous laughs.

Sherlock wipes his hand on John's jeans, where it joins his own release. Then he collapses on John, careful to put much of his weight to the side of the couch as not to crush him.

"That was incredible," John says, his voice a thin, hoarse whisper.

He's happy and sated, hasn't felt like that in a long, long time.

Sherlock's face has found its place in the crook of his neck once again. His breath comes out in small, warm puffs, damping John's skin.

"It was rather extraordinary," he agrees after a while. "Thank you, John."

"Thank me?" John laughs, ruffling Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock, you’re the hottest person I've ever had sex with. Besides," he adds more seriously. "It's... it wasn't just getting each other off, you know. I..."

Love you. Is it too soon? What is the damn etiquette for a love declaration?... John has always been more of a one-night/friends with benefits kind of guy.

This is different, and this is Sherlock. There is no etiquette to follow, John discovers, relishing in the sensation of liberty it gives him.

"I love you, Sherlock," he says, hugging him tighter.

Sherlock lifts his head. His eyes are covered in mist, making them softer than usual. "You huh... you don't have to say that."

"I know. I said it because I wanted to. Please don't doubt me. You're the deducing genius, then deduce me."

John tries to keep his expression as open and honest as possible. Sherlock frowns, and seconds pass by, until a quick smile twist up his lips.

"You do," he says, his voice breaking. John has never seen him so emotional.

Sherlock kisses John's cheek, a chaste, delicate press of his lips. "I love you too, John."

John tries to fight the lump swelling in his throat. Sentiment, like Sherlock would say with a roll of his eyes. Right. He clears his throat.

"We should go and have a shower," he proposes.

To their credit, they do stand up, holding onto each other, but the call of Sherlock's bedroom is way too tempting and it is Sherlock that guides John to his bed, have him lay down on too soft sheets in the half-light. He let himself fall next to him and sighs, apparently satisfied.

"I think we lost our way," John jokes, settling comfortably.

Sherlock answers by yawning, muffling it in the crook of John's neck. "Let's just... stay like this a little bit," he proposes.

"Yeah. Yeah okay," John agrees. "Who cares about hygiene anyway."

John laughs at his own joke. He's giddy and in love and high on endorphins. He has bloody Sherlock Holmes cuddling next to him, a head full of curls to play with, smelling sweat and chemicals and expensive mint-flavoured shampoo.

"We need to send your brother a fruit basket." he adds as an afterthought, running his hand up and down Sherlock's back, feeling the softness of the skin contrasting with the sharp vertebras. Another contradiction. So many of them. Sherlock's body is too thin, but his muscles -the ones in his thighs, arse, and shoulders - are developed, lean and hard. His skin is pale enough that in his practice, John looks out for that pallor when he suspects a patient might have anaemia. But with Sherlock, it is a gorgeous colour, and none other would fit, except the redness of excitement, arousal or embarrassment. (John's personal favourite). Again with the colour and contradiction, the darkness of Sherlock's soft hair would suggest the same all over his body, but Sherlock's chest is bare, wherein the rest of the few body hair he possesses are definitely not black -not even brown, as a matter of fact, but ginger. Of course, their sparseness is consistent with Sherlock's particular carrier biology, and-

John's hand freezes on Sherlock's back and his languorous chain of thoughts comes to a halt when he remembers the almost violent twist of arousal he had felt when he came into contact with the self-lubrication fluids of a carrier.

"Why did you stop? Sherlock sounds annoyed, even half asleep. "I quite enjoyed the way you were touching my back. Very relaxing."

"You never told me you were a carrier."

Sherlock lifts his head, looking up at John in disbelief through the mess of his fringe. His cheeks are sill red because of his orgasm, his eyelids are heavy with sleep but his look is sharp. The desire and love John feels for him in that instant hits him like a punch in the guts.

That's it, he thinks, and the enormity of his epiphany makes it hard to breath. Sherlock. He's it for me. I can never go back to before. I won't. How can there be someone else after him? Jesus, how can there even be an after him?

"You're an idiot," Sherlock states. "You must have realized by now how uncomfortable and ignorant I am regarding sex. How would it have fit into a conversation? John, can you fetch the sugar - and oh, by the way, you should know that I am part of the fifteen percent of the male population that carries the mutation gene known as the-"

"Okay, okay, I get it. I just... I don't know, I like it, I guess," John admits with a little bit of embarrassment.

"What you mean is that you have a sexual fetish known as-"

"Oh god, will you just shut up, already." John covers his face with his hands. "I don't have a fetish, I just like it, alright?"

When silence stretches for more than a second, John risks taking a look at Sherlock between his fingers. Sherlock's smug look is being replaced, slowly but surely, by embarrassment and shyness.

"What is it?"

"John, I..." Sherlock lifts himself up until he's sitting in bed, his back against the pillows (so many of them. Apparently Sherlock Holmes needs at least eight pillows to allow his transport to rest). "I think that at the moment, I really can't trust my judgement, and would do anything you would ask of me."

"Hey, hold on now, what would I ask of you exactly?"

John doesn't like the way Sherlock's avoiding his gaze. He sits up and leans a hand to his face, softly, coaxing him into turning his head.

"I have no desire to act upon the possibilities my biology offers me, and although the idea of a child might seem somewhat romantic, even to me, I won't ever change my mind," Sherlock declares, his voice confident but his eyes lost.

"Where does that come from? I like... well, it just... in my eyes, it makes you even more unique. It also offers…um...sexual possibilities that, yes, I'll admit, might be a turn on for me. But good god, Sherlock, it is totally fine. Don't ever think I would want you to submit yourself to this for me."

Sherlock nods. Part of the tension that's been building in the last minute leaves his body. John sighs, knowing that whatever develops between the two of them, it's unknown territory, and it will necessarily be filled with moments of doubt, misunderstanding and the occasional fight. Sherlock is not only inexperienced regarding relationships, but more generally on an affective level. He does feel, probably too much. Why else would he have fought so hard to become insensitive until the knowledge and meaning of his emotions have become completely alien to him? To be in denial for so long has had Sherlock at a loss of how to deal with them.

And he will remain Sherlock, after all. He'll never be "normal," not by the common standard anyway. Maybe John is just as abnormal, though. He's certainly damaged. As for how he deals with his own feelings, it isn't brilliant. He's impulsive, although he can manage to keep it inside. Anger is the main source of those impulses and, most of the time, John doesn't even know why he is angry, although it might very well be related to his relationship with his father, who had a bad temper that often rendered him violent, with his words as well as his fists.

Don't go there John. Don't ruin the moment with old resentment. No, it won't be easy, having a relationship with Sherlock, but it will be worth it. And it isn't only a wish but a certainty. Like all of his life, John had in fact prepared for his union with Sherlock. It's something unique, and the fact that Sherlock doesn't want to have kids doesn't bother him in the least. John isn't even sure there is enough space between them for a child.

Besides, being a carrier already comes with an array of difficulties. It's been almost a hundred years since the first cases of male pregnancies have been documented, and although, ever since, the number of carriers has steadily increased, it is still somehow considered a curiosity. The carriers have suffered sexism and homophobia for a long time. It is better now, because they had fought for it, just as hard as other minorities. Nevertheless, John isn't naïve enough to think discrimination has disappeared completely. It lays dormant, reveals itself now and then, sometimes in a violent way, sometimes insidiously, through a bitter comment, a job lost, a family broken apart. What people think or whisper amongst close friends can have disastrous consequences. Hypocrisy is hard to fight.

Sherlock moves into John's arms, getting back to his previous position, so he can lay over him and let his head rest in his spot against John's neck. He arranges John's arm on his back, sighs impatiently when John doesn't get that he wants to be caressed again. John smiles and indulges. He drinks in the sight of Sherlock's naked body and wonders if he should have guessed, about the mutation. Carriers and men are mostly very alike, but there are still subtle differences that can be observed. They tend to have fewer and paler body hairs – they can't really grow a beard or a moustache unless they are very patient and determined. They also have an almost androgynous profile with delicate facial traits, and lean bodies where muscles, although present, are smaller. Everything checks. Adding the fact that Sherlock is gay completes the portrait. Evolution is nothing if not logical and serving a purpose, and it had seemed to understand that it wouldn't do any good to give some men extra body parts allowing them to conceive and carry a child if they were heterosexuals.

The most noticeable difference between carriers and non-carriers isn't visible unless you get very intimate with them. Compare to normal males, carrier's anuses are larger on the inside because the rectum has a sheathed passageway to the reproductive system. Since it also self-lubricates, it allows penetration with no preparation or very little. Another difference is that the muscle spasms, when carriers experience orgasm through penetration, are said to give them greater pleasure than non-carrier men; it has the practical function of guiding the spermatozoids up toward the ovaries and keep them there. Knowing how easily it would be to penetrate Sherlock, the bare thought that sex with him will never only be sex but will carry the potential for procreation, even if it never happens... Jesus, it has John's cock trying to fill with blood already. He might very well have a fetish - or if not, it is still a huge turn on. Not that he would admit that much to Sherlock. The bastard is already smug enough for now.

Sherlock has fallen asleep, and John, can't stay awake any longer, even it means he has to stop looking at his relaxed silhouette. The call of sleep is too urgent and strong.

John sighs in contentment. Everything he feels right now brings him pretty damn close to happiness. Sherlock being a carrier stays at the back of his mind, though. If John did imagine himself as a father when he thought the key of his happiness was the whole wife-kids-house-in-the-suburbs package, the idea had slowly but surely lost its appeal when he began living with Sherlock.

It won't happen now, that is for certain. Isn't it strange that only because the possibility is there, John lets himself imagine what a kid with Sherlock and him as fathers would be like? He would need to have Sherlock's hair, of course, and his eyes, and... Well, John would be totally happy if that child was in fact a miniature version of Sherlock. Brilliant mind included. But maybe, just maybe, they could teach that kid to welcome his feelings and relationships with others, to make his life to be less difficult.

You silly git, stop it, John thinks. You already have Sherlock Holmes between your arms, isn't that enough?

Yes, it is. More than.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

So, little brother, do tell me, what is it like to be in a relationship with a madman?

That question, coming from Harry in the email following John's revelation about his love life, would take a whole damn novel to answer, and isn't it part of what makes John's life so fucking perfect?

Being in a relationship with Sherlock is breath-taking. Frustrating. Wonderful. Complicated. At times, it feels like John is going to go crazy. It's scary and exhilarating and it feels like John's love for Sherlock gets deeper and stronger with each day that passes, his emotions so intense he wonders sometimes if he should be scared of it.

It is strange, though, how everything stays the same but seems new and different at the same time. They still work on cases together. John is called an idiot on a regular basis, and also has to hold the reins to Sherlock's disagreeable, if not downright outrageous, social interactions with others. They eat take out at two in the morning, fight over the title John has chosen for one of his blog entries, or for who's turn it is to do the laundry. And there is their familiar, easy banter, the shared adrenaline rushes, the fights to keep the fridge clean of body parts... Yes, overall -everything is quite the same, even their friendship.

Especially their friendship. John comes to understand that it is crucial, for Sherlock, who's easing himself in his first romantic relationship. He needs the familiarity of their banter, the easiness of sharing a living space with someone who accepts you for who you are, without compromise. He needs to disappear without saying where he is going, to come back from Bart’s with a biology hazard bag full of thumbs, smirking when John begins to lecture him about what does and what doesn't have its place next to the pint of milk, and then ignoring John by locking himself in their bedroom, or playing his violin as loud as he can.

Sherlock needs them, the "them" they have been to each other ever since they met. The first week following Mycroft's successful match making, Sherlock is confused. Insecure. Whatever he does, be it staring down his microscope for hours or yelling at bad telly shows, there is this awkwardness right under the surface, as if he's constantly questioning his actions, his words. That sudden lack of confidence is pulling at John's heart. He, too, is working hard to settle new boundaries. A kiss on Sherlock's cheek as he passes by can put the other man in a very agitated state. He keeps asking questions that are impossible to answer.

"How do you know, John?"

"What?"

"When it is time to... indulge into physical, intimate contact. What are the signs you are looking for?"

"There are no signs, Sherlock. I just... do as I feel like."

Sherlock seems to take this explanation it as a personal affront. John can see in his pale, porcelain eyes, how hard his brain gears are working, all the time, to try to understand what is a romantic relationship, how one is supposed to behave, and how John navigates through it all.

In the end, John realizes that this is something Sherlock has to work out himself. All he can do is be careful not to pressure him, and welcome any questions, any awkward romantic gestures or words, and the hesitations, and the overactive mind that apparently cannot accept that easily that something so complex can be explained so simply. More than ever, Sherlock thinks out loud, and John... well, he listens.

"I need us to be ourselves," he tells John one evening. "My affection for you is what has triggered my physical desire. I can't let go of that. Are you still my friend, John?"

"Of course I am. And you, Sherlock, you are my best friend. Always will be."

Sometimes, the simplest answer is what comforts Sherlock the most. And he does come around. Begins to be more relaxed, to welcome John's romantic gestures - even if it's to gently mock them. John knows they have overcome a huge obstacle when Sherlock starts to initiate intimacy, instead of waiting for John to do it. The first morning Sherlock marches into the kitchen to kiss John before he leaves for work, the doctor smiles like an idiot all his way to the surgery.

Life does go on as it did before, and life changes too. It is familiar, but also new, and exciting.

John's room is progressively abandoned, turned into another dump for Sherlock's experiments, as well as a storage space for things they don't use. Sherlock doesn't sleep more than he did before, but once the uneasiness begins to fade, he turns out to be a very tactile lover, reaching for John's touch often, cuddling in bed, whether it’s by wrapping his long body around John's or being the little spoon - John's personal favourite. He soon declares John playing with his hair helps him thinks or clear his mind. He also likes to settle in John's lap, especially when he's sitting in his chair. Like a snake, Sherlock folds his long body on itself and asks for his hair to be played with. How extraordinary is it that John gets to have this, an armful of the world's only consulting detective curled into a ball, warm and pliant, asking for affection. Sherlock takes what he needs, with no unnecessary shame, in the privacy of their flat. John will never stop marvelling at it.

Because, of course, Sherlock keeps surprising him. John had been certain of one thing when he had kissed him that first time, and it is that the man he's fallen in love with comes as a whole, complex package. Loving Sherlock means loving his contradictions and accepting them. His flaws are as extraordinary as his strengths and it never occurred to John to wish he could alter Sherlock's personality. Who would be stupid enough to wish for that anyway?

John hadn't taken into account the possibility that Sherlock might want to change on his own accord. It does make sense. If Sherlock has decided to be with John, and to let his emotions take the lead for once, he can't simply close the door when he's had enough, right? That is part of what gets him so anxious at the beginning. Reconnecting with his feelings necessarily means changing -John doesn't ask, neither does he desire an alteration in Sherlock's personality, but of course, he'll give himself whole to help him evolve, if it is what Sherlock needs. It's still a surprise, though, to come to the realisation that Sherlock's self-centred, egocentric personality is quickly fading away. He reveals himself a generous, selfless lover. My John, he says sometimes, with so much affection in his voice it breaks a little, and each time, John finds it difficult to sustain his gaze, to accept the reverence with which Sherlock treats him. "You're my unsolvable mystery, hidden in your coat of normality."

It is clear, in each gesture - in their everyday life, even when they argue - how little Sherlock thinks of himself compared to John. It forces John to swallow down his own insecurities. He sometimes thinks Sherlock would shatter if he dared ask why he chose him, because it seems to be such a certainty for him, an absolute truth comforting him when he becomes overwhelmed by his emotions. Which happens a lot at the beginning, and often after sex.

Ah... sex.

Sex with Sherlock is brilliant.

John's sex life before he met Sherlock has been quite enjoyable. He'd never made a secret of how much he liked sex for what it is, in its most simple form. Which is to seek physical pleasure with another person -or two, that one night in Kandahar had been surreal- that you might fancy, or even love, to some extent. Sex just... feels good. End of the story.

Then again, John is in his forties. Even before he had come to live with Sherlock, his sexual appetite, although very much alive, was getting more... modest. John had been looking for a girlfriend more than random hook-ups, and then had given up altogether when it became evident he didn't want anyone in his bed but Sherlock Holmes. Women he would ask out all seemed boring and colourless, two-dimensional. He had become lazy, even when he wanted to get shagged. He would often prefer a wank session over the tedious business of playing the seduction game.

Even though the primal feeling that had appeared when he had met Sherlock had been sexual desire, John had known, as time passed and his attachment grew, that if he ever had the chance to share Sherlock's intimacy -a man could dream, he had thought, back then- sex might be off the table. That possibility wouldn't change anything, he had realized, if it meant he was allowed to love Sherlock. That's how hard he had fallen for him; how hard he still falls for him every single day they share.

But Sherlock being who he is, of course, he surprises John once more. He turns out to be a very sexual being the moment he and John get together. God, that side of him is so different, so un-Sherlock like, but it's delicious. Wonderful. It doesn't just concern their sexuality, but also the man he reveals himself to be through these moment of intimacy. John marvels at the fact that only he gets to see Sherlock like this -playful and intense, but shy, hesitant and insecure. It leaves Sherlock unguarded -stripped naked, literally as well as figuratively. He wants to be open, wants to lay himself whole with all his guards down, even if it leaves him very vulnerable. How hard it must be for him, and all the effort he makes, Jesus, it fills John with so much pride.

This doesn't mean Sherlock is losing the essence of who he is. Regarding sex, Sherlock not only wants to learn but wants, needs to know everything that can be learned -and probably more. Something that is making him feel so good can't be boring, or useless. It really is a privilege to see him discover and experiment, to hear him thinking out loud, devoid of any false shame or repressed guilt when it comes to sex. Sherlock's brain just doesn't work like that. It is not arrogance or a superiority complex, it is being unable to understand why society sets up so many limitations and taboos for something that is universal, and natural. Religious belief, social heritage, cultural customs and practice, it all seems so ridiculous to him. Sherlock is, up to a point, disabled by his own intelligence, unable to get other people's normalcy.

When Sherlock, one week after that first night, asks John if he would like Sherlock to stretch his anus muscle using his fingers so that they could find his prostate - which he had read the rubbing of can be quite enjoyable - he doesn't blush or look away, neither does he try to be funny. He simply states the facts using the correct words.

That is what John has come to think of as Sherlock's dirty talk. He doesn't even know why it turns him on so much, except that it does, and it quickly become one of John's kinks, sharing the top spot with adding a little bit of dominance here and there and watching Sherlock as he orgasms.

As he does in his everyday life, Sherlock talks constantly during sex, and luckily, most of the time, it is sex he speaks about. He'll describe how he is feeling, he'll voice out his surprise, his pleasure, ask questions, mixing it with the knowledge he avidly seeks in biology books and on the internet.

"My fraenulum is less sensitive than I thought it would be.... ah!... how is... how is yours, John?"

And...

"I want you to try and bite my nipples... yes, like that... No, too much, it... I am getting close, John."

And...

"Would you please hold yourself open so that I can put my mouth on your anus and maybe lick it? I heard it's-"

"Oh, god, Sherlock, shut up or it will be over in a second!"

"You really are aroused by me describing sexual acts I want to do to you."

"Yeah, no shit, genius."

To render Sherlock speechless, he has to be really close to orgasm. It's another one of John's favourite things (come to think of it, the whole sex act, from lazy frottage in the morning to a heated penetrative session that has Sherlock dripping, literally, all over the sheets, are John's favourite things, he can't think of a single negative aspect that would put him off), to get Sherlock's well formed sentences to slowly lose their meaning, interrupted by groans and moans until he is at lost for words, voicing out his pleasure with breathless "oh's", groans and whines. That is the moment where it's John's turn to talk, murmuring sweet nothings and getting Sherlock there by praising him, which seems to be, as in everyday life, what gets the most to him. He blushes violently, his anal walls spasm and his cock twitches just by being called "brilliant" or "amazing". Pet names that trigger a vaguely exasperated eyeroll outside the bedroom, can bring him to orgasm quicker than anything else, especially when John uses "darling", which he tries to reserve for especially intense session, like it's a power not to be abused.

Sherlock gets so relaxed after sex he is more open and honest than at any other time. John does love those moments too. Although the detective can declare that his right nipple is more sensitive than his left, and that he would very much like for John to rub the tip of his penis on it, without any embarrassment, speaking about his feelings has him shy and stuttering, avoiding John's gaze, sometimes even being close to tears. That's when he lets John reassure him, take him in his arms, be as romantic and sappy as he wants to. Sherlock is especially vulnerable when they've been having penetrative sex. It is always very intense for him. John has no doubt what is said about carriers is true: Sherlock rarely has to have his cock touched when John is penetrating him, and there is no need to find his prostate to have him arching off the bed. He seems to be equally sensitive everywhere.

It does, though, remind both of them of Sherlock's status, of his hormonal differences, of the fact that, when it comes down to it, they are potentially procreating each time they do this. It doesn't matter that Sherlock is very careful to take oral contraception. It is the idea behind it.

John guesses that it's probably why they don't do it often -maybe once a week, after a case, when they are both high and exhausted and it seems that only a look between them generates a spark of electricity out of nowhere. Or when they fight, which always brings Sherlock back to face his own insecurities, his fear that what is happening between them might end. He's said it more than once -always during or after sex. He doesn't understand why would John love him, why is he putting up with all of Sherlock's eccentricities, why is it worth it. For Sherlock, it is a logic problem, one he can't have a definitive, scientific answer to. At the end of the day, they end up reassuring each other, so John supposes it keeps their dynamic even, both unable to believe what is happening between them is real.

"Which really makes both of us idiots," Sherlock deduces.

"Yeah isn't it wonderful?" John replies, grinning.

It is.

The first time John and Sherlock kiss is the 23rd of November, but if you'd ask John when do they officially become a couple, he would have to pick the day they became "public", four months later. Until then, only Mycroft knew. And god is he smug about it, using the knowledge to work Sherlock up until he snaps and blushes and loses all composure. There is even one time when Mycroft comes pretty close to getting punched in the face, if John hadn't been there to hold back Sherlock. Here he is, asking with an amused condescendence, when does Sherlock intends to present John to mummy and daddy, and how proud they will be.

John regrets a little having held Sherlock back.

So, outside of Mycroft, only Mrs. Hudson knows, which doesn't really count since according to her, they've been together from the beginning. When the world's only consulting detective and his blogger are in public, nothing has changed. John doesn't mind -he doesn't mind if Sherlock is too insecure, or is somewhat ashamed of showing how very human he is, deep down -it might even be something he does intentionally, so he can maintain the power balance between him and Scotland Yard.

And If John is honest, he himself doesn't even know if he wishes to go public. He does know it isn't shame, but the simple fear of Sherlock getting hurt in the process; there are other times when John bloody wishes the whole damn world knew, when his protective, possessive side gets the better of him and someone is mean to Sherlock. All he wants is to wrap himself around him and never let go. And then, there are the times when it is something else entirely -oh god when Sherlock makes a correct deduction, moving around a dead body with his coat and scarf floating around him, when his eyes are heated and cheeks red from excitement... John wants to grab him by his collar and kiss him senseless so badly -and from time to time, he can read the exact same thing in Sherlock's beautiful eyes. But when it comes down to it, John is perfectly content as things are -he will have Sherlock anyway the detective lets him and that's that.

It all changes on a freezing night in February, the eighth, to be precise -John likes to keep track of dates. Important ones.

They've been on the case for four days and Sherlock is run down. John is too, but at least he stole some hours of sleep here and there. They've just caught a very dangerous thief with multiple murders to his name, because he would shoot at anyone standing in his way. He's been caught, mostly because of Sherlock, who exhausted himself running all over London after him. John was always right next to him, but he just had to run, not having his mind working as quickly as his legs; so, yes, Sherlock deserves all the praise.

Most of the usual Yard staff are there. It's two in the morning, snow is floating in tiny flakes that never seem to touch the ground. The field where they are standing is just outside of London. The old abandoned cabin where Morisson was hiding is standing sadly between tall willows, its door wide open reminding John of a mouth gapping. He's the one who shot Morisson -in the leg, the bastard will live to pay for his crimes- as soon as he had seen him grabbing Sherlock's hair to tilt his head back, pointing a small but viciously sharp knife to his throat.

It is true Sherlock hadn't seemed impressed, had barely rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself for having been surprised by the thief hiding in the entrance closet of the cabin. He could've disarmed Morisson easily, but John hadn't want to take the risk.

Standing a little bit apart, John watches Sherlock as he seems to spell out something to a young agent who looks positively terrified. Morisson is being carried into the ambulance, yelling. He's been yelling since he had been shot, almost non-stop, not cursing at them or insulting the police but complaining about his legs, letting out whines so high pitched it is very hard to have any kind of sympathy for him. All John wants to do is laugh. And maybe shove his finger into the wound, stretching it. This giant of a guy crying like a baby has killed a seventeen-year-old girl because she happened to walk past his car as he was running to it after a robbery. What a waste, this young life taken too soon. John realizes he’s clenching and unclenching his hands while looking at the ambulance and the tension he hadn't known he was harbouring starts to subside only when the vehicle is out of his view, followed by two police cars.

Sherlock is now walking toward the cabin, possibly to speak to Lestrade and Donovan who are standing near the door. The inside of the small cottage is violently lit, police officers searching it.

Home, John thinks, sighing. Home, and Sherlock. There will be sex, because being high on adrenaline makes Sherlock horny -that, and the satisfaction he feels when he just solved a case, no surprise there. And then, Sherlock will be able to finally relax and will fall asleep curled around John, his head on John's chest, his curls tickling his mouth.

Yes. John looks forward to all of that. It's time to go, he decides.

When he sees him approaching, Sherlock turns away from Lestrade and Donovan, cutting Sally short in the middle of a sentence. She looks livid, of course.
"'You okay?” John asks, trying not to fuss. “I didn't have a good look at your throat -well, you didn't let me."

"Because it's fine," Sherlock replies, trying to sound annoyed, and failing. There is no doubt anymore that the man is reacting to John's attention -any sort of attention- like a cat to a ray of sunlight. He bathes in it.

"Well, why don't you take off the scarf and show me."

Sherlock snorts, then focuses his eyes on John's, a curious expression on his face. "Why don't we talk instead about how quickly you shot Morisson in the leg. I mean, John, let's be serious, you knew I would have been able to get the advantage over him, you saw me fight before."

"You mean I should have waited and see if you did succeed, while there was a knife to your throat?"

It is a cheap strategy to ask a question back, and John knows his disbelieving tone doesn't fool Sherlock. What can he say? Being quicker on the trigger apparently is a consequence of falling madly in love.

Something dark passes through Sherlock's eyes. It's desire, coupled with affection, and god, John suddenly wishes he could grab him by his coat and kiss him silly.

"I didn't say you did something wrong," Sherlock replies, coming closer -another centimetre and their foreheads will touch, by the way he is tilting his head downward. "I asked why, it's very different."

"Oh my God, don't be so smug," John can't help but smile, though. "Besides, that bastard got off easily."

Sherlock's lips muffle whatever else John might have to say. He's so surprised by the kiss he keeps very still for the first few seconds before his hands find their favourite place for kissing session, resting on Sherlock's hips, and then John opens up to Sherlock, his lover's groan resonating in his mouth.

The thought that half a dozen policemen are watching -and that is, without counting Lestrade and Donovan- isn't shocking, or embarrassing to John. It triggers in him a fiery surge of pride and possessiveness, something very instinctual, almost animalistic. Let them see, he thinks, let them see that he's yours. That you would kill for him. Did kill for him.

John's cock hardens so fast it's bordering painful. That's when he feels Sherlock's chuckle on his lips and tongue, tickling him. John pulls back slowly, sighing.

"So, um... yeah?" He asks, at lost for words.

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't see why I shouldn't indulge in kissing my partner who just very chivalrously got me out of harm’s way. Besides," he adds, lowering his eyes. "I want them all to know. That... we're... I am..."

Sherlock grunts and blushes. Seeing Lestrade walking toward them, John quickly reassures him. "I know, I get it, Sherlock."

"I knew it!"

There is a hint of satisfaction in Lestrade's voice. And also...maybe fondness? Behind him, Sally looks utterly shocked. "Fuck me," she states loud enough for them to hear.

John almost wishes Anderson was there as well, but he's still in the cabin. Nevertheless, when Sherlock, who is visibly a little shaken by what he just did, tries to step away from him, John slides a hand around his waist and keeps it there. Sherlock blushes. It's lovely. He is lovely.

"Need a ride back home?" Lestrade asks. "You guys just won me a hundred bucks, I owe you."

"Oh please, no one is interested in the stupid little bets of Scotland Yard's finest. But yes, after I caught the man you were trying to arrest for the past six months, a ride home is the least that you can do."

Lestrade doesn't bite, just keeps on smiling.

"My god, get a room, you two," Donovan spits in disgust, walking past them.

"Oh Sally, jealousy doesn't fit you at all," Sherlock replies, grabbing her arm. "I can understand how frustrating it might be for you, given that you had views on John since you met him. How is it, in that constipated mind of yours, to see me with his arm around my waist? The psychopath gets laid when you can't seem to keep a man for more than a couple of happenstances of really bad sex, hmm? Pathetic."

Donovan frees herself from Sherlock's grip, her face beet red and tears in her eyes, before walking away. John would have said something if it had been anyone else, but Sally might have called Sherlock a freak one too many times for his liking. John can tell when someone is mean to Sherlock as a defence mechanism, when he deduces them without warning -surely without empathy or restraint- compared to those who feel a deep hate for him, because they don't understand how he can be, because he is different after all, and it scares the shit out of them. Yes, that second category could have Donovan as a poster child.

"A bit harsh there?" Lestrade asks, and at the same time John wonders. "Really? She was interested in me?"

Sherlock is prevented from answering because right at this moment, Anderson gets out of the cabin. He holds his flashlight high and his mouth gapes more with each step he takes.

"What... What are you two doing so close together?" He asks slowly.

"Oh, my god, do keep up, Anderson. John and I are in a romantic relationship involving lots of sex. Your brain really is as tiny as I imagine, and you claim to be a-"

"O-kay," Lestrade cuts Sherlock off. "It's been a long night. Come on, boys, I'll drive you home."

They leave Anderson still gaping behind. John can't keep the playful smile that's tugging at is lips. He watches Sherlock closely, sees how he stands even straighter than usual, carefully staying close to John so he can keep his arm around his waist. His face is red, his mouth showing a smile that looks a lot like John's.

John waits for Lestrade to be ahead of them before murmuring: "You are enjoying this."

"I am."

"Why?"

It's a sincere question, out of curiosity.

"Why do you care about other people?" John specifies.

"I don't," Sherlock states, looking straight ahead. "I care about you. And it makes it hard for my sentiment not to cloud my judgement."

"Really?"

"Don't be dense, John. I feel a completely irrational pride at being with you, and it sometimes makes me want people to notice."

John tries to repress a smile but fails completely. It still surprises him how honest Sherlock is when it comes to describing his feelings regarding their relationship. Another surge of possessiveness makes him beam from the inside and tightens his grip around Sherlock's waist, which triggers a small, pleased smile from the man, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red.

Sherlock ignores Lestrade's still quite surprised look as he steps inside the car. Following suit, John smiles at Lestrade who shakes his head, his eyes crinkling.

"Look at you being all smug."

"Whelp," John shrugs. Why point out the evident?

"Lots of sex, though? What was that?" John asks Sherlock as soon as he's settled on the back seat with him. He isn't done with the conversation. Maybe keeping their relationship hidden did affect him more than he thought. He feels giddy, also lighter, as if a weight he didn't know he was carrying had been lifted off his shoulders.

Sherlock pulls his coat's collar up and sniffs disdainfully, his pleased smile shifting into a wicked one. "Mocking Anderson is a weakness. I just can't seem to help myself. Anderson's wife threw him out a couple of months ago, and he hasn't had intercourse since. For someone who is that close to be a nymphomaniac, he is very frustrated."

Once the car has left the crime scene, Sherlock's shoulders slump. He arranges his long, lean body until he looks more or less comfortable. It's a familiar sight after a case, especially if it's been a long one. Sherlock goes from tense, manic and hyperactive to lazy and relaxed, up to a point where he looks slightly drunk. The sex will be good, John can't help but think -sex with Sherlock is always good, but sex with Sherlock after a case is mind-blowing.

Still in the same happy mood, John can't stop looking at him, smiling. He grabs Sherlock's hand in his, discreetly enough to go unnoticed by Lestrade. The man seems genuinely okay, even happy for the both of them, but it doesn't mean he would be a willing spectator to a scene of cuddling in the back of his car.

"I wonder," Sherlock goes on, his eyes closed and his features soft now that stress is leaving his body. "If the fact that I obviously want people to know I'm yours has a correlation with my submissive comportment in bed."

John catches Lestrade's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"Sherlock shut-"

"I mean, it is quite clear to me it certainly has to be related. Submission is after all filling a need I didn't knew existed before. Being constantly in charge, given my intellectual superiority, I do enjoy the feeling of giving up my control and-“

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock, shut up," John lift his hands in the air, blushing furiously.

"Why? Oh. Because Lestrade can hear us? I keep forgetting how many stupid taboos people have when it comes to intimacy."

Lestrade's eyes in the mirror are reduced to slits. It's a testament to his professional restraint how silently he can laugh.

"So, John, always the captain, eh?" He asks, making John's ears burn.

"Well, we've not indulged in roleplay quite yet, but I'm not opposed to the thought-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cuts him off, still laughing. "Now, that is too much information."

Sherlock sniffs but does shut up. Finally. John grabs his hand back, which Sherlock allows even though he looks vaguely offended. Yeah right, John thinks. He has him wrapped around his little finger. Especially on one of those nights. Sherlock lets his multiple layers fall so easily when he is high on adrenaline. In an hour or so, John will have him laid back on their bed, offering himself completely with a trust that John knows belongs to him and only to him.

"I love you," he articulates silently, pressing Sherlock's long fingers between his.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The smile on his lips, though, is genuine.

This is it, right? That kiss in front of their colleagues, that is what really does seal the deal. John can't explain why it feels so important, but he thinks Sherlock might feel it too -that milestone they're passing, it means something. They're not only committing to each other but to the outside world, too. It is a statement, and for Sherlock, who worked so hard to appear as a man of reason deprived of humanity, it is a huge one.

John is proud. It is so like them, the way Sherlock had chosen to reveal their secret, without rhyme or reason, just because he felt like it, on a crime scene, surrounded by cops. As always, there’s the contradiction - the man John loves has managed to be both disagreeable and arrogant but also innocent, selfless when seeing himself through John's eyes.

Sitting at the back of a car riding through London in the middle of the night, John knows he wouldn't trade places with anyone in the world.

That is how their love story begins.

Chapter Text

Part 2 : Biology

Chapter 1

- - -

Stupid, stupid, fight.

As always with Sherlock, it generated from an accumulation of small stuff. Should have seen it coming. John knows that, after two whole weeks without a case, he's basically tip-toeing around a time bomb. Sherlock's ennui and frustration have been growing steadily and reach the point where anything is a pretext to pick up a fight, with the first person that crosses his path. Given John's status as flatmate and lover, well... yeah. John knows his patience with Sherlock puts people in awe. He's been asked so many times: "how do you put up with him?" he would be stupid not to have realized it.

Whenever Sherlock wants to fight nasty, just so that he won't be the only one frustrated, he knows with surgical precision which of John's buttons to push to obtain satisfying results. If John can keep himself from biting, his calmness infuriates Sherlock like nothing else, and usually marks the turning point where the frustration and ennui give way to complete silence. Before they got together, it could last for days, those very bad days that made John wonder if Sherlock would try to find a fix, or if that the silent brooding wasn't more serious, turning into a full-on depression.

Luckily, in the eight months they've been together, Sherlock's silence has been easier to break. Physical intimacy seems to soothe him like nothing else, not even the violin. Bringing Sherlock back from wherever he has retired to with a séance of cuddle on the couch or a slow, languid blowjob isn't exactly disagreeable. It makes John wonder, sometimes, what sort of man Sherlock would be today if he hadn't starved himself from any form of affection for so long.

Here is the evidence. John is in love with someone irremediably broken, brilliant in his madness, and he wouldn't want it any other way, considering how he is as broken as him, in a different way. Fixing each other has never been a goal, not even a desire. What brought them together in the first place had a lot to do with it, because of the imperfections that made them so different. Broken can be good.

However, John is only human. He lets Sherlock get away with playing the violin for four hours in a row in the middle of the night, not even trying to play something, just having the chords wailing like mutant kittens from hell. Then, there is the state of the flat. Whenever John comes back from work is to find more stuff laying around, Sherlock always gives the “experiment” excuse, mumbled under his breath while he acts like John is a piece of furniture.

Then, last night, John had gone to fetch the milk in the fridge and found himself face to face with a rotting human hand with large lesions from which were growing what seemed to be shoots of parsley or basil. It was a nightmarish version of that kid's toy, where grass grows like hair on head-shaped clump of soil.

John hadn't said anything. He had grabbed the atrocity and had wrapped it cautiously before throwing it in the bin outside. He had warned Sherlock that the next time he neglected to put his damn experiments in bags or boxes - waterproof ones, please, and non-transparent, ideally - he wouldn't get any warnings.

So, yeah, John spent the night on the couch because Sherlock, in a fit of anger, had locked himself in his room. Their room.

He should've known there would be some retaliation. He should've been prepared. However, the sight of his favourite jumper torn to pieces had gotten the best of him.

...Or maybe the snapping point had been a few minutes later, when Sherlock had deigned opening his door, finally responding to John's calls and angry knocks.

And, oh, the game is on, he sees it, when they come face to face; the innocent, slightly bored expression Sherlock has carefully calculated. John knows the jumper’s destruction has been an act of puerile revenge.

Of course, Sherlock denies it. With his mouth.

("I needed that particular brand of wool to test my theory."

"What. God. Damn. Theory?”

"The capacity of liquid absorption in natural fibres regarding... Anyway, you wouldn’t understand.")

His eyes, though, what they say is: Yes, of course, I did it only to mess with you. No, the experiment is not a real one, I made it up just so I could tear your jumper apart and render it unusable. That will serve you right, throwing away an experiment I've been working on for six weeks.

"Jesus, John, I'll pay for that fashion nightmare you call a jumper if it matters so much. Please don't act like a child."

There it is, they are fighting, and it's too late, for John, to try and regain his calm, not after being accused of acting like a child when it is exactly how Sherlock has been behaving lately -how he bloody behaves most of the time, to be honest.

The familiar tingling sensation runs through his nerves, even going through his lips, shifting into a disagreeable prickling one. It always happens when John is getting angry, when he knows that, however hard he clenches his fists, he won't be able to let go.

"I am behaving like a child? Me? You have the nerve to say that to my face when we both know how immature and infantile you've been acting for the past week because, God help us all, the Great Sherlock Holmes finds himself bored. Bored!"

Sherlock wraps his blue gown around himself and walks straight past John, into the kitchen, where he begins to collect the several small strands of the creamy-coloured wool torn from John's jumper. He shoves them in John's hands and crosses his arms.

"There you go. Now stop whining. You barely wear it anymore, and it was getting worn out. I don't see the point."

"The point? Oh my god, Sherlock, don't make this about me being upset you destroyed my jumper-"

"Then why are we fighting?"

"Because you think it's okay to do things like that! Because, you arrogant dickhead, the universe doesn't revolve around you and life just goes fucking on, even when you're bored. I'm sick and tired of dealing with your temper tantrums. I didn't throw away your experiment to get back at you, I threw it away because we had a deal and you didn't hold your part. But you, you destroyed my jumper to get back at me. Must have thought about it all night, huh? How to get revenge on John for what he did. Your brilliant mind suggesting multiple scenarios of what to do to upset me just right. You know what? Your bloody intelligence doesn't make you a better person because, when we're down to it, you can be as petty as the rest of us."

John casts one last look at his jumper and storms out of the apartment. He needs a bit of air. He hates being angry at Sherlock, hates how their fights always seem to have a ridiculous aspect to them.

It's been a long week. John going to get a drink in the pub down the street and come back later, hoping Lestrade will have called in the meantime.

It's a coincidence to meet Sarah there. She's with her brother and a couple of cousins. After some hesitation, John agrees to joins them. Sarah's cousins are both paramedics, his brother is a respiratory therapist (apparently, health-related careers are a tradition in the family) and the four or them seem to be enjoying themselves. John ends up having a very good time. He's glad he and Sarah remained friends when things didn't work out between them. She's a great and fun friend to be around.

Come midnight, Sarah invites everybody back at her place for some Brazilian coffee and a game of pool (that is how cool she is -there is a pool table in her living room). At some point, John realises he is drunk. He thinks about Sherlock back home, knows that they will only need to exchange a few words to put an end to their fight. It never lasts long, not when the heart of the matter is exasperation toward each other for silly reasons. John isn't really worried, to be honest.

::: :::

Falling asleep on Sarah's couch is an accident. John wakes up around eight, still fully clothed and covered in a blanket a bit too small. He is kind of shocked to realise he hadn't made it back home last night. It's bad.

He's never left the flat in anger for more than a couple of hours. John doesn't know what Sherlock will think of it, but there is a sickening feeling in his guts. He doesn't know how Sherlock will interpret his absence. He tries his best not to show it, but Sherlock's still very insecure when it comes to their relationship. His inexperience is something that still comes up once in a while, Sherlock being all anxious about the social and personal etiquette of being committed to a romantic relationship, and how he sometimes feels lost as to not being able to rely on proven facts to settle a working canvas around their relationship. It never fails to make John laugh.

("There are no facts, no certainties, love. That's part of what makes loving someone so unnerving, but also fantastic, in my opinion. Anyway, I'm not interested in a Sherlock that would follow some equation instead of just go with what his gut tells him. This is way more interesting."

"Because you have the advantage," Sherlock had pointed out.

"Because I get to see the real you.")

John grabs his phone and sees he has missed two texts messages from Sherlock.

I'm sorry, about an hour after he had left the flat. Then.

Come home, please, around midnight.

"Shit," John murmurs, already up and walking to the entry, sliding his feet into his shoes without unlacing them. Sarah appears in the hallway, wearing her pj's and rubbing her eyes.

"Gotta go, thanks for... well, thanks."

"Yeah sure," she yawns, looking slightly confused.

John calls a cab, then dials Sherlock's number. He gets the voicemail, which is full, so he can't even leave a message.

I'm sorry, I wasn't supposed to be out that long. Fell asleep on Sarah's couch, he texts.

Five minutes later, John gets his reply, while stepping into a cab.

You don't owe me an explanation as to how you spend your time. SH.

"Not good," John whispers. It's been a while since Sherlock hasn't signed his own text messages.

When John gets home and opens the flat's door, his first thought is that he's not home at all. Nope. He must have gone through some parallel universe portal because this flat, although it is similar in each point to John's, is so clean it's unreal. Hell, the smell of disinfectant makes his nose itch. John takes a couple of steps inside, taking everything in; the floor is of a colour at least one tint clearer than usual -that's how bad it was- and it is shining. Like... it's pristine enough to eat on -even better, John realises, sliding his hand on the wooden surface, the table is clean enough to eat on it.

Even after their fight, John can't believe Sherlock is actually responsible for the cleaning up, even though he knows Mrs Hudson -who has a tendency to come and clean up once in a while, even though, of course, she is "not their housekeeper"- would never be able to wash the floor on all fours, not with her hip.

"Sherlock?" John calls.

He does hear some noises from the living room. Sherlock's violin. He isn't playing, but he's about to play: the strange creaks mean he's tuning his strings.

John's nervousness is quick to replace his amazement, though. He doesn't feel a bit content about the state of the flat, because it means their fight really has gotten to Sherlock.

A slow, agonizing violin note swells in the flat. Sherlock plays that piece he loves so much, something from Gorecki he adapted to play as a violin solo. The title is, if John remembers, not exactly joyous: something about sorrow. As for the music itself, it would make anyone close to tears.

Very bad.

John takes time to make some tea for the both of them: a milky one, with lots of sugar. He knows how much Sherlock likes it, especially on cold, rainy days.

He brings the cups in the living room, still ignored by Sherlock who moves slowly with the melody, staring out the window. He's dressed in a suit, his hair artfully done, and John knows that, for Sherlock, dressing like that has been thought about and picked for the simple goal of impressing others, being taken seriously, looking intellectual and professional in contrast to the people of Scotland Yard. It's an armour, John, makes me feel... untouchable, and it works.

Sherlock has put on his armour to face his boyfriend - well, companion. (Sherlock refuses to call John his boyfriend, he hates the word : "we're not exactly two teenagers in rut. Boyfriend is so... puerile, John.")

John puts Sherlock's tea on the small table next to his chair. He’s never seen this table’s surface before, as it's usually covered in papers, magazines and other stuff.

Suddenly, the flat appears in a hateful light. It's grey, lifeless, everything in its place with nothing relating anymore to Sherlock's exuberant genius.

"Sherlock," John repeats softly, dropping in his own chair.

Sherlock stops playing but remains at the window, his back turned to John.

"I thought you might prefer if I'm not present while you pack up your things. I'll be out in a few minutes," Sherlock says coldly.

John almost chokes on his tea.

"What? Are you...are you throwing me out?"

"No!" Sherlock replies in a shocked voice.

He slowly puts his violin away and turns toward John. His face is even paler than usual, making his eyes stand out, so blue and bright they seem like something not fit for this world. They have dark circles under them, though, and the rim is red. Insomnia, or maybe... crying?

"Sherlock what is going on, tell me."

John begins standing up but stops when he sees Sherlock take a step back. He sits back slowly, trying to figure out what is going on in that hyperactive mind.

"You will forgive me if I'm ignorant of the conventions regarding ruptures, is it me that should leave? You are the one who ended things so I assumed… "

"What? For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, we fought about a jumper! What makes you think I would break up with you for such a ridiculous thing?”

Something in Sherlock's cold expression shifts, as if he can't keep the mask on. Red blotches appear on his cheeks. His lower lip is trembling.

He's going to cry.

I'm such an arsehole, John thinks.

"Maybe..." Sherlock murmurs, lowering his head. "I would very much like to keep you as an associate when I work. Does it...can people who break up with each other remain friends?"

"You're not listening to me," John all but growls. This time, he does stand up, and doesn't give Sherlock the chance to retreat further, as he is a few steps away from his room. No evasion and silent brooding, John decides, walking toward Sherlock who backs up until his back hits the wall.

"Sherlock, look at me," John adds as softly as he can.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"I stormed off because I needed some air. It's hardly the first time I’ve done that."

"Two hours, thirty-seven minutes. That is the longest you've been gone when you're mad at me -that is, since we’ve been together," Sherlock states in a low, rapid voice. "I believe fourteen hours means something more serious is going on."

"We had a stupid fight, that's all there is to it. I met people at the pub, ended up at Sarah's place -nothing happened between us, but you must have already deduced that by now-"

"You slept on the couch, alone, with all your clothes on," Sherlock says hastily, like he just can’t help himself.

John smiles fondly. His heart is swollen to the point it feels it might just give in to the pressure.

"I didn't mean to sleep over there. I was drunk."

Delicately, John takes Sherlock's face between his hands and lifts it up, forcing him to look back. Sherlock is chewing on his lower lip. His chin is trembling. His eyes are wet but his cheeks dry. He seems to be fighting very hard to keep whatever control he still has.

"You didn't come. When I texted you," he whispers, trying to keep his tone even. "That is the first time. You always come back to me when I ask you to. And you told me yesterday you were tired of my behaviour. I came to the conclusion that you no longer wish to continue our relationship.”

"That's not how it works, Sherlock," John explains. He tries to catch his lover's eyes, but they are fixed on an empty space behind his shoulders, it seems. "We fight, sometimes, it's normal. And then we fix it and we go on. Like everybody."

There, finally. Sherlock's gaze dares to meet John. He looks lost, unbearably sad. That is a look John hates to see, and knowing that he is responsible for it makes him want to punch himself.

He should never, ever forget how difficult it is for Sherlock to understand everything related to their relationship. Sometimes things appear so evident to him he doesn't even think it could be a problem for Sherlock. He gave himself to John, whole and raw, like he never gave himself to anyone before, because he trusted him. And how scary it must have been, jumping into the unknown, living in the fear that human interactions, sentiment, would always remain an enigma. John had promised himself, early on, that he would always guide Sherlock through it, and never take advantage of his naivety and ignorance.

"So you mean... you are not actually putting an end to our relationship?" Sherlock risks, hope softening his tensed features.

"Of course not. I apologize, again, for not answering your texts and sleeping at Sarah's. I swear I didn't do it with the intent of making you worry."

"Then I shall tell you there was no experiment, you were right. I destroyed your jumper because you destroyed my experiment," Sherlock says, the blush from his cheeks rising to the tip of his ears.

"You picked a piece of clothing you knew I barely use anymore, it wasn't that bad."

"It was your favourite jumper," Sherlock points out, lifting his chin in defiance as if his revenge had been in fact very cruel and calculated, which... well, of course he doesn't fool John. It doesn't help that his tentative attempt at arrogance is completely destroyed by the relief relaxing his features.

"You know why it's my favourite jumper, right? That's the one I was wearing the day we kissed for the first time."

"I know," Sherlock nods. "That is why I couldn't bring myself to destroy the real one.”

He's getting redder under John's gaze.

"What are you talking about?" John stares, confused.

"I went out and... "

Sherlock can't go on. He frees himself from John's grasp and walks straight into his room. John follows, trying to make sense of what Sherlock is saying, until... oh, Sherlock. It is always so surprising when he shows how much John really is important to him, how much he loves him. And god, how vulnerable he really is. It would be so easy to play with his insecurities and innocent love, to manipulate him. John is glad he is the one Sherlock judged worthy enough to see how uncertain and fragile he is regarding intimacy, friendship, love, sentiment.

Sherlock is lying on the covers of his bed, completely immobile. He is on his left side, his knees raised up high, his hands shoved between his thighs. He seems very small and young. Hard to believe this man catches criminals, sometimes literally, with so much passion and intent it can be downright scary. He's a dangerous man, Sherlock, with an even more dangerous mind, but there he is, at the other end of the spectrum. A too bright child in an adult body.

"You bought another jumper just to cut it to pieces, so I would think-"

"Oh. Shut up. There is only that much embarrassment I can take in one day," Sherlock mumbles.

John steps on the bed and settles behind Sherlock, wrapping his hand around his waist and tucking him as close to him as possible. Sherlock doesn't resist. He sighs, his body relaxing.

"I hid it in on the top shelf of your side of the wardrobe."

"You are extraordinary," John murmurs, kissing the damp curls at the base of his neck. "And you're mine, and I promise always to come when you call me back home.”

"Mmh," Sherlock grunts, pushing his hips back so they are pressed against John's crotch.

"Yeah?" John asks, lowering his hand to cup Sherlock's dick through his trousers. He's not surprised to find it swelling quickly. Praising Sherlock and feeling his reaction is something he'll never get tired of.

"We had a fight. I believe it is custom to be followed by make-up sex," Sherlock states.

John burst out laughing.

"Right."

This one is for Sherlock, he thinks, turning the other man on his back to kiss him properly. This one is to show him how much he means to me.

What John has so much difficulty stating in words, he has no trouble showing. He undresses Sherlock slowly, taking care of kissing each patch of skin he reveals, until the other man is laid bare in front of him, his beautiful long cock resting on his flat stomach, the dark pink tint of it contrasting with the paleness of Sherlock's skin, smooth and soft, everywhere except for the callous of his musician's hands.

John undresses and kneels between Sherlock's parted legs. He sees the wetness between his thighs and his mouth waters. Carriers aren't regular in their cycles, but right now, there is no doubt Sherlock is fertile. He's leaking too much for it to be otherwise and there is this faint but unmistakable sweetness that's swelling the usual lovely scent of Sherlock's arousal.

John gets lost, for a little bit, as he bends until he can shove his nose in Sherlock's pubic hair, breathing in, and each intake of breath has his heavy cock twitching with anticipation.

"John, get in me," Sherlock growls, grabbing John's short hair to lift his head.

He's met face to face with impatient, lust-blown eyes and smiles sheepishly.

"Sorry, love. Didn't forget any of your pills this week?"

He always has to ask, because neither he nor Sherlock enjoy it when he wears a condom, so Sherlock is on the pill, and knowing how serious he is about not finding himself pregnant, John doesn't take any risk.

"No I didn't, now come on!"

Sherlock is always eager, but rarely voices it so boldly. John sees the pool of precome sticking to his stomach and runs his tongue softly from Sherlock's balls to his glans, feeling the incredible hardness beneath the soft, burning skin.

"Oh you're already close," he murmurs. "So close, just from me kissing you, getting you undressed. Fuck, it's driving me crazy, Sherlock."

"And I'm going to go crazy if you don't penetrate me right now," Sherlock grunts, running one of his large hands on his chest where he grabs his left nipple and twists it, hissing between his teeth.

Sherlock knows very well what it does to John when he plays with himself. Without waiting anymore, John shoves a pillow under Sherlock's arse, pushes back both of his legs and lines himself up. It still amazes him, that Sherlock can take him so easily, despite looking so damn tight when he's not aroused. The doctor part of himself knows it's carrier's biology -it wouldn't make sense to have a carrier male who wouldn't be genetically fit for penetration- but the John Watson part, more especially the John Watson-slash-Sherlock's partner part, will never stop being amazed at how Sherlock seems to be made for him, just for him.

And forever, only me, John's lizard brain screams.

He pushes in, and it's like sliding into butter, and it's tight, though, tighter than a woman's vagina, and it squeezes John just right. He pauses, looking down at Sherlock who pants softly, his hands gripping the sheets.

"Okay?" John asks, because he knows penetration is very intense for Sherlock, sometimes overwhelming. The first few times, he actually fainted after coming, something John had until then thought only happened in bad porno movies. He handles it better now, but there is a reason they don't do it every time they have sex. Afterwards, Sherlock is weak and too close to his emotions for his liking.

"It feels like coming down from a high," Sherlock had admitted once, and John had promised himself he would always help him make the transition as smoothly as possible. There is still so much he doesn't know about Sherlock's life before they moved in together. John knows Sherlock has personal demons that still torment him, everyone does - things he can't talk about, things maybe John will never hear him speak of, but he respects that. He knows too well how it is, trying to keep your past at bay.

John helps Sherlock wrap his long legs around his waist and settles with his arms each side of Sherlock's face, kissing him softly, from his forehead to his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his parted lips.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock, you know that? You're fucking amazing, and taking me so good. Look at me love. Come on, I know you can do it."

Sherlock's scrunched up eyes open to slits. He goes for a tentative smile. "Move, please."

And John does. He keeps a slow rhythm, pushing as deep as he can before withdrawing, until his dick catches the rim of Sherlock's entrance, before pushing again. Sherlock lays there, taking it, panting hoarsely, then begins to move his hips, meeting each trust with a high-pitched whine John is certain he doesn't realize he's making. As for himself, he makes sure he keeps a soft, reassuring tone, and he praises Sherlock, lets himself go and says everything that goes through his head, pours his love onto him between harsh pants, too lost in pleasure to filter his thoughts. When Sherlock's eyes widen and his inner muscles start contracting around John's dick, he takes the signal.

"You close, lovely?"

"Yeah, John, please, I'm... "

"You're what? Tell me."

Sherlock whines, covering his face with one of his arms. He knows what John wants, but still fights it. It's incredibly hot to hear him speak dirty, blushing at himself and swallowing the words. So far, it’s true, John hasn't been able to get any real vulgarity out of him - you bad boy, he thinks sometimes, perverting the innocent- but it's a feat in itself to have Sherlock announcing his impending orgasm by saying something else than... well... his orgasm being impending.

"Come on, be a good lad, say it."

John can play dirty. He loves to play dirty.

"...Cuh-come," Sherlock stutters through John's trusts. "There, I'm going to come, John, are you happy? So close, please..."

"Ok, alright," he coaxes, feeling his own orgasm pooling low in his belly, tugging at his hardened bollocks. "Tell me, you're going to come for me, yeah?"

"For you, John, always, only… ah! …for you" Sherlock agrees, lifting both hands to grab the headboard. His face is red, covered in sweat, his eyes impossibly wider, his mouth opened in an "oh." He's desire and lust personified.

John resettles so that he can slide a hand between their stomachs and take a hold of Sherlock's prick. It twitches violently in his grip, precome sliding down John's hand.

"Go on, darling, you know I've got you, right? I’ve always got you," John whispers, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

He pumps the burning shaft twice, then pushes himself as deep as he can. Sherlock's orgasm hits him hard; his whole body seems to lock as he chokes John's name, then he comes in three long spurts, shaken by a violent shiver with each one. He has let go of the headboard to grab John's shoulders, his nails pressing into the skin, and as his asshole constricts rhythmically, generating more fluid, it brings John to completion within seconds. He hears the long growl he pushes as he tries to bury himself even deeper, collapsing on Sherlock's shaking body.

"God... God, John," Sherlock murmurs. "God, I can't... John."

There it is, the panic rising, when instead of relaxing, Sherlock's body keeps taut, locked on the last after-shock of his orgasm. John gathers whatever energy he has left and lifts himself on his forearms.

"It's alright, Sherlock," he says, looking down at him. "It's okay just stop thinking so damn hard."

Sherlock nods and, even though he doesn't relax just yet, his eyes lock with John's. He lifts a shaking hand and run his long fingers in John's damp hair.

"L-love it, when you're like that," he says, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah?"

"Mmh. Stripped bare of your good doctor disguise, when everything left is the man succumbing to his sexual appetite."

John grins and takes a nip at Sherlock's bottom lip, groaning.

"You okay? Too intense?"

"A little," Sherlock agrees, and then, finally, John can feel his body give in to the post-orgasm tiredness. John takes the opportunity to withdraw, wincing in sympathy when Sherlock groans.

"I'm getting a flannel."

"Yeah."

When John comes back, Sherlock is already half-asleep. He shivers when John cleans him and mumbles about the cold. John is quick to discard the flannel on the floor and slides back into bed, letting Sherlock settle in his favourite position, half of his body resting on John's, his head shoved in the crook of his neck.

"You're alright?" John asks, untangling his messy curls delicately.

"Of course I am," Sherlock whispers, already sounding more like himself.

It's nine in the morning and they have nowhere to be. John relaxes. He'll gladly nap with Sherlock for a while.

He's starting to drift off, certain Sherlock is almost asleep, when he speaks, sounding way too awake for John's liking.

"I hate that."

"What? What do you hate, Sherlock?"

"Not knowing. Never being certain."

John doesn't have to ask what he's talking about. He leaves the curls to run his hand down Sherlock’s back, caressing each protruding vertebrae.

"Well, that's... it's not a science. Love, a relationship, you know..."

"I know that," Sherlock answers quickly. "But it seems that each time I succeed in establishing certain parameters something happens that proves them wrong."

"Well... don't."

Sherlock lifts his head and rolls his eyes at John. "It should be possible."

Underneath Sherlock's frustrated genius lies all the insecurity that resides deep within his heart. John sometimes has trouble finding the right tone to comfort him, knowing how he hates being infantilised, but also how much he needs the comfort, if he goes to the length of voicing it.

"I'm not exactly an expert in long-term relationships either, Sherlock. But you know what? From the beginning, being with you, has been liberating."

"Is it about your closeted homophobia? Because-"

"No, you wally, shut up," John can't help but smile at the way Sherlock needs their conversation to be a battle of wits sometimes, especially when he feels himself exposed, vulnerable. John knows better than to give him satisfaction. "What I mean is, from the get go, I knew we would do things the way we wanted. Because you don't care about convention and taboos and social norms. And it's not because you've never done this before, it's because you don't understand why people burden themselves with it."

"Well, obviously. Most people are idiots, though. They need rules, and norms because they are afraid to think by themselves."

"See? In a way, it makes you so damn oblivious to the most basics rules of human interaction it's a god damn handicap-"

"That is always nice to hear," Sherlock pouts, but he isn't really upset, John can tell.

"As you say so often: don't be so dense. You know what I mean. That may be a disadvantage, but in another way, like I've said, it's bloody liberating. So, I know it frustrates you, and trust me Sherlock, I'm doing everything I can to help, but I like the way things are. And the way you are. Fuck, I'm so far gone for you, just as you are."

Sherlock blushes and can't quite hide a small smile. He looks into John's eyes, his own so pale and vividly expressive, full of love and fear and affection. "I am quite fond of you myself, John Watson. Which doesn't mean I can accept easily that there are no measures and equations to evaluate the state of a relationship."

"Oh my god, you are precious."

Sherlock hits John's chest, blushing even harder. "Please do, shut up. Now, we sleep."

"Yes, we sleep."

Sherlock resettles in his previous position, then lift his head suddenly.

"By the way, cleaning the flat was absolutely tedious, and I intend to never do it again.”

"Got it."

John, as always, waits for Sherlock to fall asleep before himself. Sherlock's sleep patterns are unpredictable, at best, and it is a normal occurrence for John to wake up in the middle of the night alone in bed. Sometimes Sherlock is working with his microscope, sometimes he is reading, or thinking, so far away into his mind palace it sometimes takes a whole minute for John to get him back. Other times, though, what's awaken Sherlock are nightmares he won't talk about, and John stays up with him until he has the feeling the worst of the dreams have evaporated and Sherlock is calm enough.

There is one thing John doesn't have any power over, when Sherlock suffers from a bout of insomnia, and the reason is Sherlock's mind itself. "I can't stop thinking," he complains. "I can't stop it, John, how can I sleep when there are so many things in my mind? It is very difficult to quiet it down."

It must be tiring. John can only imagine. It happens sometimes, even when they have sex. In the middle of what would have without a doubt be a fantastic shag, Sherlock just stops. His arousal is gone, his mind is very far away from the two of them pressed against each other. At times, it's easy to bring him back but other times, it just doesn't work, and although John assures him again and again not to worry, he gets it, that although it doesn't bother him, it is a source of anxiety for Sherlock.

One thing is for sure, Sherlock falls asleep faster and deeper when he's with John, and for him, it is part of his responsibilities toward his genius of a boyfriend. To give him that key to resting his mind and body, and to be certain nothing will disturb him.

Sherlock sleeps four hours in a row; he wakes up in a better mood than he has been in over the past couple of weeks. He even tells John that much, which is, in itself, a small miracle. Another long week passes without a case -even worse, there is a heatwave in London, not unusual that late in August. Sherlock hates heat, it makes him snappy and impatient. During the last one, he bought five fans -five!- and settled in the kitchen -less light, less heat- surrounded by them, like an improbable king wearing goggles and manipulating toxic substances. Ah. Good times. Greg surely appreciated the picture.

John fears the worst for this one, though, so long since the last case, but strangely, Sherlock doesn't complain once. He has started a new series of experiments on the porosity of human fingernails and, at least to him, it is fascinating. John, for himself, even agrees to give his own samples, as long as it keeps Sherlock happy.

When Lestrade calls, a thunderstorm is raging outside, marking the end of the heat wave. Sherlock and John's life goes back to its strange normalcy. They don't know it yet, but all they will get is six weeks before another storm blows through 221B Baker Street, leaving them, for once both at the same time, at a loss to know how to deal with it.

Chapter Text

2.
They've been hiding beside the container for close to two hours. The night is foggy, damp and cold.

And still no sign of either of the suspects.

John sighs, as loud as he can, and goes from his knees to a crouch position he won't be able to hold for long, but his muscles are screaming and he needs to move a little.

He's pissed at Sherlock for dragging them there, and he knows it's completely unjustified. They've been on the case for six days and so far, Sherlock has proven once again how brilliant he can be. To think that the only clue he could get anything interesting from was a single feather, back at the crime scene... And now, they are untangling a plot involving two lab workers selling information to the highest bidder. The death of Peter Gainsburg, a simple clerk who was at the wrong time, is merely counting given the pharmaceutical scandal that will surely follow. Sherlock isn't here for the scandal, though, he's here for the murder -incredibly gruesome, showing a penchant for violence that has left John with a sour aftertaste in his mouth and some definitely unwelcomed souvenirs of Afghanistan.

The lab employee-turned-murderers are supposed to meet between midnight and two in the morning, in that smelly back alley that's far enough from their normal, suburban homes with perfect lawns. The thing is, Sherlock isn't sure the meeting will take place. That's what makes John a little -okay, admittedly, a LOT - irritated. Sherlock had waited for them to be settled in their hiding place to explain there was a sixty-forty chance to surprise their meeting. That is why -and John hadn't known about that until he had knelt on a pack of rotten apples- he hasn't told anyone at Scotland Yard. At John's eyeroll, he had shrugged.

"I don't know if what I read on Chambers' face was surprise or distrust. The glasses, plus the grimaces, they make reading him difficult."
Charles Chambers (what an ugly name, what are parents thinking when naming their child, really), their male suspect, is a young professional full of ticks with glasses making his eyes look twice as big as they really are. He is supposed to meet Claire Green - late twenties, adept at too much make-up and clothes two sizes smaller than she should wear - his accomplice, tonight. That is, if Sherlock has successfully deciphered the traces of a pen on a notepad where the original message had been written.

That is... a lot of ifs.

And John is cold. Tired to the bone. Impatient.

"Stop brooding," Sherlock murmurs, and it's the first words he's said in the past twenty minutes.

"We should go. They won't come."

"It's barely a quarter past one, John, so I suggest you try to relax because we're not done here."

Sherlock's voice is lower than usual, slightly raw. He's been thinking out loud all day, going at five sentences a minute. John makes a mental note of offering him tea with honey once they are back home. Then, he gets even more irritated by the fact that, even when he's pissed at Sherlock, he still worries about him.

"You didn't have to come," Sherlock adds.

He's kneeling in his two hundred pound trousers, his coat resting around him like an improbable gown. Despite his Belstaff protecting him from the cold, he is shivering now and then, his shoulder that's brushing against John's arm trembling every five minutes or so, with some teeth chattering. There, John's irritation rises up a notch, because of course Sherlock is cold, and of course his voice is breaking. There are only so many days one can go with only a few hours of sleep, living on tea, before the body begins to protest. And since this is the subject of constant fighting between them, John think he is entitled to point out the evidence.

"Shut up, I am fine," Sherlock says, lifting an eyebrow at him.

John doesn't question how he knows what John is thinking.

"Of course you are. Always are, right?"

"John," Sherlock warns harshly.

Yes. The great Sherlock Holmes and his many contradictions. He gets downright angry when John tries to take care of him on a case, then shifts into a needy little boy when it's over and he gives up. True, John does have a thing for Sherlock weak as a kitten, letting him have his way, but it would be nice if he didn't submit himself to the strains of a case to reach that state.

"Fine. I'm shutting up. There. See, let's freeze to death together in silence," John replies as harshly as Sherlock, and given the angry, exasperated look Sherlock gives him back, he knows the only reason they are not yelling at each other is because it would ruin Sherlock's plan.

John tries to calm down. He waits, eyes closed, letting his guard down. Tries to remember the movie he saw last week, the one he enjoyed so much. There was a cop and a-

"John."

"What?"

"I am sorry."

That is new.

"You are?"

Sherlock sighs and rubs his gloved hands together. "I should have told you beforehand I wasn't sure they would come."

This startles John. His anger deflates quickly and he realises something.

"It wouldn't have changed anything. I would have come nevertheless. It's... this case, it's getting to me."

"Well, admittedly, the crime scene was quite horrid."

Peter Gainsburg has been beaten to death with a golf club. The walls of his office were sprayed with blood from the force of the blows.

"That poor man, he didn't even have time to think if he should call the police or tell his superior," John groans, rubbing his forehead.

"This isn't about the fear of their actions being uncovered," Sherlock murmurs. "The violence of it suggest that Green is a psychopath who was just waiting for an excuse to turn into murderer."

"I thought Chambers had been the one doing most of the beating."

Sherlock sniffs. "Yes, encouraged by Claire Green. He is caught in her web and now doesn't have a personality of his own anymore. He'd kill for her again without a second thought."

"That poor man was two years away from retirement," John mumbles, pressing himself against Sherlock in the hope of creating more heat.

Sherlock is about to add something when he turns his head away from John and shoves it in the crook of his arms, as his shoulders jump. It takes a while for John to understand what he's doing, because Sherlock is almost perfectly silent.

"Was that... did you just sneeze?"

Sherlock turns his head toward him, clearing his throat and rolling his eyes at the same time. "My god, John, your powers of deduction are truly amazing," he snaps, his voice a little thick.

"You know, we've been living together for two years and I never, ever heard or seen you sneeze before."

"We're not together twenty-four seven," Sherlock protests, looking part embarrassed, part greatly annoyed.

"Still...isn't it strange?" John is amused by this little detail -anything that makes his lover human he keeps in a warm place deep inside- and bored as hell, so he doesn't let it go.

"John. Really?"

"Of course, maybe I just didn't notice since you don't make a sound."

"Well," Sherlock sighs and looks at him as if he's a dumb five-year-old. "It is preferable to be able to hold it than to warn a killer you're spying at him from the closet by sneezing as loud as you do."

"That never happened."

"Could."

Sherlock sniffs again.

"Are you sick?" John wonders.

Sherlock's eyes did seem a little glassy before they left, almost... feverish. Sherlock doesn't usually catch bugs like everyone else, and it had surprised John at first, because someone who doesn't take care of his health is more susceptible to common infections. He had asked once, and Sherlock had begun to explain how some years ago, he had immunized himself against the most common illnesses, because being sick altered his thought process. John had told him to shut up, horrified, when Sherlock explained how he had infected himself, again and again, thorough a very hazardous process that could have led to his death. It angers John that Sherlock has so little respect for his own life. It always stays in the back of his mind, bringing him back again and again, to the first case they'd work together -John killing a man for that mad and insufferable detective whom -he had always known- had been ready to die just to prove a point.

John then realises Sherlock has not answered yet and is busy breathing through his nose without sounding too congested.

"You are getting sick."

"Maybe," Sherlock admits. He lifts a hand to stop John from speaking. "And if you want to explain again to me how I should take better care of my transport, I'll pass, thank you. I do think I caught cold, and it's annoying, and yes, you genius, I sneezed. Now can we change the subject?"

John stretches and arm and presses the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead -he manages a second before Sherlock sighs and pulls back. And yes, his skin is damp and hot. He has a fever. That explains the chills.

"Okay you need to rest, and yes, you need to take better care of yourself, you've pushed yourself to exhaustion once more. If those two crazy killers haven't showed up in half an hour, I'm taking you home. We can call Lestrade and he will manage to catch them, but-"

John is rendered silent by the sudden press of Sherlock's hand against his mouth. At the same time, he hears it: footsteps on the pavement, loud and quick; a woman's, probably in boots with heels. Wow, he's getting good at that whole deduction thing -not that he would tell Sherlock, who would then look at him as if he were an adorably stupid puppy, but according to his own standards, he has made progress.

John gives himself a mental pat on the shoulder and slides his hand in his vest's pocket to grab hold of his gun. Sherlock is perfectly immobile, staring to their left with the intensity of an eagle. John breathes in deeply, feeling the adrenaline pumping in his veins. He doesn't know what Sherlock has planned to do and it's ok. That's how well they work together. A sign from Sherlock will put John into action, whatever it is he needs to do.

The footsteps stop suddenly. In the distant night, a dog barks. Tension rises in the air.

And then, Sherlock is violently dragged away from John, fighting a black silhouette that has seemingly materialised to their right.

"Woah, Sherlock!" John calls, catching him by the sleeve of his coat.

Sherlock falls forward, still dragged to the ground. John, who hasn't had time to stand up, loses his balance and collapses on Sherlock's legs. He can see the man still pulling Sherlock toward him. It's Charles Chambers, looking pristine in his blue suit and tie, his eyes big and furious behind his thick glasses. The guy is shorter than him and thinner than Sherlock; John wonders, in the middle of the action, how Chambers manages enough strength to resist the both of them.

It seems that only a second has passed, and John is still on the ground, but Sherlock has finally began fighting. For a moment, all John can see is the entangled limbs of the two men brawling a few feet away, Sherlock's coat swirling around them. Chambers is groaning and mumbling while Sherlock, his voice calm -even when he is obviously short of breath- but managing to sound pissed and exasperated. John can't help but admire the way he moves, managing to immobilise Chambers on his back, down on the pavement, by trapping his hands behind his back and putting a knee on his chest. Sherlock's hair is a mess, he's panting, his scarf untangled, one of his coat's button hole ripped, and still, he looks elegant and graceful. Almighty.

Mine, John thinks, standing up slowly. He's about to ask Sherlock if he needs assistance when he hears the too familiar "click" of a trigger being pulled close to his hear.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right, being so bloody enamoured by your boyfriend that you forgot about the footsteps. Good god, John, you are an army captain, not a damsel in distress.

"Hands where I can see them."

John curses under his breath, hearing the woman's voice. Claire Green. He lifts both his hands, slowly.

Sherlock is looking back at him, still settled over Chambers. The man is pleading in a low, panicked voice, asking for his glasses. Sherlock shushes him without a single look. He's too busy rolling his eyes.

"Really John?"

"Sorry," John says with intent.

"Now you both shut up," Green states, and it's John's turn to roll his eyes. He can guess, in the woman's tone, how sure she is of herself, and her upper hand in the fight. He's sorry, in a way, because she has no idea who she's facing. Psychopaths can't accept - can't even consider, as a matter of fact - that there are indeed some people wiser than them. It's against their often megalomaniac nature.

"Let Charles go, Mr. Holmes," the woman adds. "And then we'll see what we'll do with you."

That's enough for the night, John thinks. He gives Sherlock a knowing look and waits for his reply, a short nod, then, bracing himself for the shock, he aims approximately and gives a violent backward hit with his head. The pain is immediate, a burning white flash going from his neck to his eyes, like a lightning strike passing through. John does manage to stay up, though, while Green, whom he still hasn't seen, collapses on the ground with a dull thud. By the loud "crunch" he heard, John is certain to have broken her nose.
He lifts a conniving eyebrow at Sherlock who smiles in return. Still slightly dizzy, John sees Claire Green's gun has fallen from her hand and kicks it away from her with his foot. He better not try to bend his head right now. He doesn't need to anyway. The woman is curled on herself, both hands pressed to her face, moaning in pain and insulting him in between loud pants. She has quite the colourful language, as it turns out. John doesn't remember ever being called a "fucking arse face" before.

"How's your head?" Sherlock asks, managing to type on his phone with his free hand at the same time.

"Hurts like hell. Serves me right."

"Admittedly, you were a little slow."

"I was ogling you."

Sherlock snorts at that. "Then, you are forgiven."

::: :::

Half an hour later, the small back alley is filled with police officers, an ambulance is blocking the entry and two police cars the exit. John is sitting on a wooden box, holding an instant cold compress at the back of his head, handed to him by a paramedic wincing in sympathy after feeling the impressive bump still swelling at the back of his head. Truly, John doesn't feel that bad: he knows he doesn't have a concussion, and the splitting headache he should be feeling is reduced to a distant dull throb. After his body wears off the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he is certain the pain will take over, but for now, he's just content not to be sitting on the ground anymore, keeping a protective eye on Sherlock.

Green has just been taken away tied to a gurney, her face cover in drying blood. As for Chambers, he waits at the back of a police car while Sherlock has his usual debriefing with Lestrade.

There is too much noise for John to hear what Sherlock is saying, but he can easily imagine the conversation, how he seems to speak too quickly for Lestrade to understand, and the detective's annoyed expression confirms it. The only difference is the handful of tissues Sherlock presses against his nose here and there. It is strange, John thinks, how it gets to him. Day after day, the duality that is Sherlock's personality reveals itself a little more. As much as he adores Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, too brilliant, mad and beautiful (in all his aspects) for John to be worthy of him, he loves the other just as much. Sherlock, a thirty-six-year-old man, human (so much more than he lets on), achingly fragile and imperfect. Sherlock who whimpers sometimes when he sleeps, who drools all over his pillow when he's tired.
There was that one evening he started hiccupping and couldn't get rid of it. He was actually embarrassed to hiccup in front of John, even more embarrassed when he declared he knew the scientific way to stop it and it failed miserably. And then John, who by that point was as enamoured by Sherlock's shyness as much as he felt sorry for him, had discovered something else. Almost an hour after the hiccupping had started, it was still going on, and Sherlock went from pissed to anxious in a matter of minutes. The fear of losing control, of being rid of it, is almost a phobia for Sherlock. He had needed to be coaxed into taking a hot bath with John and even then, it took several minutes of snuggling and murmuring nonsense before Sherlock finally calmed down. With it, the hiccups went away.

John notes all these small "transport malfunctions" he witnesses -he doesn't have a mind palace, not even a simple mind room but he does have a good memory, especially when it comes to Sherlock.

There is the clumsy way he clips his toenails with them flying everywhere, while tangled in his too long limbs, bending on himself as far as he will go and cursing, looking as clumsy as a baby giraffe. And then, how intolerant he is to heat, to a point where he suffers long migraines if it keeps up for too long; and how much of an appetite he has when he is really hungry, speaking with his mouth full.

And oh, let's not forget his snorting laughter that comes out like a squeak when he's watching telly, and the blush that crawls up his cheeks, then, although he's too proud to acknowledge the noise and decidedly ignores John's amused gaze.

And what about his disdain for all music that been composed after 1900, when John has heard him humming an array of songs in the shower: Bowie and the Beatles, Pink Floyd, the Stones... When Sherlock hears John entering the bathroom, he shuts up immediately, or changes the tune to a Mozart concerto, but John knows that he knows he's not getting away with it.

The navel story is probably John's favourite. It became clear, early on when they were discovering each other's bodies, that Sherlock hated when John got anywhere near to his navel. He had admitted after a while that navels -except, fun fact, Sherlock never says navel but belly button, like a little child- in general repulse him, his own not an exception.

"Have you seen it, John? It's like a gaping, little hungry toothless mouth."

It came to John's knowledge, when he pushed the issue, that Sherlock had been terrified by a tale Mycroft used to tell him, about tiny aliens hiding inside kid's navels so that they could eat them while they slept. He had been so scared he would cover his belly button with layers of tape before going to bed. Sherlock might have admitted it when he'd been drunk on three glass of wine - aah, Sherlock drunk is so mellow and likeable, tipsy, funny, with that light lisp from his childhood worsening gradually. His arrogance turns paternalistic and indulgent, as it did that one time when the people from the Yard succeeded in dragging Sherlock to the pub.

After three glasses of wine, he was explaining to Anderson how to differentiate normal footprints from those of people with a limp, and at one point, he had patted his head, an affectionate smile on his face. "Don't worry, you'll get it someday." John and Lestrade were watching from a distance, giggling openly, and of course, Lestrade had the camera of his phone turned on.

Little imperfections, each being silently cherished by John and reminding him that it is, after all, a man like him he's in love with. He does not want to ever forget how important this is, because that man needs to be loved, not admired, not antagonized, but loved for who he is. Scared, lonely, certain he'll always be rejected. That man, Sherlock, is John's lover who had once shed tears after intercourse because it had been just too much…and, right now, he is the tired silhouette fighting off a cold and trying to appear as invincible as ever, as arrogant, even when is nose is red and dripping.

Sometimes John wonders if what they feel for each other is love, normal love like any other relationship. He's bloody sure he has never felt this way before - his longest relationship (one year, her name was Kelly, a fellow medical student, bright and funny; God, John had been crazy about her) doesn't even come close. Sherlock doesn't have any previous experience to make the comparison, but it wouldn't matter, John thinks. What they do have cannot be normal, it is so often too much, too intense, both of them choking on what they feel for each other.

You're not normal, John, and I am a freak. What do you expect? Sherlock had said once, with pride and contentment in his voice.

"John? Are you ready?"

John blinks, surprised to see Sherlock staring at him, hands shoved in his pockets, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"We done?" John clears his throat and stands up, surprised to find it difficult to talk around the lump of emotion swelling in his throat. He's a wuss.

"Well, the usual. We should've told him, but Lestrade still thanks us for doing his job, and he needs us at New Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon. He has a police car waiting for us."

Satisfaction is practically pouring out of Sherlock, and John can't resist him. He grabs him by the scarf and rises onto his toes to kiss him. Sherlock giggles in his mouth. It's lovely.

"How is your head?" He asks, dragging John along toward their ride.

"Sore but okay."

"That was quite impressive, what you did."

John tries not to smile too much at Sherlock's praise. He knows how sensitive he is to John playing the badass soldier when they are on a case; also, how he gets off on it.

In the back of the police car, they are their usual boyish, giggling after-a-successful-case selves. John tries to find a name for the case, Sherlock mocks him but still has a few suggestions of his own, pretending to pout when John rejects them.

It's still half an hour before they get home when Sherlock becomes quiet. He clears his throat, twice, then let his head fall to the side so that it rests on John's shoulder.

"You alright?"

"Oh. Yes. I always am," Sherlock says softly.

He has started shivering again, and it's not long before he breaks into a wet coughing fit. It's like his body had held on as long as it had to and was brutally reminding Sherlock it wasn't okay after all. John goes quiet too, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. It takes all but five minutes before Sherlock is asleep, snoring loudly with his mouth open and a crease between his eyebrows. It's not a peaceful sleep. It is still a pity, though, that he has to wake him up when they arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock jolts awake, his eyes swollen and red. He lets John drag him inside, stops at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath, then in the middle, struggling with a sneezing fit that is not silent or discreet. At the top, he watches as John opens the door, frowning.

"You have that look. I don't like it," Sherlock says, following inside.

As always, Sherlock undresses and drops his clothing on the floor wherever he happens be. He walks slowly, unsteady, as if he was drunk.

"What look?" John asks even though he knows the answer.

"That Dr Watson look. Managing to be caring and insufferably condescending at the same time."

John knows it would be easy to lecture Sherlock but, to be honest, he seems so miserable he wouldn't get any satisfaction out of it. He goes for a more direct approach.

"What if all I want is take care of you? I am, indeed, a doctor."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and collapses on the couch. "Suit yourself."

"What?"

Sherlock's only answer is a loud, wet snort that's everything but elegant.

John grins.

::: :::

As it turns out, Sherlock does let John have his way -not only that, but he seems to enjoy the attention immensely. He takes his medication, sleeps, eats whatever John prepares for him, and doesn't answer his phone. A cold is hardly something serious, though, so Sherlock needs to be entertained. There is a lot of bad telly involved, and board games, and, also, well...sex.

Sherlock makes a curious deduction the morning after the end of the case. John has put him in a hot bath , hoping the vapour can help him with his clogged sinus. Then, kneeling on the floor near him, he washes Sherlock’s hair tenderly, taking time to massage his skull. Sherlock becomes very quiet, humming low in his throat, looking like he's ready to fall asleep.

The spell is broken abruptly by a long, wet coughing spell. It's harsh enough to have Sherlock struggling to breathe. John helps him into a sitting position and softly rubs his back, telling him to breath and not to panic in a soothing voice. When it ends, Sherlock takes a couple of shaky breaths and lies back down, a perplexed expression on his face.

"What?" John asks.

"It makes sense," Sherlock murmurs, sill a little short of breath.

"What makes sense?"

"Well, my erection, obviously," Sherlock huffs, pointing impatiently at the water surface between his thighs, broke by the rosy tip of his semi-hard penis.

"Coughing your lungs out turns you on?"

"Don't be a moron, John. I'm talking about all the caretaking you've submitted me to since yesterday. The more you do it, the more aroused I become. I believe the intonation of your voice is what gets to me the most: it is soft and considerate and affectionate. Like I am something fragile and precious, needing to be handled with care. It has the same effect as when you take control during sex. It is a fetish, or a kink, if you prefer the popular term. I have a caretaking kink -but in my opinion, it really is just an extension of both my submissive and praise kink. I falsely thought my fever might have been responsible but I was…”

John shuts up Sherlock with a sloppy kiss, feeling his own dick beginning to fill. He can't help it, there are so many things about his lover that turn him on. Like this, what he's just said with such candour. He manages to be both shy and shameless when it comes to his sexual needs and tastes.

"Oh. It's almost ridiculous how perfectly we complete each other, Sherlock," John says when their lips part. " It turns me on so much when you're like this, because I have you completely at my mercy, pliant and docile, while the rest of the time you're like a wild horse impossible to tame."

"I'm glad we agree," Sherlock answers playfully, all the while stretching his neck, ready for another kiss.

John gives Sherlock a languid hand job while murmuring at his ear exactly what he wants to ear. Sherlock comes with a raw cry within two minutes. There is water everywhere on the floor.

Three days later, Sherlock has had five orgasms and is doing better. Although his nose is rubbed raw and his voice a bit nasal, all he needs is more rest to get his energy back.

Nevertheless, Sherlock has had enough of hanging around the flat doing nothing. Sherlock being impatient and cranky means John is as well, because there is nothing Sherlock likes more than spreading his misery around him like a virus. John had foreseen it, though, and had beforehand negotiated four complete days of rest. Although he's frustrated and restless, John knows Sherlock will respect his demand. He has made sure of it.
(There’s nothing like the promise of a cigarette, and John knows for a fact Sherlock hasn't smoked in weeks. Sherlock's incorrigible smoking habit has become a twisted game of hide and seek between them. It goes like this. Sherlock will smoke in secret. Or so he thinks. Of course John will notice, then hide his cigarettes. No shop in a five mile radius will sell a new pack to Sherlock, ever since that time he had the idea of paying them so that they would refuse him even a single one, even if he begs -and he regrets it every time the craving is back. John usually never gives away the hiding place , unless he wants to. Because John is far from stupid; he will let him have his way now and then. Yes, nicotine is very bad, but when it comes to Sherlock, it's the lesser of two evils. Especially when the second evil is a mix of hard drugs that can put you into respiratory arrest.)

After refusing to eat lunch and failing to drag John into an argument, Sherlock indulges himself to a long sulking session on the couch.

John, pretty pleased with himself, is reading a novel, sitting comfortably in his chair, when Sherlock's sudden movement disturbs the quietness of the flat. He stands up and lift his arms in the air.

"Okay, then, let's have sex!" He exclaims dramatically like he's run out of any other option and has to resort to this.

"Well, aren't you the romantic," John deadpans, folding his newspaper.

"Come on, John, bedroom, now. I am dying of ennui. You are a doctor. Cure me."

"Your stamina is impressive," John declares, following Sherlock to the bedroom.

"It is," Sherlock agrees in a somewhat surprised voice, stopping right in the middle of pulling John's jumper off.

(Yes, John's jumper, because Sherlock has stated that wearing one's companion clothes while sick is a well known practice and that he needs to experiment to see if there is any real effect in providing a quicker recovery like some study seems to suggest. He doesn't fool John, though, because as much as Sherlock likes to call them ugly and ridiculous, he indubitably is comforted by John's jumpers. He's seen him more than once holding one of them and pressing it to his face, rubbing his cheek against the fabric. Which is adorable and a bit creepy, but it's Sherlock, so it's alright).

"Sherlock?" John asks, closing their room's door loud enough to get his lover out of his own head.

"Mmh? Oh. I was just thinking," Sherlock mumbles.

He finishes undressing himself and settles on the bed with a bottle of lube that seems to have materialised in his hands. Looking as John undresses slowly, Sherlock blushes and closes his eyes.

"I want. Can you... I want us to have intercourse. That is, if you don't mind," he adds quickly.

John kneels between Sherlock's already parted legs and rubs his thighs, pleased to see the flesh getting covered in goose bumps.

"Of course, love, everything you want you can have."

John lies down over Sherlock, kissing him slowly, circling his hips so that their filling cocks can brush against the other now and then. He's in no hurry; every minute they spend in bed is a bored-Sherlock-free minute after all. Sherlock presses himself against John, caresses every inch of skin he can get his hands on, rubbing his face at the juncture of John's neck and shoulders, as if he wants them to fusion, as if it can happen if he tries hard enough. So tactile, so responsive.

There are some times when desire is too strong and they begin abruptly, incapable of waiting, already hard and needy...

...and then there are time like this, like morning sex, when they indulge slowly, still both coherent, letting arousal draw on them progressively. It's mostly due to Sherlock, who then seems to need time shutting his brain off and letting go. So he keeps speaking until he gets speechless, and god, John likes it so much, how low and quiet his voice is then, how it sometimes breaks in the middle of a word because it feels too good and he's incapable of holding the noises of pleasure rising from inside.

"I wonder," Sherlock is saying while John is busy sucking at a peaked nipple. "I wonder why is it that my stamina seems to be... oh... oh John, yes it's lovely don't stop... completely unperturbed by my cold, usually sickness should do the contrary... and... huh... oh!"

John grins, and keeps holding the nipple between his teeth while he rolls the other between his thumb and index. Sherlock's hips rise from the bed, enough for John to feel his cock fully hard and leaking.

"It is strange, is what I mean to say I guess. My libido isn't as demanding as yours -even if I take into account my newly discovered kink being explored, seeing how much I despise being sick after all, we have had more sex in the past three days than the two previous weeks..."

"Sherlock, your fucking hands," John growls as Sherlock grabs a handful of his arse. He lets go of his nipples to suck at his neck, one hand tangled in Sherlock's curls.

"Hmm I like that you like that," Sherlock admits, his voice even lower. "What was I say... oh... say-h-ing? Right. I think Maybe it has to do with how weird I have f-felt in the past month or sssso... oh, John... I... I mean, I can't pinpoint what it is exactly that is different...mmm..."

Sherlock has more trouble speaking, which is a good thing, because John's dick is beginning to ache, the need to slide into Sherlock's tight passage getting urgent. He's surprised when Sherlock moves them, silently asking for the position he wants.

And apparently he wants to ride John, which has only happened once so far but has been mind-blowing.

And there is Sherlock, his chest covered in pink blotches, his now damp hair falling into his eyes, one hand pressed on John's heart, the other holding John's cock -Sherlock sexy as hell lining himself up, biting at his lips as he sinks down, slowly, until he's seated completely.

Their joined panting echoes in the room. Sherlock bends down and kisses John long and hard, before getting both hands on his chest while rotating his hips slowly. John curses and grips his lover's waist, fingers digging into the pale skin.

"I... like this sss-so much," Sherlock admits. "I lost my chain of thought again... Ah. Yes, being sick is only another unusual thing on top of that odd feeling I have and... oh... oh!"

"There you go," John grunts, knowing Sherlock now has his dick nudged against his prostate -which is larger than a non-carrier's gland and swells to twice its size during intercourse, another little difference that fascinates John. Sherlock brain is shutting down, and it pleases him, seeing him move with intent, rising up and down John's dick, his graceful back bowing, his head tilted up, his powerful thighs flexing effortlessly. It is so rare, Sherlock taking control so completely, and John, already close, can forgive the fact that he's still speaking. Who bloody cares when Sherlock is riding him, managing to still look graceful when bouncing on his dick, his body on display in the most lovely way: all his muscles shifting under his sweat-covered skin.

"I... wonder... huh... John I am close..." Sherlock pants, closing his eyes and lowering his chin on his chest.

"Come on, darling, I'm close too. Want me to touch you, Sherlock? Want me to take care of you, right? Jerk you off just like you need-"

"Yes. John," Sherlock moans, his pink cock releasing another blob of pre-come while his anal walls clench, so much wetness there too that there is a nasty but somehow sexy squelching noise each time he moves.

John doesn't have time to do what he says though, because suddenly, Sherlock stops moving altogether, his eyes opening wide and is mouth shaped on a silent "o".

"There you go," John moans, but then, his impending orgasm comes to a halt when he realises Sherlock hasn't come, despite all the signs. His penis is still weeping, still swollen and pink, and the familiar clench of his inner walls has yet to happen.

"Oh. John!," Sherlock says, loud and with a disbelieving tone.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's the matter?"

John lifts himself on his elbows, trying his best to ignore his frustrated penis and bollocks, both so close to release.

Sherlock looks at him with the same gaze he has when he's figured out something, something he hadn't taken into account : eyebrows scrunched over his pale eyes, shaking in head in disbelief.

"I am pregnant," he declares.

And okay, John didn't think it was possible to lose an erection when so close to coming, but apparently, Sherlock's declaration does it.
"What?"

"I am pregnant; are you deaf or do you just like it to make me repeat myself? Sherlock snaps.

Sherlock slides off John's dick which falls on his stomach, glistening with natural slickness, plump and red.

He can see Sherlock's own prick hanging between his legs, half hard.

Sherlock falls on his back and presses his hands over his face.

"It is a joke? Where does that come from?"

"Because I am known for my sense of humour," Sherlock mumbles behind his fingers, peaking at John with one eye. "It makes sense. I am pregnant. It can only have happened five weeks ago, when we had make up sex, remember? That was the last time you ejaculated in me."

John snorts in disbelief. He doesn't know if Sherlock is playing a cruel, let's-have-John-dying-of-blue-balls game, or if sincerely believes what he is saying. It doesn't matter, though, enough with this bullshit. He lifts himself on one elbow. "What. The hell. Are you talking about?"

"John. You need to go to the chemist’s and buy one of those pregnancy test."

"But Sherlock-"

"John! I am not. Joking."

Sherlock sits abruptly and runs his fingers through his hair. It is not his commanding tone, though, that has John up and dressing himself. It's the look of pure terror he can read on his face. Nevertheless...

This is ridiculous, John wants to say, except he doesn't because well... it's Sherlock. It's not like he isn't known for his deduction skills and genius, right? John trips over his feet while putting his socks on and barely holds himself up using the door handle.

God. Is Sherlock really pregnant?

John is almost out of the room when Sherlock calls him back.

"John! Make it three tests, same brand, preferably with a matching expiration date. No test should be considered accurate without at least three valid results."

Count on Sherlock to do things his way.

John practically runs the whole way to the chemist’s.

::: :::

"Okay, there we are."

The three tests are lined up on the kitchen table, each urine sample used disposed the same way. When John had wanted to protest about the questionable hygiene of it, Sherlock had lift a disbelieving eyebrow at him. "Really? You have no idea what this table has seen in the past year."

Right.

Sherlock has a notepad in his hand, going over the three samples systematically, as if he's doing any other experiment. John watches him, eyes wide, as he takes some notes.

The three sticks all show a positive result. Sherlock is buying himself some time for what will probably be the most intense freak out of his personal history. It can't go otherwise, right? Sherlock cannot be that mundane about something as serious as finding himself with child.

Or maybe worrying about Sherlock is only, for John, an excuse to push back his own feelings (panic and fear, not necessarily in that order) and pretending he is the reasonable one of the pair.

Except well, this time, he hasn't got a clue.

Sherlock straightens his back and closes his notebook. The only clue so far that he isn't as calm as he pretends to be, is the way he blinks, slowly, intentionally, three times in a row.

"So, he says, smiling at John. "The results are unquestionable. Anyway, I had been seventy-five percent certain of the outcome beforehand. I know my cycles well enough."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

Another series of blinks. Although Sherlock seems to be present, John isn't fooled. His brain has shifted into high gear. He's losing himself in too many chains of thoughts and letting the real world fade away.

"Don't do that... stay with me."

"I am with you."

Sherlock grabs a pregnancy test and brings it up inches away from his eyes. He squints, turns it over and over again, then puts it down and takes the second one.

It might be shock, John thinks. He doesn't quite know what to do but he figures the least is to give Sherlock space to digest the news. It isn't like he's alright himself. He knows what is coming. Sherlock has made it clear from the start he doesn't want kids -and well, John hasn't been thinking about it for a long time. Their lifestyle isn't suitable for raising children. Sherlock is a handful already so imagine if...

Shit. John shifts on his feet, looking at his lover squinting at deceptively insignificant plastic tube. Guilt for what he just thought makes his ears burn. It's so easy to go with the everyday routine (or absence of, in their case) and to forget, from time to time, how precious what's between them is. Sherlock has let himself be, so simply, despite how scared he's been -still is, sometimes, John can tell- to give way to his feelings. John knows how much effort he has to put into their relationship, just so he has the impression he behaves like a companion and a lover should behave. And although John keeps assuring him he wants it all -the mad genius in all his contradiction, Sherlock keeps thinking he's not any good at it. John knows -he can read it in his eyes after sex, or in the middle of the night, when Sherlock wakes him up from a nightmare, so insecure, convinced he won't be able to give John what he needs.

He stands, Sherlock, wearing crumpled pyjama pants and an old t-shirt, his eternal blue dressing gown falling from his left shoulder. Tall. Too thin. His hair is getting long, and the curls are harder to tame. Sherlock hates going to the hairdresser and John hopes he'll postpone the moment a little longer so that he can play with the ebony locks to his content and watch them circling his head like a halo when he sleeps.

He loves him so much like that, with his nose rubbed raw and his sunken eyes, tired, spent, like he's nothing but nerve ending and a brain that's as much as a blessing as it is a curse. Looking so uncertain, so childish, observing the tiny plus sign on the pregnancy test window, biting his bottom lip.

He is exasperating, and frustrating, and yes, sometimes, so immature it's easy to consider him like a child that needs tending, but Jesus, John isn't worthy of him if he regards him, even for a second, like a burden.

Without thinking, John grabs Sherlock in a tight hug. A long moment passes before his lover seems to realise what is happening and relaxes into his embrace. Then, Sherlock starts shaking.

"I am sorry," John murmurs, his voice half-broken. "We took a decision not to have children, and it is our decision. It's our problem to deal with, alright? And I swear to you Sherlock, I swear I'll be with you every step of the way and make things as easy as possible for you. We'll get through this."

"You sound so sure," Sherlock answers, a weak whisper. "Why am I overwhelmed by this? I shouldn't be. It is a simple biological inconvenience. It is nothing, a cluster of cells. That is all."

Sherlock shakes harder, enough for John to worry and strengthen his hold while pulling his head back so that he can look at him.

Sherlock looks back. He's biting both of his lips now, and panting hard, blinking almost manically.

"It is possible I might be on the verge of fainting," he admits, his eyes starting to roll back.

All professional, suddenly, John sits Sherlock on the closest kitchen chair and shoves his head between his legs, maybe a little harshly, given Sherlock's muffled protest.

"Sorry, sorry, just... take deep breaths," he says, patting Sherlock's head.

He crouches and lifts a strand of ebony curls. Sherlock breathes deep and long, his eyes scrunched tight.

"I am... sorry," he pants. "This is ridiculous."

"No, it really isn’t. How are you?"

"Less dizzy. Still pregnant."

John snorts at that. "Okay, alright. Let's put you to bed."

"No, John, we need to talk."

"I get that, but you're still sick, you're pregnant, and you fainted."

"I almost fainted," Sherlock protests, taking with an unsteady hand the glass of water John hands him.

"If you say so. Anyway, we can talk in bed. Are you okay to walk?"

Annoyed but seemingly too tired to argue, Sherlock follows John in their bedroom. He's almost passive, shedding off his clothes and then lying on his back while John holds the duvet.

"You're not getting in?" Sherlock asks, his eyes impossibly wide.

"Yes, I'm just going to clean the kitchen a bit. Don't worry, I'll be back in five."

"Then we talk," he says in a decisive voice.

John might be gone for a little longer than anticipated. He gets rid of Sherlock's urine samples and scientific material but finds himself distracted by what has just happened and what is to come. He saves the three positive pregnancy test, though. Three very real, very there plus signs. He shakes his head. Sherlock’s waiting anxiously for him.

John is very surprised, when he walks back into their bedroom, to find Sherlock asleep, curled in on himself in a way that makes it impossible to associate the small, fragile frame with the arrogant consulting detective rendered giant by his ego and assurance.

His sleep is still light. His respiration is uneven, with that nasal quality given by the cold he's caught, but he is out, having succumbed to exhaustion despite himself, John knows.

Sighing, he climbs behind Sherlock, covering them with the duvet. Sherlock mumbles a few words of protest but gradually unfolds, just enough to fit into John's big spoon curve.

Even more surprising is how tiredness falls upon John and how - instead of taking advantage of this brief lull in the midst of a tempest and sort his own thoughts, instead of allowing himself to process the turmoil of emotions he has refused to acknowledge so far from the moment he saw the first tiny plus sign appear - how he just surrenders and lets sleep overtake him.

::: :::

Kandahar. A cold morning which is going to get impossibly hot even before noon puts the killing sun at its zenith.

John knows it is the day he gets shot.

He is the first to climb into the jeep. When Marshall jumps behind the passenger seat, singing an old Rolling Stones song off key – the song's different every time, and every time, John is unable to remember the title - John knows he needs to warn him.

He can't; his throat is shut tight, his body so heavy it's almost impossible to move.

You are dreaming.

Yes, he knows. Has always known. It's what makes the Nightmare so bloody frightening, because he can't wake up. God he wants to, but he can't, and the jeep leaves the camp in a cloud of sand.

Stop, John screams inside his head. Marshall is in a good mood -always is when there have been a few days without death - laughing for no reason while driving to his death.

An ambush. He has ten minutes left to live. In the backseat are two young soldiers, Vicario and Jones. Jones will die of a simple flesh wound, bleeding slowly to death while John lays unconscious besides him and the rescue team fails to get to them in time, caught in a sudden sand storm. Vicario will survive, but she'll never walk again.

John fights the impossible heaviness of his body. He wants to turn towards the back, he needs to look at them, one last time. Jones will be blowing chewing gum bubbles and Vicario will be fighting with her helmet's strap, and she will curse like a sailor, which never fails to make John laugh -probably because it contrasts with her delicate, petite frame.

Then he hears it : faint cries. It has never happened in the dream before. John is scared to look at the backseat now, but he finds out he can actually move, because his nightmares always love to mess with him. And his head turns slowly, irredeemably attracted to the tiny wails, the...

Baby wails. There is no soldier seated in the backseat. Only Sherlock, draped in his coat, holding a small bundle of yellow blanket expertly, smiling down at it and hushing it softly.

"I have her, John. It will be alright," he says in a confident voice.

This is wrong, so wrong, and John cannot do a thing. His voice is still silent, and the jeep keeps on going toward the ambush, irremediably toward pain and death and-

"John."

"Jesus!"

John jerks awake, fighting a pressure on his chest, trying to sit up.

"It's only me. You were dreaming. Everything is fine."

Sherlock is sitting next to him. It's his hands that are holding John in place, resting flat on his chest. John nods, and concentrates on breathing, trying to free himself of the last sticky remnants of the dream. Sherlock looks better, and his eyes are clear, honest. The light in the room has changed. It's almost dark outside.

"How long was I out?"

"Almost three hours."

"God... What about you? Have you gotten any sleep?"

"Yes, I woke up fifteen minutes ago."

"Good."

John wipes the sweat pooling on his forehead and feels himself relax. He's grateful when Sherlock hands him half a glass of water, drinks it eagerly, then falls back on the bed, dragging Sherlock with him.

"How are you?"

"I am... well, I don't know.” He pauses. “John."

"Yes?"

"I realize the predicament I find myself in is entirely my fault. I must have missed a pill, there are no other explanations. Therefore, I intend to take full responsibility regarding the way to... solve the problem."

"That is utter bullshit, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks at him, rendered silent by surprise.

"Even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, cannot make a baby by yourself. Now, listen to me, okay? I am taking half the burden you're carrying. Right now. There. You should feel lighter already. Even more so, I refuse to blame myself so don't inflict it upon you. It's an accident. Those things happen. Contraceptives are efficient but they are not infallible. You certainly won't be the first person to become pregnant that way."

Sherlock observes John for a few seconds, then nods.

"You are right, we need to talk," John goes on, feeling Sherlock is giving him his full attention. “Let me reassure you, first. Pregnancy termination is a safe, minor intervention. We'll find a doctor and a clinic according to your standards and preferably hidden from your nosy brother. I won't leave you, okay? Not for one second."

Sherlock resettles on the bed next to John, on his back. He seems unsatisfied by what he's heard. And John needs to ask.

"Are you... this is what you wanted to talk about, right? The abortion..."

"Yes. Yes of course."

The answer is distracted. Sherlock is busy playing with the hem of his t-shirt, when he seems to come to a decision and lifts it until it bunches around his chest, revealing his flat stomach.

And then, to John's astonishment, he lets his large right hand rest on the patch of skin below his navel.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmh?"

"That is what you were saying, right? By solving the problem, you meant an abortion. Right?"

"Yes. "

"Because right now I'm starting to think you have considered another option," John says, unable to turn his eyes away from Sherlock's stomach.

"Oh," Sherlock exclaims, lifting his hand, apparently only then realising what he's been doing. Or not. He's difficult to read suddenly.

John takes said hand and kisses it lightly.

"Speak to me."

"I still think I am not fit to raise a child. Our life is not one into which a child can be included. This isn't hesitation, it is just..."

Sherlock groans in frustration and shoves his head between his hands. "It is hormonal, I guess? Right now my body tells me I need to protect and care for what is inside me. Add to it the most basic instinct of human race, that is, reproduction, and it is hard not considering another option than ending the pregnancy."

Sherlock looks at John, a quick glance that is unsure, shy.

"I know what you mean," John nods.

It is difficult. Because the idea of something - someone - that would be the physical resonance of their love for each other, as romantic and cliché at is sounds, has a way of sneaking at the back of John's mind.

"You know," he says slowly, choosing his words. "We can wait... before you make the final decision. At least a couple of days."

"Wait for what?" Sherlock snorts disdainfully. "It won't get any easier. It is supposed to be. For me. It would have been, before...but now... I can't ignore my feelings like I used to."

"It is not a bad thing, Sherlock."

"I know, but as Mycroft always told me, caring is not an advantage. Not for me.”

"Screw Mycroft." John clears his throat. "I just want you to know I am perfectly happy with our lives, with you. Nevertheless, I won't force you into anything, and that means both... options. We can discuss this."

"Are you telling me you would like for me to keep the child?"

"It is your body, your decision, and you are right, we have decided together early on it wouldn't happen. I told you, I love our lives."

"It isn't an answer."

John sighs. Nothing is ever easy. "I know. Look, I refuse to consider what it would mean to keep a child. Our decision has already been made, what good would it do? You, Sherlock, you are the most important thing in my life. You are my life. I want -I need you to be happy."

"Okay," Sherlock murmurs after long seconds of silence. "Then I think I need time."

It surprises, John, it sincerely does. He tries his best not to show it, though, when he answers back. "Anything you need, darling."

Up until then, John had thought the only reason Sherlock would hesitate was the fear that John might have a different opinion.

And now, it will be even more difficult not to think about the minuscule embryo lodged deeply inside the love of his life. It is nothing but a cluster of cells.

Nothing.

But...

God, this is messed up.

Ok. Time. Sherlock needs time. And John will of course give it to him. He's fine with it.

That is, as long as the dream doesn't come back; which, as it is caused by Sherlock's current state, is completely out of John's control.

Chapter Text

3.

It's been five days.

Five days since the pregnancy tests. Five days during which Sherlock has closed himself to John regarding the progression of his reflection. He's not brooding, nor silent. He just makes it very clear there will be no talk about the pregnancy until he allows it.

It affects John more than he thought. Luckily, he doesn't have the Afghanistan nightmare again, let it be altered or not. He is, though, plagued by the strangest dreams. Following baby cries into the darkness. Finding himself looking for Sherlock who's disappeared, leaving a child behind. Receiving a pregnant patient and having to deliver the baby on the floor of his office...

Lestrade's call, on day three, is more than welcome.

It doesn't take long to solve the case. Sherlock is even more exuberant than usual, even more brilliant. The body stolen from the morgue -not Saint-Bart, luckily- is found on day five by a triumphant Sherlock. The artificial lake behind the victim's property is drained. If Sherlock hadn't determined that the mud traces left behind was very specific to a certain London area, they would still be looking.

While they watch the corpse of Margaret Grey, (who died seven days ago from a stroke) being dragged out of the water, shivering under a light snow, Sherlock explains the motives to Lestrade.

"There was a rumour in the family, about a rare diamond that Margaret Grey would have had implanted under the skin of her left ankle. I believe you will find, detective, that there is a post-mortem wound corresponding to that location, that wasn't there when it was examined for the first time."

Lestrade gives him a surprised look and leaves them both, walking toward the gathering of cops and experts.

"Was there really a diamond?" John asks.

"No, of course not."

"Ah. It seemed incredibly farfetched."

"Because she had it retrieved last year."

John's surprise must show on his face, because it has Sherlock smiling smugly. "The medical records from the private aesthetic surgery clinic weren't easy to find, but I have my ways."

"So, who stole the body, then?"

"Her nephew. That... insufferable idiot of an advocate."

"Why did he do it? He is her main heir, she had left enough as it was."

"Well, Carl Grey is amongst those individuals who love money for the sake of it. There is never enough."

"And where is the diamond now?"

"Still at the morgue. See, Margaret Grey had grown more and more paranoid about the jewel, which was stolen once right after it was given to her as a wedding gift some thirty years ago. It became worse when her husband died, and she had the crazy idea of wearing the diamond under her skin -she got it from a very bad detective novel."

"She was bonkers. Totally bonkers."

Sherlock nods. "Then last year, it got infected, and she decided there might be a less dangerous way. She had a partial dental prosthesis, she got someone to incrust the diamond inside the false palate."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Sherlock shuffles on his phone and hands it to John. It is a picture of the dental prosthesis. The diamond catches the crude light of the flash.

"I asked the medical examiner to send me a picture to verify my theory. This was sent ten minutes ago."

John can't help it. He grabs Sherlock's scarf to force him to bend forward until he can steal a kiss. "My brilliant, brilliant detective."

Pleasure tints Sherlock's cheeks.

"You're bloody right!" Lestrade calls from the lakeshore.

"Of course, I am," Sherlock grunts.

"And the nephew?" John asks, completely engrossed in the story.

"Oh. Yes. I texted him to schedule a meeting in one of those shady pubs downtown. I figured it would be easier to search the grounds. That moron thought I wanted to blackmail him. He hasn't left the property since the aunt died. Couldn't even wait for her body to cool down."

John bursts out laughing, high on adrenaline and love. He's looking forward to the cab drive back home, when Sherlock will explain in detail the logic behind his deductions, eyes bright, a little short of breath. John loves those moments. He had figured out he was in love during a cab drive, noticing at the same time how much his praised affected Sherlock.

Anyway, anything is better than staying home with nothing to do, talking about everything but the only issue that matters. John had been sincere when he had told Sherlock he could take all the time he needed. Only now, he begins to think Sherlock had only been looking for an out, a way to avoid the issue instead of facing it. If so, eventually, John will have to intervene. Abortions are generally less traumatizing the earlier they are done.

Sherlock has left him there, called by Lestrade, and so John busies himself taking some note for his blog. He doesn't know how many minutes go by, or what exactly makes him lift his head at the right moment.

What he sees is Sherlock walking back to him, tiny snowflakes caught in his dark hair. Smiling. On his left, though, coming from the front of the house, someone is approaching, quickly. A man, seemingly distressed, and angry. The man sees Sherlock and begins to run. Two police officers are following, one of them yelling.

"Sir! This is a crime scene you cannot be here."

The realisation that this man is, in fact, Margaret Grey's nephew pops into John's mind like a firecracker. He hadn't been with Sherlock when he had met the man, but everything in his behaviour practically yells his identity.

Sherlock notices him too, and the way he stops dead on his tracks tells John he has guessed correctly.

Then something... unusual happens.

Although John is always eager to insert himself between an assailant and Sherlock, he knows, objectively, that Sherlock is perfectly capable of defending himself. He's seen him fight: he is precise and strong; his hits are few but almost always efficient. When someone goes after him, he doesn't try to escape. He faces his adversary, always ready to fight.

Which is why John freezes in surprise when Sherlock, instead of readying himself for the physical assault, starts backing off, both of his arms wrapped around his stomach.

It could have been disastrous. John is quick to react, though, not even thinking, just running toward Grey as quick as he can. He doesn't hold anything back and throws himself at the man. Grey realises what is going to happen only a second before he receives a full body tackle, his eyes crossing in surprise. He fights dirty, moving on the ground like a snake, trying to free himself from John's strong hold. He doesn't stand a chance. Sherlock approaches, short of breath, and soon, police officers are there too.

"You are a deplorable specimen of humanity," Sherlock spits.

Then, for the second time of the day, he acts completely out of character by kicking the already immobilized criminal in the ribs, almost hitting John in the process.

"Woah, there, Sherlock," Lestrade says, standing between him and the suspect. "I think he's had it, alright?"

Sherlock huffs in exasperation and waits for John to hand the now screaming man to police officers.

"Alright there, John?" He asks, and although his sudden fit of anger is gone, he is cold and distant.

"Yes. Are you?"

"I'm fine, naturally. Why wouldn't I be? I've had it with this boring case, let's go home."

Sherlock doesn't say a word during the ride back home. John doesn't press. He might know what has been going on and needs to think about the best way to bring it up.

Sherlock has other ideas. As soon as the flat’s door closes behind them, he takes off his shoes and walks to the living room, dropping his coat on the floor where he takes it off. By the time John joins him, he's pacing, with both hands pressed together in a prayer position and tucked under his chin.

"Tea?" John asks.

"I don't want tea," Sherlock snarls at him, like tea is the most disgusting thing. "I want to stop acting like an idiot."

"You didn't-"

"John, please, don't infantilize me," Sherlock protests, stopping right in front of him. "I could have taken Grey down. You know it."

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing! Instead of behaving like the detective I'm supposed to be, I let my instinct get the best of me. And my instinct was screaming at me to protect the b...."

Sherlock chokes on the last word, and instead waves at his stomach with a grimace.

"The baby?"

"Don't call it that! How can I get over my bloody guilt if you address it like it's alive, like it matters? A cluster of cells. An early stage embryo. It is nothing and I have to get rid of it."

Sherlock has yelled the last few words, his faces inches away from John. And God knows John would like nothing better than to indulge him, but the matter must be addressed. More time won't do them any good.

"Get rid of your baby-he emphasises the words he knows will hurt- “that is what we are talking about, right?"

"Fuck you, John," Sherlock murmurs, cursing for the first time since he and John met.

For a moment, it seems very likely that John will get punched in the face, but in the end, Sherlock turns his back to him and walks to their bedroom, shutting the door with a thunderous noise.

John follows, finding Sherlock still pacing, up and down the side of the bed.

"Sherlock."

"Shut up, John!"

"I didn't want to hurt you, I swear, but we have to talk."

"It is a disaster. I should've never have allowed myself to have romantic feelings for you!" Sherlock spits at him, his nose crinkling in the way it only does when he's mad, when he wants to be bad and hurtful and unlikable.

John doesn't bite.

"You don't mean it."

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound. He stops for a second and blinks slowly -three times, they always come in threes, those nervous blinks.

"No. I don't," he admits weakly. "I did warn you, though, that I wasn't good at it. I did, and now, see where this has lead us. I can't convince myself that an abortion is necessary. I should be able to do it. Logically, it doesn't make any sense to consider another venue. It doesn't."

Sherlock sits on the bed and joins his hands once more. He's shaking, staring into emptiness, his eyes still fierce but also liquid, darker.

After a second of hesitation, John sits next to him, close enough for their shoulders and hips to touch. Sherlock tenses but doesn't move.

"You are not a machine, Sherlock -or, as you tried to convince the world, a sociopath. You can't simply go through an abortion like you go to a dentist to have a tooth removed."

"But... that is the problem, John, I..."

Sherlock pauses and straightens up, staring at John with all the intensity he's capable of.

"I. Cannot. Do. It," he admits.

"What?"

"I can't have an abortion. I can't, John."

This isn't just hesitation. This is a decision that has been made. It might have already been made five days ago. John tries to find the right words, but he can't. He had known it would be difficult, but was also convinced that Sherlock would go through with the abortion, in the end. What he had feared were the consequences of it, and how Sherlock would deal with the aftermath.

"John? Are you going to leave? John?"

Panic is making Sherlock's voice tremble. John realises he's been silent for a while -maybe a whole minute. He shakes his head vigorously.

"Sher-"

"I can't... I cannot, Juh- John-"

Sherlock is gripping John's jumper with both hands, panting quick and loud.

"Not without you I can't... Oh... god, something is wrong with me, it hurts when I breathe, John-

"Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere," John practically screams to cover Sherlock's loud intakes of breath and mumbled nonsense.

It doesn't have any effect. Sherlock's grip tightens on his shirt and he now appears to gulp air if it's thicker than oatmeal.

"I...can't breathe," he gasps, "I think I'm dying, John, I can't-"

John knows what is happening. He's seen it often in Afghanistan. That moment where everything breaks. Men don't cry. Soldiers even less. And when the horror becomes too much, when there is no more room inside to store away the pain, it spills out despite themselves. Grown men don't know how to cry. It's like watching the sorrow getting ripped from them. It's loud and ugly and painful.

John forces Sherlock's chin up so they can look at each other. He grabs his face between his hands and takes his most reassuring, most confident tone.

"You are not dying. Listen to me, Sherlock. You need to let go. Just let go."

It's hard, keeping his composure because it's so scary, seeing Sherlock like this -it hurts. Physically. Mentally.

"Oh god," Sherlock grunts, trying to keep his teeth clenched and breathing through his nose. "It's..." a hiccup cuts him up. His eyes are getting red. "I am so s-suh-scared, John!"

And then it happens. Sherlock's face contorts into a grimace, as if he's in pain -in the same time, he gets away from John's grasp and folds himself in two. For a second, John thinks he might have misread the whole thing, and that Sherlock is about to vomit all over the floor. But no. The wail that tears his throat ends up in a violent sob, low and raw and wet. Sherlock hiccups a shuddering intake of breath as tears - huge, round tears - are already spilling onto his cheeks. His voice rises higher, and the following sobs are like cries of pain.

John's throat is closing. He doesn't waste time, just grabs Sherlock despite his silent protest, takes him in his arms like he weighs nothing and installs him on his lap, keeping his hold firm. Sherlock tries to get away. his long legs kick at nothing, he arches his back, yells John's name in between sobs, but then, as suddenly as it's started, he stops fighting. He manages to pull his knees up, legs folding close to his body, and lets his head rest at his favourite spot, in the crook of John's neck. He's hot and trembling and sweating, his quickly falling tears dampening John's skin, then his shirt.

Sherlock is loud, uncontrollable. He doesn't just cry, he voices all the emotions that were trapped for too long inside of him; his moans are filled with rage and sorrow ending with wet, violent hiccups. At first, John is too overwhelmed to speak, so he holds onto him for dear life, rocking him softly like one would do with a child.

Sherlock being Sherlock, he doesn't do anything by normal standards. Too long minutes pass and he doesn't show any sign of stopping. At one point, John beings to worry he might not be able to stop. He has no idea how long they've been on the bed together, but he knows the crying fit has the same violence, that it's not even close to abating. He finds his voice, finally. He doesn't even know if the stream of reassuring nonsense that pours out of his mouth is getting to Sherlock, but he still goes on. Telling him he's alright, that he's not alone, that John will never, ever leave him... He murmurs terms of endearments, repeats again and again how much he loves him.

John's shoulder starts to hurt, which gives him an approximation of the time. When he's uncomfortable and doesn't move, it takes around ten minutes before he begins to feel the cramp in his damage muscle. When someone you love suffers, time loses its meaning, and each minute feels like a day, so it reassures John, knowing they've not been at it for as long as it seems.

John's voice becomes stronger, steadier. His fingers find their way into Sherlock's damp hair and he scratches at his scalp lightly, knowing how much he likes it.

"Sherlock, love? Can you answer me? Are you even hearing me?" He asks loud enough to cover the cries.

There is a shift in Sherlock's breathing pattern. It takes some time, but he finally manages to nod.

"Alright. Good. Now listen to me. I want you to try and follow my breathing rhythm, okay? There, feel it. I know you can do it, come on."

John has taken Sherlock's hand and has pressed it on his own chest. He's very careful to breath normally, not too quick nor too deep. Sherlock's cries begin to weaken almost immediately. It scares John, sometimes, how docile Sherlock can be with him, how complete and whole his trust is. It is like handling the most beautiful but most fragile porcelain piece. The tiniest mistake could shatter it, to a point where it would be impossible to fix.

"That's it," he says nevertheless, focussing entirely on Sherlock. "There's a good lad. Keep going love."

Sherlock does. It doesn't take long before he finally becomes silent, hiccupping still between too deep breaths, but he's getting there. He sniffs wetly. John figures he'll be able to make him smile soon with a couple of snarky remarks about snout and his favourite jumper.

"Juh-John?"

"Yes?"

"I a... apologize."

"No need."

Sherlock lifts his head up. He looks devastated, his skin covered in red blotches and white as a sheet in between. His eyes are so swollen his irises are barely visible, clear snot is drying on his upper lip and tears, although fewer, still escape his eyes. John takes off his jumper -let's be honest, it's already ruined- and cleans up Sherlock's face the best he can, smiling despite himself when Sherlock grabs the piece of cloth and presses it against his face, breathing in it.

"Okay, enough with the making out with my shirt."

Sherlock lets go. So far, he has avoided looking at John, keeping his eyes down. He lets out a weak, shaky laugh.

"Last time I cried like that I was eleven and my dog had died," he says, voice breaking from all the crying.

"I didn't know you had a dog."

"Seemed irrelevant to tell you."

"What was its name?"

"John. The dog has been dead for fifteen years. Let's not."

John nods. Sherlock looks like he's about to address the most pressing issue, John can tell by the way he's fidgeting. The doctor in him wants to put Sherlock to bed and let him rest, but he can't. They need to finish this. Sherlock, especially, needs to express everything that's been going through his mind for the past five days.

"Stay here," he says softly. "I'll get you some water and a warm flannel."

Sherlock nods but it takes long seconds before he moves himself off John's lap. He's still avoiding his eyes.

John is quick to fetch the water and the flannel. He doesn't want to give Sherlock the time to compose himself and retreat behind his walls. He finds him still sitting, although it seems like an effort to hold himself up. John wipes his face delicately with the flannel, trying to catch his gaze but failing. Sherlock drinks the whole glass of water, loudly, then silently hands it to John. He's still shaking, although it is now more from exhaustion than stress.

"Do you need to lie down?"

"No," Sherlock croaks, rubbing at his face with both hands. He then risks a glance at John, and there is still fear in his eyes. "I won't force you to stay, you know. I cannot do this to you."

John's anger is out before he even realises it. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock! Stop with that stupid nonsense. I won't leave you, why do you keep bringing it up?"

"Because of this, of me!" Sherlock replies. "I cannot do it, and I cannot have a child. I... I'm not a good man, John. You know that. I wouldn't be able to give a child what it needs. I am not fit to be a father - most of the time, I don't even think I'm fit to be a lover. And, God help me, I am terrified. I... I know the facts. Carrier pregnancies are not easy: there is a high risk of a miscarriage, more than with women, up until the second trimester. Half of the births have to be through c-sections, due the tightness of the birth canal. Also, natal deformities are more frequent, just as are the risks of eclampsia, gestational diabetes, and an array of other symptoms that are exclusive to male carriers. And this is barely the tip of the iceberg; hear me out because I did some research and, although the first carriers have appeared more than a hundred year ago, social norms are still conservative. It is not unusual for carriers that decide to have a child to suffer from the stigma of their particular status. Children born from same-sex parents are more likely to be bullied. As for the medical care, too few gynaecologists decide to specialise in male pregnancy, there are also numerous statistics tending toward the difficulties to be treated, as well as assuring a follow-up during the-"

"Sherlock, don't forget to breathe."

Sherlock obeys, and by the redness of his face and the breaking of his voice, it's necessary. He's panting now, licking his dried lips. If John is honest, he hasn't followed the whole tirade, mind blank except for the simple fact that Sherlock is pregnant. Funny, right? He's known it for five days but now...

Pregnant. And fuck, the word is much more heavy now that it implies an ongoing status, not something that Sherlock can choose to stop being, as soon as possible.

... It is another shock, then, that John finds out he's okay with it. So very okay. And while Sherlock tries to get his breathing rhythm back to normal, John find himself smiling.

"How dare you smile at me, John Watson!" Sherlock protest, kicking at him with his heel.

John takes a deep breath and sits next to him.

"I'm sorry. I... just... Sherlock, don't you dare say you are a bad man. Please. It upsets me, how sometimes you think so little of yourself. You are the best, the greatest man I have ever known. Got it? And it would be an honour to father a child with you."

Sherlock's laugh is weak, his eyes filled with tears. "No, I don't think you get what I'm trying to tell you. I am selfish, egocentric, self-centred. I am an addict -and I always will be. I cannot be trusted with myself. When you aren't there, I forget to eat, I don't sleep -when on a case I push everything and everyone away. I could be diagnosed with depression, chronic anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder. I am no father, John."

"Sherlock."

"No! Let me finish, it's important. I have been thinking, and all the facts, all the data point toward an abortion. The only exception is unreliable. It is a feeling, an idiotic concept -but nevertheless, it is always where I end up when I think, no matter which path I take. I can do something good, for once. Don't bring up the Work because we both know I do it for myself, for the satisfaction it brings me. But this...it is good, and it feels incredible, to know that I am carrying something that is growing into a potential human being. I love you, John, to an extent that scares me sometimes. I think about what would happen to me if I were to lose you and then I can't breathe. So, having...created something with you, a child that exists because of the love I feel, it seems like a miracle, something so precious -exceptional, even. No matter how hard I try, I cannot see the facts anymore, and I feel empowered, privileged. My body did something that will never stop amazing me. Getting an abortion would be the selfish choice, and that is the only kind of choice I have ever made. So, you understand now how confusing it is."

Sherlock is practically pleading, like he's convinced John cannot understand -something that, in the end, is so simple, so human. This is how people end up having kids, after all, when logic and practicality fly out the window, replaced by dreams and desire, love and emotion.

John gives up all pretences and concentrates, for the first time in five long days, on his own feelings. He, too, had only thought about the logical side of this pregnancy so far. Sherlock doesn't want kids. In all practicality, we cannot fit a child into our life. Therefore, it doesn't do any good to consider keeping it. It will only be more painful when all is said and done.

Sherlock is right. Once, John had wanted kids. When you escape death, it's impossible not to wonder about what you leave behind. And yes, at first, he'd been dating -so many women he had lost count, because it had seemed like the only way to feel alive again, reaching the tired dream of having a family, settling down. Because the prospect of growing old lonely had been bloody terrifying. Along came Sherlock. Maybe he'd always been there, in a way, a subconscious part of John knowing everything that came before him was in fact the prologue to the John Watson story.

John cannot imagine a scenario where Sherlock will easily slide into the role of the expectant father. He's so conflicted that every step getting them closer to becoming three will be a fight, John knows it. Sherlock will never stop being Sherlock, and John will always need to protect him, from others, but also from himself.

No matter how difficult the upcoming months will be, or how impossible it now seems to lead a different life, one that includes a child, John finds he doesn't mind, at all.

Oh God, he wants it. Wants to take care of Sherlock through it all, wants to hold in his arms a wailing little boy, and wonder if he will take after his brilliant father, or his more down to earth daddy. He wants to wrap his arms around Sherlock's swollen stomach, cradle it softly, and let the world know he's the one who did that. He's the one to whom Sherlock give himself wholly, with a trust so deep there is no going back.

"Okay, then."

"What have you just agreed to?"

"Let's have a baby, I guess..." John snorts, hearing his own hesitation.

Sherlock looks at him as if he's grown a second head.

"What?"

"Are you deaf? Or do you just like making me repeat myself?" John can't help but quote Sherlock to himself. He earns an eye roll in return, and this is good, this is normal.

"John. I actually haven't said I want to keep the child," Sherlock voices slowly. "I said I cannot get rid of it."

"So what? You want to give it up for adoption?"

Sherlock's outrageous expression is exactly what John was going for.

"Are you out of your mind John? Imagine our child raised by a couple of...goldfish," he spits like he's just said a blasphemy.

"Goldfish?"

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Something Mycroft says, sometimes. Because of our intellectual superiority. He likes to tell me he lives in a world of goldfish.”

"Well I know of at least one goldfish that would very much like to kick his superior ass," John grumbles.

And Sherlock laughs. It is good to hear the sound, however small and contained it might be.

"You can see my dilemma, right?" He asks more seriously. "I am not father material, John. You can be certain I am going to mess it up, badly. And then what will you do, caring for a proper baby and a thirty-seven-year-old one? All this... it feels like I'm putting an incredibly heavy burden on your shoulders. You will hate me in the end, and our child will probably as well."

Sherlock's face is crumbling, as if he's going to start crying again. John takes a deep breath and wraps an arm around his shoulder. Sherlock immediately lets his head fall on that shoulder, his locks caressing John's cheek.

"I will never hate you," John whispers. "I think I made it quite clear that I'm so freaking mad about you I would do anything, absolutely anything and everything, to make you happy. And it isn't the first time we're having this conversation, so I guess I need to repeat it again and again until you have it carved on a wall in your ridiculous mind palace."

"...palace is not ridiculous," Sherlock mumbles petulantly.

"Well, alright. As for... caring for a child, everybody has kids... I mean, you don't need a permit, or a... freaking recommendation letter to conceive. The world is full of idiots raising kids, so why not us?"

Sherlock chuckles and rubs in nose on the fine skin of John's neck.

"I mean," John goes on, feeling like he's on a roll, "With all the research you've done in the past days, you’re probably already more of an expert than me on having kids. Your child won't hate you, ever. He'll admire you -he will tell his buddies at school that his dad is Sherlock Holmes, the badass detective. You cannot think otherwise because that's how it will be. And then so what if I do most of the caretaking, or if you forget stuff, or are running through London after a murderer while our child is cutting a tooth. My taking care of you, Sherlock, should in no way make you feel diminished, or... or an eternal child that surely used to be a holy terror, by the way. I... take care of you because you are extraordinary, and with the brain you have, it's easy to forget basic things... dull, boring things. Like eating," John adds, smiling to himself.

"I've gotten better in the past few months, haven't I, though?" Sherlock asks, wrapping his arms around John's neck and looking at him with this intense affectionate look he reserves just for him.

"Well, I can still feel your ribs when we're lying down so there is still progress to be made," John days, running his hand under Sherlock's shirt, feeling his stomach skin contract. "But now we'll have to double our efforts, right? And fuck, Sherlock..."

John's throat gets tight, suddenly. It's like the rebound of Sherlock's crying fit hitting him only now. He embraces it, because it also means facing the future, and the future is scary and complicated and unknown, but as long as...

"Taking care of you, Sherlock, is a privilege," he whispers in an uncertain voice. "And taking care of the child you're going to give me will be just the same."

Oh god. It's so fluffy and cliché and ridiculous, and Sherlock is going to call him on it. John is not good at those things, why does he keep trying?

But Sherlock doesn't sigh, or roll his eyes, or smile derisively. "My John," he says in a gentle voice. "You are mine, right?"

His eyes are quick to be darkened by doubt, and John answers by kissing him. A quick, loud smack that resonates in the room.

"Yours for as long as you'll have me."

::: :::

A shower. Showers since they first got together have changed. John remembers the first time he just jumped in while Sherlock was washing his hair with his expensive, peppermint-scented shampoo. He remembers the unmanly squeak, the self-consciousness, and how it ended up with him leaning against the tile walls while Sherlock had given him his first blow job.

Afterward, showering together had become one of their rituals, especially after a case. It doesn't always end up with sex, but for John, it is clear how much Sherlock loves the proximity, the absence of any artifice that leaves them both naked, wet, moving around each other while they get clean, not caring if a position isn't especially sexy or flattering. Water sliding on their skin in the crude light, revealing small imperfections, and for Sherlock, his washing ritual is so private, that moment where he gets ready before putting on his armour, that John knows he considers this as another demonstration of the total trust he has in him.

They were both in need of one, after the case -John doesn't think Sherlock has cleaned himself in the past three days, too busy thinking and deducing; too dedicated, as always, to his work. And after all the crying and the drama, it seems that the cleaning they need isn't only physical, but mental as well.

John grabs the soap and begins to wash himself, and it takes a few minutes before he realises Sherlock hasn't begun yet. He's standing right under the spray, arms wrapped around his too thin body, eyes closed. He doesn't seem distressed, or lost. Just... pensive.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmh."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. Thinking. The ninth of June, next year."

"What is happening then?"

Sherlock lifts a disbelieving eyebrow. "The due date. For the child. It was conceived on the twenty-third of September. The pregnancy is of five weeks and two days."

"The ninth of June," John whispers, surprised by how many images those four words trigger in his mind. Wailing babies, and round bellies, pacifiers, pastel colours and the first notes of a lullaby he can't quite remember. But also... well, Sherlock. Coping with the pregnancy. The contrast is almost shocking, if he's honest. Sherlock, clumsy and heavy, his ankles swollen, his breath a little short from the pressure of the uterus. There will be no more cases come spring, no stake-outs, or running through London while living on tea and biscuits.

But then, when will it all come to an end? John knows, he just knows, that even if he asks (which he wouldn't, it would be the worse way possible to begin their life as soon-to-be parents), Sherlock won't stop the Work, pregnant or not. In the end, he'll be confined to solve what he can without leaving the flat, mostly, but for the months to come, what is supposed to happen?

Sherlock constantly puts himself in danger, whether facing criminals and dangerous situations, or by simply neglecting his most basic needs. John can't possibly ask him to stop everything because he's carrying a child, but damn it, he's not a clerk, he's the world's only consulting detective. John is constantly looking out for him because Sherlock, even though he has made progress ever since they started their relationship, has come to rely on him, and it's a shared fault. They work so well together, but the balance has now shifted, they need to rethink everything.

Guilt makes John's cheeks burn. He should have more faith in Sherlock's capacity to care for the child he carries. The man who pretends he doesn't have a heart has, again and again, shown how much bigger it is than average, because Sherlock doesn't do anything by half. Not when it matters.

John pushes the doubts away, and it isn't that difficult. He knows damn well he isn't better equipped or competent to handle parenthood than Sherlock, despite what Sherlock thinks, which is the reassurance John thinks he needs, not the bare truth. It's just easier -and, frankly, it’s second nature by now- to worry about Sherlock than himself. John has never been good at regarding the man he is with objectivity. It's hard, always will be.

So, what John does is to slide his hands, slowly, from Sherlock's hips to his stomach, where he leaves them, below Sherlock's navel, his fingers entangled. Sherlock tenses, but then relaxes.

"If you think you can feel anything different let me remind you the embryo is currently the size of a sesame seed," he states matter-of-factly.
John doesn't bite. "But it's different, right? You do feel different, even though there aren't any visible changes. For me, all there is the knowledge that it is there, nestled comfortably inside of you. Our baby."

"You are turning into an expecting daddy cliché at an alarming rate," Sherlock replies, but John has learned to hear the smile he lets out through his words without seeing it.

"Deal with it."

Sherlock sighs, turning into John's arms, staring seriously at him. "We need to make decisions... practical decisions. I have made a list."

"When?"

"When you were being overly sentimental with my still very flat stomach."

"Okay…so, in your head."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'll write it down if you want, but here are the essentials. Please feel free to stop me at any time if you think I have forgotten or misunderstood something. You are a doctor after all."

"Ah ah, funny."

"So, evidently, the first thing we need to do is find an androcologist. I trust you have enough contact to direct us toward the most competent of them, although sadly, the choice isn't as wide as one could hope so, and we live in London, not some back country village away from the capital. I do believe, given my dearest brother's position and with your help, we will be able to find someone at least decent to care for me and the embryo's health. The first appointment should at least include complete blood work, and..."

John contemplates Sherlock, not even trying to follow the conversation - well, monologue. His speech pattern is impressive, even for him, bordering manic. Sherlock's mental list will be properly addressed later. For the moment, John is content, even a little fond, to see him using one of his most frequent coping mechanism. The verbal assault is reassuring, familiar for Sherlock. John thinks of it as a way he has found to relieve his mind when it becomes too full. John nods when he thinks it's needed, then finishes washing the traces of soap off Sherlock's skin before they run out of hot water.

John better get used to it, he thinks, catching a sentence about London traffic in the early hours of the morning during the weekends and wondering what the hell it has to do with anything.

And here they are, absolute beginners, an ex-soldier turned blogger for a mad genius solving crimes, who found themselves insanely in love with each other, now about to have a child, like the most bizarre romantic comedy ever.

We are insane. God knows we are. And I wouldn't change a damn thing about us. The three of us.

John can't help himself, he bursts out laughing. Sherlock stops mid-sentence, frowns, then throws him an outraged look and begins to protest.

John stops him easily enough by shoving his tongue in his welcoming, wet mouth.

And magically, Sherlock has nothing else to say.

For now.

Chapter Text

4.
It is a peaceful morning. John stands at his favourite spot in front of the window, drinking a coffee, feeling completely awake despite having covered for a colleague at the A & E during the night.

Sherlock plays the violin a foot away from him, something soft that John isn't familiar with, but finds lovely.

And then, John's quiet peace of mind is broken abruptly as an all-too familiar black car stops in front of 221 Baker Street and the slim ending tip of Mycroft's umbrella makes its appearance, followed by the brother himself half a second later.

"Sherlock?" John asks, turning toward him.

It's a pity. For the first time in the six days, since they took the decision to keep the baby, Sherlock seems grounded and calm. He hasn't been exactly difficult through the week, but very visibly overwhelmed, his temper going from nervous and agitated to logical and practical in a matter of minutes, several times a day. There has been nothing from the Yard, nor visits from clients, and barely a couple of emails from people asking for help on depressing love affairs. Which means Sherlock had needed to occupy himself with his new-found obsession for procreation, gene mutation and male pregnancies.

John shouldn't mind. Becoming an expert on a subject usually calms Sherlock down and gives him confidence -ah, that visceral need for control, or the illusion of control, at the least- except in this case, it has had the opposite effect. How can it be otherwise, when the subject Sherlock's studying is his own current biological state? What's worse is that John's reassurances are more and more often met by an immediate correction by Sherlock, citing facts, percentages and studies recently stored on his damn genius hard drive.

Eight months to go. John had started to believe they would be similar to the past few days, and that he had better brace himself for it; then, when he had arrived this morning, Sherlock had still been sleeping -good- then had shared breakfast with him - very good - not mentioning the pregnancy but trying his best to at least seem interested in John's night shift. He was already playing his violin when John had gotten out of the shower to discover Sherlock had -by himself!- made pot of coffee for him.

Definitely an improvement. About to be ruined Mycroft.

"Your brother is here," John tells Sherlock.

"Right on time," is his answer.

He has already put his violin away.

"You invited him?" John asks, lifting an eyebrow as high as it will go.

"Well, I figured there are two possibilities right now: or he already knows and has, for some reason, decided not to address the matter directly with us, or he will know as soon as he sees me... give or take a few seconds."

"We are actually talking about the pregnancy, right?"

With the Holmes brothers, you never know. John still would have preferred to have been informed beforehand, but it’s evident he's going to have to give Sherlock some slack for now, if he doesn't want him to oscillate constantly on the verge of a breakdown. What's more disappointing is that Mycroft's visit explains the difference in Sherlock's behaviour: he's going into battle, not dealing better with the pregnancy.

There is an impatient knock at the door. Sherlock brushes past John, an amused smile on his face. "Is it too optimistic to believe he could die from the shock?"

"A bit."

John stays in his spot from where he can see the scene unfold. They hadn't talked at all about the best way and time to share the news, but knowing Sherlock, John had guessed it was probably a source of anxiety for him, and that he would postpone it as much as possible -at least until he has reached the three-month mark, as is usual for pregnant women. If women are more at risk of a miscarriage during those first three months, carriers' risks are even greater, going from a vague ten to twenty percent (considering all the occurrences where the pregnancy wasn't even "discovered" yet in the very beginning) to a solid 25 percent for carriers, and in this case, only the treated or declared miscarriages are taken into account. It is common belief, amongst scientists, that the mutation is still in the phase where it needs to perfect itself, slowly, from one generation to the other

"Mycroft, you seem to be in a splendid shape," Sherlock greets his elder with an over-the-top false enthusiasm.

"Sherlock, what is this about?" Mycroft complains, closing the door behind him. "You very well know I have no time for your stupid little guessing games, this better be-"

John had seen Mycroft going speechless before, but it never gets old, how his overly confident voice breaks and his mouth hangs open -not much, but still- while his usual disdainful expression elapses, for at least a short moment.

Sherlock walks back a couple of feet, looking at John quickly to flash him the same playful smile. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely. To be honest, John is starting to have fun.

But then he begins to worry, because seconds stretch and Mycroft remains frozen in place, a somewhat dreamy expression in his eyes.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks, snapping his fingers in front of him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft blinks and shakes his head. He smiles, all professional and business suddenly. "You might want to offer me a chair, if it isn't too much to ask."

Sherlock stares at him in astonishment, lifting an arm and pointing toward the living room without looking.

Mycroft nods and moves swiftly to John's chair. His face is a little pale and his grip deadly on the umbrella's handle. The next quick look Sherlock gives John is one of surprise, mixed with a bit of confusion.

"Tea?" John feels the need to propose, the comforting side of his profession shifting into gear.

"That would be lovely, thank you John."

It is John's turn to freeze in place, mouth gaping open. He always offers tea, although Mycroft has never once agreed to a cup while visiting them. As if he always wants to be ready to leave at any moment when Sherlock starts annoying him.

Sherlock has noticed too. He follows John to the kitchen.

"When I said I was hoping the shock would kill him, I wasn't being literal,” he whispers while John plugs the kettle. "No, not Earl Grey. Mycroft only swears by English Breakfast. Double the infusion time."

John nods, smiling to himself at what is, amongst normal people, a simple thing to know: how your close ones take their tea. But for Sherlock, it isn't normal, and it's actually endearing.

"I'll go see if he is still breathing," Sherlock whispers, pinching John's arse playfully.

Sherlock rarely does this kind of stuff. He's a cuddler, and a demanding one at that, but outside of the bedroom, his touches remain chaste, innocent. Maybe his mood has really improved after all, and his attitude isn't exclusively due to Mycroft's presence.

John can hear the conversation, although he can't see Mycroft's face from where he stands. Sherlock has seated himself in front of his brother and is observing him with the expression he has when he's a little out of his depth, trying to figure out something.

"I was about to propose to make a few calls for you, if you wanted a discreet... abortion, but I'm wrong, aren't I? You and John are keeping it."

"Obviously."

"Well, then, congratulations, Sherlock."

There isn't a hint of sarcasm in Mycroft's voice. Sherlock's frown deepens, he tilts his head to the side."

"Mmh. Huh... Thank... you... Mycroft?" he says, a question mark hanging in the air.

"Have you found a competent androcologist yet? I would suggest-"

"It's done."

"Oh. Then-"

The kettle starts to whistle, and for a few minutes, John busies himself making tea, missing most of the conversation -for some reason, Mycroft is speaking in a soft, very low voice, and Sherlock does the same, probably unconsciously.

When John brings Mycroft his tea, the older Holmes is in the middle of a discourse about the best way to handle the press. Sherlock's reputation isn't so great that he would be recognized, at least by name, outside of London, but the tabloids have taken an interest in him, especially after the Moriarty case. There is one paparazzi in particular who has started following him around. He is the one who took the famous "Heated kiss shared in the back of a cabbie" picture, which made the rounds of the tabloids six months ago. Sherlock had laughed the incident off, while John had had to manage the micro-scandal on his blog, finally posting an entry confirming their involvement and making clear that he wouldn't discuss it. He had been surprised by how little Sherlock had cared, until he came to suspect his companion had actually been secretly pleased, which fits in the strange duality of his controlling personality as a detective and his more subdue, submissive one as John's lover.

"For now, you have nothing to fear. With so many celebrity scandals these days, the so-called journalists couldn't care less about a local detective not only being a carrier but expecting a child," Mycroft explains. "Nevertheless, if things go quiet I fear it will be noticed and published. Of course, over the months, it will become almost impossible to hide your state so-"

"Why would I hide?"

Mycroft frowns. "You do not want your personal life to become the source of gossip.”

Sherlock shrugs. "Well, it will be forgotten as soon as another story becomes more interesting. Besides, what would you do? Take care of that moron of a photographer and a couple of idiots calling themselves journalists? Making "a few calls" to be sure they'll never work again? It isn't worth it, brother mine."

"Well," John objects, not sure he's on board with it.

"Really, Sherlock? You don't sound like yourself," Mycroft goes on, ignoring John.

"That must be the hormones speaking," Sherlock replies, smiling playfully. "Or maybe I am just as surprised by your reaction. I was expecting..."

"A lecture?"

Sherlock wiggles in his chair and looks away. "At least."

"Oh, you must be disappointed, then, Sherlock."
Or maybe taken off guard, just as John is. He goes back to his spot near the window to let the pale sun caress his face. He might as well - if the brothers have decided to ignore him, he could tap dance in a kilt between them without being spared a single look.

Mycroft's visits never last long, unless he and Sherlock are in the mood to fight as viciously as they can. Five minutes later, after assuring Sherlock he would wait for him to announce the news to their parents, and shaking John's hand, congratulating him once more -and really, John should learn to hide his surprise better because he doesn't miss Mycroft's amused gaze- Mycroft leaves, a deafening silence replacing him. Eventually, John sits in his -his- chair and tries to get Sherlock's attention.

"What. The. Hell. Was that?"

"Damn if I know," Sherlock whispers, shifting from his "thinking" pose to a more relaxed one. He crosses his arms over his chest and pouts, a true, almost cliché of a pout, his lower lip turned down and his eyes dark.

John thinks he gets it.

"You really are disappointed, aren't you? You were looking forward to this. You wanted Mycroft to throw a fit."

"...Maybe," Sherlock admits, looking sideways.

"Oh my god you are such a child."

John wanted to sound at least annoyed, but he cannot manage to hide the smile in his voice. And Sherlock knows it. With his usual swift way of moving when he has his mind focused on something, he takes the step separating him from John, his blue dressing gown flying behind him, and sits himself on John's lap, facing him, both legs bent at the knees, wedged in the sides of the chair. Automatically, John lifts his arms to settle his hands on Sherlock’s hips. As for Sherlock, he puts his on John's shoulders, bending down to kiss him, a quick warm one, mouth only slightly open. It's lovely.

"I was expecting a fight," he admits. "I was prepared to reply to every objection Mycroft would have put forward. I wanted him to at least call me irresponsible, with maybe one of two mentions of my drug addict past. I got nothing."

"Poor baby," John jokes, letting his hands rub softly at Sherlock's sides. He gets a small shiver in response and grins.

"I really was looking forward to it," Sherlock complains, moving his arse with intent, just to get John going. As if he needs any incentive besides Sherlock being... well, Sherlock.

"Ah, what a shame, Mycroft being apparently happy for us and respectful of our decision instead of being his usual self-satisfied prat."

Sherlock grins, grounding his hips so that his bottom rubs against John's quickly growing erection.

"So, doctor Watson, what can you do to comfort me? I am very upset."

"Indeed," John murmurs, sliding his hands under Sherlock's rumpled t-shirt, running them against his smooth skin. He does it, not only because he likes it, but also because he can feel Sherlock's ribs on a regular basis and evaluate any fluctuation in his weight. With someone as thin as Sherlock, it doesn't take many pounds, lost or gained, to feel the difference in that area of the body. Given how sensitive the subject of Sherlock's eating habits always is, better to leave him alone for the moment -or so he thinks.

It's not like John doesn't love rubbing and caressing Sherlock's body any way he can, right? When he's satisfied, he concentrates on providing pleasure to his lover by reaching for his nipples and pinching them -not too hard, Sherlock is overly sensitive when it comes to them- while he lifts his head to ask for a kiss. Sherlock shivers once more and bends his head, his heavy curls tickling John's face, allowing himself a chance to shove his nose in John's hair and breathe in deeply. Sherlock's sense of smell is very acute -years of practice, he keeps telling John, categorizing perfumes, some poisons and a wide variety of flowers scents. John doesn't really care, except he loves it when Sherlock gives up control and takes what he wants. He's so in touch with all of his senses, and his keen sense of smell is probably the most developed one.

It is probably the distraction of Sherlock smelling his hair that makes it a few seconds of pinching and rolling his nipples before John realises something is different. They are slightly swollen, and still aren't completely erected.

John is quick to forget the make-out session in favour of lifting up Sherlock's shirt, despite his protests, to take a look at his chest. Yes, he can see the very subtle swelling of the mammary glands -the colour is altered too, as they usually are a light shade of brown with a touch of pink, and now they are darker, redder.

Marvelling at the fact, John caresses one almost reverently. It is the first physical change he has noticed since they knew Sherlock is expecting. So far, it's been almost hard to believe he was actually pregnant, despite the positive tests. Sherlock hasn't been plagued with morning sickness or extreme fatigue -as for his mood changes, which is another early sign, well...it is Sherlock. On his best days, he can switch moods dramatically more than once.

"John, what is wrong?"

Sherlock stares down at him, frowning, impatient - almost angry that John has put an abrupt end to their love-making session.

"Your nipples," John trails off.

"My... nipples?"

"They are different," John explains while Sherlock bends his head, his chin resting on his chest.

"Yes."

"You noticed?"

"If I cannot even observe myself, I would be a pitiful consulting detective."

"It's..."

John finds he has trouble breathing. Good god, how ridiculous is this? It is like he has just learned about Sherlock's pregnancy. He swallows, hard, tries to calm himself down.

"John? John, are you alright?" There is a hint of concern in his voice.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine, it's all fine. I just..." John drops Sherlock's t-shirt and smiles as convincingly as he can. "I'm being an idiot," he adds.

"Definitely." The right-hand side of Sherlock's mouth lifts in the uncertain beginning of a smile.

John doesn't have to explain himself, Sherlock knows what's going through his mind. He gets this soft look on his face, his worry-lines disappear - something rare and precious that he reserves just for John – and he kisses him on the forehead. John grabs his waist, holds him close and wonders if they could stay like that forever -or at least, for the next eight months, so that he knows Sherlock is safe and sound in his arms.

"I still want to have sex, though," Sherlock murmurs after a few minutes of intense silence.

John giggles into his stomach, can't help it, and Sherlock squirms. He's ticklish. Very. John has more than once reduced him to a giggling mess, tears in his eyes, his face red, while he still tried to look annoyed.

"Well, where were we?" John asks, lifting his hips to meet Sherlock's arse.

"The fun part, " Sherlock answers. He tilts his head to kiss John's ear shell, delicately, knowing how sensitive that particular spot is. "I wonder, though, if you'll get through our first medical appointment without going into shock."

"Sherlock, wishing to put people into shock isn't very nice," John replies playfully, pinching his left arse cheek. Sherlock squeals, then blushes, then focuses on rubbing himself against John's crotch.

It is a very nice morning indeed.

::: :::

Given how complicated it has been to choose an androcologist, John is just happy to finally sit in her office with Sherlock. Her name is Amy Brown -call me Amy, please- and she's in her mid-thirties. She's a confident but easy-going and naturally chatty petite blonde, with glasses that seem too huge for her small, pointy face. He likes her. As for Sherlock, his face is, for the moment, impassive. Unreadable. He is too tense.

Nevertheless, the simple fact that Sherlock - who at first had the stupid idea that John could do the follow-up and deliver the baby himself (why not, you are a doctor, and I trust you) - is accepting Brown as his androcologist is a positive enough sign of his approval.

When it became clear Sherlock needed an appointment as soon as possible, John, knowing him, had been prepared.

John had picked five of the practicing androcologists in the London area after a quick swipe of their competences, history and reputation. He had built files, with references to articles, or the name of the colleagues he had talked too, citing them as "sources." Then, he had given them to Sherlock and had told him to pick one -Sherlock had actually seemed impressed by John's work. Three hours later, he came back with Amy Brown's file. "I did have my own system of classification, so I have to let you know she came second best, so if you want to argue about my choice, I will of course consider your objections."

"Sherlock, it's alright. I'm fine with whoever-"

"Doctor Ben Wilson came first. Given his age, he is the most experienced of the lot. He's also the most well-known androcologist in the greater London area; he has received several awards and published articles in prestigious science magazines. However, he's in it for what it can do for him. He has fed his ambition, has played the London political game with a cleverness that I cannot help but admire. For the past several years, though, he has spent more time giving conferences or sitting in his pompous office, giving interviews, than delivering babies. Long story short, he's a pretentious arsehole and I'm certain he would be the one Mycroft would suggest."

"So, we're not going with him."

"Ideally, no."

Sherlock had been determined to make John understand his choice, as if he had to defend it. He had a picture of Amy Brown, cut out from a newspaper article, with him, and had shoved it into John's hand. "Now, I know she is the youngest of the lot but look at her. No makeup, hair in a simple pony tail, wearing a crumpled white blouse with the pockets full, over a t-shirt. She chose the profession because she's passionate, she loves her work and her practice for what they are, not what they can do for her. As for her professional credentials, she has been trained at Toronto's Metro Centre of androcology, with some of the best specialists in the field."

"Okay."

Sherlock had lifted an eyebrow.

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"Well, alright, then. Make an appointment."

John had feared that Sherlock would start deducing the woman as soon as they entered her office, and call her out on daddy issues by the pictures hanging on her wall, or a negligent mother judging by a stain on her left shoe -something like that, but no.

Sherlock listens carefully, answers the question in a remarkably calm and contained voice, then gets out of his pocket a small notebook in which he’s noted well... everything. How could John have missed this - Sherlock transforms everything, every situation in a potential file, or graphic, or spreadsheet.

Amy Brown smiles, and looks at it. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock. Ok... John relaxes a little more. Maybe everything will be alright. He should really learn to trust Sherlock's capability of behaving normally -almost normally- as it has happened more and more ever since they got together. Then a sudden question catches John's attention. Amy Brown is asking if there are any twins in both their family. John shakes his head, certain Sherlock is doing the same. But no...

"Yes."

"What?!" John exclaims.

"Technically, I was a twin myself," Sherlock explains calmly, ignoring John's incredulous gaze. "It was a female foetus, if I remember correctly."

"What happened to her."

"As it is sometimes the case, I absorbed her in the womb."

John gapes another second.

"...Yeah. It does sounds like you."

"So it means the chances of having twins is more important, given your genetic heritage," Amy Brown joins in, as if John didn't know it already.

He turns his attention back to Sherlock.

"You could have told me."

"Seemed irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" John hopes his face reflects his incredulity about what Sherlock deems irrelevant or not.

What's important, though, is that Sherlock is still calm.

But John might have also considered Sherlock's extremely agitated state in the hours preceding the appointment, because of course, his genius of a partner can keep himself under control in the most upsetting situations; that is, until he cannot anymore.

The sonogram is Sherlock's breaking point. He has managed superbly, so far, given that early ultrasounds are performed internally and he finds himself in a hospital gown lying on a table, with his legs spread in stirrups and Dr. Brown's right arm disappearing under an almost translucent sheet covering his lower body. Somehow, Sherlock's dignity is still intact. He stays perfectly still, his head turned to the left so he can stare at the sonogram screen, his chin still raised in defiance as if John would burst out laughing regarding his position at any given time. He listens to Amy Brown's explanations, clearly refraining himself from cutting her out because he already is an expert on prenatal development. John watches him closely as the little bean (the unique bean, thank god) finally appears on screen, trying to guess how it makes Sherlock feel.

But then John gets caught up by his own reaction, surprised by its intensity. This isn't, by a long shot, the first sonogram he’s seen, but it doesn't change the fact that the six millimetre shrimp with a giant head he sees is a human being in the making: his and Sherlock's own personal miracle. A son. A daughter. Already equipped with everything it needs to develop into a perfectly formed baby in a few months, then a child, and an adult. A person.

Dr. Brown is quick to reassure them that everything is fine, the placenta's location on the back of the uterus ideal, and Sherlock's estimation of the embryo's age is spot on.

John takes Sherlock's hand. He still cannot tell what’s going on in his mind. His face is very tense, and there is a frown forming in the crease of his eyebrows.

"Look at it Sherlock. It's a tiny human being, someone we made together," John whispers, as much as to express his own emotions and let Sherlock know how he feels, as to see Sherlock's reaction.

He actually closes his eyes. "John. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? The embryo is barely the size of a lentil, and the chances of miscarriages at this point are still too great for us to ignore: given my age, they are even more important. I think we should consider it as it is: an embryo, which would most probably help us dealing if it were to-"

Sherlock's rapid, cold voice is cut out by a loud static noise. He opens his eyes and turns them towards the screen. John can see his mouth opening slowly as a violent blush crawls up his cheeks. The static is cut out by a rapid, regular noise: the familiar thumping of a beating heart. It's loud, and quick.

Sherlock's fingers wrap themselves around John's and their hold tightens until his nails are digging in the skin. The other hand grabs the paper sheet with a loud ruffling noise, crumpling it in his fist.

Not only do they hear the heartbeat, but Dr. Brown has isolated the image that takes all the screen now, of a still blurry beating heart that is perfectly formed and pumping. John swallows back the knot of emotions and clears his throat.

"How many beat per minute?"

"Almost a hundred and twenty, it's perfect. As for the heart, you can see it is also normal, no malformations or holes. Your baby is doing great."

"Embryo," Sherlock cuts her off in a whisper.

"We really are having a baby," John mutters, to himself mostly. How can he still be surprised by the fact?

"Technically, I am having a baby," Sherlock says harshly. “Unless you want to climb here with me and have a probe shoved so far up your arse you feel like vomiting.”

"I think we're done," Dr. Brown says softly.

John decides to let it go and leaves Sherlock to dress himself. He's visibly overwhelmed and needs time to process. Hell, John himself does. Seeing the living proof of the beginning of a life, rather than just knowing about it, is another game entirely.

Dr. Brown is still speaking, giving away information and advice as if they are candy, reminding him to schedule another appointment, and not to forget to wait for the nurse to take the necessary blood sample before they leave. John nods, a tad dizzy, impatient to be left alone with Sherlock.

Sherlock pushes back the curtain with way too much force. He adjusts his shirt, carefully ignoring John's piercing gaze. Apparently, he's decided to hide, deep behind his walls, under his armour.

The blood draw seems to last forever. The nurse has trouble finding a good vein. At some point, Sherlock hisses and snaps.

"You are a butcher," he snarls." Get the other arm. I am an ex drug addict. Those veins are ruined. Oh, stop looking at me like that, and get the hell on with it!"

He was going for shocking and it works. The nurse switches arms and finally gets a good vessel, although both her hands are trembling enough for John to feel the need to reassure her. "You are doing good. Ignore my fiancé's outburst, he's had a bad day."

She smiles, eyes watery, and uses the last tube, barely taking the time to put a Band-Aid on Sherlock's arm before she disappears.

"You shouldn't have," he says while Sherlock rolls down his sleeves.

Then he's up, sliding into his Belstaff, still ignoring John.

John grabs his arm. "Sherlock, slow down. What is it? Listen, I know it's a big deal, listening to the heartbeat of the baby for the first-"

"Stop being so bloody condescending. It's annoying, that patient tone you use as if I am as fragile as glass. I am not. " Sherlock yells, yanking his arm away.

"Okay, then, what the hell is wrong with you? I thought you wanted this."

"I need air," Sherlock mumbles, walking past him without slowing down.

He's walking back and forth on the pavement when John joins him. His hands are shoved in his pocket, he's mumbling to himself.

"Sherlock, let's grab a cab."

"Nope. Need some exercise. Let's walk."

Of course, he doesn't wait for John to voice his opinion. He just starts walking, fast, bumping shoulders with at least two people in his determination to keep on going, straight ahead, in the opposite direction of Baker Street. John closes his eyes and breathes slowly through his nose. He never thought it would be easy, right?

"Where are we going?" He asks, short of breath, when he catches up with him.

"I don't know, where do you want to go?" Sherlock snaps at him.

"Home."

"Then go, we are not attached to the hip, John, we still are two separates individuals. You tend to forget it."

"You tend to be a dick when you're upset."

"I am not upset!" Sherlock yells, lifting both arms in the air.

"No. Of course not."
"I want to feel like myself for at least a couple of minutes, that would be nice," Sherlock adds, and his pace slows down. A little.

"Ok."

"And it is impossible, don’t you get it? There is no... me anymore. There is me, and... that."

He points at his stomach.

"Yes, you're right."

"Of course I am bloody right!" Sherlock roars. "But what would you know, huh? It is so easy for you to comfort me and to stand by, acting like a damn idiot in front of a computer screen, father to be, witnessing the MIRACLE OF LIFE! At the end of the day, nothing has changed for you. Nothing."

"Sher-"

"All I wanted was time. I was doing good, you know," Sherlock keeps going, panting between bitten off sentences. "I had decided not to allow myself to feel anything regarding what is, after all, an embryo that you would barely be able to see with the naked eye. Better this way. It is better," he repeats, as if John had wanted to protest. "What good would it do to get attached to it when the chances of me ejecting it are so high? It gave me time to think, to make room for...in my mind, in my... ridiculous mind palace, as you so kindly put it."

Sherlock hits a small pebble with his foot, like a recalcitrant kid. "I actually am thinking of rearranging the whole place," he mumbles.

That is where John makes a mistake. The snort that escapes out of him isn't voluntary. Put it to nervousness; he is certain he wasn't finding it funny until his body decided otherwise.

"Sorry! Sorry, I..."

Sherlock stops in his tracks. He walks up to John, as tall and intimidating as he can be. His nostrils are flaring, he has his "I am with stupid" expression.

"You think it is funny? That I can't seem to get a hold on reality... That this whole... baby thing is messing with me so badly I cannot think properly anymore. It's hilarious, John. You must have had a blast seeing me with my legs up in the air trying to keep my composure while a doctor was putting her fingers there. Oh, god, what a bloody joke, the great Sherlock Holmes discussing the weather while having his arse dilated and lubricated. How did you manage not to crack, please tell me."

"Sherlock," John says, trying to remain calm. "I am sorry I laughed, it wasn't funny. I know it is hard for you and-"

"You. Have. No. Idea."

Each word is accompanied by a finger shoved into John's chest, enough for it to hurt.

"I am losing myself," Sherlock hisses. "I can't control anything anymore. I am not fit to care for myself, how can you do this to me? Make me believe I am that formidable person, courageous, selfless; thinking -and convincing me- that I can actually do this, carry a child and then care for it. The worst of it is that most of the time, it works. I am so stupid, I feel good about myself, and I am actually looking forward to all that is to come. And then, something like... the bloody heartbeat of a lentil has reality coming back to slap me in the face because I have. No idea. What I'm doing. And you -you, John, dear John, always so comforting and positive because you are enough of an idiot to think I am worth it, that I won't screw this up. How dare you say you know what I am going through with your tiny, boring brain.”

It hurts. John knows Sherlock is upset enough to let the monster out, to be that mean, intolerable jerk staring at everyone like he's a damn god. The monster who actually enjoys being called a freak, who laughs when he makes someone cry. Of course, John knows. He knows too well why Sherlock built this façade in the first place, how many times he was hurt, before deciding to be the one hurting others, flipping the table, becoming unattainable, a man made of ice with all hell's fires burning him inside.

John knows. Sherlock suffers, someone has to pay. And all that knowledge doesn't help, because yes, it still hurts.

"You know," he whispers, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. "Sometimes, you make it very difficult for me to love you"

John regrets it the second the words leave his mouth. Sherlock looks back at him, blinking, slowly.

When he begins to speak, his voice is nothing but a tired murmur. "John... listen..." He doesn't go farther. He rolls his eyes, sniffs, and grabs his mobile phone from his pocket. "Lestrade," he says. "He has something for me."

Sherlock looks up at John, eyes wide and lost. John isn't ready to share, to comfort, to be what Sherlock needs. He cannot simply ignore what has just happened. He has an excuse, right? After all, he isn't good with those things. Neither is Sherlock, anyway.

God, he's tired.

"So, let's go. The Work cannot wait," he says stiffly, looking for a cab.

"I can go alone," Sherlock proposes without looking at him.

"Yes, well, you are still carrying my baby, and a madman, so I'm coming."

It was meant to sound lighter, almost as a joke, but it doesn't, at least to John's ears. Sherlock nods, though, and closes himself completely.

Well done, John thinks.

And he can't even tell which one, whether it’s Sherlock or himself, he's addressing.

Chapter Text

(there is a utrasound in the next chaper. Yay!)

Chapter Text

5.
John has never been so frustrated with a case, and it's enough for him to decide never to write it down on his blog, despite Sherlock having labelled it a "solid eight" and many bizarre elements that would have made a great story. He wants to forget it, the sooner the better.

His frustration doesn't really have to do with the case itself, if John is honest, but with the bloody fight he and Sherlock had gotten into after their first medical appointment. In the cab ride to the crime scene following Lestrade's call, they had shared awkward apologies, but it had been done too quickly for it to really count. Then, the Work had needed Sherlock's complete attention and focus.

For. Eleven. Bloody. Days.

John had tried to bring the subject up a couple of times when he had realised that the more time passed, the more difficult it would be to discuss their confrontation, but Sherlock had cut his tentative attempts short, because it was "distracting him from the case."

Well, John had gotten the message loud and clear. Sherlock was closing himself off to him once more -it hadn't happened in a long time. Apparently, John only had to lower his guard down for it to come back and bite him in the arse. The nature of the case hadn't helped. Sherlock had spent most of those eleven days playing an online game called Drake Invasion to track a murderer that hadn't taken lightly to being cheated by two teenagers that were able to crack the game code. John's help had consisted of putting food near Sherlock on a regular basis -he had eaten, although not much, breaking his ‘no food when Working’ rule. John suspects it had been more to avoid another fight with him than to keep himself healthy. That is probably also why he had taken a few hours away from the game each day, to sleep. It doesn't change the fact that once the murderer is caught and they are debriefing in Lestrade's office, Sherlock's skin looks waxy, his eyes are hollow and his usual energetic way of moving around had completely disappeared. He's unusually quiet and still, which he never his, not when it is time to savour a victory.

Finally, they are free to go home.

Home.

John stands up and represses a yawn. He nods at Greg who is in the middle of his usual monologue about calling him next time before scheduling a meeting with a bloody murderer with an inclination toward gutting his victims.

Of course, Sherlock is already in the corridor, putting on his coat.

Neither him nor John speak as they make their way outside, then in a cab. John gets himself ready for his detective's post victory bragging, but no. Sherlock keeps quiet, looking outside, forehead pressed against the glass window. After five long, very long minutes, John starts to feel it again, another kind of tension, different from the one in Lestrade's office. There is something like an invisible barrier between them. John hates it.

"Stop the car!"

John gasps, surprised by Sherlock's urgent scream.

"Sherlock what?"

But Sherlock is knocking frenetically at the glass panel, his face a pasty white. He pushes John's caring hand away when the cab comes to a halt and opens the door, bending over the dirty sidewalk, one foot on the ground, the other still in the cab, holding onto the opened door.

He's almost silent, but the way his upper body convulses leaves no doubts. He's being sick.

"Oi, is he alright?" The cab driver asks in the rearview mirror.

"Yes just... wait a second, ok?"

John gets out of the car and walks around the back, taking a pack of tissues out of his pocket. He crouches near Sherlock and gives him a couple of tissues, waiting patiently while he wipes his face and mouth.

"Alright?" He asks after a few seconds.

"Yes," the answer is almost inaudible. Suddenly struck with a powerful wave of affection, John lays his hand on Sherlock's trembling back, rubbing large circles on it.

"I know you've been feeling sick for the past couple of days," John murmurs. "It's one of the most common symptoms, you know."

"I know."

Sherlock is already straightening himself. He shakes off John's hand too quickly for it to be casual, and sits back.

"You're sure you're good to go?"

"What does it matter to you?" Sherlock snaps.

John sighs, long and deep. Nope, nothing is right between them right now. He closes Sherlock's door and gets back into the cab.

"Crackers," he says after another few minutes of uneasy silence. "Especially when you wake up, which well... doesn't really matter since you basically don't sleep. Crackers, lots of water, and of course, you should never work on an empty stomach. It's always been wrong, but now it will worsen your symptoms."

"You are not my doctor," Sherlock hisses.

"Sherlock-"

"John, let it go."

John lets it go, but only because he's not especially fond of fighting in front of the cabbie.

It is clear the end of the case is doing nothing to soften Sherlock's mood. He has had two weeks to lock himself away, and now, John is worried he might not be able to find back his way back to Sherlock's heart. He should have acted sooner, he knows that now.

Caught up in his thoughts, John doesn't realise the cab has come to a stop until cold air hits his face. Sherlock is already out, unlocking the front door, and the cabbie waits impatiently for John to pay the fare.

Sherlock takes the stairs two by two while John is dragging himself. The flat is cold and dark, almost... unwelcoming. John feels a bit sorry for himself. While Sherlock monopolises the bathroom to take a shower, he lights up a fire and sits in his chair, waiting for the flames to warm him up, so that at least he feels a little less miserable. He might have dosed off, but not for long. He shakes himself awake when Sherlock reappears in the sitting room, and John, surprised, notices the fresh clothes he's changed into -no dressing gown and old pyjamas, but one of his clean and crisp dark suits.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes."

Sherlock walks past him and grabs his coat from the floor.

"Where?"

"St Bart's. Molly texted me yesterday to ask for my help. Something about a chemical component she cannot identify."

John stands up, rubbing at his forehead. There is a headache hovering behind his eyes that is just waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Sherlock it's half past eight. All you’ve had to eat today is an apple and a plate of ginger nut biscuits."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replies, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

."Ok. Enough. You aren't going anywhere."

Sherlock freezes, and John, quite surprised himself at his own commanding voice, stands up straighter.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You aren't helping Molly, you are running away from me. Don't make me spell it out to you, please. You have to eat. You have to get some rest. It isn't just about you anymore, Sherlock, even though we've been acting that way for the past couple of weeks, the baby is still there, you know."

"Oh, thank you John, once again, for your formidable insights!"

John knows Sherlock well enough to detect a hint of distress in his usual sarcastic voice. He can also see it in his eyes, a glimpse of uncertainty, and pain.

"Let's not play this game anymore. It never was funny to begin with."

"I wasn't aware we were playing a game so it hardly concerns me. I have more pressing matters to attend to nevertheless, so I'm going to leave you to your nonsense."

John breathes loudly through his nose, determined to keep calm.

"You need to stop, Sherlock. Please."

"Oh for goodness sake, stop what? WHAT, JOHN?"

Sherlock has gone from cold, calculated calm to fury in an instant, yelling two inches away from John's face, so angry his lips are trembling with it.

John isn't impressed. "Stop. Pushing me away."

"I am not-"

"Yes, you are! You are. You try to go on like we didn't have that nasty fight the other day, like it hasn't overwhelmed you to hear the baby's heart, enough for you to have a breakdown right in the middle of the street, and-"

Sherlock decides then to push John away, literally, planting both hands on his chest and going for it with a growl. John stumbles back, falling in his chair so violently it almost flips backward.

"I am behaving just like you want me to," Sherlock hisses, his mouth quirking into an ugly grimace, his eyes full of angry tears.

"What, like an arsehole?"

Damn it. Nice, John. Very nice.

Sherlock snorts, then shakes his head slowly.

"No," he says softly. "Like the man you have so much trouble loving."

John doesn't answer immediately, trying to process how awful those words sound when someone else says them. And because of it, of the frightening heaviness of the guilt that settles on his chest, it gives Sherlock the two seconds he needs to walk away. John barely has time to say his name before the door slams shuts.

::: :::

Three hours later, John texts Sherlock - no answer. Five minutes later, he calls him and is directed immediately to his voicemail, which is full, of course, so he can't even leave a message.

John drinks another scotch.

He shouldn't worry. Sherlock is angry. Plus, he tends to lose all sense of time when he's at the morgue's laboratory.

Why is his heart pounding so hard, then, and his palms sweaty, enough that his glass slips and he straightens his hold just in time?

The hell with it. He should call Molly. It's past midnight, but if Sherlock is still at Bart's, she will be too. It's not like it would be the first time Sherlock kept her up until the middle of the night because he needs assistance. It's also not like she would say no to him.

The hour is not what makes John hesitate. The situation with Molly is... delicate. She's been fragile, after the beginning of Sherlock and John's relationship, and without being angry or upset with John, it was evident she felt uneasy around him, especially if Sherlock was present (a nicer Sherlock, who had finally realised how badly he had treated Molly and played with her heart as a means to an end.) She has come to warm up to John, though, and can even interact with Sherlock without being a blushing, stuttering mess.

It doesn't change the fact that John usually prefers not to discuss his relationship with Sherlock with her, and had advised Sherlock to do the same. It would only be like pouring salt in the wound, engaging her into something she knows she can never have.

After another second of hesitation, John downs his scotch and calls her. It rings four times before a very, very sleepy Molly answers.

"Sherlock? Why would he come here?"

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You are definitely not at the morgue. I thought perhaps you had fallen asleep waiting for Sherlock to be done. Was he still there when you left or-"

"I haven't seen Sherlock today. I'm still waiting for him to reply to my message about that chemical irregularity. Is something the matter?"

John babbles something about a case which Molly doesn't question -most probably because she's still half asleep. John hangs up, throws his mobile on the table and curses loud and crude. Sherlock just broke his promise.

A few months ago, Sherlock had found himself locked in the trunk of a car by a criminal who for once had anticipated his next move instead of the other way around. When Lestrade and John had found him, he was starting to show signs of hypothermia and lack of oxygen. The doctor part of John's brain had insisted on analysing the situation. Another hour and they would have found Sherlock's body.

Just another hour.

None of it would have happened if Sherlock had told someone where he was going, but John had been sick with a stomach bug, and Sherlock, always so impatient, had decided to pursue his investigation alone despite agreeing to wait for John.

John had yelled at him until his voice broke, burning with anger, but mostly fear, and it must have been impressive because Sherlock had understood. Hadn't even tried to argue. In fact, he had been the one to promise he wouldn't lie again about his whereabouts, and he had respected his promise up until now.

Of course, the situation is different, as they are not currently on a case, but it only makes things worse because it means Sherlock has run away. Literally. Angry at John, hurt, and tired. Oh, and pregnant.

John cannot help but imagine the worse, in the form of a needle piercing Sherlock's perfect, alabaster skin. He blushes at the thought, ashamed that he doesn't trust Sherlock more, not on that particular matter.

What does it matter anyway? John won't wait for him to come back on his own terms. He isn't the patient, often clueless flatmate of a brilliant mind he could only admire. Hasn't been in a long time.

::: :::

Three days - that is what it takes to find Sherlock. John tries alone, at first, scouting his usual hiding paces he knows about (he's not stupid enough to think Sherlock hasn't kept some for himself), then turning to his homeless network. He finds few -they are, as Sherlock says, anonymous shapes moving all over the city, invisible to most. It is true, John has trouble remembering faces and names -codenames, for all he knows- and it seems a new one pops up every time Sherlock needs it. And those whom he talks to only have an obscure answer for him.

You don't find Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes finds you. Or it's alternate version: You find Sherlock when he wants you to find him. Bloody Sherlock and his sense of drama. John comes close to hitting one of his precious "ears around the city" who keeps silent and smiling two inches away from his face, if only to relieve some stress. He doesn't. He figures it would be awkward, when he tries to reconcile with his lover, to admit he has lost a spy because of John's temper.

John calls Lestrade, but only to ascertain that he hasn't contacted Sherlock for another case. He won't display his and Sherlock's domestic drama for the Yard to enjoy.

And then, twenty-four hours have passed and Sherlock is still nowhere to be seen. The only logical thing to do next is to call Mycroft.

Their conversation is short, unsurprisingly. How can it be otherwise when Mycroft doesn't even wait for John to say hello before asking: "How long has he been gone?"

John explains. Mycroft interrupts and tells the rest of the story. "You prefer to be discreet about it, but you would like me to use my resources and help you get my brother back. But, John, we both know Sherlock, twenty-four hours is hardly a reason to worry."

John bites his lips. He doesn't want to say it out loud, it would feel like betraying Sherlock. "Well... it's different, he is pregnant, and we..."

"You're afraid he went to get a fix."

(Well, I did visit three different drug dens, and I've never been happier to not find Sherlock...)

"No. Yes. Oh, fuck, I don't know Mycroft. He's upset, and he just got off an eleven-days long case, and... It has been hard on him and I haven't... I don't know, pushed enough to get through to-"

"I'll keep you informed on my progress."

Another day passes. Which is enough for John to have his own little meltdown right in front of Mycroft, who's had the sensitivity to stop at the flat in person to inform him of his progress, or in that case, absence of. It's four in the afternoon. And John is drunk.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, it's been two days! Aren't you supposed to be the British government? How can you monitor your brother's life with an obsessive accuracy and not know where he could've gone? Jesus CHRIST!"

"Sherlock has spent his life inventing new ways of hiding from me, John, he is not exactly an idiot."

"Oh, really? Because I thought he was an idiot, compared to your magnificent fucking brain! You've been saying it often enough until you were certain he believed it and NOW, DAMN IT! God knows what state he is in!"

"John. I am going to walk out this instant if you don't sit down and calm yourself. I do not have the energy, nor the interest, to get into a useless fight with you."

It takes every bit of self-control that John possesses not to reply. He knows Mycroft is right. That is the thing. Mycroft hasn't done anything wrong. He is just... insufferably calm.

John apologises and falls back in his chair, looking for his Scotch glass.

"John... has Sherlock been smoking since he’s known about his pregnancy?"

"No."

John is too tired to question the abrupt change of subject.

"Not even one?"

"No, not even one."

That is one thing Sherlock cannot hide from John. He can chew gun or change his clothes, the smell and the taste of tobacco have a way of lingering long after the cigarette has been finished.

"What about... tea? Isn't the caffeine contained in it severely restricted for a pregnant person's consumption?"

"Hum, yes, just like coffee. He asked me about it, and had me buy him decaffeinated tea, but then he found a way to withdraw the caffeine himself from his favourite brands."

For a second, there is the shadow of a smile on Mycroft's face.

"He's not using, John."

John stares at Mycroft for a long time. He thinks he gets it. That's how it goes with addictive personalities. It's rarely just a single addiction. It's a way of living. It doesn't matter in the end, the level of seriousness, or danger, of said addiction, it all comes back to one's determination and capacity to resist.

"No, I don't think he is," John murmurs, his voice breaking over the incredible amount of relief flowing through him. The alcohol he's been ingesting since noon seems to double its effects, as John's body melts into his chair.

"Now, I think you might be able to get some sleep, which you have been unable to in the past two days. You should take the opportunity, while you don't have my brother to deal with. As for myself, I will approach the problem differently. I believe it is time for me to do some legwork, as much as I despise it."

John nods. Surprising, Mycroft using his precious intellect for comfort (although it is ultimately not to have to deal with a hysterical fiancé), and providing exactly what John had needed, a psychological technique Ella would surely find useful. Yes, the ever-surprising Mycroft Holmes, living in a world of-

"Goldfish," John smiles.

"Goldfish? Sherlock told you about that?" Mycroft might be blushing slightly, which reminds John of Sherlock and his sometimes paralysing shyness. God, he wishes he could hold him right now.

John is aware that Mycroft is getting ready to leave. He is also aware he's going to sleep, there is no way around it. Exhaustion wins. He articulates a slurred "Thank you" for the older Holmes and doesn't catch the answer, or maybe there isn't anything to catch.

Something warm is laid upon him, the couch's blanket. John thinks he should be surprised -again, it's getting old- but he just doesn't have the strength.

::: :::

John sleeps for seven hours. As soon as he realises it, he first panics (how could he sleep peacefully when Sherlock is god knows where), then remembers Mycroft and checks his phone frantically. He has three texts informing him that so far, there is little progress.

John knows there is little he can do. Hours stretch. He paces. Mycroft texts once more to say he might be onto something, then goes radio silence. Night falls upon John's anxiety, increasing it. He nods on and off, jerking awake as soon as he feels himself going deeper.

It’s almost a shock when his mobile rings.

"Mycroft! I was about to call the Yard. Where have you been?" He practically yells into the phone.

"I found him," Mycroft replies, a little short of breath.

"Is he ok? Where is he? Did you-"

"Sherlock is fine."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No. He doesn't know I am here. I have the feeling my presence wouldn't exactly be welcomed with joy."

"Where is he? "

"The bell tower of an abandoned church in Epping Forest. I've already sent a car for you. It should be there any minute now."

"Alright, ok, thank you Mycroft, I cannot-"

Mycroft hangs up. He doesn't deal well with thank-you's.

::: :::

The Church is not only abandoned, but isolated one mile into a deep wooded area, and it is clear, by the less than smooth driving, that the road isn't maintained anymore. The pale gibbous moon of a very dark night -it's barely two in the morning- shines over the Church's tower, painting an almost supernatural landscape.

Mycroft is leaning back against a tree, rubbing his hands together to generate some heat. When they speak, their breath comes out in white vapour.

"Still in there?"

"Yes. Careful with the stairs, keep your left."

John's hand tightens on the handle of his doctor’s case. It might be unnecessary, Sherlock is supposed to be able to care for himself, but at this point, he just doesn't want to take any risks.

"I will be going then," Mycroft says, tightening his coat around himself. When he gets in the weak light of the moon, John sees that he's wearing jeans and a thick leather coat. It is so unusual it cuts John's breath short in his throat. It's like Mycroft is playing dress up. He doesn't even have his umbrella with him.

Looking closer, John sees that Mycroft's lower lip is red and swollen, split in two.

"My god, Mycroft, what happened to you, do you want me to take a look?"

Mycroft shakes his head softly, smiles, then grimace. "It is barely a scratch, Doctor Watson. No even worth mentioning."

"What happened?"

"Sherlock isn't the only one using an unsanctioned network of informants. Let's say mine aren't used to seeing me in person, and I had to convince a couple of them to speak to me. Forcefully."

Mycroft ignores John's gaping mouth and surprised eyes. Instead, he throws a set of keys at him.

"My personal car," he says, pointing at a dark shadow on the other side of the road. "Please let me know if everything is alright."

"Thank you, Mycroft."

The other man dismisses him. Instead of going, though, he takes a cigarette packet out of his pocket and lights up one, breathing in deep the first puff with a satisfied expression on his face, just like Sherlock does.

"Sherlock is never more unkind than to the people close to him, those he cares about," he says, matter-of-factly. "I don't suppose it comes to you as a surprise? He hates caring, even more so to be cared for, because it makes him vulnerable. That is a speculation, of course -although I am rarely wrong- but he must feel utterly out of his depth as well as overwhelmed by the happenstance of his pregnancy. He now has to live with the vulnerability that comes with it for the upcoming months and he cannot do a thing about it."

"And you saw it coming?"

"Of course. Playing his little game of trying to shock me was barely a distraction he desperately needed. He hadn't told you any of it, because Sherlock's natural, almost instinctual reaction to vulnerability is to close himself off. Even to you. He does it, until he cannot anymore, and then it bursts. My little brother likes to think of himself as an iceberg, wherein he is, in fact, more like a volcano."

John nods, biting his lips. "I told him he makes it difficult for me to love him," he admits, unable to sustain Mycroft's stare.

"Of course he does," Mycroft says simply, as if stating a proven fact.

John nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"John," Mycroft adds, throwing his glowing cigarette butt into the night. "I am not one to judge you. No one should. Sherlock is a master when it comes to hurting other people's feelings. Call it a defence mechanism, if you will."

Mycroft stretches his hand toward John. "I'll be on my way then."

John shakes his hand, startled by warmness of the gesture. Does he know anything at all about Mycroft Holmes, besides what he has learned to see through Sherlock's eyes?

"I will text you later," he tells him. Then, Mycroft disappears into the car that brought John to Sherlock's hiding place, and he finds himself alone.

He doesn't waste any time, jogging to the front door that's fallen on the side, using the light of his mobile to avoid doing something stupid like breaking a leg because he can't see where he is going.

"Sherlock?" He calls.

::: :::

It is a small, circular room, with an old, thick rope passing through the middle, which John guesses was used for bell ringing. There is no electricity, but a small radiator and a couple of kerosene lamps. The furniture consists of a small desk, a chair, and a mattress mounted on an old camp-bed frame. This is where Sherlock is, lying down on his back under a couple of rough woollen blankets, arms crossed behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. On the desk, there are several bottles of water, some of them empty, and a metal box that, John guesses, might contain biscuits.

"About time you showed up, Mycroft was freezing down there," Sherlock says. There is the usual arrogance in his voice, but it's toned down, and Sherlock's voice is higher than usual, higher and breaking.

John waits a second. He doesn't want to screw this up. Better start slowly.

"I didn't know you had this place too. It doesn't seem used a lot."

Other hiding place have electricity and wifi. They are located in the heart of the city. Hiding in plain sight.

John sits himself on the chair, leaning back against Sherlock's coat hanging off it. The unique smell it exudes has John burning with the need to bring his lover back home, or -much better- go back in time to the moment of the fight and act differently.

"I've have it for a long time," Sherlock says, still staring at the ceiling. "It was one of my first, and it wasn't the safest, nor the closest, so I gradually abandoned it. It's the only reason Mycroft didn't know about it."

Sherlock sits abruptly on the side of the bed. He then begins to roll up the sleeves of his crumpled shirt, one after the other. "Let's get this over with," he murmurs.

It's only when he presents the underside of both arms that John realises what he is supposed to look at. He turns his head with determination.

"Sherlock, you don't have to do this, it-"

"Very well then, what do you want?" Sherlock lays his hands on his thighs, all business and detachment, even while wearing only his shirt and his pants, showing his light stubble, chapped lips, dark circles under his eyes, and his usually impeccable hair plastered in drab and broken curls on his head.

John is worried.

"Would you let me examine you?"

"Of course, it is not like you need my permission, part of me is yours now," Sherlock snarls, his voice still a murmur.

John kneels in front of Sherlock. "It is not the baby I worry about, Sherlock. I know it is safe with you. But whatever it needs, it's going to take it from you. Your baby is your body's priority. And your body doesn't care if you lack the essentials, as long as the baby gets what it needs."

While speaking, John takes Sherlock's pulse. It is a bit weak, and quick. There is no surprise there. He's been diagnosing Sherlock with malnutrition and dehydration regularly ever since they moved in together.

"That's the thing, with you. You don't have reserves to palliate for this kind of situation," John thinks out loud.

His voice is soft. He had been angry at some point, but it's gone now. All John feel is relief.

He listens to Sherlock's lungs, searches for swollen glands in the neck area, then he tests the pupil dilation. It is a little slow, but it might only be because Sherlock has spent many hours in the darkness, and is lacking sleep.

All in all, what Sherlock needs is some food and water. Nothing unusual there.

John takes a fresh bottle of water from his case and throws it in Sherlock's direction.

"Drink."

Sherlock doesn't protest before having downed half of the bottle.

"Just so you know, John, I did hydrate as much as I could, but being sick every four hours or so makes it difficult to keep a balance."

"Every four hours? Since that time in the cab?"

Sherlock nods. John sighs and sits next to him on the bed, the frame letting out a loud creak.

"Maybe it is not morning sickness, maybe you caught a bug."

Sherlock shrugs. "It doesn't feel like a stomach flu."

"Look at me," John asks.

Sherlock seems like he's about to close himself off again. John takes his chin between his fingers and initiates the movement. Sherlock follows.

John whispers, feeling like Sherlock's attentive gaze is piercing his soul. "There is something I want to say, and I should've say it way sooner. For that, I am sorry."

"John, let's not," Sherlock demands, almost pleading.

"No we have to. We do."

Sherlock gets out of John's soft grasp and makes a move to stand up, but John has seen it coming and is quick to grab him by the upper arms, careful not to hurt him but holding him with enough strength that Sherlock would need to fight to free himself; John knows he doesn't have the energy.

"Before you left, you said I had trouble loving you, but it's not the words I used two weeks ago."

Sherlock is staring at the wall, working hard not to look at John, his chin high and his expression disdainful. Except... the way he blinks is like he wants to hold back tears, and his chest rises quickly, unevenly.

"I said you made it difficult for me to love you."

Sherlock tenses all over.

"... and I am sorry for that. It might be true, but I am still sorry. You were upset, you took it out on me. It's your oldest trick, but I still fell for it. I shouldn't have."

Sherlock takes a long, shuddering breath. "You were right, I was being an arsehole. You are not an idiot, John."

"I know I'm not."

And there it is, the hint of a smile on Sherlock's still trembling lips. He moves his head as if he wants to look at John, but he's not there yet, and lowers his eyes to his thighs.

"I don't even realise I'm doing it," he admits. "It is such an old defence mechanism I am having a hard time getting rid of it."

"Doing what?"

"Making people around me miserable, because that is how I feel. It is such childish behaviour. You are right; sometimes I make it difficult for you to love me, despite the fact that I would most probably die if you were to leave."

"Don't say things like that," John protests. "And look at me, please."

Sherlock does. He has wide, innocent eyes, this look he reserves for when he lays himself bare, figuratively, for John. He cannot help but kiss his chapped lips. It makes Sherlock shiver.

"I will never not love you, Sherlock. I don't have any control over it. You shouldn't have taken off like that. We are adults. We talk. And if we come to it, we fight. I thought your fugues were behind us."

"They were."

Sherlock rearranges his hands on his lap. "I couldn't stand it; my head was so full it was impossible for me to think rationally."

"I just want you to come home. You can freak out about the pregnancy all you want. You can be mad at me, you can call me an idiot and yell and torture me with your violin You were right, you know? I don't know how it is, for you. I can't know. I'm not stupid enough to think it's me you're really mad at. Let me just... when you suffer, keep using me as an outlet, I don't mind. I just want to do what I can to make it easier for you, Sherlock."

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispers, shaking his head softly. "What happened between us was a shared fault. Do not think you deserve any of the rubbish I laid upon you just because you cannot - and I mean because it is impossible- understand what being pregnant feels like."

He's shaken by a strong shiver that ends in an almost inaudible moan.

"Can we discuss this on the way home?" John asks, letting go of Sherlock's arms. He wants him to eat and to rest. The hardest part of the conversation seems to be over, and the doctor in John reminds him to get his priority straight.

"I wouldn't say no to a bath," Sherlock agrees.

He stands up and immediately grabs at John's shoulder, oscillating from one foot to the other. "I'm ok, headrush, is all," he murmurs quickly before John can protest.

John is up and supporting him in no time. Sherlock shakes. Yes, more than time to go home. He's going to have him eat a chocolate bar on the way back.

Sherlock complies. He eats slowly while John drives through the night. They don't talk any more, but the silence between them is, for the first time in two weeks, comfortable.

::: :::

At five that morning, John hears one courageous bird chirping in the cold rising sun. Sherlock has bathed and eaten in front of John's ever-attentive eyes. He threw up once more sometime after, but John is confident he kept enough nutrients inside. They haven't spoken of their fight, both careful to keep the conversation light, bickering softly, tip toeing around each other, but in a good way. Then, John declares Sherlock is ready to go to bed, and Sherlock doesn't complain, just follows him obediently, his cold, long fingers trapped in John's warmer hold.

"I do wish we could have a little slack from the Yard," John admits, lowering the duvet of the freshly made bed.

"Well, criminals are rarely tactful enough to wait for me to be at the top of my game," Sherlock jokes weakly.

He takes off his dressing gown, revealing his beautiful but definitely too-thin pale body, his stomach still hollow despite the pregnancy. Sherlock is wearing nothing underneath. Recently, he has taken up sleeping in the nude -as it apparently was his habit when he was living alone. John loves it. He takes his spot, lying on his left side and widening his arm in invitation. Sherlock joins him, folding himself easily into the little spoon position while John covers the both of them.

"John," Sherlock whispers after a few minutes of leisurely cuddles, sights and groans of satisfaction.

"What?"

John is absently drawing small circles on Sherlock's stomach. He likes how it quivers from the simplest touch.

"Would you mind having sex? I know you are aroused."

John snorts. He's barely hard -just a little plump, mostly because of the way Sherlock's arse is leaning on his crotch. "Wouldn't you prefer to sleep, first? You seem exhausted."

"No, I find myself to be more aroused than tired."

"So, a simple logical equation, right?" John cannot hide the smile in his voice.

Sherlock turns his head toward him. "Yes. Besides, sleep comes easily to me after an orgasm.” He closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he's once again showing himself bare to John in absolute trust. "Please," he croaks. "I need this."

"I always need it," John goes with it easily. They are both safe in bed, after all. He cannot refuse Sherlock, when he asks, because he doesn't do it often, and John knows how much courage it takes him.

The position Sherlock hints at was one of his favourites when they first began their sexual relationship, and John suspects that it was more relaxing for him, needing not to sustain his gaze, when everything was new and too intense. Once he's undressed they keep spooning. John wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist and finds his cock filling up quickly. He just holds it in his hand, marvelling at the pressure that grows steadily, the blood flow warming the skin, while tiny jerks course through it each time John moves his fingers. Sherlock sighs deeply, turning his head to get a kiss, which John provides, groaning in his throat at how good it feels. Two weeks. It's been too long -not only for sex, of course, but yes... John has missed the sex. He begins stroking Sherlock's penis, getting him to moan in pleasure, which makes him turn his head back to shove it in the pillow. John is almost as hard, now, moving his hips with agility to make his cock nudge between Sherlock's arse cheeks until it gets trapped between them and slides in easily, aided by the abundant natural lubricant Sherlock secretes. The smell is stronger, the fluids thicker, and it will remain that way until the end of the pregnancy. John sometimes feels drunk on it, and tastes it each time he has a chance.

John is close enough now that the head of his cock catches Sherlock's hot, fluttering hole. It's dilated, ready to take him, but tonight John is content to just tease the rim now and then, enjoying the high-pitch "oh's" it produces from Sherlock.

Sherlock moves a little, now, pushing his hips back, lazy and slow, undulating like a snake bathing in the sun. It's good, almost peaceful. Sherlock loves it when they make it last, and this position favours it as well.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you doubt my desire? To keep the baby, that is..."

John isn't surprised anymore when Sherlock starts a conversation in the middle of sex. He's getting good at multitasking. He has to. Because this is how sex goes with Sherlock, and John wouldn't change a thing.
He tightens his hold around the burning, velveteen flesh of Sherlock's shaft, presses a soft kiss to his shoulder.

"No. Of course not."

"That’s good, because I feared you would, after my... reaction to the sonogram."

"Sherlock, it's all fine. We don't need to-"

"We never finished our conversation in the church, and there is something I would very much like to say."

John doesn't miss the soft plead behind Sherlock's casual tone. "Ok. Go on."

"What the sonogram triggered in me, the incredible emotional response I am certain you felt too, quickly turned to fear. I was already... troubled by the feeling of not being myself. Deeply troubled. Then, seeing and hearing the embryo, so very much alive, inside me, it seemed that I had no control over anything anymore. Because it doesn't need me, or my permission, to keep growing and to develop into a foetus that will become a baby. It kept resonating inside my head, that part of me doesn't belong to me, and it is my responsibility to be the host, to welcome that alien part. I had tried not getting attached before the beginning of the second trimester, if only for fear of suffering, psychologically, if a miscarriage were to happen. That sonogram made me realise I had failed."

"Of course you love our child, Sherlock, it shows."

John has almost stop moving, his attention directed at Sherlock, who is, basically, pouring his soul out to him. Even Sherlock, who would normally get impatient, has began softening between John's fingers. He's panting a little, but only because he often forgets to breathe when he's talking.

"It might be evident to you, John, but I am now certain I will always have difficulty understanding my emotions. Maybe it has something to do with all those years of shutting them off, or it is in fact the reason I shut them off in the first place... It feels like I would need a written manual with very detailed procedure to understand the world like... well, everyone else. Normal people."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"I know you don't mind. Where was I? Yes. Once I admitted it to myself, it got better. It's a question of acceptance, really. I cannot be the person I was before we procreated. I cannot control my transport like I used to. It is my responsibility toward our child to prioritise it, in front of everything and everyone... especially me. I accept it. It's a psychological line to cross, admitting that I cannot fail that child no matter what, because I am partly responsible for its sole existence. That is, not even considering I owe you the same. Fear held me back from crossing. Usually, I want to succeed for my own pleasure. This time, it has nothing to do with me, and all with the potential human being I'm carrying. It is selfless. By deciding, with you, to have this child, from the minute we took our decision, the crossing line was already there. I resigned and I crossed. I accepted it. I feel lighter now."

Sherlock hiccups a panting breath. John frees his arm from underneath him and runs a hand through his hair.

"And then we found you."

"No. I accepted it and five hours later than I expected, you found me. Mycroft is getting slow."

John lets out a shaky laugh and kisses Sherlock's head. "Just remember that I love you, yeah? Whatever happens, I will keep loving you. You can make it as difficult as you want, it doesn't change anything."

Sherlock sighs and pushes back against John, silently asking if they should keep going. John pushes, squeezing Sherlock's cock in the same time, and they are moving again. With more intent, as if there still had been a distance between them Sherlock needed to clear before giving himself to John completely. It's not long before he begins panting rhythmically, and his body gets covered in sweat. His deep, rumbling voice softens, gets higher. Sherlock's pleads and moans are needy little things, each of them getting John there. He groans, grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair, and moves faster. Each time his glans catches into Sherlock's rim, he could easily push in, but resisting is part of what makes it so exciting.

"John," Sherlock cries. A warning.

"Yes, love, you're getting close, aren't you?"

"Gonna come," Sherlock declares, and the time when he couldn't use that kind of vocabulary seems long ago.

"Yeah?"

John wants to hear more. Sherlock turns his head on the pillow, presenting his lovely profile to John. He's panting, mouth open, his chest moving quickly.

"Yes, don't stop, please, it... Now, John. Oh, John-"

There is, like always before he comes, a divine second where Sherlock's body arches and he sobs a series of agonizing moans. John uses it to push his shaft as much as he can, just in time to have Sherlock's muscles clamp up. He's coming, then, trapping John's cock in a series of strong contractions that wring his orgasm out of him, punching the breath out of his lungs. John's body reacts so strongly it hurts, all of his muscles tightening, and his nerves on fire. He has to concentrate to get his breathing back to normal and he is still a little dizzy when he opens his eyes, feeling endorphins starting their miraculous work.

Sherlock is not quite there. His eyes are still squeezed shut, he shakes from head to toes and lets out quiet, plaintive moans. The transition is never easy for him. John moves back a little and turns Sherlock on his back. Grey, tired eyes flash at him for a second.

"John," Sherlock croaks, pressing both hands on his eyes.

"Yes, I know,” John coaxes.

He cleans Sherlock's stomach with a bunch of tissues. Somehow, having John cleaning him up always calms Sherlock.

"You're fine, love. It's all fine."

"My John," Sherlock hums low in his throat. He's starting to relax.

Sherlock passes from post-orgasmic bliss to sleep. He's on his back, both hands relaxed each side of his head, a position mostly seen with young babies.

John spends a long time just looking at him. His mouth is slightly open, his lower lip covered in saliva. The red blotches on his cheeks will remain for a while, and their contrast with Sherlock's definitely too pale skin is almost shocking.

By God, John is glad to have him in their bed, so close to him. The relief is coupled with a more complex feeling John has trouble understanding. He replays Sherlock's speech in his head. It had seemed good, a simple growth of awareness, one of those moments when reality hits you in the face and you finally... get it. Sherlock, at least, sounded relived, didn’t he? But in the never-ending flow of his verbal onslaught, hasn't Sherlock basically decided he couldn't allow failure? To what expense?

On the other hand, John thinks... he thinks he can almost follow Sherlock's logic. It might be comforting for him, knowing the option of failing – failing what, how? - has been taken away from him. No, he doesn't think or feel like a normal person, that is one of the reasons John fell in love with him in the first place, and he wouldn't want it any other way. The problem is, although he knows Sherlock pretty well -and it hadn't been easy, deciphering his genius of a flatmate- he cannot always understand how things work in his extraordinary brain, how he thinks when he isn't explaining it out loud while making deductions. It is frustrating, at times. Like right now, when Sherlock says he feels lighter, although his conclusion about not allowing himself to fail should have instead put an incredible weight on his shoulders.

John shakes his head and presses a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock sniffs, his nose scrunching, and mumbles something that sounds like "variables." John smiles.

All I can do is watch over you, is that it? God, Sherlock, at times, you make me crazy. How is it that it's also when I love you the most

It's almost noon when John finally falls asleep. It has become normal for him too, neglecting his circadian rhythm. And he doesn't mind a bit when it means holding Sherlock into his arms.

Chapter Text

Part 3: Evolution
1.

"I'm bored."

"..."

"John. Entertain me."

"..."

"John this is ridiculous, speak to me."

John keeps staring straight in front of him, doing his best not to smile. It's a lost battle, really, with the way Sherlock huffs like a little boy. John decides to squint, staring at the road, as if driving needs all of his attention. It might work. It started to snow half an hour ago, but it is not really problematic: the flakes are sparse, dancing in the wind as if they're in no hurry to hit the ground.

Sherlock groans and lifts his legs on the edge of the seat, wrapping himself in his coat. For ten, wonderful minutes, he keeps silent.

The drive to Sherlock's parents takes almost five hours. It is the first time they have travelled there by car -which is hardly surprising, given that it is only their second visit. They borrowed Mycroft's car and left shortly after nine that morning. It's the twenty-fourth of December. Although Sherlock declares Christmas is nothing but the stupid modern commercialisation of an otherwise very interesting pagan ritual, he doesn't really hate it. Last year, he had put a lot of thought into John and Mrs. Hudson's gifts, and had composed a new melody for the event.

Sherlock's relationship with his parents is complex, for reasons John has yet to understand. They are lovely people, obviously caring a lot for their son, and have welcomed John into the family with joy -and a relatively well hidden expression of disbelief on their faces.

John suspects Sherlock's resistance might have something to do with the person it makes him: a son, always loved, sometimes scolded, who will forever remain a little boy in his parent's eyes. It's hard to keep his cold, composed persona in those occasions, and the smallest hint at affection has him fighting fiercely -yes, there, again, like a small boy. When Louisa had called to invite them over for Christmas, she had cleverly spoken with John instead of being rebuffed by her son. John had decided it would be the perfect occasion to finally tell them about Sherlock's pregnancy, mostly because he knows Sherlock would push the moment back as long as possible. He's already two weeks into his second trimester and so far, they’ve only told Mrs. Hudson, more out of necessity than anything else. With Sherlock throwing up so often, she had come to think he was severely sick and that they were hiding it to avoid upsetting her.

Her reaction had been a little intense, with the way she had hugged Sherlock as if she would never let go, and then started crying about her own lack of grandkids and the joy a "little one" would bring to 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock has avoided her ever since.

"John, I'm hungry, let's stop."

John opens his mouth, then closes it. Sherlock almost had him. He gives him a look, and sees the frustration on his face. It is hard not to brag.

John knows Sherlock is nervous, which explains his manic behaviour when they had left home. He couldn't shut up, first about their last case, then about Christmas, and then when John had proposed they play a game to pass the time, Sherlock had given him a condescending look and laughed. "Oh, really, John, your absolute lack of imagination as well as your mundane habits keep surprising me. "

He had said meaner things in the past. The truth is, John isn't angry at all. He had told Sherlock to entertain himself and not to speak to him again until the end of the journey, mostly because he thought that, maybe, Sherlock would calm down and even sleep a little. John is worried about his mother's reaction upon seeing him. Sherlock has lost ten pounds since the beginning of his pregnancy. His face, already long and angular, now seems emaciated, just like the rest of his body. His eyes are constantly sunken, dark circles under them, and the skin of his cheeks is covered of tiny red dots, due to the bursting of blood vessels during the most violent vomiting fits. John isn't sure that telling Mrs. Holmes that Sherlock is actually doing better will be enough to reassure her.

"Ok, let's play a stupid game, are you happy now?" Sherlock exclaims dramatically, as if he's just consented to a terrible sacrifice.

John frowns at him, then turns on the radio, changing channels until he finds one playing Christmas music.

"Jesus, this is hell," Sherlock mumbles under his breath, wrapping his arms tighter around his legs.

John represses a snort.

It's good to feel content and peaceful, for the first time in a month. The vomiting spells that had began plaguing Sherlock in November had soon become problematic enough to consult Dr. Brown. As it had turned out, Sherlock has been suffering from severe morning sickness, a condition that is prevalent amongst carriers. It got to a point where John had to drag him to the A&E, after Sherlock had fainted at the end of an especially violent episode. There was a limit to what John could do, at home - he could keep Sherlock hydrated, using the intravenous way if it became serious, but had no power in stopping or even diminishing the episodes that would happen several times a day.

At the hospital, Dr. Brown had told them they should have acted sooner when her initial recommendation hadn't worked. Sherlock's state was serious enough that it could endanger his life and the baby's. In his current state, he showed signs of a tear in the oesophagus and an inflammation of the gums, his electrolytes were unbalanced, he lacked iron and other vitamins -and, of course, there was the weight loss. Two days later, Sherlock had started a drug therapy, a combination of two different medications that were safe for the baby. He hadn't even protested, which John had feared he would, or required time to do his own research. John knew he had been scared, even though he tried not to show it. When you are in such a desperate state, it's difficult to keep up a façade.

John, too, has been scared. He has known cases of severe morning sickness that had been resistant to every treatment, one in particular where the birth of the baby had had to be induced, two months in advance, because both the mother’s and the child’s lives were at risk. Luckily for Sherlock, the drugs are efficient. He's been taking them for a week now and has only been sick twice. He follows the doctor's orders carefully, eating small meals several times a day, taking vitamin supplements and resting as much as he can -not that he really had the opportunity to do otherwise, with how weak he had become.

This is most probably behind them now. All Sherlock needs to do is to build up his strength. His attitude in the car today is so much him: annoying, strong-headed, attention-needy Sherlock. It makes John realise how much he has missed him, after three weeks of quietness and resignation. Is that what Sherlock was talking about, when he spoke of how accepting failure wasn't an option? John is still pondering about it, whether it is a good or a bad thing. One thing is for sure, he keeps a close watch on his lover, now more than ever.

The snow is falling harder now. John slows down a little and turns the heater up a notch. The song playing is a choir version of Good King Wenceslas; it reminds him of Christmas’s back home, of him and Harriet being forced to join the Christmas choir every year, always reluctantly, trying to get out of the obligation, although in the end, they enjoyed it very much.

John is about to turn up the volume when a soft snoring noise catches his attention. Sherlock is asleep, his head tilted to the side, nose buried in his scarf. John shuts the radio off and smiles fondly. This is not a time for nostalgia, nor a time to visit his parent's grave -so many times he did in his mind, so little in real life- or wonder about Harriet's current state. During their last conversation, she said she was spending the holidays in Paris with her new flame, whose name John has already forgotten. Harriet's speech had been slow and a little slurred, and he knew she had started drinking again. On and off, it's been going like that for years. John has learned not to hope anymore.

He shakes his head and takes another look at Sherlock. It sooths him

::: :::

Finally, around three in the afternoon, John parks the car in the Holmes' drive. They must have heard them coming, because Mrs Holmes is already out, walking down the stairs and waving.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, plants a very, very stiff smile on his face and leaves John to deal with the luggage, straightening his shoulders and back as if he's about to go into battle, and not into his mother's open arms. From the distance, John can still see his face turning bright red when he's tucked into a hug. John smiles and returns to the luggage and wrapped presents, balancing their weight between both his arms.

He doesn't see where he is going, though, so he can't help but jump in surprise when the suitcase is taken away from him. Adrian Holmes pats him on the back, then stretches his hand.

"Well, hello, John. It's very nice to see you."

John shakes the large hand, once more surprised by the strength of it despite the old man's almost fragile frame.

"Thanks for having us, sir."

They walk toward the house together, Mr. Holmes asking about the trip and the weather conditions. They are in the lobby making small talk when it occurs to John that Sherlock and his mother have yet to come inside. He takes a discreet look out the window and sees what appears as a serious discussion between them. Louisa Holmes has her hands on her hips and Sherlock keeps looking sideways, with his arms crossed in front of him, like a child being scolded. John is curious to hear them, so excuses himself from Mr. Holmes.

Outside, the wind has picked up, making leaves dance on the pavement. John has to get closer to catch what Mrs. Holmes is yelling.

"... playing those games with me, boy. You might impress your clients and the cops, but I am your mother."

"It is not a game, mummy, if you can just wait for John and I to-"

"If John is letting you have your way then I don't want to hear it. How did Mycroft not see it this time?"

"I am not on drugs!" Sherlock's voice is raising a notch, and he’s got that dangerous look in his eyes.

"Then explain to me why you look exactly like it? Do you have any ideas what it does to me to see you like this, emaciated and-”

"Mrs. Holmes," John feels the need to intervene. "I can assure you, you have the wrong idea."

"Yes, well, let her. I do not wish to explain myself any further." Sherlock retorts.

Sherlock is hurt, underneath his sudden coldness. What a stupid misunderstanding. John would be upset at Louisa Holmes, except he knows very well what it’s like to know an addict closely. How many times did Harry promise she was stopping for good, this time, and wouldn't touch another drop of alcohol in her life? Yeah, right.

Sherlock turns away from his mother and walks past John without even casting him a look. John doesn't try to hold him back, just watches him disappear inside. He supposes the pregnancy surprise is more or less ruined by now, anyway. He might have underestimated how sick Sherlock actually looks. It's always like this, with the people you see every day. Any change that is gradual goes unnoticed because you don't have the necessary detachment.

"Mrs Holmes, trust me, he is not using," he turns toward the distressed woman, going for his most comforting and convincing doctorly tone.

Louisa Holmes is a clever woman. She gives John one quick look with her fascinating eyes (those Sherlock inherited, shape and colour) and seems to understand quite a lot, suddenly.

"Oh, John, I'm horrible," she says, shoving her head into her hands. "Of course he isn't using. And now I’ve upset him, the first Christmas he comes to spend with us in years."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up. I know what it looks like."

John hesitates, then wraps an arm around her shoulders. He has only met Louisa and Adrian once before. Whereas he had felt immediately at ease with Sherlock's father, her mother is too imposing for John not to still be reserved, unsure of the boundaries of their still new relationship. He feels a wave of relief washing over him when she doesn't push him away, but instead seems to lean onto him.

"Sherlock has been ill, but he's doing better. Still, he needs to build his strength back. I assure you there is nothing to worry about."

"Is it serious?"

John sees the worry tensing Louisa Holmes's features, and figures that anyway, the surprise announcement is ruined. So he smiles. "No. Morning sickness has been hitting him hard, is all."

It is funny, seeing the expressions shift in Louisa's eyes.

"Wait? Sherlock is... You mean...?"

"Erm. Yes. Pregnant. From me. Obviously. Oh God, I did not just say that."

"I cannot believe it."

Louisa Holmes has her hands over her mouth and her eyes are wide from the surprise. She leaves John there and practically runs inside, calling Sherlock's name.

Good. John is, himself, busy blushing so fast it is borderline painful.

"Of course you are the bloody father, you stupid git," he mumbles.

::: :::

John walks the bedroom, drying his hair with his towel. Sherlock is lying over the covers of the bed, still dressed, staring at his mobile. His cheeks are pink, as much from the generous meal as from spending supper being forced to talk about babies, mood swings, and hormones.

"You did well, love," John murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can take off Sherlock's shoes.

"I assume you are referencing to our supper in family hell?" Sherlock lifts an eyebrow without looking away from his phone.

"It was lovely. Your parents are so excited."

"Yes. They are. I blame old age."

Sherlock presents his other foot to John and begins typing. John takes the socks off as well and grabs Sherlock's left big toe, twisting it.

"What are you doing... ? Aow! Stop it, John!" Sherlock sits up, securing his feet away from John.

"You are whispering," John remarks, smiling. "As if you're scared your parents will hear us."

"I am not. Stop harassing me."

"Harassing you?" John burst out laughing. "Oh, you are precious, Sherlock. Drop you damn phone, will ya? This is the first time we're sleeping in your parent's house, it's Christmas, you are doing better. Let's celebrate."

"Celebrate how?" Sherlock asks slowly, lifting an eyebrow.

"Hum, let me think... Let's have very loud sex and break the bed. Speaking of which, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping for a stay in your old bedroom, you know, to see your college trophies and some ridiculous poster on the wall, sharing a single bed that creaks each time we breath."

Sherlock allows himself to smile while undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Very well. First things first: of course, sexual intercourse is out of the question. I'll remind you that my parent's bedroom is right below ours. Second, I have no idea what you are referring too; it surely is another pop culture reference I do not get, but my old room has long since been converted into an office for my mother."

"Wow," John sighs, lying on the bed next to Sherlock, "You are boring, tonight."

Sherlock frowns again. His shirt and vest have been thrown on the floor. He lies back next to John, exposing his upper body. John tries not to stare. He knows Sherlock has become very self-conscious lately, after too many comments on his weight lost and protruding bones. John hadn't realised he was upsetting him, too busy being upset himself by said weight loss and protruding bones.

"Aren't you relieved we have told your parents?" He directs his mind -and the conversation- elsewhere.

"I am."

"Is this about the... erm..."

(Drugs, John. Come on.)

"No, I am not upset by my mother's initial assumption. It is exasperating but understandable."

"So why are you so serious tonight?"

"Thinking."

"About what?"

"Well, if you have a couple of hours..."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock gives an awfully long sigh, for better dramatic effect probably, and joins his hands together under his chin.

"With our child being born, it has become evident to me that the nature of my relationship with my parents is going to change, and I am not sure it is something I want."

John turns on his side so he can look at him. "Your parents are good people, that is what you have always said."

"Of course they are. But there is a distance between us that has always prevented that profound bound between a parent and their child I read so much about. We're different. And please don't take it the wrong way, I am not being pretentious. They are not idiots, they are just... normal, although my mother is very clever, she had a successful mathematician career before she decided to get married.”

"They love you, Sherlock."

"I am not denying that," Sherlock protests, lifting both arms in the air. "But growing up, I couldn't really get them to understand me, and it was easier to turn to Mycroft. He is seven years my elder so of course I looked up to him, he "got" me, whereas I would get so frustrated when I tried to, say, explain to my father what a waste of time school was." Sherlock snorts at the memory. "He thought I was just lazy. Gosh, it was... Just. So. Boring. Everything I was taught I already knew... Anyway... Now, things have changed. See, I have collected data about a child's upbringing, and studies prove that young children sharing healthy relationships with adults other than their parents, especially in the immediate family, but not restricted to it, highly benefit from it. Their social and intellectual development are way over the average."

"It takes a village to-"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock cuts John off. He's getting agitated. "But how am I exactly supposed to...um...frequent my parents more? I don't really know them, I wouldn't know where to start. My twenties were a bad decade for me, the worse, to be honest.”

"Drugs?"

(There you go, Watson. Wasn't that hard, was it?)

"Yes. My parents didn't have any control over me, so, in a way, they gave up -not on me, but on their ability to help -I didn't want to be helped anyway. They knew Mycroft was better equipped to look out for me. That's how it came to be how it is - a very superficial relationship, with few calls and visits. I had my Work and it suited me that way. But now...my parents obviously desire to be... involved with the baby's arrival, and everything that will follow. I don't know how to do it."

"I get it."

Sherlock gives him an annoyed look. "How can you? I barely make sense. See, this, this is the problem when it comes down to sentiment... It's all... vague and... based on impressions... Nothing is ever certain, or clear. "

Sherlock groans in frustration, and John cannot help himself, he has to kiss the frustration away from his beautiful face. Sherlock opens to him immediately, and when John pulls back, he blinks slowly at him.

"Emotions are frustrating but they feel so damn good, wouldn't you say?" John makes his point and lies back on his side, closer to Sherlock, letting his hand land on his stomach where he rubs small circle with his thumb.

Sherlock shivers and, annoyed at his reaction, keeps staring at the ceiling. But he also touches his lips, something he does when he gets aroused. John loves it, how young he seems, then, running his index finger over his swollen lower lip, his eyes darkening. It's a shame he cannot see them.

"I get it, love. Change can be stressful, but it will happen, one way or another," he whispers in Sherlock's ear, kissing it lightly. "You just have to let it. And yes, sometimes it will be difficult, but it's like that with most parents. You don't have a complicated relationship with your parents because you are a genius, Sherlock. You do because you are a son, that's it."

"Well," Sherlock pouts, "what use is my genius if it cannot help me to solve the simplest relationship problems?"

John can feel tension gradually leaving Sherlock's body. He moves his hand, feeling around Sherlock's belly, wondering if he can get away with reaching for his ribs to evaluate a potential weight gain (it's ridiculous, John knows, it's too soon, and it is becoming a compulsion he can't quite control) when something makes him change his mind. It is there, despite the hollowness of Sherlock's stomach, right below his navel. A firm, small swell, very discreet but unmistakable. John runs his fingers all around it, his breath cut short.

"Oh," he murmurs.

"What?" Sherlock lifts himself on his elbows. "What is it, John? I am usually the one saying 'oh' and then refusing to answer."

John smiles up at him and pushes back on his shoulder until Sherlock gets the hint and lies back down, not without rolling his eyes and huffing, of course. John shushes him and grabs his right hand, guiding the long, agile fingers along the little swell under his navel. Sherlock's stomach muscles contract and relax, but the swell remains there. Definitely there.

"Oh," Sherlock finally repeats, and a red flush appears on his chest, then his neck, before invading his already pink face. "It's... "

"Yep, it is."

At the hospital, another sonogram had been done, just to be sure the foetus was getting everything it needed, and its development had been normal, its heartbeat steady, just like during the first one. It doesn't help John feel relieved, because hell, seeing Sherlock throwing up so many times, and practically melt under his eyes, had been anything but fun.

He keeps his hand there, Sherlock, trapping John's fingers with his. He looks at the ceiling, breathing slowly, through his nose and out of his mouth. Fighting the onslaught of emotions.

"It's... good," he finally says, his voice soft and shy.

"Yes. It is."

"Maybe..." Sherlock breathes deeply again. "Maybe it is going to be easier from now on."

He could be speaking about his physical health or his emotional state, but knowing which doesn't matter. John presses his hand. "I'm sure it will."

::: :::

Christmas morning doesn't bring snow but heavy rain, falling so hard it wakes John up a little past five. He's careful not to wake Sherlock up. He had fallen asleep a little past nine and John knows he hasn't left the bed during the night. Always a soldier, it seems, John has been vigilantly sleeping ever since he came back from the war, never realising it could be useful with an insomniac fiancé.

John slips into his dressing gown, observing Sherlock in the weak ray of light coming from the window. Sherlock frowns a little, his lips twitching, but he is still deep under. Good. He really does need the rest. Besides, if Sherlock had any say in the matter, he wouldn't be asleep. He's at a stage where his body has taken the reins. John knows it should calm him down, and finally shut down the worried voice at the back of his mind, (is Sherlock ok, what if he's not, what if the baby is not, what if...), but all it does is remind him that Sherlock's body is so exhausted he has been momentarily cured of his insomnia. And they are only on the fourteenth week of the pregnancy. God.

John checks that the bottle of mineral water and the crackers are on the bedside table, then walks out of the room silently.

Downstairs, he sees light coming from the kitchen and follows it. There, Louisa Holmes is doing a crossword puzzle and drinking tea.

"Did the thunder wake you up?"

"Maybe that's what it was. Rain at Christmas. Nothing new there."

"Merry Christmas, John."

" Merry Christmas, Mrs. Holmes."

"Tea?"

"Why not?"

The way they both keep their voice low and the regular rumble of the rain is comforting. John grabs the sports page of the newspaper and for a while, he and Sherlock's mother exchange soft banalities. John can practically feel the chemistry of both their brains adjusting while they are forging new links. John is going to be the father of Louisa Holmes' grandchild. That simple fact has automatically began to change something between them. And it is good.

"Why weren't you asleep?" John finally asks, accepting another cup of tea.

"Sleep and me have never really been friends."

"Oh. Explains Sherlock's insomnia."

"Is he? Insomniac, I mean?"

"He is because he gets bored, and sleep is a waste of time when he could be thinking, so I am not sure it counts."

Louisa smiles. "My thirty-seven year old son is a complete stranger to me. I do not know what kind of mother this makes me."

She shakes her head, and John waits silently, because it is not a question, but a reflection.

"This wonderful news shakes things up so much. In a good way, of course, but it remains that Sherlock has closed himself off to us for so long ago now that I am not sure if he would be willing to accept our presence in his life on a more regular basis."

It's John's turn to smile. "Sherlock wonders the same thing. Well, from his perspective. He wonders how to let you in."

This pleases Louisa. She smiles and her eyes light up with it this time, slits of ice blue between her crow’s feet. It is Sherlock all the way. "He was twelve when he used for the first time. Of course, I didn't know that until very long after. Mycroft was good at concealing the damage. I felt something change that year, and I thought it was... puberty, I guess. I've been such an idiot... Oh, I don't want to keep stirring those memories, it is Christmas. I just want to tell you that with what Sherlock's been through in the past, I never expected him to live past thirty-five, and now, he's just announced to me that I'm going to be a grandmother! I owe you so much, John, so... thank you, for loving my son as he is."

John nods and clears his throat before it locks, blinking to chase the stinging sensation in his eyes. Louisa looks away and tries to dry her eyes without John noticing.

The rain has stopped outside.

"What was he like... as a child?" John finally asks.

"He was hell. Oh, my, they both were. In different ways. Sherlock... the first six months, he cried almost constantly. Nothing would calm him down. I was going mad. I took him countless times to the doctor -I was sure he had to be in pain somehow... And then, it changed. He spoke his first words around his sixth month, and it got better from then on. He was walking at nine months old, speaking full sentences at twelve. Questions, only questions, there never was an end.” She smiles wryly. “I knew by then he had inherited a similar intellect as Mycroft. Like I've said, though, they were different. Mycroft had been a quiet baby and reserved child. Always asking to be left alone, never appreciated being held or cuddled. But Sherlock, God...he was practically glued to me. Could cry for hours when he was sad and laugh as long when he was happy."

John can easily imagine a tiny head of curls, babbling and laughing. He wonders if he would have been able to do so when Sherlock was still his new mad sociopathic friend. Probably not.

"Our family doctor once told me, around the time Sherlock was two and teaching himself to read, that all the crying he had done when he was a young baby must have been from boredom and frustration. Which, apparently, happens quite often with prodigies. It is like their brain develops faster than the rest and has to wait for the body to catch up. Anyhow, he grew up, following Mycroft's footsteps, completely enamoured with his older brother. He changed, copying Mycroft's quiet, reserved ways, wishing so badly to be like him. No more cuddles but a serious 'hello, mother.' The only person with whom Sherlock kept his early childhood affection was the dog, Redbeard."

"Oh. Yes. I remember the name..."

"Did Sherlock tell you how heartbroken he was when Redbeard had to be put down?"

"No, he just..." John waves a dismissive hand.

"He allowed it only because the poor beast was suffering so much. The dog was only nine years old, but he had cancer, there was nothing that could be done, and at some point it was just cruel to let him endure. Sherlock was eleven. He insisted on staying with Redbeard until it was done, then dug a grave in the backyard. He slept on it three nights in a row. In the end Adrian had to lock him up in his room. You surely know what is coming."

"The drugs..."

"Exactly. Since you came into his life, John, I can see glimpses of my baby, of who he was at a very young age. Sucking his little thumb, running after Redbeard, fresh out of the bath and completely nude, smiling at me like I was the sun and the moon together.” She sighs. “Well, well. I am getting sentimental in my old age it appears."

"He is going to be a wonderful father, you know. He thinks the exact contrary, but he is wrong."

"I had completely given up on ever having grandchildren. Now, can you imagine, John, in one year from now, you will show your baby the Christmas lights of the tree? Here, of course. You will spend Christmas here," Louisa decides, and John is immediately sure neither he nor Sherlock will have a say in the matter.

Louisa pushes her chair back. "I need to get started on the Christmas dinner, John. Would you like to give me a hand?"

"With pleasure."

John is in the middle of sitting up when a thought crosses his mind. He smirks. "Mrs Holmes? You wouldn't happen to have a picture of that time he was running naked after the dog?"

Louisa Holmes lifts a playful eyebrow at him. "Of course, I have, dear, and many, many more."

::: :::

When Sherlock gets downstairs around eight, bleary-eyed, his hair sticking up in all directions, the Christmas turkey is in the oven, a batch of biscuits is cooling down nearby and the kitchen table is covered in pictures and old albums. John has heard funny and heartbreaking stories, has seen his fair share of Mycroft and Sherlock thorough their youth and, at some point, has become completely enamoured with Louisa Holmes.

Sherlock reaches the table, rubbing at his eyes, puts a hand on John's shoulders and bends over him.

"Oh Jesus, really?" He sighs.

John cannot help but grab the first pic he's been shown, a chubby toddler presenting his cute little bottom as he runs, hair still wet, after a blurry brown spot that reveals to be Redbeard, the Irish Setter.

Sherlock lifts his chin with all the dignity he can manage and ignores John's bright smile in favour of the plate of cinnamon swirls biscuits. He snatches two and shoves them both in his mouth. It's good to see him eating. John can see Louisa make the same observation. He can practically see how she goes from almost scolding him about eating biscuits before breakfast, but then her eyes catch the way Sherlock's pyjamas are riding low on his waist, revealing a hipbone, and she just smiles very softly.

"How are you feeling?" John asks.

"Too much sleep, everything's kind of... cottony," Sherlock complains. "I would sell my soul for a coffee, if I could of course, because the human soul is a concept that has been-"

Sherlock's father arrival in the kitchen puts a stop to his diatribe, which is good. John isn't a believer, but he likes the idea of a soul, of something intangible, an essence of some sort. Anyway, it is Christmas, philosophy and atheism can wait.

Louisa goes back to the album she was showing John, of a trip to Greece, where a lanky and already too pale Sherlock is shown at different sites looking... not bored, but moody. His hair is cut very short, he has a cluster of pimples on his chin, and thin arms seemingly too long for his body. John catches himself especially touched by those pictures. Sherlock, just like any normal boy, had gone through that awkward adolescence phase. John remembers how his own body had felt alien to him, and that morning-that-must-not-be-mentioned when his mother had caught him masturbating in a rugby sock.

"Hey, where was this? I don't remember that place?"

Lifting his head, John sees Sherlock, seated on the other side of the table, gazing at a picture. He turns it to show Louisa. It's a garden in front of an old, decrepit house. An auburn head of curls is showing in the middle of a bush of tall ferns.

"That was at Musgrave Hall, uncle Rudy used to invite us there during the summer..."

"Really?"

Louisa stretches to take a pile of pictures in front of Sherlock, abandoning the Greece travel in favour of Musgrave Hall, a family manor she and her brother inherited -Musgrave is Louisa's maiden name.

For once, Sherlock listens without guessing what she is about to say. He nods, polite, and asks a few questions. John figures it is time for him to get up, find something to do, as to not disturb their conversation. He prepares another pot of coffee, listening, smiling like an idiot. He is proud; proud of the way Sherlock has apparently decided to act on their late-night conversation. Determined to provide for their child an environment as rich, in every sense of the way, as possible. And even if it is solely for that purpose, John has no doubt that at some point, it will be Sherlock himself who will benefit from a closer relationship with his parents.

How amazing it is to love someone who never stops surprising you? When Adrian Holmes asks John if he would be willing to help bring logs inside, he accepts with a tad of regret, not being able to witness the mother-and-son interaction.

As it turns out, the exercise does him some good. Adrian is slow, and has a lot of arthritis, so John is the one doing most of the work, which he doesn't mind a bit.

Afterward, he's in the lobby, taking off his wet coat and boots (it might not be raining anymore but the humidity outside clings to the skin) when he sees Sherlock exiting quickly from the kitchen, sporting the now too-familiar pose. One of his arms is wrapped around his waist, his free hand is covering his mouth, and his face is dripping with sweat.

"Biscuits," he mumbles, catching John's attentive gaze before running at the back of the house.

John is quick to take off his last shoe. Sherlock's vomiting spells have become, over time, extremely painful. His chest muscles are constantly sore, his oesophagus burns. It's not uncommon for him to be physically unable to stand up, several minutes after.

John is on his way to the bathroom when a hand catches his arm. It's Louisa Holmes.

"Let me, John."

John wants to refuse, wants to explain that it isn't normal morning sickness, Sherlock needs specific care, and...

...And instead, John keeps it inside and nods. "Of course." He won't interfere, he doesn't have to. Logically, he knows Louisa is perfectly capable of handling her sick son. It's just... selfishly, it's his job to take care of Sherlock.

Well, well, Watson. It seems you will have some adjusting to do too, he mocks himself mentally, wincing when he hears a loud cough cut off by what sounds like a painful hiccups.

Several minutes pass, during which Adrian tells him about the house and how urgent the work on the roof is becoming. John nods, only listening with one ear. There are no more sounds coming out of the bathroom.

Okay, he cannot stop himself this time. He walks slowly along the hallway, at the end of which the bathroom door is half open. Slowing down, John takes a couple of steps, just so he can at least have a peak.

Sherlock is sitting on the floor, his upper body lying heavily on the closed toilet lid. His body is plagued by tremors, and soft moans of pain escape him. Louisa is putting a towel on his neck. "It's cold," she warns, "but it will feel good." Sherlock nods, turning his head to the side, toward his mother, toward John. His eyes are shut tight, his mouth quirked in a grimace of pain. He yelps when the cold towel gets into contact with his skin, but Louisa shushes him softly, rubbing at his back, and after a few seconds, Sherlock stops shaking.

"Good?" Louisa asks

Sherlock nods.

"That's my boy. There. Relax, takes deep breath."

And Sherlock obeys, and when Louisa uses her free hand to untangle the mess of his hair, he does not protest, on the contrary. "Feels good," he admits in a broken, very low voice.

John steps back, feeling like a voyeur, wondering why that simple, quiet moment between mother and son is making him so emotional he's close to tears.

"Sherlock alright?" Adrian asks from the living room.

"Well, yes. The morning sickness... it's been hard on him."

"Louisa must be ecstatic, being allowed to take care of him. Hasn't happened in a long time, you know," Adrian adds, staring with a dreamy expression at the Christmas Tree.

And John thinks he isn't the only one realising how significant those moments Sherlock has decided to share with his mother are.

::: :::

They eat Christmas dinner around two, and it's nice. Sherlock is in a good mood, which has John in an excellent mood. They eat slowly, after the present exchange, and John shares a long conversation with Louisa about their living space - are they intending to move, or is the flat fit for a baby? This is a subject John and Sherlock haven't talked about yet, and the answers presents itself as evident when John gets to it. Of course they'll stay. Sherlock needs to be at the heart of London. 221B is their home. John cannot see himself elsewhere either.

All the while, he sees from the corner of his eyes Sherlock and his father engrossed in a conversation that seems very serious. Sherlock is frowning, tilting his head to the side, asking a few questions. Too bad John cannot hear what they are speaking about, because even when they are done, and it is time to eat the pudding, Sherlock's mood has changed. He doesn't seem upset, or perturbed, but is acting like he does every time he let his mind wander while trying to keep up with what's happening. He's half present, half lost in his mind.

Surely, John will learn soon enough what he's been thinking about.

And lord, does he.

::: :::

They were supposed to leave after dinner. John had thought Sherlock would be eager to go back, since he had originally tried to negotiate driving up here for Christmas dinner and leaving on the same day.

But no, after the dishes are washed, and Sherlock has solved a murder via his mobile in half an hour (a two and a half, John. And a weak one that is.) he had suggested a walk before taking off. His stomach feels a bit queasy and he hadn't been able to shake off what he calls his "sleep overdose lingering effects". John accepts, because to tell the truth, his stomach feels a bit queasy too. The food had been good... maybe a little too good.

As they dress up to go outside, John is pleased to see Sherlock putting on his Christmas present from him over his shirt. It's a jumper, a very thin and malleable cashmere of a royal blue colour. John had been so unsure when he decided to buy a piece of clothing, but very determined. He had chosen an extravagant shop and boldly asked for the "most posh-looking jumper possible". Seeing Sherlock in a jumper, or jeans (gosh those jeans and the way they shape his arse), anything that isn't too sophisticated, does things to John.

"Yes, I do like it," Sherlock's voice rumbles as he arranges his scarf.

"I love it," John murmurs, licking his lips, still thinking about those jeans.

Sherlock bends down and steals a kiss, short and dirty, licking the whole surface of John's lips. He knows damn well how much it turns John's on.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he pants, taking a step back.

Sherlock smirks and points at the ceiling where, John hadn't noticed, mistletoe is suspended.

"You romantic bastard," John growls, letting Sherlock drag him outside.

They take the path behind the house leading to a small park almost deserted on Christmas day. Sherlock, who hasn't let go of John's hand since they left the house, looks around, breathing deeply, seemingly happy to feel better and to get a little exercise. Solving crime from his flat hasn't been much fun, and John lying to Lestrade about a persistent flu virus, hadn't been either.

Maybe ten minutes after they left the house, the clouds covering the sky change colour, shifting from blue-grey to a lighter tone, and the first snowflakes land on John's shoulders. Here they are, walking close together under Christmas snow. It's almost too cliché, even for John, but to his surprise, Sherlock's smile only grows wider.

And it is lovely, but John doesn't want Sherlock to tire himself too much. It's another ten minutes before he gently but surely leads the way back to the house. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, or doesn't realise, caught up in his own mind -well, at least it's what's John thinks until Sherlock stops him near the tall oak three at the end of the backyard. He crouches and uncovers from under the fallen leaves a small rock mosaic. John understand immediately what it is.

"Redbeard?"

Sherlock nods, looking up at him. "I know my mother told you about him."

"Did you plant the tree after he was buried?"

"My father's idea. He thought it would help... whatever."

"Get closure?" John suggests, letting a hand rest on Sherlock's back.

"Whatever it was, I did not care about such meaningless statements about life still going on, and never understood why an oak tree would remind me of my dead dog."

"So?"

"Part of me was angry because Mycroft was right. Caring wasn't an advantage. And being right about that meant he was probably right about the rest, and sometimes... Well, sometimes, I missed being a very young child, thinking I was normal, just like mummy and daddy. But then I came to the conclusion that nothing could possibly be worth the suffering I went through when Redbeard died. I wasn't prepared, see, because it was only with him that I was still remaining unguarded."

Sherlock sniffs for dramatic effect and stands up slowly, with John's help. "I apologise for the sentimental display."

"Shut up, silly." John hugs him around his waist.

Sherlock snorts. "You know, I had the most interesting conversation with my father at dinner."

"Yeah, what was all that about?"

"He was giving me hmm...legal advice."

"You never told me what he used to do for a living?"

"Accountant."

"Okay."

"Nevertheless, he is right about several legal points regarding our situation as a future family. I just never stopped to think about it until now."

"And what's our situation?"

Sherlock turns his head so he does not have to look at John directly. He shoves both of his hands in his coat pockets, as if he needs to take a step back even while being pressed against John's side.

"Sherlock? Is something the matter?"

"With my carrier status and the still ongoing discrepancies in civil law, we would be better protected, legally, as well as our child, if we were in a recognized union, and although unmarried couples benefit from most of the same advantages, it can get tricky, if something were to happen. I can go into the details, if you want, but the principal beneficiary of our legal union would be the child, and its need being preserved whatever happens to us, or between us. I do not mean by that that I think something could go wrong, neither do I feel like bringing up issues that will probably never-"

"Wait."

John is in shock. That is the only reason he has let Sherlock get away for so long with the nervous babbling he always uses to somehow diminish the weight of a serious statement.

Sherlock's mouth is opened on his last, uncompleted sentence. Still, he stares in front of him, his cheeks of a deep crimson shade.

"Did you just... was that...A wedding... You've just asked me to marry you..."

"What, no!" Sherlock protests. "I am barely reporting you my father's advice."

"So, you don’t want to get married."

John is starting to have fun. At the same time, there is a ridiculous flutter in his chest.

"I... That is not what I said either," Sherlock murmurs, casting a look at John sideways, a shy, insecure glance.

"What are you saying, then?"

"I am saying... What I am saying is, it would be a legal advantage to be married as we are to become a family," Sherlock hesitates, then just seems to crumble in on himself, shoulders slacking, fingers of both hands fidgeting, and John takes pity.

He grabs him by the shoulders and uses a tone he knows will work. "Look at me, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock declares, trying to sound disdainful.

"Why not?"

"Because then you will tell me how stupid I am to have suggested this when I am the one constantly complaining about the idiocy of social rules and rituals, which only applies to people that cannot think by themselves."

John snorts. "Look at me. I promise I'm not gonna call you on it."

Sherlock does, with what seems to be a lot of effort to get his head and eyes to cooperate. He's still blushing, how is it even possible. His lower lip is shaking as well, and in his too wide eyes there is all the fear of rejection in the world.

John decides to go easy on him.

"You simply say it is the most logical venue, right? Getting married. It is primarily for the baby's situation."

"I... yes, I... It's huh... yes. Purely logical."

"Then we should do it."

Sherlock's mouth closes slowly. He has a series of what John has come to think as his "anxiety blinks", and his lower lip not only shakes, but quirks back in a pout John is sure Sherlock doesn't do consciously.

"You huh... Yes?"

"Yes, a simple civic ceremony, no fuss, just a couple of guests, or would you prefer the whole church religious experience?"

"Obviously, the first option," Sherlock murmurs, frowning at John as if he's wondering who the hell he is.

"Obviously. So, yes, Sherlock, I think it's a good idea."

John takes a short pause, trying to gather his thought. "But only on one condition?"

"What condition?" Sherlock asks, well on his way to a complete breakdown.

"Can my second reason to be married, after, of course, our child's well being.... can my second reason be that I love you like crazy and do not wish to spend a single day apart from you?"

There it is, the knot in John's stomach, the swelling in his throat. He should try to compose himself, but instead offers the window to his feelings for Sherlock to see, to have him realize he is not the only one choked up on sentiment right now.

Sherlock tilts his head and stares at him for at least three long seconds. Then, there it is, the left corner of his mouth lifting.

"Strange," he says, and his eyes laugh, and he has never been more beautiful and vulnerable and happy, not that John can remember. "That you mention it, because it is my second reason, too.”

"You bloody mad man, you," John retorts, unable to restrain himself further. He grabs Sherlock into a fierce hug. After his normal tensing period, Sherlock hugs back, and he must be bending his knees, because his nose is shoved in the crook of John's neck. Warm puffs of breath caress John's sensitive skin accompanying kisses.

"That means we're doing it?" Sherlock mumbles into John's coat collar.

"Yes. Yes, we are, Sherlock. Fuck, I love you."

"Love you too."

"You are such a romantic. Imagine how surprised people will be when I tell them you proposed on Christmas, in a romantic, snowy setting." John teases a little.

"I did not propose," Sherlock protest without letting go. "We decided together it was the right thing to do."

"Mmh-mmh."

"It is practical. It's for our baby."

"Yes, f'course."

Then, he cannot help himself.

"Husband," he says solemnly.

"Well, not yet."

A pause...

"You definitely proposed, though."

Another pause. Three puffs of warm breath.

"... It remains up for debate."

They stay glued to each other for a long time. It's a perfect moment, one of those very few you experience in a life time, and John intends on enjoying it as fully as possible.

Chapter Text

-----------
2.

Mrs. Hudson waits for them in the lobby, the door already opened, waving at them with enthusiasm. To be honest, John is as excited as her. For once, he's the one out of the cab as soon as it comes to a halt, leaving Sherlock behind to pay the fare.

"So, what is it?" Mrs Hudson asks, freezing on the threshold.

"It's a girl!" John exclaims, and then, on a whim, takes Mrs. Hudson's frail body into his arms, lifting her from the ground.

"John Watson, put me down immediately," she laughs.

He does, and plants a loud kiss on her cheek.

"A little girl, really?"

"Yes. And everything is normal, she's doing fine."

Mrs. Hudson steps to the side and calls Sherlock, who is standing on the pavement, calm and composed.

"Come here, you," she orders, and, very obediently, Sherlock does, letting her get away with a hug and a kiss.

"Not that I do not enjoy our little reunion but it is freezing," Sherlock notes.

"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs Hudson steps back and let them in. "Besides, I need to get started on my knitting now. A girl, what a nice surprise," she babbles happily. "Now I can’t wait to shove Mrs Turner’s face in it."

"If she keeps this up the excitement will kill her," Sherlock declares.

"How old do you think she is?" John asks, following Sherlock up the stairs.

"I do not think, I know. Mrs. Hudson is currently eighty-two years old."

"Wow."

"Given her medical ailments, and general health conditions, she has probably still four years to live, if she doesn't encounter an accidental death in the meantime."

"My god, Sherlock, don't do that."

"What?"

"It's creepy."

John stops unlocking the door as a very disagreeable idea pops in his mind.

"Does this mean... Have you done it with me?"

"Done what?"

"Evaluated my bloody life expectancy!"

"Well," Sherlock starts, looking sideways.

"Stop. Stop right there. I don't want to know."

"It is not a bad life expectancy, John."

"Nope! Shut up!"

Sherlock shrugs and enters the flat, dropping his coat on his way to the sitting room, and his scarf on the coffee table next to his chair. He flops down, stretching his legs in front of him. The fire in the hearth is still going on, although it needs more wood. John decides to forget about the creepy death prediction and goes back to float on his little cloud of happiness, filling the kettle, then feeding the fire, all the while whistling.

"Stop, it's annoying," Sherlock orders without looking up from his phone that he is typing furiously on.

He's not really annoyed, though, John can tell. He's as giddy as him and is trying his best not to let it show too much. But John had seen the sincere smile lighting up his face as they watched the baby on the sonogram screen, currently sucking its -her- little thumb, and kicking both legs.

There hadn't been any fight about deciding if they wanted to know the sex or not. John likes to be prepared -another soldier trait that has followed him afterwards- and for Sherlock, it was the most logical option.

"Look at how easy this little one makes it for me. It is actually parting its legs," Dr. Brown had laughed before taking a screen freeze frame. "Yep, I thought so. You are going to have a little girl."

The excitement, John thinks, doesn't come from the identity of the sex. Sherlock and he had talked about it, and it turned out neither of them had a preference. Knowing, though, gives the pregnancy a whole new perspective, and in the gradual steps of making it real, for them, it is a huge one. The foetus isn't just a foetus anymore. It has an identity. A little girl. Who is going to need a name. Wow. John is a doctor: he has seen his fair share of babies and pregnancies, but this does not seem to count, at all, when it comes to him, and Sherlock... and their daughter.

After the fire is set to his satisfaction, John grabs his laptop and settles to write in the journal of Sherlock's pregnancy he keeps on his blog, on the private entries section.

"February six, 20 weeks. Medical appointment. Sherlock has put on five pounds since he left the hospital. The baby measurements are still within normal. It is not a big baby, its percentage on the scale is within the 20%, but it is still considered normal, and following a regular curve. Sherlock's oesophagus inflammation is completely gone and the result of his last blood test show that the vitamin and mineral complements have done their job. In two weeks, we are to try and stop the antinausea treatment, just to see if it has settled, or if we should continue. The sonogram also revealed the sex of the baby, female. We are going to have a little girl."

John writes the date of the next appointment, saves the file and closes his laptop to find Sherlock has dropped his mobile and is currently observing him with all the intensity he's capable of.

"'You ok?"

"Mmh... Yes, yes, of course."

"Anything interesting in the email box?"

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise, keeping his eyes on John.

"Has Lestrade contacted you recently?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"You plan on telling him soon? I mean, we're past the first trimester, and we've been lying to him more times than I'm comfortable with. Plus, eventually, you know you will have to step back, and leave the most dangerous job to-"

John stops in the middle of his sentence because Sherlock hasn’t heard him, at all. His eyes have gotten darker and he plays lazily with his lower lip, twisting it between his finger and thumb. His legs are stretched in front of him, and parted, instead of his usual tucked-in position.

Sherlock is aroused and doesn't quite know how to deal with it. It is funny, how sometimes he's perfectly alright with proposing sex just as one would do with a cup of tea, while other happenstances see him blushing and stuttering as if he's still a virgin. John has come to understand these moods when they happen. Because right now, what Sherlock wants is for John to take control, freeing him of any decision making, telling him what to do, so that Sherlock is able, for a little while, to shut his mind down.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Medical appointments are a great source of stress for Sherlock. It is not easy for him to remain in control of his emotions when they are that intense, and they had been. John could easily deduce it, when Amy Brown had done the sonogram. Sherlock's nervousness translates in many mannerisms, amongst them a specific tone of voice when he actually speaks, because he usually tries to keep quiet when he’s unnerved, undoubtedly afraid of losing control of what comes out of his mouth in strings of nervous, never-ending sentences.

"Come here, you," John whispers, pleased to see Sherlock on the move immediately, eager, even though he still tries to hide it. He takes off his suit jacket (and there it goes down the floor) and waits a second in front of John's chair, like he's suddenly remembering something.

Ah. Yes. Here goes. First, there is the blush on the cheeks and shifty eyes, then Sherlock's agile hands unfastening the button of his trousers. The button hangs down at the end of a couple of centimetres of thread, because it's been tugged at and forced in place for too long.

Sherlock's belly is expanding. He doesn't speak of it, but John has seen him more than once over the last week changing clothes with impatience, dropping them like they are nothing more than rags. John waits for him to bring up the issue. His belly is still pretty modest, but Sherlock has always worn his clothes as tight as possible without it being indecent -John has zero complaints on the matter, by the way- so it figures he won't be able to stretch the fabric any longer.

"You're staring," Sherlock murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest.

That won't do. John grabs Sherlock's arm and pulls until he doesn't have any other choice than to sit/fall on his lap. He still pouts but settles himself comfortably, his long legs stretched on one side, his upper body pressed against John's chest, waiting for John to wrap an arm around his back, which he does.

"Don't be embarrassed, please," John says soothingly while his free hand slides between them both and finds its way to Sherlock's belly, forcing the already half pulled down zipper all the way.

Sherlock sighs from pleasure as John's hand settles there. He still doesn't look at him, though.

"I love your belly," John admits without any shame. "It's gorgeous, and fascinating."

"It's... " Sherlock swallows hard and shoves his head in the crook of John's neck. "It makes me feel... exposed. Right now it is still easily concealable, but frankly John, I doubt I'll ever get use to it."

"Well," John snorts, "getting used to it or not, you need new clothes; it's going to get bigger, you know."

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock protests. "And I already made an appointment with my tailor.”

"Of course. Posh boy has a personal tailor."

Sherlock replies by biting the delicate skin of John's neck. He hisses, but doesn't protest, given how the desire pooling in his guts suddenly starts to fill his cock. Huh. Looks like Sherlock isn't the only one into - reasonable- biting.

"You know," John goes on, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back, "I'm not asking you to change your tailor or anything, but you might consider wearing something else than suits and tight shirts for the coming months. At some point comfort will be more important than looks."

"Who says so?" Sherlock lifts his head, giving John a stern look. "If you imagine I'll spend the upcoming months in paternity jeans, covered with those horrid long t-shirts or jumpers, you are wrong. Fashion for pregnant men still has a long way to go."

He snorts in disdain, glaring at John's smile.

"What?"

"You did some research. On paternity clothes."

"No, I did not. There was a magazine about it in Amy's office and you were engrossed in your stupid Sudoku."

Sherlock's cheeks are a deep red now, and John bets they are burning.

"There is nothing wrong in being a little vain."

"There is also nothing wrong in shutting up, you know."

John figures he's teased Sherlock enough already. After all, it isn't what he needs right now, and although John might still be surfing the wave of excitement from knowing the sex of the baby, he needs to step back a little, to understand the aftermath of a sudden rush of emotions for Sherlock.

Gently, he coaxes him back into position, despite Sherlock's still outrageous look. After a few seconds, he seems to give up, though, and hides back his face near John's neck.

A few minutes pass during which John keeps rubbing Sherlock's back steadily, while cradling the swell of his stomach with his other hand. It's a wonder, how close he is to his daughter, who must be feeling the soft pressure under Sherlock's skin.

"John," Sherlock sighs, pressing a hand on John's chest.

John smiles, tilting his hand down below Sherlock's belly to rub at his cock, already half hard, a tensed bulge trapped in soft cotton. Speaking dirty to Sherlock can leave him stoic and bored, but providing the most basic sort of affection can result in him coming in his pants.

"Do you need me, love?" John whispers, "need me to make you feel good?" Sherlock's dick twitches under John's hand.

"Yes," Sherlock answers, his voice trembling. "Please."

And then they kiss, for a long time...

...and at some point, they end up on the ground in front of the fireplace. Sherlock is laying down on a comforter John has taken from their bedroom, completely nude, the light of the flames dancing on the canvas of his pale skin, accentuating the shadows, the curves. Sherlock is panting, his cock resting on his stomach at a slightly different angle than before, pushed up by the small swell of his belly. He's waiting for John to finish undressing, but John is immobile, kneeling next to him, looking, unable to move, enthralled by what's his, and only his to see. Sherlock is all angles and cutting edges, apart from the roundness of his hips and stomach, and it will keep developing like another contradiction, like the redness of his nipples, just slightly swollen, almost unnoticeable.

"John," Sherlock whines, and his hands are not immobile anymore but running all over his own body in an erratic way, while his head shifts from left to right, his face red and sweating. He doesn't know what to do with himself anymore, and god, does John loves him like this, would have him laid down like an offering all the time, waiting for him.

Only him.

John takes off the remainder of his clothes, cannot wait anymore, he's so hard it hurts, and so in love he might start uttering some poetry about the perfection of Sherlock's body and the singularity of his incredible brain.

Sherlock stares at him. Then, slowly, he lifts both legs, slides his arm around them, gripping his thighs with his hands, and lifts them, exposing himself in a way he has never done before, eyes closed, John knows, as much from embarrassment as from desire.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, look at you, love, just... look. Beautiful. Perfect, lovely."

With each compliment, John kisses the inside of Sherlock's thighs, and he shivers every time, the grips of his fingers so tight his knuckles are white. John aligns himself and pushes slowly, very slowly, while Sherlock, eyes closed shut, lets out controlled harsh little pants, frowning, as if in pain, but John knows better.

It's not long before he has Sherlock's legs on his shoulders, while both his hands are planted on the floor on each side of Sherlock's head, pushing and pulling, carefully controlling the strength he puts into it, because the fire is pretty close. Its lighting on Sherlock's dark curls is setting them aglow, making the copper highlights stand out, the same colour of Sherlock's beard when he doesn't shave for three or four days.

Sherlock has his hands roaming over John's back, then on his arse, up and down again, pleading very softly for John to go harder, deeper.

"We won't be able to do it like this for much longer," he remarks, wincing in pleasure when John gives an especially hard thrust. "I am naturally flexible but...huh... belly starting to get in the way..."

John doesn't know what gets to him so much, but it almost hurts, hearing Sherlock speaking about his belly expanding -and he might have a brand new kink, as fascinated as he is by the rounded treasure expanding under Sherlock's navel. Maybe it is the thought of being responsible for it, for all the changes his lover is going through and will go through; maybe it's because soon, yes, Sherlock won't be able to conceal his pregnancy anymore, and it will be there for everyone to see, how Sherlock belongs to him, and carries his child.

Nevertheless, John is coming, and it's painful, and heavenly good, because he wasn't ready, hadn't braced himself for it. He even whines, which is very unusual for him, and he's just present enough to hear Sherlock's reaction, a mix of loud moans and "love you" and "John, my John". John opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock grabbing his cock, with long trembling fingers, and cupping his already drawn-up balls with the other, pulling once, then tugging, his head of messy curls lifted so that he can see himself. John's cock gives one last weak twitch just as Sherlock starts coming, his back arched, his mouth slack, and his eyes closing shut and perfect. Perfect.

Sometime later, might be a minute, might be a portion of eternity, John gets up and goes into the bathroom to wash himself. He brings back a warm towel. Sherlock is laying on his side in front of the fire, naked and oblivious to the languid, relaxed position he's adopted. He's still panting, although slower, and deeper. As John kneels behind him and washes him, he notices how the wet hair at his temple curls up, and has to kiss it. It's lovely.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs in a raw voice, when John is done. Then, he grabs his hand and asks, eyes still closed. "Would you hold me for a little while?"

John lays down to spoon him, running his hand slowly, up and down Sherlock's side, waiting.

"Is something wrong?" He asks.

"We are having a girl, John," Sherlock answers, lifting an eyebrow as if it explains everything.

"Yes. I thought... I thought you didn't have a preference..."

"I do not."

"Then what is it?"

Sherlock twists on his back so that he can look at John. "It is still more advantageous in our so-called modern society, to be male, as you surely know. Women are still the principal victims of crimes, as well as more vulnerable to abuse, every kind of abuse. So..." Sherlock's cheeks heat up. "I am... worried," he admits, low voice and embarrassed, shifting eyes.

John has to bite the inside of his cheeks not to smile and point out how natural and simple it is, to worry. There is nothing embarrassing about it. Trust Sherlock to turn it into an issue, as if he is somewhat abnormal to feel like this.

"Of course you are worried. You are a parent."

Sherlock frowns.

"It is just the beginning, Sherlock," John adds, playing with his hair. "We'll always worry about her. Even when she's seventeen and going off to college, probably way more by then."

"It is strange."

"What?"

"It's a person, now, is it? Before, it was a foetus. Now, it's a girl. She is becoming someone..." Sherlock struggles with words and, impatient at himself, presses both hands over his eyes. "I am such an idiot," he complaints.

"What? No, you're not. I feel the same as you, Sherlock. And it's okay to be a little overwhelmed. You do not have to be ashamed of feelings things, you know."

"I know," Sherlock whispers.

He takes his hands off his eyes and offers them, wide and beautifully pale, to John's attentive gaze. "I am going to be the father of a little girl; how is it always so hard to believe, how is it that I always need to convince myself that all of this is really happening?"

John kisses him, softly, catching just the corner of his mouth. "I don't know, love. I thought it was easier for you, since you are actually carrying her."

"You mean you feel the same?"

"Yes, and I probably still will when I hold her in my arms for the first time."

It seems to calm Sherlock down, because he doesn't add anything and turns into John's embrace to find his usual spot in the crook of John's neck. Then, something shifts in the way he's holding himself. He is thinking, hard, John can tell.

"We can now start the work on the nursery in your old room." Sherlock states, sitting up straight and sudden. A project. Sherlock will jump on anything that can distract him from boredom, and too much time to think about difficult stuff like love and concern.

"Naturally, we will also have to child-proof the flat," Sherlock mumbles to himself, using John's hip as a lever to stand up.

And John has the loveliest view as Sherlock grabs a pad on his desk and bends down to scribble some notes. He wishes he was thirty again, so that he could take him right there and then, for sloppy seconds.

In the meantime, watching Sherlock's arse is a fantastic way of occupying himself until supper.

::: :::

It was supposed to be an easy enough, straight-forward case. A murder, caused by a violent love triangle.

"And you wonder why I rejected intimate relationships for so long, John - look what it makes people do," Sherlock had said harshly. To which John had easily replied, sliding a hand around Sherlock's waist and cupping his belly, "yes, and look what it can also do."

Sherlock had lifted his chin and mumbled: "Well, if you're going to play dirty."

Seemed funny back then. Now, as it often happens when they are on a case that is supposed to be simple, things are going downhill, quickly.

John runs. It seems to him that he's been running for hours. His lungs are burning with each breath, he's dizzy, and, to top it all, he's wearing brand new shoes still way too stiff and he can feel blisters forming on the top of both big toes.

Sherlock is still ahead of him, his coat is open, flapping against the wind. They've lost Lestrade at some point. They always lose Lestrade at some point. The detective often complains about how he is careful to maintain a good shape just to have a man living off tea and biscuits and another who's been known to limp run straight past him as if they're on "bloody steroids." The thrill of the chase, Sherlock had explained more than once, and their addiction to adrenaline is what makes John and him faster on longer distances.

("No, you wally. I run faster so you won't do something stupid and get killed," John had replied once, after Sherlock effectively did something stupid that almost got him killed.)

Sherlock had also told Lestrade that if physical training was part of his job. Even though he is a good detective (or, in Sherlock's words, less stupid than most Scotland Yard cops), he cannot keep the same passion to track criminals in the middle of handling paperwork and co-workers, dozens of cases, a pitiful salary and a messy divorce. To that, Lestrade hadn't said anything and spent a whole week without contacting Sherlock.

Concentrate, John. The case.

Yes, the case. It was going so well. Confident of getting a confession, Sherlock had confronted the suspect at home, while Lestrade and a couple of officers had waited outside to make the arrest.

Sherlock had rarely been played so easily. Laura McMasters had not only decided to run, but she had succeeded in snatching - from Sherlock's hands - the damn murder weapon he was playing with while monologuing, before disappearing at the back of the house. John, who had been standing like a bodyguard next to Sherlock, had been distracted. Sometimes, when Sherlock starts bragging about how he had easily discovered the solution, he cannot seem to stop himself, and the words he utters at an infernal speed become meaningless once they've reached John's ears. It doesn't help that they've been working on the case four days in a row, which has John sleep deprived and overall exhausted. So, he too hadn't anticipated the small, sobbing woman to shift into some kind of ninja Olympic racer. John had even had the time to see the look of complete surprise on Sherlock's face before the detective had yelled, setting him into action: "John, she's getting away!"

Yeah, no kidding.

They now have left the suburban streets for a commercial district, running behind a series of warehouses, and of course it's night, and of course, the back alley is dirty and cluttered. It's not running, it is obstacle racing. John can sometimes catch a glimpse of McMaster's pale pink shirt, the only reason they can follow her at all, given the darkness of the moonless night.

They are not supposed to be the ones running after suspects anymore. Sherlock had agreed to stay away from everything physically demanding or dangerous, and leave it to the Yard. Lestrade is more and more suspicious of something going on but, even now as he is twenty-two weeks pregnant, Sherlock still refuses to speak of his predicament, mostly because he fears Lestrade won't ask for his help anymore afterward.

Could happen. Right now, while he gets ready to jump over a pile of folded cardboard, John kind of wishes it would have happened already. He lands too hard, feeling a strain in his right ankle. No time to worry, though, so he keeps running...

...Only to meet with Sherlock's back at full speed. John tries to stop -can almost hear the break noise like in cartoons- and throws himself to the side, his shoulder bumping hard against an empty container. At least, Sherlock is still standing, although he's wincing, hopping on a leg to get to John.

"What?"

"Cramp," Sherlock growls.

John nods, trying to catch his breath, and he's about to explain to Sherlock how cramping is a normal occurrence during pregnancy.

"What are you waiting for, go get her!" Sherlock yells, grabbing his arm and pushing him forward.

Ah. Yes. There is still the matter of that innocent-looking ninja/Olympic runner/murderer to catch. John nods, almost glad something has stopped Sherlock, and then he's back to running, ignoring the pain and the blisters and his decidedly unhappy lungs.

At least Sherlock is out of harm's way. The thought seems to give John a much needed burst of energy because suddenly, he can not only see a spot of pale shirt moving but a long braid flapping on the back, and...

Yes. There is light ahead, and a brick wall. McMasters will have to choose to turn left or right and this hesitation will more likely give John the opportunity to stop her.

He sees all of her petite body now, and how red her face is when she turns to look behind her shoulder, eyes big and fearful -oh god, why did she run, she's just aggravating her case, John thinks in a sudden bout of sympathy. She needs to slow down because if she keeps her current rhythm she'll meet the brick wall face to face. John himself has already slowed his pace, and then...

Something completely unexpected happens. Laura McMasters doesn't turn left, or right. She stops, makes a 180-degree pivot and...

Begins running toward John.

...What?

There is no way they won't collide. And then, John understands what is going through her mind, and he tries to brace himself, looking frenetically for the knife, the damn knife where did she put it-

She's jumping him. He cannot react, not fast enough, as they roll on the ground. He needs to immobilise her, what the hell is happening why can't he seem to-

A burning sensation explodes in John's left thigh.

He's on his back in the alley, McMasters crouching over him like some kind of dominatrix. Her hair tickles John's nose.

"I'm sorry," she pants. "I just needed to stop you... just... to get away..."

She lifts her head and her eyes widen. Then she's up and running, disappearing from John's view.

Why can't he think? What the hell is happening? John's whole leg feels wet, and maybe it is only that, maybe he's lying in a puddle of dirty water... But then, what is that smell, that very familiar smell reminding him of his hospital shifts, or a makeshift tent in Afghanistan where he tries to do his work, save lives...

...and his hands gloved, but always... always, it seems... covered in blood.

Blood.

John tries to sit up but the world is spinning, and he can't seem to catch his breath. He feels, with trembling hands, the wetness of his left leg, howling in pain when he inadvertently slides two fingers in the hole made in the clothing of his jeans, and the open wound right under. He can feel the blood flowing, god. It's the femoral artery, it is bleeding too much to be otherwise.

John needs to stop the bleeding, and he needs to do it quick or else he's going to die.

The realisation is dull and grey, just like his thoughts, as if he's already drifting off into unconsciousness.

No.

John voluntarily shoves his fingers in the wound once more, and Jesus, he didn't even know pain could be that intense, but at least, he still has enough energy for screaming, and his vision clears out.

"JOHN!"

Good. Sherlock. Sherlock can help. John is already pressing on the wound, hard, with both hands. His teeth are chattering, his whole body is shaking. Shock. Already.

No no no no no. Needs to keep his head clear.

John blinks. Sherlock's face is inches away from his, contorted in fear and panic. He grabs his face with both hands, and John thinks, far at the back of his mind, how he would like to feel the skin instead of the expensive leather of gloves.

Sherlock. His posh boy.

"Lestrade call an ambulance! NOW!"

John doesn't like it, not one bit, to be the source of the pain and worry in Sherlock's voice. He wants to reassure him, but there is more urgent matter, namely, the fact that he's bleeding to death.

"Femoral... artery..." he pants, annoyed at the weakness of his voice, "pressure on... bleeding too fast..."

"Shut up shut up shut up, keep your strength," Sherlock says frantically, and his face disappears for a moment.

John doesn't like it.

He would at least like for Sherlock's face to be the last thing he sees before dying.

A tremendous pressure on his wound has him spilling tears in a sob that shreds his burning throat.

"Sorry, god, so sorry," Sherlock murmurs, and there he is, stretching his body so that he can look at John. His scarf has disappeared from around his neck.

"John it's not enough, it's bleeding too much," Sherlock rasps, "tell me what to do, please."

I'm dying, John thinks clinically. Right here on the dirty pavement, with my pregnant fiancé watching it all.

No. Not yet. You're going to be a father John Watson, stay the fuck awake.

"Press... harder," he tells Sherlock.

The renewed pressure has pain jolting through John's whole body like an electric shock. He yelps.

"Sorry, I am so sorry," Sherlock repeats, bending down to press a kiss to John's dry lips, as if wanting to swallow his cries of pain. "Do not worry, the ambulance will be here soon.”

"Sherlock," John says as rationally as he can.

Sherlock knows what is coming, it's obvious in his features he won't let John go through with it, but hell, if this is it, if this is how John Watson, army captain, blogger and companion, is going to die, there are things that need to be said.

"Shush," Sherlock is saying his forehead leaning against John's. "Shush, John. I won't let you go, I swear, please, please don't speak."

There are footsteps then, and a conversation. John cannot hear what both voices are saying, it's like he's underwater, and then, another familiar face appears to him, but not for long. Lestrade.

"Damn it Sherlock this isn't enough he needs a tourniquet, he's bleeding out."

There is some shuffling. Voices. "Let me, I know how to do it, stay with him, speak to him...”

....

"No, Sherlock stop I got this, damn it! Let me bloody help him..."

Part of John's brain analyses the situation, detached and logical. It's textbook. There was a time where tourniquet was taught as a first aid technique to stop blood flow, but there were too many complications because of inexperience, sometimes resulting in the loss of a member and tissue necrosis, when the blood flow was cut off for too long. That is when it was decided it was better to teach how to apply pressure on a bleeding wound until the arrival of competent medical workers. Lestrade should know how to do it safely, though, the Yard's police force is highly trained, and even if John was to lose a leg, still better than dying right?

John knows Lestrade is fighting Sherlock away from the wound, and he gathers enough strength to call him, loud. "Sherlock, he is right! Let him do it... please, love."

John doesn't hear the response. There it is again, that grey cloud covering his eyes, his mind. He's so tired, and so light, and then he's nothing he's...

"JOHN!"

It's the voice, more than the brutal rubbing of knuckles on his sternum, that brings John back from behind the grey curtain. He curses, opening his eyes to slits. Sherlock is cradling his face, saying his name, over and over again.

Something is happening down there, near his wound, but the pain is a distant echo. John cannot feel his leg much now, it's cold and numb, like a piece of meat that doesn't belong to him.

Sherlock shakes his shoulders and repeats his name again.

Ah. Yes.

He should answer.

"M'here, don't worry."

He's so thirsty. His mouth is dry. Speaking hurts.

"You keep your bloody eyes open, you hear me?" Sherlock spits, looking so damn angry, and that won't do, not at all.

"Ok," John answers, docile.

"I think I can hear the siren," comes a voice...

...Yes, Lestrade. Here, with them...

There was something John needed to say. There was...

(Concentrate, Watson. Come on!)

"Sherlock,"

Sherlock opens his mouth but John doesn't give him time to answer. "You will let me talk," he roars, summoning all his decreasing strength.

Sherlock closes his eyes, slowly. Damn it, if this is their last minute together John needs to speak now. NOW, WATSON!

"You will be fine," he says.

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes closed shut.

"And our daughter will be fine. I am not worried, I never was."

"John, please," Sherlock pleads, and a tear slides down his nose to land on John's upper lip. He licks it.

"I regret nothing," John goes on. Jesus, he wishes Sherlock would open his eyes, he wants to see them, it's almost painful how much he needs it.

And he must have said at least some of it out loud because here they are, the most gorgeous, intelligent, piercing eyes in the world.

"I love you so much, Sherlock," John whispers into the pale blue reflecting Sherlock's soul.

"I love you too," Sherlock answers with a weak voice, cradling John's face as if it's porcelain ready to break.

Then Sherlock's features tense, and his eyes become severe, just like they do when he needs to explain something to Anderson. "Now," he says, voice loud and authoritative, a tone that will not be questioned. "Listen to me, John Watson. You're going to stop this silly nonsense. You're so overly dramatic, really, all you have is a small cut, a simple flesh wound. I bet you could stand up and walk if you would stop whining. Yes, you could, and now, I don't want to hear you complain like a wuss, because you aren't going anywhere. You got me pregnant, you bastard, and you are stuck with me, understood?"

John feels a fond smile stretching his lips. He has never loved Sherlock more than in this moment, ordering him around like he does on a case, so bloody sufficient and confident he thinks he can stop death. This, John can give that much to him.

"Ok," he says.

"Good."

"Here they come. Oï! Hurry, it's a fucking emergency!"

Huh. Must be Lestrade again.

John keeps looking at Sherlock. The pain is gone, and the grey veil isn't so dull now. It's inviting, comfortable, like an old, worn out jumper. Something from inside him spread warmth.

Lovely. How nice it is to let go. Finally.

Sherlock's face is fading. John thinks he hears a scream, but he falls back behind the veil.

Chapter Text

3.

It isn't sleep. It isn't unconsciousness. Somewhere in between, John floats. He knows what is happening, can feel the paramedic sliding the oxygen mask over his face, then piercing his skin at the crook of his arm with a needle. They'll give him saline to replace his blood loss until they reach the hospital.

His name is called, his chest is rubbed, one of his fingernails is pricked with a needle. He knows. They want him to react, they need to evaluate his awaken state. John would very much like to answer, but he can't. Somewhere between his brain ordering and his body responding, the communication is cut. He knows he makes noises and blinks, it's the best he can do.

There is no time lapse, no skipping ahead. John is aware of everything, although he cannot really feel. It isn't like seeing himself from the outside. It isn't like being numb. Somewhere in between.

The awareness is limited to his body and immediate surroundings. Whatever happens, not even a foot away from him, comes back like a distorted echo. John concentrates on breathing. It takes him all the energy he can gather.

Sherlock.

John is almost certain he can hear his baritone voice, and guesses he must be yelling, or at least, speaking very loud. Sherlock wants to be in the ambulance with him. John isn't sure it will be allowed. Depends on his vital signs, and the percentage of chances he'll go into cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital. No paramedic wants to deal with a hysterical fiancé, family member or anyone else, when trying to save a life.

John is lifted and pushed. For a moment, he gives in and let unconsciousness take over. He's tired, so very tired.

They won't let him, though. They hurt him. Sternum rub, a pinch at his left trapezius, and he gasps, opening his eyes wide. He cannot keep them opened for long, just enough to see a blond woman bend over him, and a long pale hand half covered by the sleeve of a dark, thick fabric.

Sherlock.

He's in the ambulance with him.

A surge of emotion pierces through John's involuntary indifference. He feels his eyes burn under his now closed eyelids. It hurts, because he's dehydrated, of course. Whatever blood is left in his body has been directed to the most important organs: his brain, heart, liver and kidneys. Not to waste on tears.

I might live, John thinks, clearly. He wants to reassure Sherlock. He is pregnant, he has to be careful. Stress isn't good, neither for him, nor the baby. It's all fine, love, John says, but the inside of his mouth is thick and sticky, too dry, and all that gets out is a weak sound, muffled by the oxygen mask.

"Stay calm, Doctor Watson, we're almost there," a female voice says straight into his ear.

I am calm. I am, I just want to make sure Sherlock is ok. He thinks it really hard, as if he could communicate telepathically by sheer will.

Then, a cold hand takes his, and presses it softly. Sherlock's. And it means :do not worry about me. I'm fine.

John concentrates on re-establishing the connection between his mind and body, even though it means feeling pain again. He needs to. And... yes. He moves his fingers. Not much, but enough to hear Sherlock's voice, closer.

"I'm here John."

::: :::

When they reach the hospital, John is granted a brief moment of clarity, a moment where he can think, and understand, everything that going on. He is grateful, because the next step is most probably being taken to the stabilisation room, a place where Sherlock cannot follow. Might as well feed off his presence while he still can. Who knows how this night is going to unravel.

John is definitely not thinking about death. Nuh-uh.

Sherlock must know they are about to be separated, because he grabs his hand back, jogging at the same rhythm as the paramedics, ignoring their demand not to slow them down and complicate their work.

"John," he says, lowering his upper body, "John, I'll be right here. Waiting for you. You understand? Don't leave me hanging for too long, you know how I impatient I am - I might snap and punch a nurse. Make it quick."

Funny. As if he has any control over it. John might smile, he cannot be certain. He manages to pat Sherlock's hand one last time before the flapping doors of the stabilisation room close behind him. The crude light and loud voices are too much and he finds himself sliding back in that somewhat dreamy state, where time doesn't pass but stutters, and reality loses its bearings

::: :::

"You've been lucky."

John blinks at the masked man bent over him, realising that the dream has been fading for some time (time?) and reality is slowly but surely clicking back into place. He is glad a general anaesthesia wasn't required - when you know you've once more stood on the thin line separating the dead from the living, you prefer not to be put to sleep. "Mmh," he rasps under the oxygen mask, annoyed that it seems to make breathing more difficult.

"The damage at the femoral artery was minimal. I'm confident you won't suffer from any permanent damage. I'll let my assistant finish stitching the superficial layers of skin. Alright? I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you," John murmurs, quite proud of his successful effort to speak.

The man's eyes crinkle, surgeons' version of a smile. John regrets he cannot remember his name, nor the one of the A & E doctor who took care of him in stabilisation. There will be time for that, though.

Said assistant and two nurses are at work behind the lifted sheet that forbids John to see what his insides look like. The constant presence of the anaesthesiologist sitting near John's head is reassuring. She has been monitoring the epidural, as well as his vital signs. She seems satisfied with it all because while the stitching goes on, she offers him ice chips. It feels so good, John could cry. The heavenly cold liquid slides down his throat, soothing it. John elevates June -why does he knows her by her first name?- to sainthood.

Saint-June explains to him that he might still feel confused and not to worry if he can't remember the past hours clearly. It is due to a combination of the brain reacting to trauma and the heavy doses of painkillers he's been given. John knows all this, but it is comforting still. He stares into June's eyes -a bright green colour, almond-shaped, a beautiful contrast against her black skin - and imagines she must be as beautiful as she is kind. No other doctor has had the time to treat John like a human being and not a broken machine -when one life is at stake, there are other matters at hand.

It is finally over. A nurse and an orderly take John out of surgery and into the elevator to get him to his room. On the way, a realisation strikes him, cutting his breath short.

John is not dying anymore.

He had been, though. He really, really had been minutes away from dying.

And now he's alive. Very much, very acutely alive.

Oh, there still could be complications. John can list at least ten ways things could still go downhill, but he refuses to think about it. Relief flows over him. He practically shakes with it. It seems almost surreal now, to think he had been bleeding to death, to remember Lestrade's panicked voice and Sherlock's order to stay alive.

Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock. John takes off his mask with trembling fingers, despite the nurse’s protest. He needs to ask.

"What time'zit?"

The elevator door opens on a quiet floor. The nurse puts the mask back into place, staring at John severely, while the orderly pushes the gurney into the corridor.

" It's two in the morning. Keep your strength, Dr. Watson. . Please, take deep breaths for me."

"Four hours," Sherlock's unmistakable baritone voice answers John's question.

And John, hell, even while thinking : great, Sherlock's here, he seems okay, not too shaken -even then, his body decides to betray his mind.

Because he's taking the mask off -again- with trembling hands, then he tries to lift himself on his elbows, hurting to see, needing to prove -to Sherlock or himself, he's not really sure- that he's alive, damn it, he's not going anywhere. Why can't he see Sherlock? Why are there two new nurses, who seem to have popped out of thin air for the sole purpose of blocking his view? John pushes the arms trying to hold him back. If he could only gather a little strength, but everything hurts and...

"Sherlock?" John calls, his voice a weak, pathetic plea.

He's told to calm down and stay still, wondering what is actually happening to him and to his absolute surprise and horror, bursts into raw, dry sobs.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sherlock says, and he's angry. The pink-dressed nurse that is currently trying to put the damn mask back on John's face is yanked -not too gently- away and...

...Sherlock is there. Pale, except for two red spots high on his cheeks, his hair a mess of bouncing curls low on his forehead. His pale blue shirt is covered in nasty brown stains -John's blood. He hates himself for it, for Sherlock needing to calm him down like he's a whiny child. Sherlock has enough on his plate. John should be able to remain stoic, and, as usual, find a funny way to break the I-almost-just-died tension. Because that's his thing, that is what he does.

Instead, he tries to grab at Sherlock's shirt, needs him closer, needs his face to be the only thing John can see.

"It's okay, John, I'm here," Sherlock says calmly, pressing his forehead against John's. The relief in instantaneous but results in another bout of ugly dry sobs.

John can see it in Sherlock's eyes, although he tries to hide it, that is he is as upset as John by his nervous breakdown.

"John," Sherlock repeats, lower this time. "John, darling, look at me."
In the time they have been together, Sherlock's only term of endearment for John had been to add "my" before his name, and on rare occasions. Once, Sherlock had irritatingly told John that he couldn't, he just felt like an idiot trying pet names in the mirror, practicing to see if he could pull it off at the appropriate moment. John had laughed at the image -he didn't care, he used pet names himself because they came naturally to him.

Hearing "darling" from Sherlock, though, makes him second-guess his own self-proclaimed indifference on the matter because now there are tears on his cheeks -few, and producing them actually hurts, but John cannot help it.

"Listen to me," Sherlock goes on, his eyes fond and his tone sweet, so full of affection. "These idiots won't leave us alone if they aren't satisfied with your physical and mental state. Let them settle you into your room, then it will be my pleasure to kick them out."

John gives a shaky nod. Meanwhile, a heated, nearby conversation is getting louder, enough for it to hurt John, physically, as if each of his exhausted nerves vibrates with the noise. Sherlock notices. His anger darkens his eyes. He won't have any of it.

Turns out, he doesn't have to.

"Yes, I do understand," John hears, and it is Mycroft's voice, carrying all the disdain and exasperation he's capable of. "If everyone could calm down and give Doctor Watson a few seconds to compose himself, we could get over this frankly ridiculous corridor melodrama."

John can see the tug of a hardly supressed smile on Sherlock's face, which has him going from tears to a hysterical, gravely giggle.

It's fine. It's all fine.

He relaxes a little and nods again at Sherlock, who then presses a kiss to his forehead and takes a step back. John is docile while he's wheeled into his room -a private one, of course, and John won't protest Mycroft's involvement this time. When it is time to move him from the gurney to his bed, he braces himself, knowing it's going to hurt and focusing on the bit of warm wetness on his forehead. Another first. It is more John-like to kiss Sherlock like that, a kiss not about desire or even romance, just to make a statement. I'm here, I'm watching over you.

John still watches the door while he's settled and hooked to another set of machines, as if the access to the room could disappear in a blink. At least, his doctor title allows him to negotiate the removal of the damn oxygen mask to have it replaced by nasal cannula.

And then, finally, the three nurses and the orderly leave, and Sherlock comes in, glaring at them as if they have personally insulted him.

He closes the door, and immediately, John feels calmer. The room is huge for a public hospital one, equipped with a couch and a small kitchenette. Mycroft's doing, evidently. It still seems like a room used for long term stay, and John hopes no one is mistaken, because he plans to be out as soon as he can move without reopening his wound.

Sherlock is looking around, hands clasped behind his back.

"It's the least ugly room Mycroft could find," he states, his position stiff and his tone trying too hard to be its usual unimpressed one. "He pays his regards."

John nods. He wishes Sherlock would come closer, but doesn't know how to ask. It is usually the other way around.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asks casually, taking a step closer.

"Better than I look," John says, going for a smile.

He must be white as a sheet, the contour of his lips purplish and his eyes sunken. John has seen what blood loss looks like before.

"You must be incredibly tired. Sleep," Sherlock orders, dragging a chair close to the bed.

"How are you?"

Sherlock frowns at him, then sits down, very slowly. "I am perfectly fine, John. I'm not the one who's been attacked."

John knows what is coming. They will argue about whose fault it is, both trying to take the responsibility.

He really is incredibly tired.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Can you sit on the bed with me for a little while?"

"I will hurt you."

"Not on this side. Come on. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Sherlock doesn't get the -admittedly weak- joke. "Of course I trust you John, do not ever doubt it," he says solemnly.

Nevertheless, it is with extreme caution that Sherlock lowers the bed rail, seating himself so close to the edge of the mattress he's practically still standing up.

"Can you help me with the glass of water?"

"Yes! What am I thinking, blood loss must have made you dehydrated, wait..."

It's awkward, because Sherlock's nervousness seems to suddenly throw over his careful composition. He has trouble holding the glass because he's trembling, and as John tries to grab the straw with his mouth, Sherlock curses himself quite originally.

Despite his exhaustion, John lift his hand to grab Sherlock's wrist and steady him, looking straight into his eyes while he drinks, trying to convey as much calm and comfort as possible without saying a word. Sherlock bites his already bruised lower lip where the deep trace of his teeth tells of distressed waiting hours. John wishes he could be steady enough for the both of them, but he's barely able to fight off sleep.

When he's done drinking, he takes Sherlock's hand between his. Sherlock looks everywhere but at him. His free fingers are beating a quick rhythm on his thigh.

"Sherlock, I am fine," John says slowly. "I know it's been a hell of a night, and what happened is no one's fault except for Laura McMasters."

"Debatable," Sherlock interrupts.

"We will not have any argument over it. You haven't done anything wrong, neither did I. Please. I'm just bloody relieved to be alive, I don't want to ruin it, ok?"

Sherlock casts him a look under his dark lashes. "Alright," he murmurs, although it is clear he has his own opinion of who's responsible for tonight's cock up, and that he will bring the matter up eventually.

It will have to do for tonight.

"You should go home," John goes on, and when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, he adds: "I know, I know everything you are going to say. But there is the baby to think of. I assure you I'll rest even better knowing you're sleeping in a real bed."

Sherlock is silent for a few seconds. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Then, he stares straight into John's, open and real and vulnerable. "Please. Let me stay. Please, John."

It is John's turn to lower his gaze. He won't start crying again. Nope. Besides, it hurts.

"Well, you’ll sleep on the couch."

"Of course."

"And ask a nurse for scrubs, you're covered in blood."

Sherlock stares down at his shirt and seems surprised by the brownish stain. "Oh. I am sorry John, it must be quite disturbing for you."

He stands up and get rids of his shirt and vest so quickly he stumbles and would have fallen down if he hadn't leaned against the wall. "That is why Mycroft had Anthea bringing me a change of clothes. I have to admit I wasn't thinking very clearly because I had yet to hear any news from your state."

Here it comes. One of Sherlock's nervous verbal outbursts. He doesn't even raise his tone while shuffling into the bathroom and sliding on a clean shirt, which has John missing a couple of sentences. He doesn't think it really matters. He takes the opportunity to fiddle with his morphine pump. There is a burning, pulsing sensation coming off his wound, it is only normal, but John is too tired to fight off pain anymore.

"... Coffee and then he looked at me in a very strange, very un-Lestrade way and took a sip himself. He's heard me, I can tell, although he is clearly out of his depth trying to figure out how to react to the situation. Which, well, besides congratulate me, what else could he possibly say or do? And now, all of New Scotland Yard will know. I am mad at myself, John, to feel so incredibly uncomfortable with the knowledge. How am I responsible for Lestrade's awkwardness? Surely there is nothing especially extraordinary in being with child - care for some water?"

John nods.

Sherlock sits back. The trembling in his hands hasn't receded -if anything, it's even more pronounced.

John manages to catch the straw with his tongue. Sherlock doesn't really help.

"What I mean to say is that you should be happy now, the news is out. Oh. I didn't mean to sound resentful. My apologies, I am quite tired. I shouldn't point out Lestrade's lack of open-mindedness while we are both indebted to him, as there is no doubt his knowledge of the tourniquet method and unshakable calm during tonight's events are the reason you are here with me and not... not..."

Sherlock stops, mouth open, lowering the glass which leaves John with the straw sticking to his lower lip. His spits it on the side, observing Sherlock who stares into nothingness, blinking very slowly. His chin is trembling and, when he tries to put the glass back on the bedside table, he drops it on the floor. Luckily, it's made of plastic and only contained a few drops. The noise startles John; he winces, cannot hold back the groan of pain that escapes his throat.

Sherlock doesn't notice, neither the dropped glass, nor the groan.

Not dead, is what he meant to say. John's doesn't know what he's imagining right now, but he is certain it is full of realistic details and scarily accurate. The blinks keep coming, ever so slowly, and as long seconds strech without any change, John snaps his fingers in front of him, worried.

Sherlock upper body tenses and he looks at him, frowning. "I... sorry. Got lost in my thoughts."

"I do own you and Lestrade my life," John whispers.

He lifts his arm and presses his palm on the side of Sherlock's face, as softly as possible. Sherlock leans into it, sighing.

"I didn't do anything good tonight, John. Do not credit me with your life, I do not deserve it."

"I said we wouldn't do that," John states firmly. Well, he tries. His words are getting slurry again. He knows he won't be able to keep his eyes open much longer.

"And I said you should rest, but here I am unable to shut up."

"When have you ever been able to shut up, love?"

Sherlock shakes his head, smiling in derision.

"I can’t stay awake anymore," John warns as his eyelids get heavier. "Promise. Promise me you will at leass... try'to... sleep..."

"Promise."

John wants to question Sherlock's sincerity, but it's too hard to form words. His hand drops on the sheet. He yawns.

"I will sit with you for a little while," Sherlock tells him, bending over him to plant a soft kiss to his lips. "Then I'll lay down on the couch."

John nods. Sort of. His eyes close. It feels good, to finally be able to welcome the oblivion of sleep.

He feels something tickling his chin, and a light weight settling on his chest. It's not heavy, but comforting. The smell of Sherlock -his shampoo and soap, his sweat, a whiff of iodine, or something equally sharp and chemical- is apparently enough, in its familiarity and comfort, to sever whatever is left of John's resistance.

He sleeps.

Chapter Text

4.

John wakes up, slowly, rising up from the layers of unconsciousness rendered thick and heavy by the Dilaudid. He blinks in the soft light casting a warm, yellow shade over his bed. He knows he cannot turn it off because he's under observation, and doesn't really care anyway -darkness isn't exactly comforting when you've just been stabbed in an obscure back alley.

He's not drowsy, and hungover enough to have slept long. Why is he awake anyway? He had the feeling someone had been calling for him.

John doesn't feel the weight of Sherlock's head on his chest anymore, but only has to turn his head to see him sitting - more collapsed, really - on a chair near the bed, his upper body resting close to John's, on the side of the mattress. He has an arm wrapped around John's chest and uses the other as a makeshift pillow. His face is turned toward John, showing his tense expression. He's asleep, though, there is no doubt about-

"John," Sherlock murmurs, his voice raw and plaintive.

That must have been what woke John in the first place. This character trait Sherlock finds fascinating, how John is able to sleep so lightly he's able to hear him each time he says his name. It's training, John had shrugged, keeping to himself the fact that only Sherlock has ever had that effect on him. He's awakened more quickly by his lover's voice than by the army alarm that would resonate in the middle of the night, piercing the silence.

"John," Sherlock repeats, louder this time. His mouth is quirked into a grimace and his eyes are moving rapidly under his eyelids.

He is dreaming, clearly plagued by a nightmare. He hiccups a long sigh ending on a moan. A tear escapes his right eye, sliding down his cheek to follow the already wet path made by others. John hates to know he is responsible for it, for Sherlock's fear, which he tried to hard to hide when John was brought into his room. It must have been so difficult for him, if his mind gives way to sadness in its unconscious state, emotions too great to be contained, or dealt with while awake. He is so bloody sensitive, John thinks, lifting his hand to slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair, untangling the curls softly.

Sherlock reacts with a shiver, his whole body tensing before it relaxes again, and the frown between his eyebrows disappears.

So sensitive. John wonders if he is responsible for it, and to which level. After tonight, especially, the question is one to be explored. The chemistry between them when they first met had established the basis of their relationship very early on, and it had only become more entrenched after they fell in love. John had remained the protector and the caretaker, not only for Sherlock's mind but also for his heart. Sherlock's love for him is so absolute, and his trust isn't based on anything logical, If John had evil intentions, he could play Sherlock like an instrument.

And this, this is scary, to admit to himself the power he has over someone with such a formidable mind. Sherlock doesn't trust his emotional self; the insecurity is engraved deep in him, with roots that go way farther than his time with John. And now, he cannot go back to whom he was before, because that man never truly existed. Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge his feelings has never been, after all, an absence of said feelings. He always felt, so much and so deeply. John knows. It's the only explanation, this duality, for the man he is today.

If John wasn’t so protective, so eager to take Sherlock's hand and guide him through his emotional journey...what if he's holding Sherlock back? What if he does in fact feed his insecurity, by treating him like he cannot handle his emotions, his humanity? The thought is awful, but it makes sense. The fault cannot be put on Sherlock, nor John - it is the way they learned to be with each other.

Tonight, John had needed for their roles to be reversed. And Sherlock had steppedup. He's been solid and reassuring, he's been the protector, the care taker. He's been perfect. Of course. He is strong. Stronger than he thinks.

But then, what if his emotional self became as confident as his detective self? What would John be for him then?

Oh, Watson you wuss. You've always been scared that if you weren't useful, in all the sense of the word, you'd fade away, just another anonymous bloke leading an empty life.

John blushes, the thought seeming especially silly right now. Time to grow up. You aren't the little boy who wanted his father's approval anymore. Just admitting this to himself makes it easy to push back his silly fears of being abandoned if he isn't needed. Sherlock doesn't love him because John reminds him to eat and sleep, or to be polite and considerate. Sherlock loves John for everything he is and everything he isn't. And he deserves to come to terms with his old demons, to realise how wonderfully human and compassionate he is when he thinks and acts according to his heart. They are going to have a little girl. Sherlock has to believe in himself, and stop worrying about his competency, or absence of. There is no doubt he is going to be an amazing father. John needs to make him understand that loving isn't about learning how to do it correctly. All you need is a big enough heart, and this, he already possesses.

"Obviouthly," Sherlock murmurs, right on point, as always. If he knew, though, that his lisp comes back when he talks while sleeping, John has no doubt he would find a way to discipline himself even when unconscious.

John smiles and keeps caressing Sherlock's hair, observing him to ensure he isn't caught in another nightmare. Sherlock is frowning, but ever so slightly, like he does when he is impatient, or maybe exasperated. John would kiss him if he wasn't feeling like a slug.

"Love you," he says, hoping to pierce through the thick fog of sleep.

::: :::

John sleeps until late in the morning, only waking up when a nurse comes to check on his bandage and take his vital signs, once every two hours or so. Sherlock is a steady presence to which John holds onto, drunk on exhaustion and pain killers. Then it's suddenly ten in the morning and the sun is shining bright outside. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, but he's left a note.

"You were resting when I left, and I didn't want to disturb you. The nurses have assured me you are doing very well, considering yesterday's events. I have a simple errand to run, and do not plan to get into any kind of danger. I will be back before three. Lestrade just texted me. Laura McMasters has been arrested. I'll be certain to keep my mobile close if you need anything. I love you. SH."

John smiles despite his initial disappointment -he's a little bit ashamed to miss Sherlock's presence so acutely, and at the same time, he can't help but feel amused at the correct deduction that John might worry Sherlock would be up to something reckless - like trying to catch McMasters on his own by sheer force of revenge and anger. To tell the truth, the woman is absent for John's mind. He isn't even angry with her, more irritated by her stupidity. John had almost become the second victim of an otherwise intelligent woman who had ruined her life for a lover that couldn't be faithful, then had tried to escape an inescapable situation. What a waste. And now, her case is solved and John doesn't plan to write about it, or speak of her ever again.

John does feel better, although he is sore all over and slightly nauseous. He has permission to eat, and to his surprise, practically inhales his breakfast - then manages to keep it down, which is even better. It is a bit alarming, though, to find himself completely exhausted after something as simple as eating. He knows it is normal after suffering a critical haemorrhage, he's told patients not to worry about it countless times. It's something else, though, when it happens to you. There might be some lesson to draw from it, but John is too tired to follow that thought.

The following hours are long and dull, as John grows frustrated with the constant interruptions to the sleep he needs so much. It seems that each time he is quietly fading into painkiller stupefied unconsciousness, there is a nurse walking in to fiddle with the machines, take his vital signs, evaluate the swelling of his leg and appearance of his wound. He is rolled downstairs for a CT scan, seated in a chair despite the pain, to get his blood circulation going. He's a body manipulated for them, a carnal envelope that needs fixing. It hits too close to home, despite John's determination not to think about it. Too many parallels to make with the waking nightmare he had been through after the explosion of their jeep in Kandahar, when facing the reality of what had happened was so much worse than the pain he was in.

The surgeon's visit does nothing to improve John's mood as they discuss his convalescence. He just hadn't had time to think of it, floating on the incredibly relieved feeling of just being alive. Oh, his wound is clean and the swelling is minimal. His physical state "very, surprisingly good" considering what he just went through. It doesn't change the fact that John will be basically useless for the coming month. The stress on his leg must be minimal. Even if he does negotiate an early departure from the hospital in forty-eight hours -as long as there are no complications- John will be on strict bed rest for a whole week; another two weeks with very limited physical activities will go by, then he will need to be evaluated again, before given the permission to resume his normal activities. He knows he doesn't have a choice: if he doesn't submit himself to it, there could be consequences, and serious ones. Of course, John knew all this already, he just hadn't had time to let it sink in.

John's experience at the end of his military service proved to him that he cannot bear to be cared for. He had been a bad patient: moody, impatient, sometimes downright aggressive. He doesn't want Sherlock to have to deal with it, but it seems unavoidable. Inactivity forced on both parts will drive them at each other's throat in less than a week, and there is no solution. In no universe or circumstances would John allow Sherlock to go alone on a crime scene, or really, to do any legwork, without him. It bothered him before the pregnancy -now it's just downright unimaginable. And John knows Sherlock will cooperate after what happened last night.

So. With those disagreeable thoughts swirling in his tired mind, it is not surprising the way John reacts when he answers his mobile and hear his sister's voice at the other end of the line. Normally, Harry doesn't call. If she wants to give him some news, she'll text or email. John suspects it is in part due to her drinking habits showing in her voice. He's fine with it. Sporadic emails and texting is the only relationship he can have with her. He spent years trying to help, and in the end, had understood he had to protect himself because she was dragging him down with him.

"What do you want?" is what he says, a snappy, edgy bark. Regretting it immediately, he closes his eyes and tries to calm down by taking a series of deep breathes.

"I..." Harry hesitates. He can picture her, twirling a strand of pale hair around her finger, as she always does when she is nervous.

"Oh hell. Sorry, Harry. I'm just... tired."

"I won't take long," Harry replies with trepidation. "I just... wanted to tell you I am glad you are ok."

John doesn't know what to say to that.

"John?"

"Yeah. Hum... well, thank you. Did the hospital call you? You aren't even listed as my next-of-kin."

"Sherlock."

John's surprise renders him speechless once more. Sherlock has never intervened in his complex relationship with Harry. He knows how difficult the issue is for him, and has never pushed. He is probably waiting for John to open himself up, just as John doesn't ask about his addict past. It is just... respectful, is it? Or do they take comfort in knowing the other wears the same blinders and prefer to ignore that they both had a past before they found each other? It suddenly seems very unhealthy.

"He texted me after you were attacked. I'm glad he did, John."

"He... well... It was a close call, you know," John says hesitantly, finding that he's in fact trying to explain Sherlock's behaviour to himself as much as to his sister.

"He was very... hum... kind, keeping me up to date. So. Well, I'm glad you are ok, and I am glad I finally got to speak to your fiancé."

"You spoke to him?" John cannot hide the stupefaction in his voice.

"Yes. I called this morning. I hadn't had any news since he had told me the surgery was successful, and I was... worried, you know."

"He actually answered?"

Harry sighs very softly. "Yes, he did. He seems to love you very much, Johnny. I am happy for you."

"He's extraordinary," John murmurs, failing at keeping a safe emotional distance.

"As you wrote about it before. But it is... it's something else entirely, getting to know him."

Harry is impressed, John can tell. And that. That is not surprising.

"I'm in Glasgow. I was coming, when he texted me that you had pulled through. I had found a plane ticket and aunt Doris was kind enough to pay for it."

Their mother's sister had moved to Scotland when she married, but they had always stayed close. John and Harry used to visit often during the summer, or the winter holidays. Those are such happy memories. John's father would stay back in England, refusing to take even a day off work, and the absence of his cold, crushing presence was like a balm, each time they were away. John's mother would relax and smile; Harry would be less combative, as even at a young age, she was always waiting for the next confrontation, picking fights with Henry Watson on everything, all the time. As for John, it was a wonderful feeling, being away. He then would allow himself to be a kid, just a kid, without the weight of unreachable expectation, impossible standards. And he's getting way too emotional now. As much as he tries to fight it, he is touched by Harry's gesture. It is also nice to know she is with family. It usually means she tries to stay away from booze.

"It's ok," he finally says. "I'm ok, Harry, no need to come. How is uncle Will?"

"Why didn't you tell me, John?" Harry cuts him off, speaking very softly.

"Well, I was bleeding out, I could hardly-"

"I mean about the baby. You are going to be a father! It's amazing," Harry laughs nervously.

"Sherlock told you about it?"

"I... he didn't mean to. I suppose he thought I knew."

Sure. Except Sherlock doesn't do that. Sherlock. Who doesn't see but observe, doesn't hear but listen. He had to know. Which means...he did it intentionally. It is not only out of character but inexplicable.

"Listen, Harry, it just... I wanted to, but somehow I always found myself postponing it. It was wrong, I should have-"

"No, stop it. I understand. Really seems like you are settling down, now. You will have a family of your own. It's bloody awesome."

John smiles, wishing for the hundredth time everything was different, like back when they were kids. It was so easy back then. "It's a girl," he murmurs, then clears his throat again, to get rid of the bloody lump that keeps swelling there.

"I know. I know, I... maybe... Maybe when she's born I could... If you don’t mind, which I would understand. Completely. But maybe I could visit, you know, just to meet her?"

Harriet's fear of rejection is pouring out of each word, and that's it. John cannot deal with this right now. It's too much, he doesn't have the energy. His involuntary silence does speak for itself. John doesn't even know what he wants, but there have been so many broken promises, so many missed meetings, deception, and...

"Listen, little brother, I need to go. Just... you don't have to answer, alright? I get it. I will let you rest. Maybe... maybe you'll write soon, when you feel better?"

John mumbles his agreement, still not trusting his voice. He's actually relieved to hang up, and decidedly not allowing himself to think about Harry, not now. He pushes his dilaudid pump button, deciding he should sleep while waiting for Sherlock's return. How is it that he misses him so damn much? It's barely two in the afternoon.

He settles himself as comfortably as he can and lets his heavy eyelids close without fighting.

It lasts all but ten seconds, maybe less, when a knock on the side of the opened door and Greg Lestrade's awkward: "should I come back later?" has John opening his eyes with great regret. He at least tries to put some enthusiasm in his voice, welcoming the inspector in and lowering the drug dosage as discreetly as he can. Greg nods and drags a chair close to his bed. There is another uneasy moment where John thanks him for saving his life and Greg tries to dismiss it, as if speaking of feelings between two blokes cannot be done without a heavy dose of repressed machismo.

Lestrade finds an escape by describing how they had tracked Laura McMasters back to a cousin's flat and the arrest that had followed. John really does try to listen, but he finds himself drifting off nevertheless, missing words here and there, then whole sentences.

When he shakes himself awake, Lestrade is, again coming into his room, like some sort of déjà vu. John is rested, though, and the light has changed. Also, Greg carries a stack of newspapers under his arm and a coffee tray in the other.

"Was I so damn boring?" He asks, smiling.

He drops his load on the bedside table. "Thought you might want something to read."

John thanks him, then begins apologising, but Lestrade stops him mid-sentence. "I think it's a bloody right to fall asleep in someone’s company when you've just survived death."

John smiles. He only slept for an hour and a half, but he feels better than he has all day. Greg stays a few more minute and they share their coffee in an agreeable silence, John's mind soothingly blank of any worries.

Lestrade is putting his coat back on, standing near the door, when Sherlock comes in with long, rapid strides. He bumps into the inspector and stops dead on his feet to narrow his eyes at him.

"Geoff."

Lestrade just rolls his eyes.

"Hey, Sherlock. I was just leav-"

"Oh, do not stop on my account, please," Sherlock cuts him off, chin raised high, cold and composed. (One might call the expression he wears his 'resting bitch face'.) "If you cannot stand the presence of a pregnant man."

Oh, shit. John had forgotten about it.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock like he's grown a second head.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock sniffs in disdain and slides his hand in his trouser pocket to flip back the flaps of his coat, revealing a very, very discreet bump trapped under a black shirt. The main new thing is the fact that he let the shirt out of his trousers.

Lestrade keeps looking at a two-headed Sherlock.

"Still not getting it."

"Oh please, you couldn't even look at me in the eyes yesterday evening, that's how uncomfortable you are. You were right next to me where I happened to mention the fact to John, which, really, I should apologise for my emotional outburst, my fiancé was dying. If I had known that revealing my pregnancy would put you in such a state I would have keep the fact to myself, believe me."

"I... yesterday evening?" Lestrade's face is getting pink, and the way he clenches his jaw tells John he's reached the point where he's had enough with Sherlock. It's a very singular process, that John has come to recognise every time. Sometimes Lestrade's patience can go for days. Other times, when Sherlock is in an especially foul mood, or if the crime is bothering him more than others, his saturation point is reached in a matter of minutes.

"Yesterday evening?!" Lestrade repeats, staring at Sherlock with a disbelieving expression. "Of course I wasn't acting like myself, I had just tied a tourniquet onto my friend to prevent him from bleeding to death, and I didn't know if he would pull through. Let me tell you, you weren't exactly yourself. I had to call Mycroft because I didn't know how to handle you, you bloody moron!"

Of course. Lestrade hadn't listened to what Sherlock was saying, busy with the tourniquet. And Sherlock, so damn nervous about revealing his pregnancy, had immediately imagined the worse. John can actually see the slow realisation drawing on Sherlock, his face going from disdainful to embarrassed, and if Lestrade's skin has turned pink, Sherlock's cheeks and ears adopt a more crimson shade, so quickly he must have physically felt it. He slides his hands out of his pockets in a quick motion and has them disappear behind his back. He clears his throat, trying to compose himself, but only partly succeeding. John cannot help but smile, despite the desperate look Sherlock casts him.

"I thought..." Sherlock says, his voice sounding smaller than usual.

"Yeah, that's all you do," Greg drops abruptly, but it's evident his anger is already deflating.

Then his eyes widen comically, and John can almost hear the laugh track in the background, as if they are all part of a very bad sitcom.

"So it means..." Lestrade goes on.

"Yes," Sherlock says patiently, rolling his eyes.

"You guys are... I mean, you have..."

"Yes! Yes, Gavin!" Sherlock exclaims, lifting both arms in an exasperated gesture. "I am indeed pregnant, and we are expecting our child for the beginning of June. It's a girl."

Lestrade stares another second, then bursts out laughing, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder with one arm to pull him forward, crushing him into a hug while patting his back. John regrets not to be able to see Sherlock's face, it is so damn funny, and in the same time, it's... good. John guesses the huge smile on his face isn't only because of Sherlock's current predicament, but also because of the warm, lovely sensation at the pit of his stomach, a mix of pride and possessiveness, which gets stronger with each day that passes whenever he thinks about Sherlock and their daughter. When long seconds pass and Lestrade is still busy congratulating Sherlock - "...I never thought, you of all people..." - while he stays trapped in his embrace, body tensed as a string, John takes pity on him.

"Hey," he calls. "Turns out even Sherlock cannot make a baby by himself, I deserve some credit, right?"

Lestrade agrees, and finally lets Sherlock go, leaving him still unsure of what just happened, even redder than before, his hair sticking up to a side of his head, unsteady on his legs.

He's lovely.

It takes another five minutes before Greg finishes celebrating the news with them, which is clearly too much for Sherlock, who's trying to busy himself, emptying a bag he brought with him in the closet, then making some tea -anything, it seems, not to listen to Lestrade's litany of "Unbelievable" and "wait ‘til I tell people at the Yard".

John has to admit, he isn't sad to see him go -not that he doesn't appreciate the man, but he kind of wants Sherlock all to himself.

Sherlock brings a cup of tea to John. He helps him sit up, arranges his pillows, and slides the rolling cart over his legs, careful not to touch the bandage.

The tea is a little bitter, but John still enjoys it for what it is. It is so rare Sherlock does this kind of thing for him -and it isn't a problem, it just makes those moment special.

Sherlock watches him drink from under his fringe. His hair isn't as artfully done as usual, there is no product in it. The curls are messy and frizzy, an array of small, shiny black corkscrews, looking as soft as cotton. It makes him look young and carefree, which is a nice balance with the visible pouches under his red-rimmed eyes and the downward curve of worry on his mouth.

"Are you feeling ok?" He asks, looking down his mobile that just blipped.

"Tired, but good. I'll be able to go home in a couple of days."

"Did the doctor actually make that decision, or did you ask for a special treatment? Usually, after a femoral artery surgery, the patients are kept under observation for a week."

John puts his cup down and looks at Sherlock until the younger man feels his gaze on him and lifts his head.

"What is it?"

"You, of all people, really shouldn't judge me. You hate hospitals. You keep using me as a way out."

Sherlock gives a tiny smile, and then shrugs. "True, but you keep telling me I am wrong, so why would you indulge yourself?"

There is worry under his apparently light tone.

"Listen Sherlock, I am fine. I know what signs to watch out for, in case of a complication. I wouldn't go home if I wasn't confident I can take care of myself. You won't have to do a thing, I can-"

"Please shut up," Sherlock cuts him off. It's more of a plea, really. He shows without shame how upset he is, his eyes wide and too bright, his lower lip trembling.

"Sherlock..."

"How can you imagine I would prefer you stay here out of... selfishness, so that I do not have to take care of you?"

"It's not what I meant."

"I would do anything for you, John. You have to know that."

John nods, stretching a hand to grab Sherlock's. "I know. I know, I am sorry. I'm not good at... you know... depending on others."

Sherlock nods. His expression softens. "Yes, I have noticed."

"I missed you today," John admits.

"As I you. I am sorry I had to leave."

"Hey, you don't have to stay with me twenty-four hours a day. It's just... well, given the circumstances."

"I brought you clothes, and your ugly bathrobe, and some books too."

"Thank you."

Sherlock sighs and stares at John, searching for something he cannot figure out. Soon enough, though, the rolling table is out of the way, John's bedrail is lowered, and Sherlock sits by his side. He bends forward and stares at John, still with intensity and concentration. Then, softly, very softly, he kisses him. Light, quick brushes of his lips, first on his forehead, then on his nose, and cheeks, and finally on his mouth. John cannot help the relieved sigh he lets out. He feels so good with Sherlock close to him, safe and warm and... present. Having Sherlock's complete attention is a bit like being illuminated by the sun, its brightness and warmth. It is only when it stops that you realise how cold and lonely you are without it.

"Yesterday," Sherlock murmurs, staying close enough that John can feel the puffs of breath on his face. "Yesterday, John, you almost died."

"Sherlock, don’t think about it, please. I am good, now. I'm right here, very very alive."

"But how can I think about anything else? My mind keeps suggesting scenarios of all the different ways it could have gone wrong..."

Sherlock shivers and lowers his head, rubbing his nose into the crook of John's neck, before settling there, his face turned toward John, his lips resting on the sensitive skin right under his jaw. Sighing, John wraps an arm around his back, letting his hand rest, firm and solid, on the middle of his spine. Grounding him. And loving him, fuck, loving him so damn much.

"I thought a lot last night, and this morning too," Sherlock whispers without moving.

"Not really surprising."

"About four years ago I acquired a property in Sussex."

"What?"

"I won it in a poker game against a man I suspected of running a human trafficking faction here in London. Turned out it wasn't him, but his cousin. You'll remind me to tell you about the case one day, it is quite amusing despite the matter being anything but. Anyhow, I did get the official papers of the property, but I forgot about it, until a year later, when I was called to Eastbourne to help solve a kidnapping case. Since I was close by, I happened to drive by the place I owned and it turned out to be a cottage on the edge of the South Downs."

"The Chalk Hills?"

"Yes. The cottage in itself is lovely and well maintained. A middle-aged couple was contracted to take care of it, even after I became the owner, and so it was ready to be inhabited. Pierce, my Poker adversary, had left most of the furniture. Although I am not one to be easily impressed by landscapes and geography, I couldn't deny that I felt immediately home, as if I belonged there."

"Awww, you fell in love with the place," John teases.

"It is chemically impossible to fall in love with a place," Sherlock replies. "Metaphorically speaking, though, it is probably the closest way to describe my reaction with accuracy."

"Did you stay?"

"I couldn't, as I was wrapped up in the case. Nevertheless, I decided then to keep the cottage for myself, if I were to fancy a holiday sometime in the future. London, after all, is mine. This city has no secrets for me. It is hard to leave a place with such a wild, beating heart. I see it as a music partition so complex it might sound like cacophony to most people, but if you have the capacity to untangle each melody, to discard the superfluous and find the right chord, what you're left with is a unique, majestic symphony."

John loves it when Sherlock demonstrates that his incredible brain isn't only for cold logic and rationality but also beauty and art. The musician in him can play with words as well as he plays with strings.

"Do you think I can hear the music?" He asks, letting his hand wander from the small of Sherlock's back to his neck, caressing the fine, downy hair there.

Sherlock shivers. "I think you might be getting there."

"Almost a compliment, then."

"I called Mycroft after I came back to London. I cannot stand signing papers and taking legal decisions, discussing contracts. It's incredibly platitudinous."

"You don't say," John mocks fondly.

Sherlock nips at the skin of his neck in retribution. John giggles. Yes. Very sensitive there.

"Here is what I meant to say. Mycroft took care of things, resting assured that any time I wish to go to Sussex, the cottage would be ready on a two days notice. I really did intend to go back, but like I have said, London is a magnet for me, and of course, the Work is my priority. To be honest, I didn't delete it but the cottage was buried deep into my mind palace. It didn't even occur to me to mention it to you."

"But now...you have been thinking about it."

Sherlock nods, lifting his head to look at John. He seems unsure and hesitant. John waits patiently for what he's almost sure is going to come next.

"The Sussex climate is the warmest in England. I thought it would be beneficial for your recovery. It has been proven that-"

"Sherlock. I think it is a great idea."

Sherlock observes John with attention, a light crease forming between his eyebrows. "You do?"

"Yes," John smiles. "It could almost feel like a holiday. I’m going to be a very boring partner, what with the strict rest and limited physical activity, but yes, it does sound good."

Sherlock smiles, happy, and it illuminates his whole face. "Good."

"Won't you get bored, though? With no case to work on?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replies, scrunching his nose in the most adorable way. "There is an experiment I have long planned to work on, though it would be impossible to do here. If anything, I'll be busier than I have been over the past month. Besides, I can always help Lestrade with cases that do not require my physical presence."

"How long do you plan we stay there?"

Sherlock shrugs. Something indescribable washes over his face, as if, for a second, he's hit by a sudden bout of sadness. But then, it's gone, and the smile is back. "I thought it would be best for you to complete your convalescence there, but really,
John, there is no need to make precise plans. We might both hate it in the end, or wish to stay longer. So I suggest we wait and see."

"I’m really, really looking forward to it," John says sincerely. He's ridiculously touched, just imagining Sherlock determined to find a way to make his convalescence easier, knowing and accepting of John's fear of being useless, his belief he cannot be dependent on others without becoming a burden.

"Do not worry, I'll take care of everything," Sherlock concludes, kissing his mouth so softly it is more like he just let his lips touch there, light, but reassuring.

"I know you will."

Sherlock sighs and lays his head on John's chest, wrapping a hand around his waist. When he speaks, his voice rumbles, vibrating against John's chest. "I made a fool of myself with Lestrade."

John chuckles. "It was... quite entertaining. At least, Lestrade's reaction is reassuring, he seems happy for us."

"Almost scarily so. The next thing we know we will have to ask him to be the godfather."

"I thought it would be Mycroft."

Sherlock groans, lifting his head so that John can see his pout. "Do we have to?" He asks, with all the petulance of a five-year-old. John smiles.

"To be honest, I don't know about the correct etiquette when it's time to pick godparents. I guess family members first, right?"

"Mmh," Sherlock says, leaving the matter to rest. He settles back on John's chest. "Hearing your heart beat is very reassuring."

"I'm fine," John answers, going back to his favourite cuddling perk, which is playing with Sherlock's hair.

"I cannot lose you. Do not make me do this alone."

"Do what?"

"...Life."

John would like to do it, to look Sherlock in the eyes and swear he'll stay alive and safe and close. For as long as Sherlock needs it. It would be a lie, though. If there is anything he learned yesterday evening, it’s that life has a way to tip over, and that a couple of seconds are sometimes enough to make you stumble and fall.

"I will never leave you, not if I have a say in the matter," John finally says, hoping it will be enough.

"Yes. I was afraid you would say that."

For a few seconds, they are both silent. John gets it. He spends so much time worrying about Sherlock, so many hours waiting for him to come back home, and endless runs, stake-outs, confrontations with suspects, trying to always be at the top of his game, to be able to protect Sherlock in case he needs protection. He knows how tiring it is being hyper vigilant for hours at a time.

There is no solution. John cannot deny he's as addicted to Sherlock's Work as Sherlock is. It would be easier if they weren't each other's entire universe, because the fear of losing the other is always there, hovering around their heads. And now, they have a baby on the way, which of course only complicates the issue.

Sherlock yawns, wide enough for his jaw to snap.

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Two hours. Those nurses kept coming and insisting I use the couch."

"As you were supposed to."

"Well, you know me, I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction."

"You bad man."

"Your bad man."

"Indeed."

Sherlock cannot be comfortable, not with his legs dangling off the bed, and his upper body twisted toward John.

"Get up," John says, nudging at his waist

"How do you...?"

"Legs. Up. If we can both fit on the couch back home, we can fit in this bed."

John knows Sherlock won't sleep if he's not close. He always falls asleep easier when they are cuddling. He's so tactile.

And maybe right now, John needs it just as much.

Sherlock drops his shoes on the floor while John shifts slowly, careful not to put any kind of strain on his leg. He watches in fascination as Sherlock settles his long, lean body on the side, using a few inches of mattress. His head goes back on John's chest, where it belongs, and his arm around his waist. John wraps an arm around his shoulder and over his back and lets the other one rest over Sherlock's on his stomach.

"Told you we would fit."

"Mmh," Sherlock agrees, already relaxing.

He will sleep, John can tell. In the comfortable silence settling between them, Harry's phone call comes back in his thoughts, but he decides to let it slip for now. He isn't sure what Sherlock's intentions were, or what his are, for that matter. It can wait, though. Right now, everything but Sherlock pressed close to him can wait.

Chapter Text

5.
Ten days, away from London, out in the country -a beautiful part of said country - and to John's surprise, so far, there have been no stupid arguments, no brooding, no impatient snapping on his part, as if they are truly on vacation and making the most of it.

Truly, the first week had been quite boring for him. That is the thing with painkillers: once you're off them -which John had wanted to do as quickly as possible- you have to rely on your good ol’ self to sleep and to pass time. Sherlock had been quite brilliant during that first week, always careful to provide John what he needed without overstepping. He had spent hours doing crosswords and Sudoku with him, watching telly, often making a show of mocking game shows participants or bad series scenarios, only for John's entertainment. He had even cooked. Well, he had heated things, defrosted others and made toast. He had watched out for signs when John was getting restless, or just upset -strict rest means way too much free time to think- and played the violin for him, if he thought it would help; and, understanding John needed space, had gone for long walks on the cliff.

The cottage is lovely. It's a small, two-storied stucco construction, with large windows and a garden full of flowers and herbs, surrounded by an iron fence decorated with swirling patterns. It stands alone on the cliff above the ocean, and there is a path down the rocks leading to the beach, which John had forbidden Sherlock to try, not in his condition, and not before John has tried it himself. Other cottages and summer houses are scattered here and there, all accessible by a common gravel road, but they are far enough from one another that it is easy to forget about them and feel like the hills belong to yourself. The landscape is amazing, and with the breeze from the ocean John feels like he never knew what it was like to breathe so deeply before they came here, with the air so pure you feel drunk on it.

When they had arrived (John sitting on the backseat with his leg propped up, Sherlock driving their rented jeep very slowly to avoid any shock that could hurt his wound) they had driven through the village of Storrington, a clean and touristy place almost out of a postcard. It had been easy to locate the main street which, mostly because of summer tourism, offers all the shops they would need, and less than twenty minutes away from the cottage. Sherlock has already driven down there twice and, if he had replied to John with a disdainful "it is a country village, John, it isn't any different than all the other boring small villages plaguing England", John knows better. He had seen the softness of his expression. It is like here, in contrast to London, Sherlock's brain has slowed down a little, adjusting to their environment. So far, Lestrade hasn't text or call for help, but it doesn't even seem to bother him. He seems content to go through -again- his thick folder where he keeps old, unsolved cases. He has also begun an experiment in the backyard. John hadn't asked what it was, or why it needed to be outside. When it comes to Sherlock and experiments, it sometimes is wiser not to know. There will be time for wondering what the strange smell is, or why all the plants are suddenly glowing in the dark.

For the past two days, John has begun walking around the cottage, slowly, enjoying the simple fact of being mobile again. His leg is sore, his whole body feels weak from the long rest, and John plans to get back his strength as quickly as possible. That afternoon, he is sitting on the porch, his leg propped on a chair, pretending to read, but really, looking at Sherlock's long dark silhouette detaching itself from the pale sky. He's walking at what he considers a slow pace, which means, about the normal speed for everyone else. The cliff is almost always windy, as it is today, the air fresh, cold, feeling like a pinch when an especially strong blow hits your face. Sherlock walks with his hands in his pocket, his coat and scarf flapping behind him, and if he were closer, John could see his hair, messy and wild, undulating around his face.

He wears jeans. He had them when they had arrived, new jeans -a paternity cut-, and when he put them on, he had silently challenged John to say something, evidently embarrassed by his new look. Which is ridiculous. He is sexy, even out of his skin and his element, his grace trying to adapt to a more casual style. Later, he had explained to John that he didn't really have a choice: the trousers he's ordered from his tailor aren't ready, and not really fitting for the country, anyway. John hopes he will keep wearing the jeans once in a while in London.

Sherlock is walking back towards him, waving when he sees John on the porch, and accelerates, long legs graceful and sure. It is almost hard to believe he is twenty-four weeks into his pregnancy. It certainly doesn't show if you don't look especially for it. It might be because of his tall frame, but his belly is still discreet. It is there, though, and John spends way too much time caressing its shape when Sherlock is shirtless -and allowing it. It's a firm bump that has started pushing up toward the navel, which is now starting to pop up. When Sherlock is standing up and dressed, though, the width of his hips conceals his belly, mostly because it isn't a perfect semi-sphere, more of an oblong one, reminding John of an American football.

As Sherlock gets closer, John physically longs for him. Although they have been sharing the bed since their arrival, they haven't done anything more than careful cuddling. When John was still taking dilaudid pills, that wasn't really a problem -nothing like a good dose of opiates to have you even forget you have a dick. Now, though, said dick doesn't miss an opportunity to remind him that he isn't a monk, even if all John is doing is watching Sherlock from a distance. He wonders if he could persuade him to do something. After all, his bandage is gone, and the threads have started to melt. The swelling is under control and...

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock tries to brushes his hair away from his face, fighting the wind. He's beautiful.

"More than," John says with sincerity.

::: :::

Later that day, John falls asleep in front of the fireplace, laying down on the leather lazy-boy he immediately adopted the day of their arrival. When he wakes up, Sherlock has made cucumber sandwiches and a cheese plate with crackers. They eat in front of the fire as the sun sets and the winds howls against the windows. Sherlock has pushed the small loveseat that was at the other end of the living room next to John's chair. He's sitting with his back leaning against a cushion, his legs stretched in front of him. They are close enough that John, once he's finished with his food, takes off Sherlock's socks and begins to rub his feet, long and lean and pale, not even a strand of hair on his big toes. Sherlock likes it, enough for John to suspect he might have a slight foot fetish. If he's honest with himself, that is why he is doing it in the first place, wishing to light a spark of arousal in his lover's belly.

Sherlock sighs and puts his empty plate on the floor besides him, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

"Good?" John asks.

"We are not having sex," Sherlock says peacefully.

Bloody mind-reading genius.

"We could," John says, using all his massage tricks.

"Exertion isn't good for you."

"Dying of blue balls isn't much better."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow without opening his eyes. A shiver runs through him, and John smiles. The massage is getting to him.

"If we do have sex," Sherlock begins. "And please note it is conditional - if we do have sex, you have to let me do all the work, and be satisfied with what I suggest."

"Bossy."

"John."

"Sherlock. Wounded leg or not, I would love to submit to you in exchange of an orgasm."

Sherlock tries to repress a lopsided smile without success. John is about to suggest they move the massage to the bedroom when suddenly, Sherlock's feet slip away from his hold. He looks up to see him standing straighter, one hand resting on his belly. Sherlock's eyes are open wide and he frowns, seemingly concentrating on something.

"What is it?"

"Wait."

John waits, and, of course, starts to worry. Another three seconds and Sherlock's expression changes. He looks shocked.

"Sherlock, you are worrying me."

"This is definitely not digestion," Sherlock murmurs, widening his fingers. "And it is consequent with the baby's development, although it varies greatly, especially for a first pregnancy."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I felt movement," Sherlock admits, blushing, as if there is a reason to be embarrassed.

John is up and kneeling near him in a second, ignoring Sherlock's horrified expression.

"Your leg, John."

"My leg is fine."

"You have to be care-"

"I am careful, Sherlock. I swear, it doesn't hurt. Can I...?" John gestures toward his belly.

Sherlock lifts his shirt -the position he's in is the one where his bump is the most on display, and John's mouth fills with saliva, while his dick gives a soft twitch. At the same time, there is a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, that has nothing to do with sex.

"I doubt you will feel anything," Sherlock says with haste, as if it is his fault. "It was very light, which is no surprise given that at this stage, a foetus is a little heavier than one pound but at least as tall as..."

John mentally blocks Sherlock's nervous babbling and lays both hands on his belly, softly pushing Sherlock's one, and widening his fingers so that he covers most of it. The skin is soft, and warm, but nothing can be felt besides Sherlock's breathing -he's not holding it but it is very shallow, surely to give John a better chance.

"Oh," Sherlock says, "John, right under my belly button."

John shakes his head. He had been almost certain he wouldn't be able to feel it, just as Sherlock said; it is still pretty early, and besides, he isn't disappointed. He just has to look at Sherlock's face to feel the same excitement. Sherlock is blushing red, looking adorably confused.

"I hadn't anticipated it would feel that way," Sherlock whispers.

"How?"

"The correct term is quickening, which describes specifically-"

"Sherlock," John interrupts him softly, taking his hands into his own; they’re shaking.

"Yes?"

"I know that. But... how did it feel?"

Sherlock nods, closing his eyes for a second. "A bird, trapped into your hand, just the brush of a feather."

"Oh."

Sherlock sniffs, then clears his throat and shakes his head. "How ridiculous I am to be so emotional over something entirely normal and unremarkable." His eyes do have this liquid shine to them.

"It isn't ridiculous. It's you."

Sherlock laughs, although it very much sounds like a choked sob. "That doesn't mean anything."

"I bloody love you, you know that?"

"Yes, right, you just want to get into my pants," Sherlock jokes ponderously, but John is ready to give him a break.

"Bedroom?"

"If we must," Sherlock agrees dramatically. "Now, let me help you up."

The room they occupy is at the back of the house. It isn't the master bedroom, which is located upstairs (in fact, the upper floor basically consists of the master bedroom) and would have proven problematic for John, but it is charming, with a large bay window opening on the ocean and an old bed in massive oak, richly engraved. There is barely room for any other furniture except a small chest of drawers; the floor is treated wood with a reddish tint that only accentuates the overall cosiness, the masterpiece being the bed comforter, a worn out handmade quilt, with complicated star-like patterns.

"Think we could take it home?" John asks, running his hand on the fabric.

"Well, of course we could," Sherlock says distractingly, shedding his jeans and pants on the floor. "The cottage is ours."

"It is yours," John corrects, opening the bed.

Sherlock turns to look at him, frowning. He's gloriously oblivious to his nakedness, his cock plump and rosy, already half hard.

"No, it is ours. Please, John, something as tedious as money doesn't mean a thing to me, you know that."

"Yes, but it does mean a lot to everyone else."

"Property and material are useful, they do not hold importance in my mind, besides what I need them for, so please, do not be ridiculous."

"...And now I get why your father suggested marriage," John smiles, grabbing Sherlock's hand to have him sit beside him. "You have no sense, whatsoever, of the value of money. Add to this your ignorance of any legislature that cannot be used in a case. If I weren't there you could be robbed of everything you own without even noticing it, Sherlock, how can you-"

"Money, so bo-ring," Sherlock sing-sang, shutting John up. "Now, sex."

"And again with the dirty talk."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John," he says slowly, as if speaking to someone especially stupid. "Would you, if you please, lie down in a comfortable position so that I can suck your cock properly?"

And well, what can John do except groan and obey, letting his dick take the lead.

::: :::

Five days after Sherlock felt the baby move, the first real warm day of spring arrives. The sun is pleasant, the air filled with chlorophyll and the sugary sweet rotting draft from last autumn. John is at the point where he has to restrict himself from moving too much. The only pain left is a slight discomfort at the site of his cut, and soreness at the end of the day. The swelling is practically non-existent. He knows it is especially during this part of his convalescence that he needs to be careful, because the wound, underneath the surface, still has some healing to do. He occupies himself that morning with a much needed catch up with the laundry -Sherlock has made some surprising efforts, but it remains that he tends to forget the most basic things, those boring, tedious tasks -like, say, eating- when he could do so much more even remaining immobile, just thinking.

Sherlock is working on his experiment outside, and has to be called in so that he won't skip dinner. The sun is warm enough to have left a pink tint on his cheeks. He has a soil stain on his chin, and the old jumper he's wearing is covered in dead grass. This is such a unfamiliar look for him John feels the first tendrils of desire rising from his lower belly, and wonders if he'll ever get used to it, to Sherlock revealing himself without artifices, without armour or mask. Maybe not, and maybe that is how you feel when you love someone so completely.

"What are you doing out there?" John asks while they share a bowl of minestrone.

"Oh, nothing of interest, really. A long-term project for my website which no one reads, according to you, regarding different fabric's resistance to elements."

"And?"

"Accumulating lots of data."

In the afternoon, John decides to join him, bringing with him his porch rocking chair and a book he's owned for six months that he has never got around to starting. Sherlock, as he does every time he's deeply concentrating on something, is completely oblivious to his presence. John soon abandons his book to just observe him, which is an activity one might think he would have given up after they got together, but has only become even more agreeable. Before, of course, there was the admiration and fascination, but it was tinted with the certainty that Sherlock would always remain at a distance, unattainable. Now, watching him, just as fascinated as before, John can think of sweaty nights and morning kisses, of sharing a shower, and of those peculiar sometimes blue, sometimes green eyes looking back at him as if he's worth all the love and adoration he sees in them. Sherlock is his. Now, John doesn't have to watch out not to get caught staring. He is allowed.

The sun caressing his skin makes him pleasingly numb, and for a while, John just relaxes, reaching the edge of consciousness but resisting, just content to be. At some point, he must have lost five minutes because Sherlock is not bending over his table of samples anymore but at the back of the garden, collecting some sort of plant. He turns toward John and smiles, seeing him looking back. He joins him in four long strides.

"See what I found, John? There are several more of them on at the back, like it was cultivated."
The small plant stem Sherlock shows John isn't familiar, nor does it have anything special, just small leaves, with the underside showing some kind of purple tint. There had been flowers, although all that remains after the winter are small brown cold-burned bundles.

"What is it?"

"Salvina Officinalis."

"What?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Sage."

"Oh."

In a series of fluid movements, Sherlock picks up a chair set close to the table and sits next to John. He observes the plant with great interest, picks a small leaf, and puts it in his mouth delicately, humming softly as he eats it, as if it's as exceptional as caviar.

John, curious, tries to take a leaf for himself. Sherlock bats his hand away. "Let me choose, those larger leaves have been burnt by the cold, they're going to be bitter."

He's presented a tiny leaf which has a vague minty taste with a hint of pepper -mostly it tastes like a leaf. It gets caught between his back teeth and he tries not to show it, as Sherlock watches it with expectation.

"Ok. That is...good, I guess."

"You know it's been thought to have healing benefits and has been used for more than a thousand years. And as folklore always goes, it leaked from the simple health domain into supernatural. Up to this day, people -amongst them those who practice Wiccan, which is a modern form of witchcraft- up to this day, sage is burned to repulse evil spirits and ghosts. The pretended healing properties are now seriously studied, because as it goes with long term beliefs, part of the lore always reveals to be true, up to some level."

"Did you study them?" John asks, wondering what it is with Sherlock's sudden fascination for flora.

"Oh. No. When I was young and my grandmother visited, she would always send me into my mother's garden to collect some herbs. With the sage, and some basil, she would cook an Italian delicacy called saltimbocca. It means "jump in the mouth." I was a picky eater-"

"Oh, seriously?"

Sherlock superbly ignores him. "...As I was saying, I was a picky eater and she knew she would get me to eat with saltimboccas."

"Your grandmother was Italian?"

"No. French."

On that mysterious declaration, Sherlock twitches comically and grabs his phone in his pocket, frowns at the screen for very long time before typing a very short answer. Something passes in his eyes, a complicated emotion John is unable to decipher.

"Speaking of French, my grandmother, who was a very skilled amateur horticulturist had all sorts of stories about plants. She used to call sage "the wise herb" because as you will note, the word "sage," if read in French, means "wisdom". And then she would say I was the family's sage, which of course, would please me infinitely - as you have noticed, I am very partial to compliments. One evening, she even took me-"

"Sherlock?"

John didn't want to interrupt. He didn't. Except he has noticed Sherlock's word flow rising up a notch, and the way he drums on his thigh with the fingers of one hand -the other is busy squeezing the sage stem so hard his knuckles are white- are a sure sign he's getting nervous.

"Yes?"

"Who's text was it?"

Sherlock sighs. "It was Lestrade asking for my help on a suicide-murder case."

"Oh? What did you told him?"

"I... I told him no," Sherlock whispers as if revealing a shocking secret.

"Why? Is the case too easy for you?"

"Why would I be obligated to save Scotland Yard’s clearly over-rated arse each time they stumble onto their own feet?" Sherlock snaps coldly at him.

Surprise -and yes, a little hurt- must shown of John's face, because Sherlock blushes red.

"Sorry. I... I am... having a moral dilemma."

"About what? Sherlock, if you just want to enjoy some free time, there is nothing wrong with it. You're right. You're not obliged to them. Plus, I kind of like-"

"I am very bad at taking free time. Gives me too much time to think, and not much to think of," Sherlock explains, the nervous edge to his voice still present. "John, I... I don't know if I can get away from it. The Work. This is my dilemma. It should be quite easy. Exposing you to any sort of unnecessary danger is out of the question. Therefore, ending my collaboration with New Scotland Yard and private clients is the way to go. I have changed."

Sherlock gives John, who's frozen in place, an uncertain smile. "We both know my priority isn't the Work anymore but you, and our daughter. Nevertheless, I do not know if I am ready to give it up entirely, which makes me a very bad fiancé, and father. I am selfish, John."

"You mean... for good? You want to stop being a detective forever?" John shakes his head. "Sherlock, it doesn't make sense. You love your work."

"I love you more," Sherlock retorts, looking at John from the side, still smiling a little. It's like he's pleading. Like he's asking for John to understand so he doesn't have to argue with him, but only with himself. His dilemma.

"Sherlock, what would you do? You've just said you are not good with free time, and we've only been here for two weeks... Imagine, oh, I don't know, your entire existence?"

"I’ve never lasted that long. To tell you the truth I am quite pleased with myself."

"But-"

"Bees, John."

"Bees?"

"Bees. You did notice I have a certain... fascination with them."

"Well, that time you punched me in the stomach because I had dared to speak during a BBC documentary was the first clue," John jokes, remembering it with fondness.

He never gave it much thought. Sherlock's interests are sparse and singular. If most of them can be related to his detective work, there are also those who just seem to randomly appear, keeping Sherlock's mind occupied for a couple of months before they are never mentioned again. He cannot help but devour said interest with all of his formidable brain; it only makes sense that at a point where he's learned everything there is to learn, and some more, he lets go of something that has nothing more to offer. John had wondered if bees were different. There is an anatomical drawing of a bee hung in their bedroom in a frame, a lot of books, too. And, well, if it is related, there is Sherlock's love of honey, the way he'll hum in bliss when eating a buttered toast with a thick layer of the too-sweet food. He'll even eat it direct from the pot, when he thinks John isn't looking.

"I did not punch you, I merely touched you - you are responsible for folding yourself forward at the same moment," Sherlock says, his lips twitching.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," John smiles widely, then remembers what their conversation was about in the first place. "Why are we speaking of bees?"

Sherlock gives him another quick look. "Studying bees isn't possible in a metropolitan setting. I could have bee hives here. I could write a book. There are still many facts we do not know about bees -some species have just recently been discovered. Fascinating creatures. I do not care if I make a living out of it : some of the cases we've worked in the past year have secure my future up to a certain point, and I am, of course, the beneficiary of a trust fund."

Of course. Only when you are born a privileged heir to one of those old British families can you consider owning a trust fund as a right.

"As for you, my dear John, I am sure one of the surgeries around here would be more than happy to hire someone with your competences. If you would prefer a hospital, there are a couple in Brighton, which isn't that far from here."

John is split between incredulity and irritation. "You really thought about it, yeah? This isn't just... a fantasy. You thought about us moving here permanently."

Sherlock is now bright red. "I know it doesn't make sense," he mumbles. "But tell me, John, what am I supposed to do? You think that when I told you I couldn't do it on my own, I was making an overly dramatic statement after a life-threatening situation? It is a fact. I cannot raise a child on my own. I can't. I would've never even think of having a child if it weren't for you."

"Nonsense, Sherlock. You know, it's completely normal to be traumatised after what happened to me the other night, you just have to let time-"

"Fuck time!" Sherlock says harshly. "I cannot live with myself knowing it could happen again. I have made enemies, John. It may be too late to keep you and our daughter safe. And even then, I am having an awful lot of difficulty, right now, not to call Lestrade. What does that say about me?"

John tries to calm himself down. He won't get anything through to Sherlock if he gets as upset as him. "It only makes you who you are. I would never, ever ask you to give up your work for me."

"I know that, which is why I have no choice. I need to be the one making the decision to stop, because you won't let me do it on my own, and I cannot stand the thought of losing you."

"Those cases that have a certain element of danger...they are very few. Most of the time, we can avoid it. You don’t want us to run after criminals? Fine! The police can do it. There are ways, Sherlock, to make it as safe as possible, without keeping you from it. No. I am not going to let it happen. You can raise bees and... sell honey... during your real retirement years, that is, after seventy, when you'll be crippled with arthritis and deaf and your dental prosthesis will slide out of your mouth each time you try to speak for too long."

Sherlock stares at John for several long seconds. Then, he smiles. A true, wide smile. "Oh, John, you are ridiculous."

"Yes, well, deal with it."

"But you don't understand... I..."

"I do," John says, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "Trust me, I do. Each case, for me, is about keeping you safe, out of harm's way. You do have a better sense of self-preservation since you are pregnant, but still."

"I... I have relied on you to keep me safe," Sherlock says, lowering his eyes. "Before. I have been reckless."

"Yeah, you have."

"I apologise for being such a strong-headed moron."

John grins at that. "Well, you got better so let's forget about it, alright?"

Sherlock nods.

"You're not selfish, Sherlock," John goes on, more seriously. "The simple fact that you consider yourself selfish kind of disqualifies you. Selfish people don't know they are. They have a distorted way of thinking that excuses their behaviour."

"You are kind, John, but-"

"I am right."

Sherlock seems like he's about to protest further, but he finally keeps quiet. He lowers his eyes down to his stomach, where the crumpled sage stem has landed, and presses his hand on the side, carefully, always. "She moved again," he whispers. "I believe soon you'll be able to feel her as well."

He smiles at John, that insecure smile he reserves for everything regarding his pregnancy, as if he still has a hard time believing he can allow himself to feel joy, and wonder; as if those emotions are somehow forbidden to him, as they are the opposite of his sarcastic, hardly-ever-impressed self.

John put his hand next to Sherlock's, just content to feel the warmness of the skin underneath the fabric.

"There is... no good answer, isn't there?" Sherlock asks, sighing.

"About your work?"

Sherlock nods, intertwining his fingers with John's.

"It's not about passing a test, Sherlock."

"Why don't you order me to stop? It would be much simpler."

"Like I would. It never occurred to you that I might enjoy it just as much?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches again. "Could be dangerous."

"That was the exact moment I knew I was fucked. I was already addicted to you."

"There was a lot of blood," Sherlock says, turning his head away. He swallows loudly. "Your face, John. It turned grey. I saw it happen. Made me think of Moriarty and the pool, of my stupidity back then, when I thought I knew better than to warn you about my stupid plan. Remember... there was a moment, when I saw you, where I thought you were Moriarty, when he made you speak."

"I remember."

John does, with complete clarity. The betrayal and hurt he saw on Sherlock's face - those few seconds were essential in his understanding of the man. Not a robot, nor a psychopath, high-functioning or else. A human being, just like him.

"It is the moment I knew I had fallen in love with you. I do not know when it happened, it probably started building from the beginning. But. At the pool, I had to admit it to myself."

"You weren't the same after that."

"How can I have almost lost you then, and allowed it to happen again?"

"You didn't allow anything. Just... Sherlock, please, love, look at me."

Sherlock shakes his head, taking a hiccupping breath that could very well be a sob. He presses his free hand against his mouth, to keep it inside.

John turns toward him and wraps a hand around his shoulders the best he can. "Come on, now. It's only normal to feel like this. It's all pretty recent. It is going to stay with us for a while, Sherlock. I might have nightmares, or be more nervous on crime scenes. The same goes for you. We just have to allow ourselves the time to get over it. We will."

Sherlock nods several times. He lifts his head, takes another deep breath, and wipes his cheeks with his hand, choking a curse. Then he looks back at John, and he seems, if not at peace, calmer. His cheeks are red and his eyes shine, a dark reflection of a grey cloud that's covering the sun.

"You want to text Lestrade back?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I intend to make the most of our free time. We'll have to go back to London, eventually."

"It's your call."

"Oh. She's moved again," Sherlock whispers, surprised. "It's the fourth time in the past ten minutes."

"Maybe she's as enthusiastic as you about the sage," John jokes, pointing the plant.

Sherlock lowers his eyes and smiles, grabbing it between his long fingers. "She should be."

"Or maybe," John says slowly, an idea crossing his mind... "Maybe she wants to tell us something."

"What?" Sherlock frowns, ready, without a doubt, to explain to John a foetus cannot formulate a conscious thought, even less so try to communicate it. Which, of course, John knows.

"Her name. It would be such a wonderful name. Sage."

Sherlock keeps frowning. "Sage," he pronounces slowly. "What... is that even used?"

"More than Sherlock, that's for sure."

Sherlock snorts, lifting his chin. "Well, at least I'm not to be confused with hundreds of others."

John doesn't bite. "As if you could."

"Sage," Sherlock repeats. "It is... singular, but it does have a certain... musicality to it."

"A little wisdom wouldn't hurt either of us."

John might have suggested the name on a hunch, but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. Sherlock seems to go through a similar reflexion.

"Sage Watson," he says almost reverently.

"What? No. Sage Watson Holmes."

"If we must."

"Of course we do. It will also be a tribute to your grandmother."

"Her name was Violette."

"See? It's the natural progression."

It seems to please Sherlock, even more so than the other reasons, because his cheeks blush from pleasure. He presses his lips against John's, a spontaneous gesture, enthusiastic and cheerful. John opens to him easily, relieved that this difficult conversation hadn't turned into a fight. He hopes he did get through to Sherlock. There is no doubt there will be a lot more similar discussions in their immediate future, which John doesn't mind if they can continue to be so open and honest with each other. Hey, maybe they are already being influenced by their daughter and learning to be wiser. It's a comforting thought.

When they part, Sherlock is studying him, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"So you're imagining me old being toothless? I'll have you know I take great care of my oral hygiene."

Sherlock flashes him a ferocious grin, and John bursts out laughing.

It's good. They are good. John feels as if they've just reached another step in their relationship maturity. It is almost scary how much they have talked about the real things lately. Scary but, yes, good.

Chapter Text

6.
Sherlock and John return to London on March 18. John still has two weeks ahead of him before he can go back to work, and wouldn’t have minded staying longer, but Sherlock has a medical appointment that week. They could have driven to London in the morning and be back in Sussex late in the afternoon –it is, after all, only a two-hour trip, but a text message from Mycroft discouraged them. He asked for Sherlock’s help with a case and it is evident, given the way he explains it to John in a nervous, manic voice, that he really wants to take it. John is relieved to see his detective of a fiancé showing his usual enthusiasm and is prompt to suggest they start packing. He’s been worried, after Sherlock’s confession, that the more he waited to get back on track, the more difficult it would be.

It’s not easy going back to the city. They miscalculate the time and find themselves stuck in the evening rush hour. It’s noisy and humid and John feels he’s choking, trapped in the car, surrounded by angry drivers under the austere crushing shadow of tall and dull concrete buildings. So much concrete, everywhere. The only thing that calms him is Sherlock’s reaction, which is the complete opposite of his own. He is whistling behind the wheel, looking around, a satisfied expression on his face. It is yet more proof that Sherlock had been ready to sacrifice his own happiness so that he could keep John safe. The thought is sad, yes, but also comforting. And John holds onto it to refrain from yelling at the other drivers or snapping at Sherlock, because whistling has always had a way of getting into John’s nerves, even when it comes out of the most pretty, luscious mouth he’s ever laid eyes on.

Sherlock isn’t as oblivious as he seems to be, though. As soon as they arrive at the flat, he suggests he goes to meet his brother alone –you know I’ll be in your way while you unpack, and besides, I hate unpacking. Underneath the apparently childish way he proposes to get out of a boring task, John knows he’s doing it for him. Unpacking after a trip, however short it has been, is a ritual for him. He likes to take his time while doing it, in silence preferably, as if it eases the transition his mind needs to settle back into place, where he belongs physically as much as psychologically. Besides, John’s curiosity regarding the case is seriously tempered by the prospect of witnessing yet another verbal match between the Holmes brothers. He prefers waiting for Sherlock to expose the interesting elements to him.

One hour after his arrival, John feels calmer. There is a fire going in the hearth, the luggage has been emptied and everything is back in its usual place. After a quick chat downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, John settles in his chair with a cup of tea, waiting for Sherlock. He is glad he decided to stay home. Not only is his irritation is gone, but he thinks it’s important that Sherlock knows he trusts him not to put himself in danger. And John does. It doesn’t even cross his mind that Sherlock might start the investigation without him. It would have been different a year earlier, but it is more than time to give Sherlock some slack.

Back in the garden in Sussex, Sherlock’s adamant belief he would never be a decent father and would not be able to do it on his own had shaken John. He needs to build his confidence. John hates the distorted lens through which Sherlock has chosen to see himself - as an incompetent and unfit human being. Trying to convince him to the contrary will take time. Of course, it isn’t really about the Work – that’s the one sphere of his life in which Sherlock doesn’t need more proof that he’s competent (the best there is, according to himself). It’s about having him understand that John knows he cares about their child and is confident Sherlock wouldn’t expose it to danger. If he can begin to believe he is a decent father-to-be - more than decent, he’s extraordinary, but John knows he has a long way to go before convincing him of that - then maybe becoming a father will be a natural progression. John can only hope.

After a little while, John goes in search of his book and finds on his part of the desk the spreadsheet Sherlock had designed for the baby’s room, right after they had found out about the gender. He smiles to himself as he goes back to his chair, going over the small but impeccably formed handwriting that covers half the sheet. Trust Sherlock to treat the preparation of a nursery as a scientific matter. Each colour they’ve discussed is listed, each one with its psychological effect. There are several dispositions of the furniture suggested and they all have a theme, like: “pro-efficient” or “light-oriented.”

Making a plan might be Sherlock’s domain, but John is certain the actual work that needs to be done isn’t something he’s looking forward to. Come to think of it, he has no idea if Sherlock likes to work with his hands, and if he is any good at it. Well, he is, in very specific domains –like music, or chemistry - the way he manipulates pipettes and microscope slides is fascinating to witness, his movement easy and sure. Imagining him painting a wall, though, just doesn’t work. John chuckles, thinking of Sherlock with a smear of paint in his impeccable hair, or wearing one of those paint overalls.

Well, maybe John himself won’t be much better. He doesn’t have more experience. Anyway, it’s not like they have the choice. Suddenly, John knows exactly how he will occupy the next couple of weeks, and he decides, right then, that he won’t spare Sherlock. It should be interesting.

::: :::

The case presented by Mycroft is disappointing. Sherlock solves it in two days, without leaving the flat. The Greek ambassador’s wife’s honour is safe, the pearl earrings are found exactly where Sherlock said they would be (in the daughter’s room) and the maid receives the apology she deserves, plus a bonus. Of course, given the sensitivity of the matter, John cannot post a single word about it in his blog.

Luckily, they both have something to occupy themselves when it turns out Lestrade doesn’t have anything for Sherlock to work on at the moment. It took some convincing, but he has agreed to help paint the nursery, despite the task being described as, of course “tedious.” But hey, if it makes John happy, he’ll help.

Oh yes, it does make John happy. Choosing the colour turns out to be simple, since Sherlock accepts the first one John suggests, which is a soft shade of lavender with a tad of lilac in it.

“Cold colour with effects on the body similar to a light blue. Lowers blood pressure and decreases anxiety and aggression. Perfect,” Sherlock explains, staring at the small colour sample. “You know the shade recalls the up side of sage leaves.”

“I know.”

Sherlock’s building enthusiasm falls flat when he realises that before actually doing the mundane painting job, they have to empty the room.

“Yes I know," John agrees. "I cannot believe how much junk we’ve managed to accumulate in just a little more than a year.”

Sherlock’s offended expression is priceless. “I’ll have you know what you are referring to as “junk” consists mostly of my chemical materials, criminal archives and finished experiments.”

“Well, it is yet another reason for you to help me : you wouldn’t want me to throw away some precious results or your thousand page long hypothesis about the identity of Jack the Ripper.”

“It’s eight hundred and twenty-seven,” Sherlock mumbles. He crosses his arms over his chest, ready to indulge in yet another sulking session, when suddenly, his face lights up, just the way it does when he understands a difficult problem.

“This is brilliant,” he declares, and then leaves the flat before John has the chance to ask a single question.

“Typical,” he murmurs at the room which seems to sigh in sympathy.

As it turns out, Sherlock hasn’t actually run away. He’s back less than ten minutes later, wearing a smug expression on his face.

“Where were you?”

“Speaking with Hudders. Remember the shoe picture Moriarty had sent as a first clue after the explosion last year?”

John snorts and hands a cup of decaffeinated tea to Sherlock. “It’s not something I could forget, even if I tried.”

“221a, John. Mrs. Hudson has agreed to let it to us for no extra charge, given that I would only use the common room for my experiments. Of course, it needs work, and that’s on us, but it is truly the best solution. I will be able to settle a passable laboratory and conduct experiments away from Sage, thus assuring her safety.”

Curiously, from all the information that has just been given to him, the first to stick for John is the way Sherlock addressed their daughter, by her first name. He’s never done it before. That simple fact triggers a series of images in John’s mind, a very real baby girl with pale curls crawling amongst the beakers and books, and Sherlock’s voice resonates in his mind, soft but firm, as he tells Sage not to touch daddy’s stuff.

“You have tears in your eyes,” Sherlock remarks. “I didn’t realize you would get so emotional over my idea.”

John nods, unable to explain himself. Trust Sherlock to have so high an opinion of his genius brain he really believes it is his idea that has John teary-eyed. He's literally beaming with self-satisfaction.

However, his idea is quite brilliant. John won't deny he had spent some time thinking about Sherlock's experiments and how he would bring the matter of their daughter's safety to him. There might have been a couple of nightmares involved, one in particular with a premise so ridiculous John wouldn't talk about it for a million pounds. Let's just say it included a missing infant, a crazy Sherlock and a machine capable of shrinking things. John doesn't even remember having ever seen the Disney movie.

"Well?"

Sherlock brings back John from that very strange part of his mind.

"Well what?"

"Are we doing this?"

John clears his throat. "Yes. We are."

Just clearing the room takes them most of the day. The living room in 221a is in need of a serious wash, and a new coat of paint wouldn't hurt. John doesn't say it, but starts making plans to do the work himself, even if Sherlock points out it isn't urgent. He deserves to have a proper place to work. John might even team up with Mycroft. It would be a nice new father present, having a real laboratory set up in here, well-lit and properly equipped -hell, they could even add a fridge to store Sherlock's precious experiments in progress and body parts.

Sherlock is the first to complain about the fact that they have skipped dinner, which is completely out-of-character, but John had noticed his appetite has improved recently. He's so happy to hear him utter the simple sentence : "John you forgot to cook dinner" that he doesn't point out he could have done it himself. It is John's job, after all, one he took up with seriousness to make sure Sherlock feeds himself.

The paint job will have to wait for tomorrow, but at least the room is empty and clean. John proposes to go grab something at the Thai restaurant down the street, which Sherlock has been especially fond of for the past couple of months. A pregnancy craving? John hasn’t dared bring it up, he just has the feeling Sherlock would be insulted enough to refuse eating there anymore.

"I'll go. You rest your leg," Sherlock proposes.

“What about you? Aren’t you tired?”

Sherlock frowns. “As a doctor, you should know the second trimester of a pregnancy is often a period of renewed energy. I do feel great, though I am in no way “glowing” as those stupid magazines would have you believe. As if there could be any medical reason to literally shine. It’s ridiculous.”

“I think you are glowing,” John replies, grabbing Sherlock by the hips.

Figuratively, he is. There is contentment and happiness in his eyes, more often than John has ever seen. His hair is longer, his frame still delicate, his baby bump small and concealed. He wears shirts over his trousers now, made of a stretchable fabric to accommodate his belly, and as usual with Sherlock, he likes them very tight, and there is very little left to imagination. Another change is the shape of his face, which has lost its edges, making it slightly rounder. Sherlock cannot have put a lot of weight on, but as thin as he was, the addition of only a few pounds is immediately visible. John is curious to see just how much at their appointment, scheduled for the end of the week.

“You are beautiful,” he adds. "Pregnancy suits you so well."

Sherlock shakes his head at him, but the pink colour of his cheeks says he does appreciate the compliment. Of course he does.

"Six pounds," he says, picking up his coat.

"What?"

"You were wondering how much weight I’ve put on. The answer is six pounds."

Sherlock dresses in a swirl of dark fabric, then ties his scarf around his neck. He lifts an eyebrow at John. "Well?"

"Six pounds is good. But seriously, Sherlock, how did you-"

"Try to figure it out while I'm gone," he replies playfully, winking.

He's out in a second. John does not figure out what gave him away.

They eat in front of the telly, and Sherlock goes through his chicken cakes and noodle salad in a record time, then finishes John's green curry. He seems to realize how much he's eaten just as he puts his empty bowl on top of the small pile in front of him. John tries to repress a smile at his annoyed look, but fail miserably. Sherlock's cheeks are crimson.

"Not a word," he mumbles.

John obeys, and is sensitive enough not to mention it when, less than an hour later, Sherlock eats a whole plate of cinnamon swirls with his tea. Oh, the upcoming weeks will be all kind of interesting, John thinks. Sherlock is very careful about his physical appearance. He states that it is all a question of perception: wearing tailored clothes influences people, who have a tendency to take him more seriously; having his hair done and always being clean shaven speaks of someone who is professional in every sphere of his life. So, yes, Sherlock has the perfect, flawless answer to explain an apparent vanity. Everything for the sake of the Work.

Except it is false. John had known from the beginning that although Sherlock wore his clothes like an armour to conceal any sign of weakness, he worries about his physical appearance, and is, as a matter of fact, extremely insecure about it. The need to control everything plays a part of it. John had once caught Sherlock replacing a rebel strand over and over again, in front of the mirror, adding product until it was perfectly tamed. It is a good example regarding the scrupulous way he treats his physical appearance in general. Control, always.

And it is much more than just his looks: it's the way he walks and talks, everything studied and applied without a fault. As if to compensate his human flaws. If he lets slip a lisp while speaking to a client, or stumbles on a crack on the pavement, the event is treated with an exaggerated amount of shame and humiliation. Sherlock prefers to choke on a scratchy throat than cough in front of people; he will act as if the blow to the head he's just received is barely a caress, waiting to be alone with John to grab at the furniture because he's too dizzy - well, look at that, the great Sherlock Holmes has a concussion...will you stop pretending and sit down, John had said in exasperation that time.

And this behaviour isn't necessary, the Work be damned. It makes John wonder how bad things had been in his childhood, because that has to be it - a defence mechanism against bullying and isolation. Or is it something else entirely, something John has yet to understand about him, which could be possible. He sometimes wonders if a lifetime is enough to get to know Sherlock completely.

"I cannot tell what you are thinking, but it is about me, and I am not sure I like it," Sherlock says, stretching his legs over John's thighs on the couch.
John takes the socks off his long, arched feet and begins massaging them. Sherlock is completely shameless regarding how much he likes it. John doesn't even wait for him to ask anymore.

"So?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

"What are you thinking?"

John smiles. "Well, if I told you, it would just be boring, wouldn't it?"

Using Sherlock's own weapons against him is always so satisfying. Besides, John is glad to keep his thoughts to himself. What would he say? You are vain, Sherlock, and it goes deeper than even you might believe. Your pregnancy is advanced. You will get heavier, become slower, and less graceful. Will you see all the small ailments that come with the third trimester as many humiliations? You don't have to be ashamed of your appetite, you know. Being human isn't a flaw. It's the human in you that fell in love with me, see? And I hope, I hope you will embrace it because Sage isn't born yet and you will be unable to control so many things, your body will take the lead, that transport you tend to deem unimportant. Will you be able to go with it, just like you said you would, that time when you ran away from me because you were so damn scared of losing control?

They make love that night. John takes his time taking Sherlock apart, attentive but determined, making him come twice by speaking to him the whole time, murmuring praise after praise, all of them deeply felt to make Sherlock understand how beautiful he is, to make him believe it. He could put on forty pounds and be just as desirable, his body telling the tale of the acceptance of his newfound humanity, his love for John and their baby.

Afterwards, they lay quietly, spooning, John's hand resting on Sherlock's belly. It has become difficult for him to fall asleep unless he’s in contact, skin to skin, with Sherlock's stomach, and their daughter inside of him. Sherlock is the first one to fall asleep, no doubt tired by their day, because he might feel great, and full of energy, but he is tiring way faster than he used to. He has a practically normal sleeping schedule now. John intends for it to stay that way as long as possible. Resting while you can is probably the most useful advice you can give parents-to-be.

John himself is drifting off, comfortable and spent, when he feels it, right under his palm. A kick. A discreet, soft kick, but it cannot be confused for anything else. He smiles in the darkness, shoving his nose in the soft hair at the nape of Sherlock's head. Waits for more. He doesn't have to be patient because soon enough, he feels a wave going through the skin, and then a soft push. Daddy's here, he thinks, indulging in the moment completely. It is the first time John thinks of himself as a father. So far, he's been so focused on Sherlock and his well-being, he neglected the fact that all of this is happening to him too. He will be a father. A weight settles on his heart, heavy with the knowledge of the new responsibility he's been burdened with. Instead of feeling crushed, John has the wonderful sensation of being grounded, and gifted with the knowledge of a precious secret.

When sleep overtakes him, he's still smiling.

::: :::

Sherlock Holmes doesn't get paint in his hair, doesn't spill a single drop. Of course, John should have known. Plus, he manages to still look somewhat distinguished while wearing an old university hoodie - mint green, which gives his eyes a mysterious, very sexy glow, accentuating their cat-like shape - and a pair of paternity jeans. He rolls his eyes when John points out he could ruin them. "Then I'll buy another pair," he points out as if it is so evident John is an idiot to mention it. Ah, Sherlock and his complete disdain toward money, which can only be explained by the fact he’s never had to worry about it. It is frustrating, especially for John, who's family was very modest and where each saved penny counted, but cannot be held against him. He just doesn't know.

They do an efficient job, John taking care of the corners and trim so that Sherlock doesn't have to bend himself in uncomfortable position, and can simply roll the walls. After the first layer is done, around noon, they sit on the floor to eat the dinner Mrs. Hudson has prepared for them - a pretext to have a peak at the room and expressing her approval because she is not their cook, of course.

Sherlock stretches his long legs while devouring a Bakewell tart -he's always had a weak spot for them. The spread sheet is open on his thighs and he's looking around the room.

"We should put the crib against this wall, so that it's only hit by light toward the middle of the afternoon."

John nods.

"What else do you have there?"

"According to most websites and a couple of books, all the necessary furniture for a nursery. The crib, of course, and a chest of drawers. A changing table -there is, of course, the option of combining the last two, some kind of hybrid."

John snorts.

"What?"

"We're talking about furniture and you make it sound like a genetic experiment."

Sherlock frowns at him. "The second most commonly used definition of the word "hybrid" is, and I quote, a thing made by combining two different elements, a mixture."

John lifts his hand in rendition. "Ok, alright, you nerd. What else?"

"A rocking chair and a nappy disposer. The rest is not furniture per say but material. I have another list."

"Of course you do."

Sherlock takes his mobile and has his fingers quickly swiping the screen. "A baby monitor, a mobile - or a musical box, it is our choice, but all the studies
prove that-"

Ok. They'll never get through the list today if Sherlock explains the necessity of each item on it.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Let's focus on the furniture for now."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I would prefer if we could start right away, while my belly is still quite modest and I am not incapacitated. There is a lot."

He then hands over his phone. John looks at the list. He has to scroll down. Twice. Everything is there, from pacifiers to baby formula, a stroller, a portable bed, "stimulating toys", a bottle steriliser, and so many other things -enough for John to realise, right on the spot, how little he knows about babies, really, which, he should have thought about sooner. There are only three months left before his daughter's birth and gosh, he isn't ready. He has never felt less ready in his life, including the first time he was deployed.

"Oh, and if you open the second file, you will have the ideal list of baby clothes new parents should buy before the births. I was first surprised by the high number, but I crossed-checked and-"

"Sherlock, I get it," John cuts him out. "Wow. It's...will you call me an idiot if I tell you I'm a little overwhelmed by everything we need to do?"

He smiles awkwardly.

"Well, you are an idiot," Sherlock states matter-of-factly, stealing the last tart on the plate. "But," he adds, lifting a finger when John begins to protest. "I will admit I was hit by a certain sense of... inadequacy when I began to take notes. It seemed that the more I read, the more I discovered the length of the changes we would have to make. I would suggest we find a specialist store and buy everything there, which would reduce the tedious, horribly boring time we will spend shopping."
"Oh, go on, suggest away," John says, trying to control the hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. "Meanwhile, I'm going to have a nice heart attack because I just bloody jumped on the baby train. I was so focused on the pregnancy I never stop to think, really think, we would go from two to three come June. Jesus, Sherlock, we are having a baby."

And there it is, the hysterical laughter. Sherlock has the politeness to ignore it. He stares at John with a soft, warm expression.

"As you often say about me, you are adorable."

"Shut up."

Sherlock smiles. "I have to admit it is quite refreshing being the reasonable one, for once. Let me reassure you, John, I will make the experience as pleasant as possible."

"Shopping. You will make shopping with you pleasant?"

"It was one time, and I needed a very particular brand of toaster."

"Four hours," John reminds him. "To buy a bloody toaster."

"Well, I have learned my lesson."

John nods, but doesn't even try to believe it can be true. Shopping with Sherlock is hell. When he doesn't complain like a five year old you've forced to come along, he gets incredibly difficult when he is in fact interested in buying something.

"I propose we take Mycroft's credit card and drive to Babies R Us – such a ridiculous name - on Friday morning, before it gets too crowded. We can achieve the list in two hours."

"Is that a dare?" John jokes, but then, frowns. "Wait. Why would we use your brother's credit card?"

"Why not?" Sherlock replies, getting up to brush the crumbs out of his jeans.

"Sherlock, we've had our fun. And by the way, the fact that our idea of fun is robbing your brother of hundreds of pounds is worrying me. Anyway, this is our daughter, I would very much prefer if we use our money and share the costs."

(Besides, it might be easier for John to get Mycroft to participate in the laboratory project if he hadn't just stolen money from him. God, when did his life became so strange?)

"What does it change?" Sherlock replies quite harshly. "It's just money."

He's turning his back to John, staring out the small window.

"It's our hard-earned money. It makes all the difference in the world. I work hard at the surgery. I deserve the salary. And the same goes for you. If you would accept being paid for each case you -"

"I am not doing it for the money."

John doesn't know why Sherlock is getting disturbed by the conversation, and to be honest, his refusal to understand how earning money works for most people is starting to get on John's nerves.

"You aren't doing it for the money, Sherlock, because you don't have to. It might be a boring, unnecessary matter to you, but you know damn well most people do not have your luck, they aren't born rich. Poverty, it does ring a bell, yeah? Kids needing to be fed breakfast at school because their parents cannot afford three meals a day?"

John knows he's getting worked up, but his frustration is an accumulation of two years trying to explain basic economics to Sherlock. And it is not because he needs to be told, he's a god damn genius. He simply refuses to acknowledge a subject he can afford not to think about.

"Do you really think I am the sort of repulsive person who thinks he is entitled to the money he has? Have I ever acted in a way that made it seem I believed that I deserved my privileged upbringing? Because, John, if it is really what is going through your mind, I have to deduce you have a very poor opinion of me."

John stands up slowly. He really doesn't want to fight. If Sherlock hadn't insisted on using Mycroft's credit card, they wouldn't even be having this conversation. On the other hand, maybe it was overdue. Money can break couples, he knows. Soon, they will be married, legal contracts will have to be signed, and money will without a doubt be a matter their solicitor will want to discuss. Better to root out the evil now.

He takes a step forward and puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, surprised to find it so tensed. "Come on, now, you know that is not what I think. Hey, look at me, alright?"

Sherlock turns reluctantly toward him, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. He is staring at the floor with what seems to be great concentration.

"You have to understand, though, how it can appear that way for someone like me, coming from a very modest family."
"Do we really have to talk about it?" Sherlock asks, giving John a pleading look.

"I think we do; we will be a family. I don’t want money to be a sore subject between us."

Sherlock stares at him for two long seconds before nodding silently, as if he's just decided something.

"I have a very personal reason to dislike the subject," he states. "I am not considered, legally speaking, as an independent adult. Mycroft became my legal guardian when I was twenty six. He still is."

"What?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, trying to look exasperated, but he's blushing too. Embarrassed. Ashamed, even.

"I do not wish to go into details. I already told you, my twenties were a difficult period for me. Let's just say that, due to a series of events, I became well known by the police and judiciary system alike. Then, I found myself in solitary and..."

Sherlock shakes his head violently, and it is so sudden John wonders for a second if he's in pain. Then, he presses his fingers on his forehead, closes his eyes and groans.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock shouts, although they are inches away from each other. "Yes, I am, but I refuse to think about this. Why are you forcing me to go back?"

He's shaking. John's irritation about the whole money matter is gone as quick as it came. Stupid, stupid fight. Why couldn’t he just play along with the credit card game? They would be laughing and painting the room right now.

"Hey, I...let's forget it, ok?" He pleads, taking Sherlock's hand. "Forcing you to remember painful stuff is the last thing I want. The hell with the money, pay for the baby stuff however you want to pay, alright?"

Sherlock stares at him, his eyes a little too bright. "John. You are always so kind to me, why do you let me get away with so many things? You asked a valid question. You deserve an answer."

"Maybe," John concedes. "But not if it means you have a panic attack as a result."

Sherlock practically jumps into his arms, his tension ebbing away, so suddenly John finds himself holding him up, more or less. Sherlock seeks comfort in his favourite spot, in the crook of John's neck, and wraps both arms around his waist.

"I am such a ridiculous man," he mumbles.

"Yeah, you are," John agrees. He takes a deep breath, his nose shoved into Sherlock's curls, getting drunk on his smell. "A walk."

"Wha'?"

"We can’t do the second coat of paint right now, the first needs at least a couple more hours to dry. It's sunny outside and my leg needs exercise. Are you coming?"

Sherlock takes a step back and smiles. They both pretend he doesn't have tears drying on his cheeks. "A walk would be quite agreeable."

"Then let's go."

::: :::

,It's nice outside. For the first ten minutes, Sherlock and John just walk side by side, in silence. Sherlock leads the way, and they leave the busy streets to cut through a small quiet park. They've been there before. There is a pound with ducks. John doesn't know why it is, but Sherlock can spend an hour observing them, calm and silent. This time isn't different. He points at a bench near the pound, and they both sit under the warming sun. They practically have the park for themselves, except for a mother and her little boy, feeding the ducks with bread. They are on the other side of the pound, but the little boy's crystalline laugh reaches them. John smiles and lets his thoughts bring him to a time in the near future where he'll be able to do the same. Take his daughter here and feed the ducks. Teaching her how to do it properly. Watching her laugh.

"You are such a hopeless romantic," Sherlock says.

"What?"

"Oh you'll tell me you weren't imagining taking our daughter here right now?"

"And you weren't either, right?" John fights back.

Sherlock lifts his chin. "I... might have," he admits, trying to repress a smile. "My god, my dear John, we are getting incredibly domestic."

"I wouldn't worry about that, Sherlock. Soon enough you'll be in the middle of uncovering an international spy network. Or something similar."

Sherlock snorts. He takes a deep breath, lifts his head and closes his eyes. He seems peaceful. "Here's how it went. After a judge ordered it, I was evaluated by a team of psychiatrists," he says very softly. "There were different solutions brought forward, and trust me, becoming a pupil was by far the lesser evil. In those cases, if a family member volunteer to take the responsibility, you escape the sinister perspective of being ward of the state, in which case a designed stranger practically take control over your life."

"I had no idea someone older than eighteen could become ward of the state. This is... messed up, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agrees with the same soft voice. "But by then they were... say... at loss of what to do with me. A judge once told me he was scared of what I could do with... What did he say? That sick, incredible mind I had been gifted with, when I would lose control for good."

"Arsehole."

"Well..." Sherlock casts John a sideway look. "Think of Moriarty, John."

"You guys are nothing alike."

"John, do not get angry. Not over this," Sherlock pleads.

He takes John's hand, and John makes a tremendous effort to relax. He hadn't even noticed he had become angry. Funny, how Sherlock is the one always insisting he doesn't get emotions. If only he could understand how intuitive he is.

"Long story short: my parents knew they couldn't control me, so they asked Mycroft, and he became my guardian. He has to vouch for me, and if he doesn't follow the rules, the ward will be taken away from him, and into the state's hands. It is... a burden for him. I am not an easy-going pupil."

"Why am I not surprised?"
What is surprising, though, is the way Sherlock speaks of Mycroft; with respect, and also... affection? God, no wonder they have such a complex relationship.

"So, the money..."

"I am allowed a certain amount every month. If I need more, I have to justify my expenses. I can't even access my account without my brother's signature. The first couple of years he never complained because I needed that much supervision. But then, I got better, began working with the Yard, and he has come to hate it, all those detailed reports he needs to write and those rules he has to follow. For all the power Mycroft has, this isn't something he can make disappear, even now that I have become an... active member of society. But it's been a long way, John."

"But can't... the ruling, or whatever it is called, can't it be revised? Sherlock, you are an active member of society. You are doing a lot of good. And you're not an addict anymore, haven't been in a long time. Hell, you're going to have a baby and get married. You're settling down... Hey, at least, I could vouch for you, instead of Mycroft, I don't mind."

Sherlock shakes his head harshly. "No, I would never wish to taint our relationship that way. There was a time, John, where Mycroft and I were... Well, I would say... close, before he became my legal guardian. Afterward, though, there was a time where we truly hated each other. It wasn't his fault, he never asked for that sort of responsibility. Now, it's gotten better. He is my brother, I can even say I am fond of him, but the hate has left wounds that will never be healed. refuses. As for having my case revised, it is possible, but I do not wish for it to happen."

"Why the hell not? Surely you will be able to prove you have changed."

Sherlock sighs. His mouth is quirk in a sardonic grimace. "There will have a committee composed of arseholes thinking they can understand me and put me into a box where I do not fit. There isn't a single aspect of my life they won't have access to. They will look and analyze and speak to every single person with whom I I have interacted even superficially. Can you imagine how excited Donovan will be, to tell them how much of a freak I am? And then, I will have to meet with psychiatrists and they will too try to put me into a box, those insufferable idiots who think so highly of themselves because they have a diploma and a title. They will dissect my thoughts and write reports about my test results and each of them will have a different idea about what is wrong with me, and they will come back, again and again, to ask more questions, as if I am a fucking newly discovered specie exposed in a zoo. And I...."

Sherlock stops and takes a trembling intake of breath. He presses his fingers on his forehead, again, as if he can take control of his thoughts that way. "I do not care I have to ask Mycroft's permission before travelling to another country, or if he receives my tailor's bills. John, I am not going through that again."

John nods. "I get it. It's just... It is unfair for you Sherlock. I mean, you caught serial killers. It has to count for something."

Sherlock smiles at him and bend down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "I was ashamed to tell you, and there you are, surprising me once more, by taking my defence."

John cannot understand how Sherlock, who's always wore his antisocial personality and disdain for the rules proudly, can be ashamed of the consequences. That the authorities have spend years having him in check should only feed his pride of possessing a mind the best psychiatrists cannot even understand. But... of course, it isn't really about the decision of taking what is basically his freedom away from him. It's about what has led him to that. Sherlock can speak with amusement and indulgence of his taste for drugs all he wants, John knows he has always been deeply conflicted and ashamed of it -oh, he wouldn't admit it, not even to John, but the truth can be read in in everything he does not say.

"The credit card is Mycroft's," Sherlock murmurs, sounding tired suddenly. "He knows I have it and use it, and he let it slide because like he so often say : he's a busy man, he doesn't have time for my antics. So, yes, not only did I kept you in the dark regarding this aspect of my life, but I actively lied to you by pretending stealing my brother's money was all fun and games. I am sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, Sherlock. And there is no rule that states you have to tell me everything about your life before me."

Sherlock tilts his head. "An successful relationship is based on trust and openness."

"And since when do we follow the rules? Listen. It's clear that part of your life is still painful even to think of. I never talk about my time in Afghanistan, and you never ask. Why?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "It isn't the same."

"But it is. It is. You do not want me to suffer by recalling the war and all its atrocities. How is that different."

"You were doing something good, not trying to render your life bearable by destroying yourself."

"I enjoyed the war, Sherlock. I hated it, but I was addicted to it. I didn't became a soldier because I'm a good person. I did it because I needed the adrenaline.

Sherlock is about to protest furthermore, but John lift his hand. "Stop. Stop trying to convince me I am a better person than you are. You don't have an objective, detached opinion of yourself, and this, we need to work on. But right now, let's forget about it, ok? We should go back, it's getting cold."

It is. The sun is now hidden by clouds, a strong wind has risen, and John's shoulder tells him it's going to rain soon. He doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer, just stand up and takes his hand.

Sherlock follows obediently.

"There is a food truck if we head this way," he says, pointing to his right, when they exit the park. "They have those great chips with all sorts of dip. I could go for some chips."

John doesn't ask how he can be hungry one hour after eating four Bakewell tarts. It's cute. Besides, as Sherlock orders a large portion, he's daring him silently, with a challenging look, to actually say something... like how surprising is his sudden love for chips, and that pregnancy craving are a real thing, nothing to be ashamed of. John doesn't bite. He feels excessively protective of Sherlock, after their difficult conversation. He cannot let go, although he won't mention it to him. There must be a way to free Sherlock of his pupil status without putting him through an ordeal. It's hard to believe Mycroft really is unable to work one of his tricks.

John decides right then, watching fondly over Sherlock eating his chips with a satisfied look on his face, that it is more than time he has a private conversation with Mycroft Holmes, and not only to ask for his help surprising Sherlock with his own private laboratory.

If someone is worthy of a second chance, it's Sherlock.

Chapter Text

Part 4 : Contretemps

1.

With April comes cold rain and fog. The whole first week, every day is similar to the other, more grey skies and dampness, the kind that seems to reach you to the core, disregarding how many layers you put on to keep it out. John is back to work, and surprised to find he wasn't that eager to pick up his usual three shifts a week at the surgery. He had got used to staying home with Sherlock. Preparing the flat for the baby had made them spend practically every hour of every day together. One would think they would have grown tired of each other, being practically attached at the hip, but instead, it had soon become a new routine they both enjoyed very much.

Well, John can only speak for himself, of course, but Sherlock had never been shy about asking for some time alone, and he hadn't, not even once. If anything, he's been more relaxed and happy than usual, even though things are strangely quiet with his work, as much with Scotland Yard as with private clients. Of course, Sherlock needs to be... stimulated, constantly, or else his melancholy mood is quick to make a comeback, but it has been easier than usual, mostly because he hasn't played the spoiled brat and dismissed everything that wasn't related to his work.

On the sixth of April, it seems like the rain is finally going to give them a break, and it is also the day Sherlock's mood changes. He's up before John early in the morning, taking a shower that seems to last for an hour. When John meets him in the bathroom, he finds him naked still, his body glistening with water droplets, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He catches John’s sleepy eyes squinting at him and closes his, taking a deep, loud breath.

"You alright?"

"I. Yes. I guess," Sherlock mumbles. He turns to his side and observes himself some more.

By now, he's into the twenty-eighth week of his pregnancy and his belly is very visible - it cannot be mistaken for anything else, not with the rest of Sherlock's body remaining so slim. John loves it. It's firm and round and protruding in front of Sherlock, still concealed between his hips, and its form is already playing tricks with Sherlock's balance. It happens when one carries their baby straight in the front, Dr. Smith has explained, instead of the belly's shape extending to the hips. It will take some time for Sherlock to learn to work with his new gravity centre. John can see it sometimes, especially when he stands up -there is a second of immobility before he finds his bearings, and when it's longer than a second, Sherlock huffs in exasperation. Still, he had so far seemed quite at peace with his physical appearance, with the exception of his belly button, which is now popping out, enough for it to be visible through his shirts. Knowing Sherlock's distaste for that particular part of his anatomy, it isn't surprising.

John rubs at his eyes and wonders if this observation session means Sherlock might not be so completely at peace with the changes his body is going through. Now that there are only two months left, all those changes will accelerate. His bump is consistent with a watermelon cut in half and it will at least grow to almost twice its current size as the baby gets ready to be born and concentrates on storing up some fat.

Sighing, John lays his hands on Sherlock's hips and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, resting his forehead there.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. Well, my perception is, but that is a brain trick I am not immune to, obviously."

"Which means?"

"A person's brain makes up a spatial representation of oneself, based on the knowledge of its own body, of course, but also mirror reflections and photographs. Now, when there is a change that is gradual, even if said person-"

"You."

"Well, if it facilitates your understanding, yes, me. Even if I am aware of the change as it happens, my brain will need some time to assimilate it, and change its spatial representation. Which ends up giving me the false impression that my belly went from flat to its current state over night. You hear it all the time, people say a baby bump is special, that one day there’s nothing and the next it's there, suddenly. It's false, of course."

John lets go of Sherlock and, seeing as he shivers at the loss, grabs his dressing gown and helps him into it. He collaborates silently.

"And you're telling me that your brain has only just now caught up with your body? At seven months?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replies harshly, as if the question is a personal attack to his intellect. "There was a first time, around the eighth week, when it started showing, but apparently a second adjustment was needed."

Sherlock hasn't closed his gown. He's gone back to facing the mirror, as if incapable of taking his eyes away from it.

"Which, I guess, was this morning."

Sherlock nods. "Strange. I woke up, took a shower and then I was prepared to see well... myself, my reflection in the mirror, but I saw..." He waves toward his belly. "This. Instead."

"You are absolutely gorgeous."

Sherlock has a sarcastic smile, but the compliment gets to him nevertheless, the blush rising on his cheeks a sure indication. "Not only are you biased, but you are also a very nice person. I doubt you would tell me I look horrible even if it were the case."

"But then you would know I'm lying, which I am not."

Sherlock catches John's look in the mirror, wearing a tiny, playful smile that somehow makes dimples appear in the crease of his cheeks. "You are not," he confirms. “So we'll have to put it entirely on your blind adoration."

Seeing that John has grabbed his toothbrush, Sherlock steps aside to give him access to the sink, but in a way that he can still have a complete view of his upper body in the mirror. He really does seem to have a lot of catching up to do.

"I look... very pregnant," he murmurs, bending forward slightly, as if he wants to make sure his reflection is hearing what he says.

"You are," John mumbles, then spits in the sink. "Though I would save the very pregnant for the ninth month."

"I don't know if I like it or not."

"Well, you don't really have the choice."

"It's unnerving," Sherlock goes on, "how evolution has decided that the most vulnerable part of a parturient should be located in plain sight with easy access. We waddle around exposing our descent like some... bait, for predators and elements."

"Luckily," John jokes, "there isn't a sabre tooth tiger roaming around the flat."

Sherlock, who has a tendency not to pick up on jokes if they aren't very obvious, protests.

"Of course not, they have been instinct for - oh! John!"

Sherlock presses a hand on the left side of his belly.

"What? Can I...?"

Sherlock nods, grabbing John's uncertain hand and placing it under his own. "She kicked," he whispers, as if his voice could disturb the baby.

Two awfully long seconds pass, and then there is a sudden tiny kick against John's palm. Then another one, and another one. "Wow that's... wow..." he wishes he had more vocabulary at the moment, but his emotions are getting the best of him.

"It is a literal kick. Remember our last appointment: she’s sitting, facing the left, so her legs are here, right under your hand," Sherlock says. "In fact, this morning in the shower I grabbed one of her heels. She wasn't happy about it."

Hearing Sherlock speaking with such affection about their baby always has a calming, peaceful effect on John. There, he thinks, kissing the nape of Sherlock's neck. You don't need more assurance that you will be a good father. You already love our daughter so much. More than you realise.

With that tender moment, and given how openly Sherlock speaks of his physical appearance, John thinks that early morning epiphany he just went through is nothing more than it seems.

Of course, he is wrong. It soon becomes evident that it is bothering Sherlock, and it shows, especially when they are out in public. He has never had a problem with gathering attention, on the contrary acting as if he deserved it, gracing ordinary people with his precious presence. Now, though, he acts as if every look he gets is because of the weight he carries in front of him, and not due, say, to his personality.

It isn't his belly that gets Sherlock the disapproving looks of a dozen bystanders when John catches him yelling at an old lady to move forward in the supermarket. And he had the nerve to explain his behaviour as having been nervous. Apparently, the baby hiccupping had taken him off guard and kept distracting him. John had really tried to keep a severe expression, but seeing how, while he scowled at Sherlock, his belly was shaken by regular tremors, he hadn't been able to repress his laughter.

It isn't Sherlock's baby bump that gets him the attention of the Saturday morning crowd at Greenwich Market either, as he is figuring out a cold case, grabbing John by the shoulders and screaming: "the cat hadn't been fed!"

Despite these logical reasons, Sherlock refuses to see it for what it is.

No, apparently, in Sherlock's mind, the whole London population is out to get him, as if there is an ongoing plot to spy on his pregnant belly and make him feel as uneasy and exposed as possible. Nothing John says gets him to change his mind, and it becomes clear the best solution, for the moment, is to avoid taking Sherlock out in public until further notice. It should be easy: most of the time, Sherlock doesn't go out unless he's on a case, or if John forces his hand. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Because it appears that Sherlock cannot stay put for more than half a day before going for a walk or accompanying John to Tesco. It’s as if he needs an outlet for his own frustration and has decided to cope by taking it out on everyone else.

John, strangely, is spared, which should be nice, except it means he has to be hyper vigilant every time they are not alone, because everyone else is fair game.

A week or so after discovering he does, indeed, look "very pregnant," Sherlock leaves the flat early in the morning, while John is in the shower, without leaving a note. When he isn't back after twenty minutes, which is the time it takes to walk to Tesco and come back, John texts him.

Where are you?

Somewhere, comes the annoying response, five minutes later.

Sherlock.

I had an appointment. I will be back in an hour.

You could have told me.

Another five minutes pause.

I wasn't aware I had to ask for your permission.

Ok. Bad day. John doesn't reply, and decides to enjoy the peace of the flat while he still can.

An hour later, John's text alarm buzzes.
John. I might have made a terrible mistake.

Oh god. John is up and walking to the lobby, putting on his shoes, before he even thinks of answering.

Where are you? Are you hurt? Is the baby ok?

I am downstairs, just outside the door.

John lets out a sigh he hopes can be heard below.

What?

What what?

Why aren't you coming up.
I am afraid, comes the answer, after two long minutes.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you're going to drive me mad," John mutters. He takes a deep breath to remain calm.

I am coming down.

NO

Sherlock, what the hell is going on? Are you ok?

If by ok you mean physically safe and sound, yes.

Cryptic. John waits for the follow-up. It doesn't come.

Then what is the problem?

If you make fun of me, I swear, John, I will put to practice my boxer training.

I won't.

Promise, or I am not coming.

I promise.

“You git," John murmurs, then waits, slightly apprehensive.

It is another five long minutes before John finally hears Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs, way slower than his usual pace. He comes in, shoulders slumped, eyes lowered on the floor, just like a little kid who knows he is in trouble but has to come forward nevertheless.

At first, John has no idea what it is about, because Sherlock is facing him, head bent forward. Then, as he turns to drop his Belstaff on the closest piece of furniture, it appears that he got a haircut. Of course, Sherlock gets his hair cut on a regular basis - he has very precise standards when it comes to the length and the layers are cut in a way that is aesthetically pleasing and easier to arrange. John has never made a secret of how much he likes Sherlock's ebony curls, the longer the better. He’s always secretly pleased when the regular, once every two months’ appointment gets postponed and he can enjoy those untameable, long locks.
Which is why he finds himself speechless when he can see Sherlock's nape, completely clean, most probably done with a clipper. His long pale neck is exposed, the delicate skin scattered with red blotches, probably due to the edge of the plastic cover-up used to protect his clothes. Not only is his neck exposed, but his ears as well: there, again, a clipper has been used on the hair around them.

John probably would have reacted more strongly if Sherlock's hair had been that short everywhere, but some curls on the top of his head have escaped the scissors. It's a nice haircut, to be honest, and once the shock has passed, John finds he quite likes it. He should say something, he must have been silent for way too many seconds for Sherlock's liking.

"Wow, you... It's...," is as articulate as John can get, apparently.

Sherlock, whose face is bright red - and oh look, with his ears bare, John can see how the blush has stretched to them, colouring the tip - and whose eyes cast a mix of anger and embarrassment, walks straight past him, and into their bedroom, his newly cut curls bouncing on the top of his head. It breaks John's heart a little to see him so upset over something as mundane as a haircut.

Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't get upset over a haircut, right? His physical appearance is a simple construct of elements put together to have the desired effect on people he meets, right? Right. He can pretend he doesn't care all that he wants, but he does. So much. It would be funny, if John didn't know better. Because Sherlock, of course, doesn't do anything by half, and his mood is fragile these days. If he really is that upset, it can last for days, even if in the end it's just about hair.

John finds him curled on his side, the foetal position he prefers for his sulking sessions unachieved, given the size of his belly: he cannot wrap his arms around his folded legs like before. Instead, he's holding a pillow. With a death grip. His face is shoved in it. John kneels near him, ignoring the muffled "go away" to run his fingers over the newly exposed skin of his neck, rubbing the tips over the incredibly soft shaved nape. Sherlock is taken by a full-on body shiver, which has John smiling.

"Now I can think of so many things to do to this very," he plants a kiss on the soft nape, "very", another kiss, "sexy neck."

Sherlock turns toward him swiftly, looking fierce and outraged.

"If you are trying to bribe me with sex, I'll have you know I might not control most of my body anymore, but I can still ignore its most basic instinct."

"So that’s why you did it, then. You wanted to have - at least - the impression you were still in control."

Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to protest, but then closes it and sighs dramatically instead, letting himself fall back on the bed, one hand resting on his forehead like some Victorian heroine.

"Yes, it appears I am not immune to stupidity after all."

"You don't say."

"You hate it," Sherlock declares, closing his eyes.

"No, I do not. I was very, very surprised, since you always make such a fuss about your hair. Comes with the detective character, I guess..."

"I do not make any fuss," Sherlock protests, crossing his arms. He only needs a stern look from John to realize the absurdity of his statement. "... Except right now, I guess..," he corrects himself reluctantly.

"Now stop fussing," John teases, “and let me look at you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lifts his chin, emphasising both just for show, but allows John's scrutiny. He takes Sherlock's chin with a hand, running the fingers of the other through Sherlock's curls. Then he grabs them and tugs on it softly.

"I can still do that, good. I love to do that during sex."

"You are obsessed," Sherlock scowls.

"And you hate it right?" John asks with a smirk. He tugs a bit stronger, and sure enough, Sherlock gasps softly.

"Shut up."

"That is a poor response coming from you. But seriously, Sherlock, in the end, it is just hair."

John settles with his elbows on either side of Sherlock's head, practically lying over him, which has Sherlock's belly pressing against his own stomach. He loves it.

"You look younger, like... mid-twenties, no more. And sexy, in another way. Your face is rounder, and... you know, I never noticed how cute your ears were before?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No, not this time. It will grow back, darling.” John reassures him. “You'll have your usual longer curls in no time. But meanwhile, I think you look just fine."

Sherlock nods slowly. "I am ridiculous. Do not think for a second I do not realise how difficult I have been lately. It is just hard not to act that way. I have always neglected the impact of the hormonal changes of my pregnancy. It is real, trust me, and it annoys me to a length you cannot imagine."

"Oh my god, what was that?"

John sits up in shock. Against his stomach, Sherlock's belly has been crossed by a strong wave, followed by a series of upward pushes, and as he looks, its shape shifts again, as if, for a second, only the right side of Sherlock's stomach is indeed containing the baby.

"It... it is a bit uncomfortable," Sherlock whispers, and John realises he should be careful with his reactions, looking up at him. Sherlock is raised on his elbows and staring at his stomach, wide-eyed and short of breath.

"Oh, she's on the move again," he says, and the bump pushes against his navel. It is followed by a series of waves, then it stops, as abruptly as it started.

"Think she might have turned?" John asks, lifting Sherlock's shirt until it bunches under his arms.

They had discussed it during their last appointment, four days ago -a funny coincidence if you think about it. Sherlock's exam had revealed their baby was still in a sitting position by then.

"I don't know, but I didn't imagine it would feel that way," Sherlock admits.

He sits up, with John’s help, and takes a deep breath. "Oh, something has definitely changed,” he points out, wiggling his hips. “I feel her differently.”

Soon, he has gotten rid of his shirt and is pressing his hands over his baby bump, his agile fingers stretching, moving slowly all over it, while sporting an intense concentrated look. "I cannot be certain," he says after a short while, "but I think I can feel her bottom just over... come here, I'll show you."

John kneels between Sherlock's legs, sitting back on his heels, and lets him guide his hands into position. "See? Her bottom is now up, practically pressing on my stomach... And I think she's facing left, feel those smaller bumps? It's her limbs."

John nods. Sherlock has revealed himself very skilled when it comes to feeling their daughter and identifying the different positions she's been adopting ever since she was big enough to allow it. John figures he finds comfort in it. It's knowledge, after all, and knowledge has always been Sherlock's ultimate weapon against fear and insecurities. Given that with a pregnancy, so many facts remain unknown, of course Sherlock will try to reduce that list as much as possible.

"She is getting ready," John says, his hands remaining splayed on Sherlock's belly. "Another few weeks and we'll have her with us. Can you imagine?"

"Sometimes I do project myself into the future, taking into account all the variables possible." Sherlock says, missing the fact that the question is one of those that does not need answers. Lovely.

"You want me to cook brunch?" John asks, because now, apparently, keeping Sherlock well fed always improves his mood. Something John wouldn't have thought possible before the pregnancy, but which he now uses wisely. The haircut crisis seems to be over, but better safe than sorry, right? Sherlock had mentioned French crepes two or three times only yesterday, and John has found a wonderful recipe, with a honey brown sugar sauce. This should keep him happy for the rest of the day.

"Yes, I’d like brunch," Sherlock agrees. "Do you need some... help?" He adds, pronouncing the last word as if it is a strange, unpleasant noise, just to make sure John understand he is only being polite.

"You could play the violin while I cook?"

Sherlock sighs and lays back on the bed. "I am going to rest. I might have caught cold, again, which is highly unpleasant. It will be the third one in the span of six months. Ridiculous."

"Your immune system-"

"Yes, I know it is less effective because of the pregnancy. Would you mind letting me complain still?" Sherlock says a bit harshly. He then clears his throat as if to demonstrate to John he is serious about the issue.

John feels his forehead. It is warm, but not overly so. "We'll see. What are your symptoms?"

"Right now, just the feeling of something tickling the back of my throat, and a light pressure in my sinuses."

"Maybe it is just due to an exposure to pollen. It has reached high level all week."

"I never had hay fever."

"It is still related to your immune system, which, as you so nicely pointed out, doesn't work properly. Ah. Pregnancy and its many joys."

Sherlock, in the midst of removing his trousers, answers with an annoyed huff. He wiggles his hips and does complicated leg motions, but they seem trapped around the knees.

"John. Some help would be appreciated. It seems that I’m experiencing yet another pregnancy joy in the form of finding myself unable to undress," he snaps, short of breath.

John tries not to smile while removing the offending trousers. Yes, crepes with honey sauce. Double serving for Sherlock.

::: :::

Sherlock was right. It isn't pollen. He wakes up the morning after sporting a light fever, which sufficiently eliminates the allergy angle. It's a cold, and it sounds nasty, judging by his wet cough, and his sinus so congested it makes his face swollen. He is also grumpy as hell, spending the morning laying down on the couch, complaining about a hundred and one small aches and discomfort, monopolising John's attention with such intensity he feels his energy being drained out of him, almost literally.

After lunch - of which Sherlock barely eats a couple of bites, complaining everything tastes like cardboard - he seems to be as much irritated with himself as John is, and decides to play the violin for Sage. He's been doing it a lot, lately, going through his whole repertoire, plus a couple of original pieces. Of course, the reasons behind it are highly scientific, Sherlock had shown John copies of several studies proving the benefits of classical music being listened through the womb. John knows, though, that Sherlock deeply enjoys it. It shows in the way he plays, so delicately, even the staccato pieces; adjusting the volume of his instrument.

Sometimes, when he thinks John doesn't see him, he plays with a soft, secretive smile, as if he's the owner of precious knowledge that belongs to him and to him only, which is kind of true, actually. John will never know how it feels, to carry a child, to feel it grow inside of him. He can admit, at least to himself, that now and then, he feels the pinch of jealousy in his heart. He figures he's far from the only non-carrier father-to-be to experience it.

Sadly, the musical interlude lasts for all of five minutes. When Sherlock needs to stop for the third time to sneeze, he throws the violin on his chair in frustration and goes into his room, closing the door behind him, which is a sure sign he wants to be left alone. John is more than happy to comply. He's sure Sherlock is tired enough to sleep if he sulks long enough. John settles for a quiet afternoon of reading by the fire when he begins hears some shuffling noise in the bedroom.

"Come on, Sherlock, sleep it off," he mumbles, walking over to the room to see what it is about.

Sherlock is finishing dressing up, sliding into a suit jacket still fitting, although he cannot close it anymore. He raises an eyebrow at John.

"Case. Get ready."

"A case?"

"Yes, a case, John, you do remember what a case is? Crime scene, Lestrade is out of his depth. He's sending a car for us."

"Sherlock, you're sick..." John protests, although he knows it's in vain.

"It's a common rhinovirus, very unlikely to kill me," Sherlock dismisses, walking past him.

Ok. Alright. Here they go again. John hopes it won't be a very demanding case, as with Sherlock so advanced in his pregnancy, he cannot follow his usual rhythm of no-sleeping no-eating, not when he is already fighting a virus -as common as that virus may be. If Sherlock deemed his presence needed, though - and by the barely repressed excited smile on his face - this must be at least a seven.

John doesn't like it.

"Are you coming, or what?" Sherlock urges him, already opening the flat's door.

John, of course, is coming.

::: :::

In the car, Sherlock shows John the picture sent by Lestrade, which reveals a badly decomposed body sitting in a rocking chair.

"Unidentified woman. Found in an empty flat near Bowes Park by a couple of teenagers looking for a place to... do whatever it is teenagers do these days. The flat is empty except for the rocking chair, and there is no evidence of foul play. It is impossible as of now to determine the identity of the victim or the cause of death."

"Do they know how long she's been there?"

"No, although I'm sure you can make a correct approximation."

John refuses to take a guess before he sees the body. Sherlock sighs at him.

"I am not giving you a reason to call me an idiot," John protests. "Is there anything else unusual?"

"Yes."

Sherlock shows John another photo, of a paint-peeling wall with huge red letters drawn on it, in a shape that suggests, or tries to imitate, the writing of a young child.

I am the Sussex Vampire.

"Of course, the colour is meant to look like blood, but it's ink. I would guess... a permanent marker of a popular brand. I need more insight."

"So, do you have any ideas so far?"

"Far too many," Sherlock admits. "So I will be a coward like you, and wait before pronouncing myself."

"That is so kind," John grumbles.

"By the way, I do know your sense of smell isn't particularly developed, but you will have to be my nose, the congestion deprives me of... I would say...seventy-five percent of my scent perception."

Right on key, Sherlock illustrate his point by sneezing. When he blows his nose, it ends up in another wet coughing spell. John frowns. He doesn't like the sound.

"I am fine," Sherlock says as soon as he can catch his breath.

"We'll see," John replies.

He wishes Lestrade would have spoken to him before contacting Sherlock, and at the same time, he knows it wouldn't have changed anything. What would he have said? Sherlock has a cold, and as his doctor, I am forced to decline the invitation...? Yes, right, it would have sat well with Sherlock. It is also counterproductive, considering John's determination to give him some slack and show the complete trust he has in him.

You cannot show what you do not have, a very disagreeable voice in John's mind replies. It might be time that complete trust you keep referring to becomes the truth.

::: :::

The abandoned building is three floors high, and seems to be in good shape, despite having been left to rot for more than two decades, according to Sherlock. A police officer guides them to the third floor through a narrow staircase, the elevator being considered unsafe. John cannot help but notice how slowly Sherlock walks up, with a hand under his belly and another holding the rail with a solid grip. He also hears him panting, even though he does his best to be silent. Restraining himself from offering his arm or suggesting he takes off his coat - it's ridiculous to wear it, given the warm temperature - John prays once more for the case to be one of those Sherlock solves in minutes, bragging in front of Lestrade and complaining he's been disturbed for nothing, before exiting the scene in dramatic fashion.

Before they enter the flat, Sherlock does take his coat off, handing it over to John. He's red in the face, except for dark circles under his eyes. Even the satisfaction of working a case cannot compensate his evident tiredness. There is something else, too, something like embarrassment in his cold gaze while they make their way under the yellow tape. John gets it when he sees Anderson's eyes widening at their arrival.

Right. It's been more than two months since they were in presence of the whole team. They have seen Greg in the meantime, but that is all. And Sherlock, as struggling as he is with his physical appearance, isn't comfortable with the reaction he will certainly provoke. Hence the coat, which he surely would have keep if he hadn't been sweating on the stairs.

John gets close to him, enough for Sherlock to feel his support.

Lestrade, Donovan and a young officer are in discussion a foot away from the corpse. A forensic technician is busy settling his digital camera. Two other officers are standing near the door.

Silence draws on them when Sherlock and John step in. Anderson keeps gaping at Sherlock, with all the subtlety he's capable of -which is none.

"What's the matter, Anderson, never seen a pregnant man before?" Sherlock snaps at him.

Instead of blushing, or apologising, or just going back to his work, Anderson shakes his head. "No."

It seems to take Sherlock off guard. For a long moment, he stares back, his head tilted to the side. John see how Greg and Sally seem to be enjoying themselves, watching the situation unfold.

"What, no one told you?" John asks finally, when it seems the staring contest isn't going to resolve itself.

"No, I knew," Anderson stutters. "I just... I didn't imagine... Sherlock..."

He wraps his arms around himself as if he needs protection.

"Well, Anderson," Sherlock begins, taking a step toward him, "sometimes, when two men love each other very much-"

"No, I know that," the officer replies, taking a step back.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock is smiling now, clearly enjoying himself. He takes another step, and Anderson walks back until the wall stops him. "Are you... are you actually scared of me? Or is it the belly? It makes you queasy, doesn't it? You're one of those traditional arseholes who thinks men should not be allowed to get pregnant because you are not comfortable enough in your own masculinity to-"

"I got work to do," Anderson declares, walking away so quickly he stumbles upon a forensic case and collapses into the open arms of one of the cops standing guard.

"For fuck' sake!" Lestrade exclaims, lifting both arms in the air. "Ok, everybody out, let's give Sherlock some space to work.

John is very glad, then, that Sherlock loses interest in scaring Anderson and walks quickly towards the body, because he does not hear one of the cops murmuring. "Yeah, the freak definitely needs some space," referring of course to Sherlock's weight.

John ponders if he has time to follow them, find the culprit and break his nose, but then, it's Donovan's turn to catch Sherlock's attention, and he doesn't want things to go south. Geez, he's already at the end of his patience and they haven't even started working on the case yet.

He's surprised, though, to see what appears to be a sincere smile on Sally's face. "Congratulations, freak," she says, punching Sherlock's shoulder lightly. It's clumsy and awkward but it seems as if she is ready to make peace with the detective. "Love the new haircut, by the way."

Sherlock, who was barely irritated with Anderson's reaction, doesn't know how to take this sudden act of kindness. He grabs his punched shoulder very slowly and blinks. For at least three seconds.

"Er... Thanks?" He finally murmurs, giving the woman a suspicious look.

"Anderson is a jerk," Sally adds, and walks away after nodding toward John.

He nods too.

"He is a jerk," Lestrade agrees, in a manner of salutation. Then he too takes a look at Sherlock. "Wow, it's...maybe I shouldn't have texted you, I didn't know you were so close to term."

Yes, maybe you shouldn't have, John thinks selfishly

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I still have two months to go, I am by no means close to term. Now, can we get to the matter at hand? John, get to it, examine the body."

It soon appears, though, that John cannot do much. He sees it, bending over the rocking chair. The corpse has reached a state that is called "dry decay" in pathology. He should have noticed it as soon as they entered the room. Despite all the windows being closed, or blocked by wooden planks, the air doesn't carry the very characteristic smell of putrefaction. There is barely any flesh left, and half of the woman's hair is gone, leaving a very fine layer of brown, thin ones. The clothes are in very bad shape, eaten away by moths and covered in fine dust -human skin, most probably. John cannot see, with a quick once-over, anything indicating the cause of death. What catches his attention the most is the body's arms - they are cradling a plastic doll wrapped in a blanket.

He hears Greg explaining to Sherlock they haven't found any personal item allowing the identification of the woman.

"To this point, I think the dental record would be your best chance," John adds, stretching his back. "Given the advanced state of decay, it is impossible to date her death precisely without further analysis. It could be anywhere between six months and a year."

"Yeah that's what I thought," Lestrade says. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock is now hovering over the body, his magnifier in hand. "It is indeed a woman, middle class, late twenties," he behinds, observing something closely.

John is by now used enough to assisting Sherlock to know what is about to happen. He will give them several pieces of information while examining the body, then the crime scene, but with no explanation as to how he deduced them. He doesn't like being interrupted while he's deducing. John has learned to be patient, but given how exasperated Lestrade looks each and every time, he still hasn't.

"I'd say she is multiracial, probably of a Hispanic mother and Caucasian father. She did not die here. The rocking chair and the doll are, of course, indicating a set up, but what I mean is she did not die in this room."

Lestrade is writing frenetically on his notepad. John just observes. Sherlock crouches, with some difficulty, and examines the lower body closely, taking out another magnifier, tearing a small piece of fabric from what has once been trousers and crinkling it between his gloved fingers. Then, he suddenly stops moving. After a minute, Lestrade walks up to John.

"Is he gone into that castle of his?"

"His mind palace? Maybe."

"I haven't gone anywhere," Sherlock murmurs.

There is something in his voice, a caution, as if he's onto something he doesn't especially like. He turns his head toward John, revealing how pale his face has become. "A little help?"

"Oh. Yes, of course," John says, grabbing his arm to help him on his feet.

"This case is... strange," Sherlock declares, frowning. "I have too many leads, and I cannot progress further unless a correct approximation of the time of-"

Sherlock stops, mouth half-open. He shivers.

"Sherlock?" John asks softly.

"...Yes, as I was saying," Sherlock says, as if nothing has happened, "A correct approximation of the moment of death is essential, but in the meantime, you should know that this woman had recently given birth, to term, before her death. I would say less than a month, but again, this is... ah... speculation. Would you... would you excuse me for a minute?"

Without waiting for the answer, Sherlock turns his back to Lestrade and walks up to the corridor at the end of the room. When John asks anxiously if he needs help, he shakes his head.

Well, there is the reason he had seemed so troubled. How can he not, when he's just discovered the corpse is one of a new mother? Lestrade seems to have come to the same conclusion, because he gives John a contrite look.

"I didn't know," he says.

"How could've you?" John replies in a reassuring voice.

"Think he's ok?"

"Yes, he just needs a minute to get himself together," John says, although he doesn't have a clue.

He turns his attention toward the writing on the wall, trying to figure out a clue, something, and not worrying about Sherlock too much. After a few seconds, Lestrade joins him.

"So, do you guys have a name yet?"

John doesn't get the chance to answer, because at the same moment, Sherlock calls his name. The way he says it has John's heart freezing in his chest. Sherlock is scared, and hurt.

"Stay there," he tells Greg, running to the other room.

It's a small bathroom, the toilet is long gone and the bath full of rotten wood planks. Sherlock is leaning against the wall, breathing hard and fast.

"Sherlock, what? What is the matter?"

Sherlock gives him a wide, surprised look, and shows his right hand, from which he’s removed the glove. There is a red smear on his finger.

"I'm bleeding," he croaks. "John I'm... I'm bleeding," he repeats, turning his hand toward himself, as if he needs to verify it once more.

Before panic takes over, John switches into doctor mode. It's something you learn quickly, when you’re in the army. How to work despite knowing most of your patients on an intimate level. He wouldn't have made it otherwise.

Right now, he thinks, Sherlock needs a doctor, not a panicking fiancé.

"John," Sherlock complains.

"Yes, I'm here, it's ok, it's not a big deal," John says reassuringly. "Can you sit down? Sherlock, do you understand what I'm-"

"It hurts," Sherlock cuts him out, grabbing John's shoulders. "Oh. God. It... John..."

"Hurt? Like what? Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He can't. He's shaking violently, his face contorting in pain.

And John discovers that being in doctor mode doesn't help at all when it's someone you love. When it's your baby. He calls Lestrade, and his voice, unsurprisingly, sounds just as hurt, and scared, as Sherlock's.

Chapter Text

---

2.

John realises he has made a mistake as soon as one of the paramedics tries to touch Sherlock.

They are in the back of the ambulance, getting ready to transport him to the hospital, and Sherlock, up to this point, has locked himself in panicked silence, just looking at John in search of comfort with so much intensity it's difficult to bear.

It changes once he's seated on the stretcher and the young male paramedic tries to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Sherlock snaps, retrieving his arm violently.

"Do not touch me, you barely know what you are doing! How many times have you had to pass your final exam before getting it right? Three?" Sherlock squints at him. "No. Four. Get away from me you moron."

The paramedic, a buff little guy who seems to think the uniform he wears makes him all powerful and unquestionable, doesn't take the insult well. He tries to get Sherlock's arm back, even though his colleague, an older woman with a Latino complexion, tries to intervene.

It might be because John is scared, or just because the guy is obviously an incompetent moron, but he too starts shouting. They should already be on their way to the hospital, Sherlock is bleeding. It's not much, but it hasn’t stopped. Getting him downstairs with Lestrade took forever and he's had three episodes of a sudden pain in his lower back that cannot be something other than contractions.

John had hesitated when Lestrade had offered to take them to the hospital in his own car, because it would have been just as quick, but he had thought if anything were to happen there would at least be medical equipment to use in the ambulance. Now, he regrets that decision.

"Do not touch him, are you deaf?" He shouts at the paramedic, jumping into the ambulance to get in between him and Sherlock.

"Sir," the unlikable moron starts with a condescending tone that makes John's skin crawl, "if you want us to take care of your friend, you will have to let us do our job properly, which implies-"

"He's my fiancé" John snaps.

Behind him, Sherlock moans in pain. It grounds John. He's a goddamn army captain, he can do this properly. When he speaks again, his voice is low and calm. Nevertheless, it makes a much stronger impression on the paramedic.

"I am Doctor John Watson and I have authority over you. Now, you're going to go sit behind the wheel and drive us to the bloody hospital!"

"Maria is supposed to drive," Moron protests, although his voice has lost its previous assurance. It's almost as if he's asking a question.

"I don't give a shit. Where are we going?" John snaps at him.

"North Middlesex, Sir," the woman -Maria- answers quickly.

"No, we're going to the Royal Free, John corrects. "I know North Middlesex is the closest, but the A&E at the Royal Free is better equipped. It's only a few minutes more."

Moron stares at him, completely immobile. If he didn't need to bow forward because of the narrow space, John is almost certain he would try to take a soldier's posture.

"You heard what I just said?" He asks. "Now drive!"

Without protesting further, the paramedic jumps down the back of the ambulance. John immediately closes the door and pushes Sherlock's stretcher into a proper position, locking it in place. Maria doesn't try to question his authority. She's busy unwrapping medical supplies and getting flannel sheets.

"I have to say", she finally admits when John sits on her opposite, close to Sherlock, "that Jimmy is right about one thing. There is a protocol to follow, doctor Watson, and I cannot afford to lose my job."

"Of course you can't, you are a single mother," Sherlock says out of nowhere.

John realises he hasn't paid attention to him since he took control. He grabs his hand and presses it.

"I assure you, Maria, I will take full responsibility for my taking over, you will not be blamed." John tells her.

John thinks. Fast. Sherlock has gone back to his previous state, panicked silence. It is only interrupted by a short but violent bout of coughs. That’s what gets John into action.

"Maria, I want him to get some o2, three litres. And take his vital signs."

"Of course."

"Sherlock, will you let her do it?" John asks, as softly as he can.

Sherlock nods.

While the paramedic is busy following his orders, John gets Sherlock's trousers and pants down. "Sorry," he murmurs, rubbing Sherlock's cold leg soothingly. "Can you bend your legs for me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nods again. His face is half covered by an oxygen mask now, and John hates not being able to see him properly to assess his psychological state. He has no choice, though: with Sherlock's sinuses being as clogged as they are, a nasal cannula wouldn't be effective.

John doesn't do a andrological exam. Better not to put the birth canal under unnecessary stress, it could worsen the bleeding. All he does is evaluate the state of it. It is still normal. Sherlock's testicles are a bit swollen, but it happens frequently with male carriers into their third trimester. Blood is still seeping out, but it's a very thin trickle mixed with sweat. There are no clots, and the smell is normal. John asks Maria for an amniotic liquid tester stick; the small absorbent paper will turn pink if there is amniotic liquid in the substance analysed. He sighs in relief when the test is negative, as it means the blood is not coming from the uterus, and Sherlock's waters haven't broken.

John knows Sherlock is aware of everything going on, despite being so stressed that he's shaking, so he tells him what he's just done, and the results.

"It is a good sign. This might not be premature labour," he then explains, pressing a compress against Sherlock's birth canal and covering his legs with two flannel sheets.

"How far is he?" Maria asks, taking some notes.

"Thirty weeks."

"Primigravida?"

"Yes. What are the vital signs?"

"B.P. is 140/95, heart rate at 84, temperature of 38.1."

"Good," John sighs, slightly relieved.

"My blood pressure is a little high," Sherlock points out, and John understands only because he's had years of training of hearing patients through heavy plastic masks.

"Because you have a fever, and you are stressed; the minima is still under a hundred, which is a good sign. I am not worried about it, Sherlock."

Sherlock's covered legs suddenly kick, and he sits up, grabbing the side of the stretcher. "The pain. It's coming back, John," he warns.

"There is no foetal monitor in here, is there?" John asks Maria.

She shakes her head. John moves over to the side bench and put his hands onto Sherlock's belly. He feels it hardening. It is a contraction, but it is impossible to evaluate. The hardening of the stomach can reach different level depending on the patient or the kind of contractions. The false ones he hopes Sherlock is experiencing, also called Braxton-Hicks contractions, can seem to harden the uterus as much as the real ones. The only difference is that they do not make the uterus cervix open - they are only a way to prepare the body for the birth. They also tend to be irregular. Most of the time, they do not keep up for more than an hour at a time.

"Try to relax," he tells Sherlock. "Lay back. Close your eyes. Breathe."

Sherlock obeys immediately.

"There, I bet the pain is receding," John says when he feels the tensed stomach skin soften under his hands.

Sherlock nods, still concentrating on breathing. Maria has opened an I.V. kit and is silently asking for John's permission. He puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Maria here will set you up with an I.V., alright? It's just in case."

Another soft nod. Sherlock doesn't even react when the paramedic takes his arm and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. John cannot remember when Sherlock lost his jacket, but he knows he left the coat at the flat. John needs to text Lestrade about it. Sherlock's coat is like a second skin. He has once told John that Belstaff didn't make this particular model anymore and that he was "ridiculously attached to the thing."

John shakes his head, as if to set his ideas in place. The coat can wait a little.

He takes Sherlock's free hand and looks at him, bending forward to cut off anything that isn't him. He needs Sherlock to understand what he is saying and be certain John is sincere. "I am worried, but not especially so. Listen...bleeding during pregnancy is quite frequent, both for men and women. As for the contractions, it's most probably Braxton-Hicks ones. I didn't really need an ambulance but hell, it's you, and it's our baby, so I might have over-reacted a bit. I'm going to call Amy so that she can join us at the Royal Free and I will make sure you get the best care, alright?"

A very tiny nod. Sherlock closes his eyes for long seconds, and when he opens them again, the way they shine tell of his efforts not to start crying. It's enough for John to feel his throat swell, and he swallows a few times to get over the sensation. Sherlock is a force of nature, as if he's too great for his own body to contain, but he can be so bloody vulnerable, laid bare as he is right now. It is like there is no in-between, like he cannot find an accommodating state between the repressing armour and the overflowing bareness of his soul. It must be so tiring to be him.

"Whatever you might think right now, it is not your fault," John goes on, because with time, he's getting almost half as good at reading Sherlock as Sherlock is at reading him.

Sherlock frowns.

"It isn't. I know I protested when you said we had a case, but I was just being my usual grumpy self. If I really thought you should miss that one out because of your cold, I would have kept you home.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and it's so normal, so him, that John is shaken by a nervous bout of laughter.

"No, I would have," he adds, still smiling. "I have my ways to get you to listen to me, you git. I am not Mycroft."

Mycroft. John should call him. He is barely thinking of taking his phone out of his pocket when Sherlock slides the oxygen mask under his chin.

"Not right now. Besides, he might already know."

"Sometimes you downright scare me."

"I have my ways."

There is, for a second, a tiny bit of pleasure in Sherlock's eyes. John will take what he can get.

::: :::

Mycroft did know. When he appears in the waiting room of the A & E, Anthea following him like a shadow, John himself has been waiting for ten...no... almost twelve minutes.

"John, how is my brother?" he asks, managing to sound worried and disdainful at the same time.

John explains in short sentences what happened back at the crime scene, and how they got to the hospital. A hot paper cup of coffee is shoved in his hand, and it takes him a while to realize Anthea is the one who put it there.

"And as of now?" Mycroft inquires once he is done.

"As of now, I have no bloody clue. Our androcologist threw me out of the exam room."

John knows he sounds like a petulant kid, and hell, maybe he is. All he had wanted to do was to assist Amy. He had to, just to make sure she didn't miss anything. After all, no one knows Sherlock better than him and...

John closes his eyes and hits the wall he's leaning on with the back of his head. This is such stupid reasoning. Their doctor is competent -and way more competent than him when it comes to pregnancies. She is perfectly capable of establishing the right diagnosis and making all the medical decisions to ensure Sherlock and the baby's well being. It does not seem to matter, though, when Sherlock is in his current state. It appears John the fiancé cannot separate himself from John the doctor. He didn't want to assist Amy - he was well on his way to giving Sherlock a complete androcologic exam when she had arrived, and he hadn't wanted her to take his place. She had been patient, but firm. When John persisted, she had threatened to call security, and he had known she was being serious. He cannot be certain he would have obeyed, though, if he hadn't caught Sherlock's distraught eyes, and had been hit by the selfishness of his behaviour. As long as he was butting heads with Amy Brown, Sherlock wouldn't be taken care of.

A sympathetic nurse had walked him to the waiting room, and had assured him she would come back to get him as soon as possible.

John has trouble understanding his behaviour, but he's certain he has failed Sherlock, being expelled from the room instead of acting as a much-needed emotional support.

There is a light sound, a polite throat clearing. John gets out of his own head and sees Mycroft looking back at him, both eyebrows raised. He is probably thinking about the tediousness of letting goldfish brains work at their own, deplorable rhythm.

"So we wait?" Mycroft asks after a five second long staring contest.

"We wait," John agrees.

Luckily for John's nerves, Amy Brown comes to get them less than five minutes later, taking them into a tiny private room. After making the presentations, she assesses Sherlock's physical state. The bleeding has stopped completely, and her exam has revealed he's one centimetre dilated. She must see panic in John's eyes at this point, because she is quick to point out that it often happens - the cervix of the uterus can start dilating on its own sometimes as early as two months before the real labour begins. It's especially true with carriers. She cannot guarantee this isn't early labour, though. They will monitor the contractions for two hours, and she will do another exam at that point. Then she goes on about getting Sherlock rehydrated and giving him a inhalotherapy treatment just to help with the cold, and how, even if it is really early labour, there is some medicine they can give him to try and stop it - but if all of it fails, John surely knows that at thirty weeks the chances of the baby survival are...

John cuts her out, then. He's not ready to consider the possibility of their child being born prematurely, not yet. He'll cross that bridge when he gets there -and hopefully, that won’t be necessary. He's eager to go back to Sherlock now, but Amy asks him if she can speak to him privately, and he sees in her eyes he doesn't really have the choice. Mycroft takes off to see Sherlock then. John watches him leave with childish resentment.

"John, what happened earlier in the examination room-"

"No, I know. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have acted the way I did. Put it down to nerves," he says quickly.

Amy smiles and rubs his arm. "I do know how it is to be a doctor and have someone close to you needing medical attention. But it's more than that."

"What is it, then?" John tries not to sound impatient, but he fails.

"Sherlock is scared. I mean... abnormally scared."

"Well, with the bleeding and-"

"No. He's scared about the birth. He's scared of doing something wrong. He's scared of being a father. His intelligence isn't an asset in these circumstances, because he knows far too much about everything that could go wrong. He cannot ignore it. And he's relying entirely on you to reassure him. His trust is... well, you know how it is, I suppose. The thing is, if he thinks you do not trust me, as a competent doctor, to do my job, how can he? There will be one point where he'll be in labour and you'll have to leave it to me. Because you are the father of the child, you aren't his physician. Not in these circumstances. I will need you to let me do my job, and to reassure him about my adequacy."

John tries to find a correct answer. He knows Amy is right, and he does trust her. It's no revelation that Sherlock's own trust in their androcologist relies heavily on John's opinion. What is really getting to him is Sherlock's fear and worries. Gosh. How much does he keep to himself, refraining from talking about it because he thinks it is not normal, it isn't how a normal human being is supposed to react to being pregnant? And the worse thing is John might already know this, at some subconscious level at least. He might know it, and be too damn cowardly to try to fix it, because he doesn't know if he can, and it sends him back to his own fear. If something were to happen, god... If something were to happen to Sherlock, or the baby...

He can’t even think about it.

"I... will make sure Sherlock knows how I feel about you and... I'm sorry, again, Amy, I don't know what else to say."

The young woman smiles, seemingly understanding John's confusion, and he is glad for it.

"It's ok. In other circumstances, I would love to work with you, John. Now you can go see him. I'm staying here, and I'll be back to examine him shortly."

John nods, about to turn on his heels, but Amy holds him back.

"I gave him some intravenous lorazepam because he was really anxious and I wanted him to be able to relax. But you know how people who've been addicted to strong drugs develop a resistance to any mood-altering medication?"

"Yes."

"So, I started with a low dosage but had to increase it quite high. He's very, very relaxed," Amy shrugs. "Don’t worry; a single use can’t hurt the baby, but Sherlock is..."

"What? High?"

"Yes," Amy admits, blushing lightly.

"Well, thank god. He needs to rest," John replies, guessing Amy had been a bit apprehensive about the subject and wanting to let her know she's off the hook.

"I agree. He was right in the middle of a panic attack when the medication started working, and he couldn't stop talking, out of stress and nervousness. That is why he told me how he felt, how scared he was. He never would have discussed his feelings with me if he had been in a normal state."

She nods to herself, then sends John off. John takes the corridor to the examination room and sees Mycroft leaving.

"He's getting some sort of respiratory therapy," Mycroft explains, looking relieved to have an excuse to get out. "Keep me posted, John. I am certainly not the person my brother needs or desires by his side right now. Anthea is going to stay here so if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Ok."

Mycroft seems to hesitate, drawing circles on the floor with the tip of his umbrella. "...John?"

"Yes?"

"Are we keeping up with the plan?"

The plan...? Oh. The plan... right. John rubs at his face, remembering the date. He was supposed to find a way to take Sherlock out of the flat tomorrow, while Mycroft would coordinate the make-over of Sherlock's future laboratory in 221a. He doesn't need to think long before answering.

"Yes, of course. Why shouldn't we?"

"Well..."

John knows what Mycroft is thinking, and it implies things going really, really badly for Sherlock. He's glad the other man does not finish his thought - glad but irritated that Mycroft is already expecting the worse. Anger at the situation they find themselves in rises quickly from the pit of his stomach. It's so unfair, for Sherlock. Haven't they been through enough, or is the universe still needing to prove something to the genius he created, just to watch him struggle? He must be alright. He will be devastated if something happens to the baby, and then, how would John prove him hat caring is an advantage after all? And here is Mycroft, the poster child for emotional inadequacy, who doesn't have any difficulty imagining the range of possibilities of how it can go wrong.

John's mind makes a strange association, bringing back to the surface the other matter that makes him so exasperated with Mycroft. Today is not the time to discuss it. Nevertheless, he cannot help himself.

"Mycroft."

John's fist are clenched, and it doesn't escape Mycroft, of course. He takes a step back, frowning.

"Yes, John?"

"I think you lied to Sherlock when you told him there is nothing you can do to free him of your guardianship."

.Mycroft stares at John with an expression of complete surprise.

"He told you about it?"

"Yes he did. That's what human beings do : they speak to each other."

"Well, John, I am sure there is still a lot you ignore about what put Sherlock in that delicate position in the first place."

"I don't care. He'll tell me when he's ready. Now, you really expect me to believe you cannot use your influence to set him free without having him submitted to a new examination?"

"It's not that simple."

"Maybe it is. You want to know what I think?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, trying to appear unimpressed, but John knows better.

"I think maybe, at the beginning, you didn't want Sherlock to be free from you. I'm not saying you didn't have good reasons," he objects, when Mycroft opens his mouth. "I am not an idiot; I know you love your brother. You were worried, and probably tired of looking out for him despite himself. At least, when you became his guardian, you were also given legal tools to help you. And it must have been reassuring. The thing is, he's changed since then. He's been doing a lot of good. I think it might be time you let him go."

For a second, the older Holmes sheds his impassive mask, the hurt in his eyes telling stories John can only imagine. John's anger leaves him as quickly as it came. He has learned not to judge Mycroft lately, especially after Sherlock's disappearance. He might even feel some affection toward the man. The thing is, Mycroft does not let people love him easily. Whereas Sherlock, underneath his armour, had revealed a man starving for touch and affection, John isn't certain Mycroft can ever take off his own armour. Not as completely.

"Listen, we'll talk about it later," John says in a tired voice. "I'm sorry, I'm on edge. I should go see Sherlock."

Mycroft nods, and goes for a tentative semi-smile that looks more like a grimace. John has his hand on the door's handle when the other man calls him back.

"What?"

"You'll notice that my brother is a bit ... tipsy."

John snorts. "Yes, I know."

"I'll see what I can do," Mycroft adds, lowering his eyes. "About the guardianship."

"That's all I'm asking," John says softly, pushing the door open.

::: :::

Sherlock's room isn't a private one, but part of an observation station that is separated into four glass cubicles, all accessible by a nurse station in the middle. Luckily, only another cubicle is occupied and the curtains are drawn on the large glass panels.

The inhalotherapist is still at Sherlock's bedside, watching his oxygen saturation level while he receives bronchodilatator medication through nebulisation, which means another mask hiding his face. His eyes are barely open. John stays at the foot of the bed and waves at him.

Sherlock blinks very, very slowly. His eyes widen when he sees him, then crinkles form at the corner, the telling of a smile hiding under the mask. He waves too, slowly, his hand looking as heavy as lead when it falls back on the mattress. John caresses his leg, letting his hand rest there, just a touch, to connect. The respiratory therapist acknowledges him while he shakes the nebuliser, gathering the last drops of medication on the bottom. A white cloud of vapour forms around the mask. Sherlock coughs weakly.

"Mr. Holmes's lungs are clear, and there is little secretion in the bronchial tubes. This treatment is more of a prevention, to avoid eventual respiratory congestion. His oxygen level is good. He won't need the mask when I am done."

John nods. Anything positive he will take gladly.

"It's just a nasty head cold," the man goes on. He checks the empty nebulizer and closes the oxygen valve on the wall. "But Dr. Brown didn't want to take risks. Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Yes," John agrees curtly. He's not in the mood for small talk, and the therapist must notice, because he packs his material and makes a quick exit.

John can finally take his place next to Sherlock, one he shouldn't have left. He sits on the side of the mattress and kisses his forehead. Sherlock, installed in a semi-sitting position, only has to bend forward a little and, to John's surprise, kisses him back, straight on the mouth, a warm, a bit too wet open kiss. John grins, seeing Sherlock’s goofy smile so different to his usual one. Sherlock rarely smiles widely, always keeps his mouth closed, and most of the time, the smile is gone after a second, or only reaches one side of his lips. This smile, though, is open-mouthed and showing a bit of teeth and a teasing tongue. Sherlock's face is slack, his eyes unfocussed, lazy, just like it is the rare times he gets drunk. Definitely high on lorazepam.

"Jaaawn, hi," Sherlock slurs, and his smile is so communicative. John chuckles, pushing a short strand of hair away from his forehead.

"Hey, sorry for behaving like an idiot early."

Sherlock gives a dismissive movement of his hand, then his eyes catch the o2 sensor, a large white clip covering his index finger. He stares at it in fascination, then waves, his eyes crossing.

"Ok, now," John takes his hand in his. "Can you concentrate a little?"

"I highly doubt it," Sherlock says after a few seconds of what seems intense thinking.

"I was apologising for earlier."

Sherlock "awww's," staring at John with affection. "Not to worry, to tell the truth I am quite relieved you were thrown out of the room since I was in the midst of a most humiliating panic attack. I am afraid I made a deplorable impression on Amy, as I let out everything that was going through my brain without filter. I would probably be upset right now if I wasn't given that medication for stress -which makes me feel incredibly good about myself, I have to admit."

It is fascinating, how Sherlock's nervousness still manifests in its usual way, with a seemingly never-ending discourse. Except it's all happening in slow motion.

"I like your nose, have I ever told you that?"

"What?"

John must have missed something, busy trying to contain his amusement. Sherlock stares intently at him, then stretches his hand and pinches John's nose, smiling at his own gesture.

"I always found it endearingly cute."

"Well, thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods, chin lifted high, taking immense pride in his compliment. He frowns, then, and sneezes. It ends up in a fit of giggles, as he puts both hands on his belly, careful not to touch the foetal monitor.

"She kicks each time I sneeze," he explains to John, sniffing wetly. "She doesn't like it."

"You think?" John hands Sherlock a tissue, and he stares at it, clueless. "For your nose."

"Oh."

Serious and careful, Sherlock nods solemnly and takes the offering, pressing it to his nose instead of blowing it. John figures there is only so much he can ask of him, and kisses him again, on the cheek. "You are adorable."

"So you keep saying," Sherlock says, letting the unused tissue fall beside him. Then, it seems like he's remembering something important. He stares at his hands on his belly for a whole second.

"John." (Jaaawn)

"Yes, love?"

"The bleeding stopped. Did you know?"

"Yes, I did. It's good."

Sherlock nods eagerly. "The contractions too. I haven't had one ever since they installed the monitor."

"Really?" John is pleasantly surprised. He turns back and sees the electronic screen of the monitor showing a normal foetal heart rate and a flat line underneath. The scroll of paper that's sliding out of it and piling up on the floor shows the same flat line. If Sherlock's stomach muscles had contracted, it would have shifted into a particular mountain-like pattern.

"And I have this," Sherlock shows John a small buzzer with a red button at the top. "I have to press it if I do feel the same pain, in case the monitor doesn't register the contraction, and you can see that I haven't pushed it once," he explains as if it is an especially difficult concept to get.

"Oh, right," John agrees.

"It is good, it is very good," Sherlock carries on in a contented voice. "I had calculated the time between each contraction when I had the second one; of course, it wasn't precise, but I've developed a method to evaluate correctly the passing of time, and I found that there was paroxi... Apoxss..."

Sherlock stops, closes his eyes and articulates silently. Then he tries again. "Ap-pro-xi-mate-ly theven minutes between each one, which brings me to the following deduction: it has been twenty-nine minutes since the last contraction."

He smiles brightly, and it takes John a second to realise that Sherlock is waiting for praise, as he does -in a subtler manner- each time he makes an especially good deduction. God, John cannot stand the adorableness of his dosed-up pregnant genius. How can he be so utterly inoffensive and innocent, when he has the capacity to destroy someone just by speaking to them, if he tries hard enough. Sherlock is a singularity in the universe.

And he's John.

And everything seems to be going back to normal. It's a little early to celebrate, without having a cervix measurement, but John does breathe a little better.

"You are absolutely brilliant," he tells Sherlock, taking his face delicately, into both of his hands.

Sherlock lowers his eyes and blushes while a pleased smile curves his lips. "So she might want to stay in there a little more, yes?" He asks, rubbing the curve of his stomach in a slow caress.

"I am almost certain of it," John agrees, following Sherlock's hand, fascinated. Because of course, Sherlock isn't one to cradle his belly or touch it in that unique way future parents do, although he sometimes caves, only when he's alone with John, and more often than not, when he thinks John doesn't see him. If he touches it, it is with a clear intent - if he wants to feel her when she moves, or check her position. To see him just indulging in what obviously gives him a lot of pleasure has John filled with affection, and it breaks his heart a little, too, how embarrassed Sherlock still is at behaving normally.

"Almost certain is almost as good as certain certain," Sherlock declares in a murmur, seemingly entranced by the movement of his hand. He lets his upper body slide toward John's side, just enough to be able to lay his head on John's shoulder. "I will sleep now."

"Good idea."

"And you will not leave my side," Sherlock orders, blinking slowly.

"Of course not," John reassures him. "Hey, Sherlock?"

"Mmh."

"I love you," John says, because sometimes it is so acutely felt he just cannot help himself.

"Yes, you love me," Sherlock agrees.

John smiles to himself. His hand joins Sherlock's on his belly.

"I am scared, John. I am. It is beyond logic, beyond common sense."

"I know. It's ok. I am too. We'll deal with it."

"John?"

"Yes, Darling?"

"I might be incredibly embarrassed later, when the effects of the drug will have abated. And you will kindly restrain yourself from reminding me of everything I said that did not make sense."

"Not even the cute stuff?"

"Especially the cute stuff."

"I can’t promise."

Sherlock elbows John in the ribs with all the strength of a kitten. He yawns and settles comfortably, grabbing John's hand on his belly and holding it there, trapped in his own. This time, when he blinks, it seems his eyelids remain closed. Good.

Less than five minutes later, he's fast asleep. His skin is a little too hot for John's liking but it will have to do. Fever always goes up through the day, to reach its peak late in the night.

John tries to settle more comfortably, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. He looks miserable. His hair is flattened on one side, the curls drenched in sweat, his eyelids are swollen, his cheeks a deep red while the rest of his face is of a pasty white. He snores because of the congestion, his breathing loud and laboured, his mouth opened. His nostrils are red and irritated, crusted with mucus. A trickle of saliva is sliding from the right corner of his chapped lips, pooling on his chin. Sherlock Holmes. So bloody human, and imperfect. Weak, sick, scared. But also, more beautiful than John can ever remember seeing before.

::: :::

Amy Brown begins with the good news. By then, Sherlock is wide awake -an androcologic examination will do that to you- and mostly back to himself, if somewhat quieter than usual. It's no real surprise that the uterus cervix remains unmoved at one centimetre, but John still feels a weight leaving him, as he lets out a trembling breath he did not know he was holding. He helps Sherlock out of the stirrups and covers his legs quickly, understanding how uncomfortable and uneasy he must feel -hell, John can honestly admit he's glad he's not the one in that position.

"I can’t be certain you were actually in early labour, or if you just experienced Braxton-hicks contractions, but the important thing is everything seems to be back to normal."

"What can I do, to prevent it from happening again?" Sherlock wants to know.

Amy lays an arm on his shoulder. "Ah, Sherlock, I wish I could provide you with certitudes, but the truth is, these things happens. You aren't responsible. As a matter of fact, so far, you've been a perfect patient. You are doing everything to provide your baby an optimal development."

"Perfect patient," John cannot help but note. "Now that is something you were never called before."

Sherlock gives him an offended look.

"Since I prefer to be on the safe side, I want to keep you here until tomorrow, under observation."

Sherlock nods, and for the first time since John has known him, does not try to play the "John-is-a-doctor-he-can-watch-over-me-at-home" card. He must be very scared still to accept a hospital stay, even for one night.

"Now, here comes the less pleasant part," Amy says, and she's careful not to look at Sherlock, probably aware he won't react well to what she's about to say. "There is a standard procedure whenever there is a hint that labour could start prematurely, and I want you to follow it, even though I cannot be certain that is what we are dealing with. You will surely understand that when it comes to something as serious, it's always better to be on the safe side."

"Of course," Sherlock agrees, and he's clueless, John can tell.

"I'm going to put you on strict bed rest, for at least two weeks. We can reassess later."

"And what does this imply, exactly?"

"What is says. It means you need to stay in bed, and I will allow short sitting periods, only half an hour at a time. The only valid reasons you can leave bed are to eat and get cleaned up."

Sherlock's face is unreadable. He lowers his eyes, playing with the hem of his flannel sheet. "Well, if it is what must be done to assure the continuation of the pregnancy, I will of course do whatever you say I must."

"It won't be so bad, Sherlock. I can take a leave of absence from the surgery and stay with you," John offers.

"I do not think it is necessary. You only work part time anyway, and I might be... quite disagreeable," Sherlock jokes weakly, offering John a pitiful smile.

There is no trace of John's petulant, hyperactive consulting detective. John smiles back, pressing Sherlock's shoulder. He doesn't miss the tremors running through his body.

Two weeks of complete inaction. It reminds John something Mycroft had once said, about Sherlock being his own worst enemy. John looks at him, at his tired eyes, the nervous way Sherlock's long musician fingers are playing with the sheet, and a strong wave of pity washes over him. Instead of anticipating the worse, John takes the resolution, right there and then, to do everything he can to make Sherlock's forced inaction as easy on him as possible. As long as his brain has something to work on, he should be alright. And John will make sure to keep him busy.

"We'll be fine," he tells Sherlock, making sure he's convincing enough. "I promise."

"I'm going to hold you up to it," Sherlock answers, lifting a corner of his mouth in another tiny smile.

John smiles back reassuringly. And starts making plans.

Chapter Text

My dear fellow readers,

This won't take long. First, please rest assured that this story is going well and a new chapter will be posted soon.

This is the first long story I have written in two years, since my separation with my kids' father. I won't go into details about my RL, because it's a well known refrain. The lovely father turned out not to be so lovely after said separation, and has been harassing me, refusing to take care of the kids or assume any financial responsibility. Court stuff and legal ruling take time. What takes even more time is trying to heal psychologically with no resources and learn to live in poverty.

I am not asking for pity or anything, I am just explaining why my posting rhythm is at best irregular, and much slower than it used to be. I probably feel way too guilty about it, but that is who I am. I hate giving my word and not being able to hold onto it.

Just know that, when the wait for a new chapter stretches, it is not because I don't care about my small readership. It is because frankly, these days, I have a very shi**y personal life. I hope this situation won't discourage you from reading, because I writing Sherlock is bringing me a lot of joy, it's an escape, and I desperately need it. New chapter coming soon, thank you all for your patience

Little Star

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The first three days of Sherlock's bed rest go smoothly. He sleeps a lot, because he is still fighting his cold, and when he doesn't, he spends his time texting back and forth with Lestrade about the case of the Sussex Vampire, as John has come to call it in his head. Sherlock does not involve John, and John doesn't ask to be involved. If the case is worth it, it will happen, eventually. Anyway, John doesn't have difficulties busying himself, despite having decided to take the next two weeks off the surgery. Sherlock's protest had been more for show than anything else. John might come off as overprotective, but he really doesn't want Sherlock to be left alone for long periods of time, not when he's stuck in bed doing nothing and thinking. Mrs. Hudson had offered to keep him company but John had declined. Sherlock's pregnancy is something, he feels, that belongs to the both of them. John's lizard brain urges him to protect his nest; it is as simple as this.

Besides keeping an attentive eye on Sherlock, John also has to supervise the renovations in 221a. Mycroft had been doing it himself, the first day, making sure everything was delivered, giving strict orders to the workers he hired. He's apparently an amateur home designer, going to the length of admitting to John he had designed every room of his house and had "taken a ridiculous amount of pleasure doing so." John nods, biting the inside of his cheeks to hold back a surprised laugh. That he finds it amusing is, he knows, childish, and unfair. Mycroft isn't a robot, after all: he can very well have hobbies. This is what happens when you try so hard not to appear human. John remembers well the first time he saw Sherlock knitting and how he had been unable to stop laughing for ten minutes in a row, despite Sherlock's offended look and his explanation that it helped him think.

Speaking of Sherlock, it is impossible to even consider that he might be completely oblivious to what is happening downstairs. There’s a lot of noise, especially the first day. He goes along with it, though, and John finds himself ridiculously touched. It really shows how much progress Sherlock has made.

John has also been cleaning the flat, and not only a quick overall for it to appear viable, but more of spring clean. He figures if Sherlock is staying put, with the habit he has of being congenitally unable to pick up after himself, that at least, they can avoid the flat turning into a complete mess. It might help Sherlock keep a clear mind.

It is Mrs. Hudson's theory anyways. "When you go through a tough period in your life, John, there is nothing more upsetting than seeing the material results of it all. Things always seem better in a tidy, clean place." John has no idea if she is right. Maybe it is something she had discovered about herself, in the days she was the wife of a drug cartel boss. She spends hours cleaning up with him, careful to remind him that it is an exceptional situation, and that, of course, she is not their house keeper.

John also buys a new couch, with some regret because the old, comfortable couch holds many memories of his and Sherlock’s blooming relationship. It's on this couch Sherlock had admitted his inexperience, and had reacted so beautifully to John bringing him to orgasm for the first time. It's on this couch that they have spent so many evenings, with Sherlock lying down, his head on John's lap, having his hair played with : there, on the used cushions, John had discovered what a tactile person he was, and how much he must have been starving for human touch that he now never seemed to have enough.

Nevertheless, the need for a new couch has been essential. John and Sherlock had talked about the mechanics of his strict bed rest, and how to make it easier on him. John, who had studied sleep disorder back at uni, just before he enrolled in the army, has a certain knowledge of the importance of a circadian rhythm for the human body to be able to rest. Sherlock's sleep patterns are fragile and irregular on the best days. It was necessary to find another place for him to rest during the day, because his brain needs to keep associating their bed with a night of sleep. It is one of the first pieces of advice you give someone with insomnia : do not stay in bed for hours while you are awake, because it will lose its psychosomatic power over your mind. Sherlock would also have the impression of leading a more normal life, spending his days in the living room, where there would surely be more action than in the silence of their bedroom. The couch was the solution. Except, for Sherlock to be as comfortable as possible, they needed a new, more comfortable and larger one. Sherlock had protested at first: he doesn't like change in his immediate environment. It affects him more than he will admit, John knows it.

In the afternoon of Sherlock's third day of strict rest, when he wakes up from his nap, the new couch has been delivered and John has just finished rearranging the living room. He is very satisfied with his choice. The couch is huge. Sherlock can lay down on his back and stretch his toes without touching the opposite armrest, and since he's allowed a semi-sitting position, John had made sure that the armrest is high enough so that he can lay back on it with a couple of cushions and still has a support up to his head. John had also bought a small table on wheels, adjustable to different positions to accommodate Sherlock.

John had toyed with the idea of moving the other furniture around so that the couch is closer to the fireplace, but with the weather getting warmer each day, he has decided against it. He knows Sherlock will be more prone to being too hot as the pregnancy advances and his belly swells than the contrary. Besides, it is always easier to fix being cold than being hot.

John has put so much thought into it that he's almost shaking with excitement when Sherlock drags himself out of the bedroom, hair mussed up and his blue robe hanging on one shoulder. He goes straight for the bathroom without sparing John a look. John, who stays immobile besides the couch, waiting with a stupid smile on his face. He has a last minute panicked thought about the fabric he chose : dark brown corduroy instead of leather - the shop assistant had assured him it was the best choice, regarding comfort.

"Oh," Sherlock says, voice still gruff from sleep, "the couch was delivered. You know, it is strange, I use to have a very light sleep, any small noise would have me awake in seconds. And now, a piece of furniture delivered two feet away from me doesn't even succeed in waking me up. I wonder if the pregnancy hormones have an effect on the deepness of my sleep, or if it is more likely that...”

While speaking, Sherlock has dragged himself slowly to the new couch and dropped on it without his usual grace (that grace that becomes rarer each day that passes. Even though Sherlock had stated early on that he would not became one of those pregnant waddling people, it seems he cannot escape a certain clumsiness).

He stretches his legs and turns on his side, his head supported by a brand new cushion. John waits. For something. Any form of reaction. Sherlock finishes his expose about the new heaviness of his sleep - something about the hypothalamus, he's lost John at some point - and takes his mobile from the new and awesome table, wondering out loud if Lestrade has calculated the exact height of the inscription on the wall.

John tries not to take it personally. Sherlock is well... Sherlock, after all. John only needs to be more obvious. He moves in front of him, trying to catch his attention.

"So, how do you-"

"Oh!" Sherlock cuts him off, sitting up abruptly. "Poison! That is unexpected..."

He types away with a scary speed.

"Sherlock," John tries again.

"No, we cannot work with suppositions, Geoffrey, we need facts," Sherlock shouts at his mobile while his fingers never stop typing.

John huffs, takes a step forward, and does something he's never done before. He snatches Sherlock's phone from his hand and shoves it in his own back pocket.

Sherlock's expression is priceless. "Outraged" would be an understatement here.

"What are you doing, give it back to me," he orders, stretching his hand.

"In a minute."

"Give me my phone, don't you realise we've just had a major breakthrough in the case, I do not have time for-"

"For what?"

Sherlock's mouth hangs open for two long seconds. He closes it, frowns. "I don’t know," he admits, uncertain. "Did I... did you... are we fighting? Have I done or said something awful to upset you?

John smiles at Sherlock's confusion. The detective doesn't see it, busy searching his mind for a potential fault he might have committed.

"I have nothing," he says slowly. "What is this about?"

"You're sitting on it."

"I am... what, my bum? Is this about sex?" Sherlock is back to outrage, staring at John with all the indignation he can gather.

John bursts out laughing at that. "No, you stupid git, the couch! How do you like it? Is it comfortable? What do you think of the colour? And the table I added as I surprise, do you like the table?"

Sherlock opens his eyes wide. "You took my mobile away from me to know what I think of... a couch, while I am discussing a criminal investigation about a woman who was most probably murdered? Are you serious?"

"She's been dead for months-"

"Eight months. We know that now."

"Ok. She's been dead for eight months. I guess a few more minutes won't make a difference at this point."

"On the contrary, has it occurred to you that it might be crucial? We have a woman dead for months, but no one in the missing person registry corresponds to her, and that is extremely unlikely, given that the victim is the mother of a now orphan baby. In all probability we should be able to identify her, but so far, nothing has come up. There is a very real possibility that the reason her disappearance wasn't made official is because her family, the people who would have reported it, have been killed too. A signature on a crime scene, even as stupid as someone calling himself The Sussex Vampire, is very suggestive of a serial killer, or an aspiring one. Who says he is not out there right now, ready to kill again? So, yes, a few minutes can make a difference."

"Oh I am sorry, Sherlock, if I haven't considered those deductions, which would have been difficult since you haven't told me anything!" John replies, lifting his arms in exasperation."I am working nonstop to make you as comfortable and happy as possible, yet you haven't even noticed all the cleaning I've been doing, and the grocery shopping and buying the bloody couch, when you know how much I hate shopping! And all the while you get to be the world's only consulting detective and I'm not even your blogger anymore, I am your housekeeper for Christ’s sake!"

Sherlock's phone buzzes three times in a row in John's pocket, making him jump in surprise. He takes it out and throws in the general direction of the couch. Sherlock manages to catch it despite lying flat on his side, and that little demonstration of agility makes John's skin crawl, as if it's the last drop that makes the glass too full.

Oh god.

Woah. Why is he so worked up about this?

He is ridiculous. There he is, panting harshly, probably red in the face, if the heat he feels is any indication, throwing a temper tantrum about a piece of furniture.

Sherlock, having caught his phone, doesn't look at it, even though the way he flips it in his hand indicate he's dying to do so. He's staring at John, not angry or even irritated. A little surprised, maybe?

"Go ahead," John says, willing himself to calm down. "Solve your case. This is absurd. I was waiting for you to snap from the minute Amy Brown told us about the bed rest...and then it's me who's yelling at you for not saying how great the bloody couch is. Ironic, isn't it? I just gave you a taste of my best stay-at-home boyfriend imitation. Complaining about doing the chores without a thank you, as if I've just accomplished a fucking miracle."
The more he speaks, the more John feels like an idiot. Oh, it's so easy to call Sherlock a drama queen and childish, but he's no better. He snorts. "My god, I need a little action. Sorry, Sherlock. Seriously. I shouldn't have taken your phone. It wasn't my most mature moment."

John walks away in the direction of the kitchen. A tea, that is what he needs, and the supper won't cook itself, Sherlock needs some greens. He doesn't like to take the iron supplements he's been prescribed, so they compensate with food.

"John?"

It takes John a long second before he realises Sherlock has spoken, determined as he is to concentrate on the supper and forget his stupid behaviour.

"What? Do you need anything?" He asks without looking, busy filling the teapot.

"The couch, it's nice. Very... um... cosy...?"

"Cosy?" John laughs, amused at the term. He stretches his head to look at Sherlock. He's sitting, both hands feeling the cushion, his long fingers pressing into the fabric. John's laugh gets louder. He looks like the worst actor in the world selling furniture for a local store.

Sherlock blushes, it's visible from the kitchen. John puts the teapot away and goes back to him. "No, seriously," he snorts, trying stop his giggles. "Thank you, Sherlock. I am glad you like it."

"I really do like it," Sherlock goes on. "It's... the colour is nice and huh... I fit perfectly on it, surely it will be ideal in providing my back good support for all the hours I will spend on it... and the table... The table is..."

At lost for words, Sherlock begins to play with the lever of the adjusting table. "That is a very... hum... ingenious system..."

"Oh my god, stop torturing yourself," John cracks up, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. He sits besides Sherlock and grabs him by the waist, then presses a loud kiss on his cheek. Sherlock seems to debate whether he should be offended or amused.

"So that is the result when I do thank you, being laughed at," he pouts, trying to push John away. At the same time, though, he cannot hide the smile quirking up his lips. John keeps a firm hold around his waist and kisses him again.

"Compliments aren't something that come naturally to you, are they?"

"But I am serious, John! What else can I say about a couch, except that it seems to fill its purpose?"

"I told you to drop it. I know you like it, I noticed the second you threw yourself at it. You always make the same tiny noise when you get comfortable, from the back of your throat. It's not a sigh, or a groan, some kind of cross between the two."

"I do not."

"Oh yes. You do."

Sherlock nods and gives John a sideways look. He's smiling now. "I am only smiling because you are," he specifies. "Smiling is a reaction of the sympathetic system that-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. But I meant what I said. I had no good reason to be upset. You don't have to indulge me, you really can go back to your case."

"Tonight," Sherlock says, almost shyly. "I can give you a quick recap of the latest developments. I didn't think you would want to be part of it."

"Why not?"

"Because you didn't want me to take it in the first place, and after what happened at the crime scene, I figured you might think it was better not to get involved. I had no choice, though. There was an important amount of information I had gathered at the crime scene and had no chance to communicate to Lestrade. I thought all I would do was make sure he had everything and then step out. As if," Sherlock shakes his head with a small sarcastic smile. "Of course, for every piece of information I gave Gerald, he had a dozen follow-up questions, and he kept sending me pictures and new pieces of evidence and facts. I got caught up in it despite my best intentions. It is baffling to think the Yard does solve some crimes correctly from time to time. Their incompetence is egregious."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, having forgotten to do so, once again, while he was speaking. It triggers a light cough that doesn't last long. John is satisfied by the sound of it. No trace of accumulated mucosity. It seems Sherlock's cold is almost cured.

"You are getting better," he says, bending toward Sherlock so that he can kiss him properly this time, on the mouth.

Sherlock hums in contentment. "I am."

"Listen, I'm glad you are working the case with Lestrade, it keeps your mind busy. And yes, I would like to be part of it, if it's ok with you. It seems I need some distraction too. Spent too many hours with Mrs. Hudson discussing of the best way to get rid of ketchup stains."

Sherlock laughs at that. His mobile buzzes once more, and John sees in his eyes how eager he is to get back to it.

"I told you it's ok. Come on, answer. Lestrade is waiting. I'm going to get some sheets and pillows so you can settle on the couch more comfortably."

Sherlock slides his mobile screen open, his eyes as bright as those of a kid on Christmas morning. He spends the rest of the afternoon texting Lestrade and researching a huge botanical encyclopaedia, complains he needs to think when it's time to eat, and barely acknowledges John during their shared meal, busy following the different deduction trails into his head. John isn't offended in the least. It's been a while since he’s seen Sherlock acting so... Sherlocky. He missed it.

::: :::

They spend a nice evening. Sherlock has revealed the new facts about the case, and complained about how frustrating it is for him to rely to second hand information. The medical examiner who's in charge of the autopsy hasn't been able to find traces of violence in the body, but given it deterioration, it isn't really surprising. What has him elevate the case to a "solid eight" is the examiner's supposition that the woman might have been poisoned. He came to that conclusion after examining a few hairs under the microscope, noting a change in their molecular structure that can place the moment the poisoning has occurred. That characteristic is often observed in people who have been poisoned with arsenic over a long period of time, but isn't exclusive to that specific substance.

Sherlock has gotten Lestrade's permission to have access to tissue and hair sample from the body. His plan is to ask Molly for her collaboration, when the samples will be available. She can work in their kitchen under Sherlock's supervision. John agrees. He finds Sherlock especially creative and compliant, determined to follow the recommendations of their doctor and not to let boredom eat at him. Solving a case without getting out of the flat is not anything new, but solving an eight...it's another story entirely. If anyone can succeed, though, it is Sherlock. It would be an interesting blog to write.

They go to bed early these days. They took up the habit in Sussex, while John was recovering, and kept up with it. Around ten, John gets ready to turn in. Sherlock is already in bed, after an hour spent in the bath. The hot water helps get his blood circulation going, which is good, given he doesn't move much through the day.

John slides under the blankets, turning on his side to wrap an arm around Sherlock's belly. Sherlock sighs, blinking, as if he's just realised he's not alone in bed anymore.

"It is extremely difficult to think tonight," Sherlock admits after a minute.

"Why is it?"

"Our daughter is very active."

Automatically, John stretches an arm to feel it for himself, but Sherlock grabs his wrist and gives him a severe look, murmuring between clenched teeth : "Don't you dare, she has just calmed down. If you wake her up, I swear to god, John... Why are you smiling?"

"You sound so much like a dad..."

Sherlock let go of his arm, giving him an uncertain look. "You think so?"

"Hun-huh."

"And... it is good, right?"

"Of course it's good, you silly sod," John assures him, taking in the charming, shy smile Sherlock gives him.

He cannot help himself. Still on his side, he raises himself on one elbow and begins sliding his leg over Sherlock's, aiming for a heated kiss.

"Wait," Sherlock hisses, his face contorting in pain.

He pushes back John's leg and takes a long, careful breath.

"What is it? Are the contractions back?"

"No, don't worry," Sherlock replies quickly, and John realises he has switched on full-panic mode instantly. "It is nothing of the sort."

"But you were in pain."

"Because your leg was pressing on my..." Sherlock makes a pause and clears his throat.

"On your what?"

"On my testicles," Sherlock says quickly, avoiding John's look. "You told me yourself the swelling was normal at this stage," he adds.

"Yes, it is, but the pain? Not so much. Let me have a look."

Sherlock sighs but nods, turning the bedside lamp on while John lowers the sheet. Sherlock gets rid of his pants, parts his legs and tenses all over when John's hand gets close.

"Ah, hum...ok. Maybe it would be easier if you would show me, yourself?"

It's hilarious, how they are both way out of their depth when they have touched and tasted each other in the most intimate way. Context is everything.

Sherlock pulls his penis to the side; John examines his swollen sac, finding it has worsened since the last time he checked. The skin also seems tighter.

"Do they feel heavier?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Ok," John sits up, relieved. He knows what is going on. "Sherlock, it's been a while since we’ve done anything, hasn't it?"

"If you mean sex, yes. Sixteen days."

"Sixteen... seriously?"

"What is wrong with it?" Sherlock snaps, grabbing the sheets to cover himself while he pushes John away with one foot.

"Nothing, relax. I just didn't realise."

Sherlock's defensive tone isn't hard to explain. His libido has been quite low since he's hit his sixth month. John thinks it is a mix of annoyance regarding his new-found clumsiness and hormonal fluctuation. If it is a proven fact that pregnant people in their second trimester often experience a raise of their sexual desire, it can also have the opposite effect. John has learned to let Sherlock initiate sex when he feels like it, because he has trouble refusing John, worrying about "not being enough" despite John's constant reassurance. He hasn't made a big deal out of it, because it isn't a big deal. If John gets too horny, he has a wank in the shower, end of the story.

"You know," Sherlock goes on in a cold voice, "not everyone needs to prove something by fornicating as often as possible. I am confident enough in my-"

"Hey, Sherlock? Don't do that, please. You know I don't care how often or not we fuck."

Sherlock seems shocked by the crude word, one he still uses very rarely. It does have the effect of silencing him before he insults John for real, defence mechanism Sherlock-style.

"I know," he finally whispers. "I'm sorry."

"The pain you feel, it's because you haven't ejaculated in a while," John explains. "That is the only reason I was asking. Normally, it is not a problem, but with the swelling already present and the pressure of the baby on your internal organs, it's another matter entirely."

"And...?" Sherlock asks, suspicious.

Yes, there is an "and".

"Well, two things could happen. One, your body will take care of it by itself, while you sleep, reminding you of the awkward wet dreams of your teenager self."

Sherlock scrunches his nose. "Oh, joy."

"Two, we take the matter in hand. I would suggest the latter, and not, as you might think, because I'm sexually frustrated, but because it can take a while before your body decides to act on it. It doesn't even have to be about me, as long as you ejaculate."

Sherlock's cheeks are now bright red. He casts John a quick, uneasy look. "There is no reason for you to be excluded, John. I am not less interested or physically attracted to you. I just have more trouble getting sexually aroused. Some pregnancy studies suggest-"

"Hey," John shushes him by kissing him on the mouth, "you don’t have to make excuses. I know what the studies say. Your behaviour is completely normal. And even if there were no studies, you have the right to refuse sex whenever you do not feel like it, understood?"

Sherlock nods. "John?"

"Yes?"

"We cannot...not after what happened. What if this triggers new contractions? "

"Well, Amy recommended we do not huh... practice penetration -on your part of course, but she assured me anything else was safe as long as the physical exertion isn't exaggerated. And, you know, even penetration is, theoretically, inoffensive, but she preferred to stay on the safe side."

"When did you speak of this?" Sherlock asks, grimacing.

"Right before we left. Oh my god Sherlock, stop crossing your eyes at me, since when have you become a prude?"

It takes Sherlock a few seconds to think it through. "I cannot say. I cannot even pin point the moment it happened, but I suppose it comes with the pregnancy and the... uneasiness I feel toward my own body. You are right. I am acting like a prude. It's just..."

"What is it?" John asks, kissing the side of Sherlock's face.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

John sucks a quick bruise on his upper chest. Sherlock squirms.

"Yes, I am."
John grabs a nipple between his teeth. Sherlock hisses. He doesn't push him away, though. Encouraged, John pinches the other between his index finger and thumb, marvelling at the heat he feels, and how different their texture is now that Sherlock is so advanced in his pregnancy.

"Is this alright?" he murmurs, releasing the nipple trapped between his teeth and blowing on it.

Sherlock gasps. A slight shiver makes him shake, ending on a quiet, sexy moan.

"What if I cannot reach completion?" He whispers, closing his eyes. "Because I do trust you, John, but the fear of hurting her refuses to disappear completely."

Despite what he states, Sherlock's cock is getting pink and plumped, arousal has already changed his breathing.

"We'll stop," John reassures him in a soft voice. "If you want me to stop at any time, you just say the word."

It seems to be exactly what Sherlock needs to hear. John keeps working on his nipples, feeling him relax, even though he tenses back almost immediately, but this time, it is clear it's from arousal. And when Sherlock's hands grip the sheets, John knows he's got him. He's already well settled between Sherlock's parted legs. He bends over him, arms on each side of his face, very careful not to touch his swollen sac by accident. It's getting harder to hold this position, though, with Sherlock's belly in the way. In the same time, it is incredibly erotic, for John, to feel it pressed against himself, catching the tip of his erect cock. The intense sensation makes him conscious of his own arousal, and the amazing ball of heat growing in his belly

He kisses Sherlock again, longer, using his tongue to explore the inside of his mouth, soft prods and licks that always get Sherlock worked up and moaning. That he does, before breaking the kiss softly, a flicker of regret in his eyes dark with desire.

"Still can’t breathe properly through my nose," he whispers. "Sorry."

There is still a hint of hesitance in his expression. John waits patiently. Sure enough, Sherlock stares back for a long second before sighing in exasperation.

"I have changed a lot, John," he admits, looking sideways.

Oh, John knows where this is going, and is quick to put a stop to it. "You are as desirable as you were before you got pregnant, love. In a different way, but trust me, I am not faking it, not one bit."

John rubs his very erect penis on the side of Sherlock's pelvis, and is glad to see him smile.

"I want to make you feel good, Sherlock. I want to take your pain away, too. Let me..."

God, it feels amazing. Sherlock is amazing, his body so responsive despite his hesitation. John wants to make him forget about the pregnancy scare, and his body escaping his control, and all the fears he tries to keep hidden.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

John shifts his weight on his right arm so that he can use his other hand to tease Sherlock's nipple, smiling at the way his eyes practically roll back. He lifts his hips, not much, but three times in a row, and lets out another moan.

"I...mmm... it... it feels so good," Sherlock admits, voice broken and unsure. "John," he says louder, putting his hands on John's hips.

"Mmmm?" John is busy sucking a bruise on the delicate creamy skin of Sherlock's neck.

"Please, no teasing. You can do anything but do not tease me. I feel... the pain is still there, just hidden behind the pleasure, and I fear it could take over if we are at it for too long."

"Understood."

John makes up his mind and sits back between Sherlock's legs, ignoring his groan of protest. He shuts up and gasps in surprise when John takes his cock between his fingers, lifting it away from his testicles. Sherlock hums under his breath and his already erect cock hardens more under John's touch.

John watches in fascination, feeling the swelling progressing, tightening the delicate, sensitive skin. It's an amazing sensation, an empowering one. Sherlock's cock is so fucking pretty. While John's cock, when erected, takes an angry red tint, becoming almost purple if they make it last, Sherlock's one is a lovely shade of pink that turns barely a shade darker, cherry red, when he's been leaking for a few minutes. But enough, John's mouth waters, and he gets down to business.

John wets his lips and brings his mouth to Sherlock's cock. He licks the light pink head, tracing the mushroom-shape contours and then tickling the slit, which immediately releases several drops of precome.

"It this alright?" He asks, although he already knows the answer. Sherlock has lifted himself on his elbows to look, tilting his head so that his belly isn't in the way. John had discovered, early on, that giving him head is the quickest way to get him to come.

"My penis does not hurt," Sherlock says, already panting, "but it is more sensitive than usual. Please do not apply too much pressure."

John nods, smiling. He opens his mouth and bends his head slowly, watching how Sherlock's eyes widen. He licks his mouth in anticipation. It's incredibly erotic. No teasing, John remembers, then swallows Sherlock to the root, which is rewarded by a loud, high-pitched moan. As John begins a pumping movement, dragging his lips up and down the shaft, Sherlock parts his legs farter and bends them closer to his body. His thighs are tense and trembling already.

"Oh, John," he rasps. "It has been too long, oh, oh god, I love this s-s-so much, it's... yesss... Your tongue, please, use your tongue..."

John complies, giving special attention to the slit, which has Sherlock uttering "god damn it, John," his voice tense and high-pitched, the same way someone who's just hurt himself curses but tries to keep it down. It goes straight to John's painfully hard cock, Sherlock cursing, even something as gentle as this, because it means Sherlock is definitely not in control anymore. Probably doesn't even try to. With a renewed enthusiasm, John swallows around Sherlock's cock, humming deep in his throat to add the vibrations to the pleasurable sensations.

"John, I'm-" Sherlock chokes, his hips snapping forward. He downright shouts, then, loud and unabashed, the cry ending on a long, trembling moan. His sperm fills John's mouth, and he barely manages to swallow it all. It is a huge amount, almost twice as usual, coating his mouth in five powerful spurts.

Short of breath, a bit dizzy from arousal and lack of oxygen, John lets Sherlock's cock slip out of his mouth as soon as it begins to soften

Sherlock has another hip snap that ends in a shiver, and he turns on his side, curling in on himself, his eyes closed and lips trembling.

"Hey..." John moves to his side and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You ok, darling?"

"I... Yes, give me a minute. It was... incredibly intense..."

John waits. His own cock pulses in agreement.

It is not long before Sherlock blinks at John, and his pout shifts into a lazy smile. "Thank you."

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock frowns. "Strange, but good, as exhausted as if I just ran a marathon, and very, very sensitive... in the genital area. It hurts a little, but I am guessing it is a result of the intensity of the orgasm."

John smiles at the elaborate answer. He licks his lips, tasting Sherlock on them, which has his neglected cock twitching desperately. He thinks about asking, maybe just his hand, just to feel him close. Nevertheless, watching Sherlock relaxed, his body settled, immobile as if he's a rag doll, he decides to keep silent. Sherlock needs his sleep, first and foremost.

And I'm a freaking saint, John thinks, rearranging himself to relieve some of the pressure.

Sherlock blinks once again at him, but it seems he can barely keep his eyes open. "Oh," he whispers slowly. “Give me a couple of minutes to get myself together and I would very much like to reciprocate."

"You don't have to."

"But... I want to..." Sherlock protests, hiccupping a long, satisfied sigh.

"Right. And now you're asleep," John murmurs.

Sherlock frowns, opens his mouth as if to protest, but loses the fight. His breathing is already deepening.

John waits, a bit frustrated but mostly just glad Sherlock could overcome his worries to allow himself the release he needed.

When he gets out of bed, in need of a second shower to satisfy his unfaltering need to come, Sherlock doesn't even stir.

He sleeps eight hours in a row that night, which must be some kind of personal record.

Yes, the first three days of Sherlock's strict bed rest have John thinking it might just go on like that. Maybe he had been over-thinking it.

But then again, maybe not, is what he thinks the next evening.

Definitely not.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

It is easy to call Sherlock a child, given his impulsiveness, lack of manners, ignorance of most social codes and temper tantrums, which are impressive as they are usually due to a seemingly insignificant reason. If John is persuaded a certain level of emotional immaturity can be held accountable, he knows Sherlock too well to limit his perception to that. It would be a mistake to forget that he has a genius brain, a brilliant mind capable of accomplishments most people can only dream of. Therefore, John is always irritated with people who refer to Sherlock as a child, but he isn't above acting accordingly when necessary. The only difference is that he never allows himself to forget it is only one side of an incredibly complex shape.

Which is why, when Sherlock loses his main distraction while on strict rest, John elaborates a plan to prevent him from falling into his usual vicious circle of boredom and melancholy. It is a strategy very similar to what you do when you have to take a kid on a long road trip, or get him to keep calm at church, with a different activity planned for each waking hour and an emergency plan in case everything else fails (Sex. The emergency plan here is sex.) All of this without forgetting Sherlock is everything but a child.

::: :::

John's hope that the Sussex Vampire case would give Sherlock enough investigation material for two weeks dies down after Molly leaves the flat just before supper on the fourth day of Sherlock's confinement. She had spent several hours working with Sherlock on identifying the toxic substance found on the body, without success. Sherlock sends her back to Bart's lab with a whole spreadsheet of more in-depth tests to try on the specimen, some of which involving a chromatograph and a two-week waiting period. One of Sherlock's unfinished thesis (amongst more than twenty different ones) does specialise in the chemistry of rare toxins and their use in non-traditional medicine, so it is no surprise to have him speak of complicated methods of analysis even Molly had never heard of before.

Sherlock falls into a sulk as soon as the door closes behind the young woman, and it takes John bringing an offering of sweet milky tea and caramel biscuits (to help him wait until supper. Yes, Sherlock Holmes now enjoys multiple snacks throughout the day. John himself has trouble believing it.) for Sherlock to explain the reason of his frustration.

The problem, apparently, isn't that they haven't had an immediate answer to the nature of the mysterious substance, but that it was the only lead left Sherlock could do something about. His disappointment comes mostly from his inability to work the case like he usually does, and having to rely on other people's work to make his deductions. Not being able to go back to the crime scene, to explore all the possibilities it surely offers that haven't been picked up by the others is especially hard on him, because it's been months since he's stumbled upon a case as bizarre and "entertaining." An eight is a rarity, and Sherlock has to wait for the results of different procedures, like the complete examination of the severely decomposed body, the composition of dirt samples he's asked Lestrade to gather on different surfaces at the crime scene, and more importantly the identification of the victim. Photos and written descriptions aren't the same as him, Sherlock Holmes (his words), observing it with his own eyes. "I have missed a lot of clues, that is a certainty," he complains. "And now I have no lead to pursue."

John is sceptical. On the first suggestion he makes, though, Sherlock snaps at him. "John, I have no use of your senseless theories, though they usually provide me with a direction I immediately know not to take."

John doesn't even try to hide his irritation. It has been a while since Sherlock had enjoyed dismissing his own very average intelligence. As it turns out, it still stings a little.

"Oh please, I am only stating a fact, do not take it personally. You do know I appreciate your small contributions," Sherlock huffs, dismissing John's vexation with a vague hand gesture. "If you do listen to me from time to time, you know what the problem is here. My imagination is my worst enemy when I work. Now we have a case with an impressive number of variables, and therefore just as many possible solutions; or, more accurately, as many paths to take toward those solutions. I cannot allow myself to try solving it at this point, because too many facts remain unknown, and whatever path I choose to take, it will be by making suppositions, which are of no use, really. What's worse is that when I'll have finally gathered enough clues to go on, my brain will try to make them fit the solution I imagined, therefore distorting my logical process. It was a serious enabler when I first began solving simple problems as a child, and it took me quite some time to understand how to shut it down."

"So," John asks, neutral and patient, because Sherlock doesn't need to work himself up any more. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief. "Have you heard a single word I have just said? I can't. Do. Anything. Except wait for the information I need. I have to stop thinking about the case to be certain not to let my imagination roam free, which is proven difficult in the best situation, let alone when I'm restricted to immobility for ten more days."

Then John's carefully crafted plan comes into action. He begins by going through Sherlock's emails with him to be sure they haven't dismissed an interesting case by mistake (as if I would, Sherlock mumbles disdainfully), which occupies Sherlock for a whole hour. John then pays a short visit to Greg at Scotland Yard, looking for something that might be of interest to Sherlock. There is nothing new.

"Are you sure you have nothing for me?"

"Come on, John. Sherlock already has copies of the majority of our cold cases, some dating back to the sixties. I can't commit a murder just so he isn't bored. I would, you know. Just found out my dentist has charged me seven hundred and fifty quid more than necessary for my daughter's braces. Bloody bandit. What is he thinking? He knows I'm a freaking police inspector, and he still tries to con me as if..."

It takes John half an hour before he can excuse himself with empty hands. He should invite Greg to share a pint at the club. He seems lonely.

He's apologetic when he arrives, and Sherlock looks kind of sheepish. He brandishes John's new Sudoku book he had bought a few days earlier and shrugs.

"I just wanted to do one. Sincerely John, I cannot understand how you can spend hours-"

He shuts up when John grabs the book and shuffles through the pages. He finds all forty problems solved in Sherlock's nervous handwriting.

It's a little bit scary. And a sign John's plan was a necessity.

In the following days, he tries his best to occupy Sherlock from the moment he wakes up until they go to bed. He suggests they go over some of the cold cases, which Sherlock accepts, and in return agrees to give his opinion on some of them. "I already know them practically by heart. Maybe a new perspective... "Sherlock says with a crooked smile.

"Yeah, right. You just want to make fun of me."

Sherlock gives him wide, innocent eyes. "I would never."

John isn't duped, but he's also on a mission. It is still hard not to call Sherlock out on his bullshit when he adds, still smiling. "Oh, and John. Remember. It's never twins."

They alternate between the cold cases and watching telly, playing board games - even Cluedo makes a come-back – and generally chatting. John has discovered that, if Sherlock is in good spirits, and John seems sincerely interested, he can speak of a subject he's passionate about for more hours, as if his knowledge really is endless. He does have a certain talent for telling tales, when he drops his usual condescending attitude he adopts when he needs to teach others. Who can blame him, really, given that it happens mostly with police officers, ready to doubt him from the start.

It lasts four days. John knows Sherlock is well aware of what he is doing, and tries his best to play along. Still, it shows, as the days go by, how his forced immobility is getting to him. His smile wears off, he gets lost in his head for long periods, eats without his newfound enthusiasm, sleeps less soundly. It does not help that his back is constantly sore from lying down the best part of twenty-four hours. Also, his pregnancy is advanced enough that he begins to suffer from a number of uncomfortable symptoms, like gastric reflux and leg cramps, amongst other things.

John is still impressed. He himself feels like he's about to go crazy, being locked up in the flat. At least, he has the chance to escape when there is some shopping to do; more specifically, he can move. He's waiting for Sherlock to finally snap at him, to tell him to get lost with his stupid distractions, and yell loud enough for the whole population of Baker Street to be able to hear about how he's bored to death, and his brain is well in the process of rotting from lack of stimulation. John couldn't even be mad at him for doing so.

As it turns out, things don't reach the point of no return. On the tenth day of Sherlock's convalescence, he has a nightmare.

::: ::

It's not been an easy day. The temperature outside reaches thirty-five Celsius degrees and it's so humid, the air feels heavy and almost solid when you breathe. Sherlock wakes up covered in sweat, with a headache that has him dizzy enough that John doesn't let him walk by his own. He throws up the buttered toast he managed to eat for breakfast. His legs are swollen, his ankles barely noticeable anymore. Usually, a cold foot bath helps a lot -Sherlock is not prone to water retention, which, according to their doctor, he should be thankful for. It really can make the last couple of months of a pregnancy completely miserable.

That morning, though, the bath doesn't do shit. Sherlock, apathetic and silent, spends hours on the couch, barely moving, his feet propped up on a cushion to improve his circulation and help with the swelling. They do not have air conditioning, but a few fans. John installs them all around Sherlock and makes sure the facecloth he’s put on his forehead, with the vague hope it can reduce the intensity of the headache, is changed regularly to remain cold.

It's a miserable sight, Sherlock wincing against the pain, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and still sweating all over despite the four fans. He expresses the wish to sleep it off, but Sherlock's sleep hasn't miraculously improved to the point he can nap on command, and he doesn't manage to have more than a vague tiring sensation.

It's close to noon when John suddenly remembers that Mrs Hudson owns one of those portable air conditioners. If she hasn't gotten rid of it. She'd complained enough about the "ridiculous gift" his niece offered her for Easter. "Doesn't she know we old people are constantly cold? It's something to do with our body not being able to retain heat like it used to. It's a thing, right, John?"

Yes, it was simplified but definitely a "thing."

"What a waste of money, those things aren't cheap, and besides, I'll be damned if we get more than a a dozen days during the summer where using air conditioning is actually useful,”

"Well, your niece's I.Q. is only a few points away from her being considered mentally challenged, it is no surprise," Sherlock had declared.

The kick John had given him under the table had left a small bruise. Mrs. Hudson had let him know she was allowed to criticise people in her own family, which Sherlock wasn't part of, and that "Gertrude has an artistic temperament, that is all."

It had been awkward enough for the air conditioner to be forgotten, especially when Sherlock had asked John: "Isn't mentally challenged the politically correct term for simpletons?" In complete innocence...

John finds Mrs Hudson getting ready to go out, as the workers are finishing Sherlock's laboratory today, and she doesn't want to be in the way. It takes some time to find the air conditioner, but when they do, Mrs. Hudson offers it to them. She's been careful to limit her visits lately, even though John and Sherlock haven't said anything. It seems she understands how this particular period of their lives belongs only to them. "You boys are nesting," she had said. At the same time, John knows they can count on her whenever they need her, and he is glad the woman in her eighties will have the chance to meet their daughter and be a grandmother to her, since she had never had children of her own.

The air conditioner works well enough for Sherlock to be able to sleep in the afternoon. The headache is not going away and Sherlock can only take paracetamol as medicine, not only because he is pregnant, but because it is better, he tells John, to keep him away from painkillers, even in light dosages. You never know, with an ex addict. John does the next best thing. He prepares their dark bedroom with the heavy curtains closed, in which the air conditioner has worked for half an hour already, providing Sherlock with an ideal temperature when he comes to lie down. He's compliant and docile like John has rarely seen him. Sherlock is good at dealing with the pain, but not to the point where he can make it disappear by the sheer power of his mind. And now, it is evident he is suffering.

John settles next to him and has Sherlock's head propped up on a pillow so that he can give him a massage with menthol paste. It often works, and when it does not make a headache disappear completely, it can tone it down enough to allow the person to rest.

Sherlock, who is a total sucker for having his hair played with, seems to immediately feel some relief. John works his scalp with slow movements and a medium pressure. Soon the room is filled with the smell of mint and Sherlock's groans of relief. It takes ten minutes to put him to sleep. Just before he lets go, he smiles at John with the same expression he had that time he was given anxiety medication. "Thank you," he slurs, and closes his eyes.

::: :::

Even before they became a couple, Sherlock had had to deal with John's nightmares, those particular ones reminiscent of his days in Afghanistan. He's learned that an ex-soldier dreaming he's in the middle of cross fire is better left alone, if you want to avoid getting punched in the face. John knows he's sometimes shouting loud enough to wake Mrs Hudson, and that he fights, physically, to free himself. He was embarrassed the first time it happened, but Sherlock had been quick to dismiss it, stating matter-of-factly the high frequency of those post-war dreams amongst soldiers.

John had only been aware of Sherlock's own nightmares when they began sharing a bed together. They are very rare, if Sherlock is being honest about them, and more often than not happen when he sleeps from exhaustion after a case, and it is only because John is programmed to wake up when he feels Sherlock doing the same that he knows it. Sherlock mumbles and groans during his nightmares; most of the time, though, the rest of his body, although bearing a certain tension, remain immobile. Whether it’s John waking him up or Sherlock doing it by himself, the only clue he wasn't having a pleasant dream is the silent gasp he lets out and the way his eyes snap wide open. He never tells John what he was dreaming about, and John, who does the same, cannot blame him.

Nightmares aren't the only particularity of Sherlock's sleeping patterns when he lets his body rest out of exhaustion. He will often talk in his sleep. John once had a whole conversation with him, about, of all things, where the best place is in London to buy chips from a food van. It is so funny, and also a little adorable, Sherlock's voice slow and lisping when he does it. Also, it is a guilty pleasure of John’s to tell him about it the next morning, because Sherlock never remembers. He'll get red in the face and always look for a logical explanation as to why his subconscious has latched onto the given matter.

::: :::

"No no no no no! NO! You are doing it wrong, you deplorable moron!"

John wakes up in a jolt, ready to intervene. Sherlock has the particular tone he uses when snapping at someone. It's not only filled with anger but so deep it is practically rumbling - Sherlock knows how to use his baritone voice to his advantage. It's usually the moment when John tries to calm things down before he has to deal with a police intern crying his eyes out or Sherlock deciding the whole New Scotland Yard needs to be reminded how incompetent they are.

John rubs at his face, coming to his senses, and realising, as the last remnant of sleep clears from his mind, that he's in bed, not on a crime scene. The room is freezing. He wraps himself tighter in his blanket as he sits up to see what Sherlock is up to and who is being yelled at. He must have woken up and taken a call. It's the only explanation making sense...

...What in the hell? Sherlock is still in bed, lying down next to him, and still asleep, apparently. He fights with his sheets, groaning, and sweating profusely despite the temperature. By the strange motions of his arms, he seems to be trying to get something, or someone, away from his belly. He arches his back and lets out a dry sob.

"Give it back! I will do it myself!” He shouts desperately, although there is still a hint of anger in his voice. "Where is John!? I want John!"

That is what gets John out of his stupefaction. He grabs Sherlock's elbow and shakes it none too gently, saying his name, then repeating it louder each time when he doesn't react. It takes five for Sherlock to freeze on the spot and gasp. His confused eyes open wide and he stares at John, a cry dying on his dry lips.

"Hey, you were having a nightmare. A very unpleasant one," John explains slowly. "Are you back? Sherlock, you ok?"

Sherlock blinks nervously and swallows several times before nodding. He tries to sit up. John catches him just before he collapses back on the mattress and helps him steady himself. Sherlock rubs at his face, groaning. "I'm awfully cold," he croaks.

Of course. John goes to shut the air conditioner, and grabs another blanket from the closet. The sound of heavy rain rings in his ears, and there are two incredibly loud thunderclaps before he comes back to bed.

Sherlock wraps himself in the blanket and has a tiny smile. "Ah. Rain. Finally."

"How is your head?"

Sherlock tilts his head, frowning. "The pain is almost gone. There is only a vague tightening sensation around my head. Good."

"Yes, it is."

Sherlock knows John wants to ask about the dream. It is clear he tries to buy a little time, first asking for a glass of water, than to dress in his pajamas -he doesn't like to be exposed at this stage of his pregnancy, and has spent most of the day in pants. It's ten minutes before John settles back in bed next to him.

"Your nightmare, Sherlock... It's the first time I’ve seen you reacting... physically that way. Was it that terrible?"

"Oh, look at the time; we've slept for almost three hours," Sherlock answers, looking down at his mobile. The way he fidgets with it is so exaggerated and false that John wonders how he can get away with impersonating people, and lying without blinking, while on a case.

"Yes, that's extraordinary," John says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "What's wrong, why you don't want to tell me?"

Sherlock casts him a quick, embarrassed look. "I fear you might laugh at me until you choke."

"I would never do that."

Sherlock's expression switches from abashed to incredulous. "Well, this might be the exception to the rule. I dreamed..." He has a long, exaggeratedly dramatic sigh, then seems too make a decision, shoulders hunched down in a theatrical pose of defeat. "It started with a nurse rolling me into an operation room like there was some sort of emergency. Apparently, the natural birth we are going for had revealed itself impossible to achieve at the last moment. Then I suddenly found myself being surrounded by machines and medical staff, on the surgery table, because I need a caesarean section.

"Ok."

"And..." Sherlock shakes his head and curses under his breath. "The surgeon finally came in. I could tell he was familiar under the mask, and... God... Ok. It was Mycroft."

"Oh."

John tries, he really, really does, biting the inside of his cheeks, thinking of dreadful things like dead kittens and such, but he cannot hold back the bubbling hysterical laugh stuck in his throat. Sherlock doesn't even seem surprised. He watches him laugh until tears are sliding down his cheeks with a stern look. John apologises between hysterical hiccups, and for good measure, slides an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He tenses but doesn't push him away.

"You can laugh all you want, you weren't even in the dream," Sherlock protests. "Where the hell were you, you are a bloody doctor!"

John shakes his head, unable to speak.

"Of course," Sherlock goes on, "Mycroft hadn't the slightest idea as to how to perform a caesarean section. I could see everything, and I was trying to take the scalpel and pliers out of his stupid hands, but he kept repeating that he was the smartest like a broken record... Oh, god, what a ridiculous, completely ludicrous dream, and it is far from the only one I've had recently."

"You know it is normal, to have peculiar dreams during a pregnancy," John tells him, rubbing his shoulder affectionately.

"I know! Good god, what a strange predicament being pregnant is," Sherlock pouts, but lies back into John's embrace, his head on his shoulders. They are both in a semi-sitting position now. Sherlock's body is pleasantly warm against John's.

"I am sorry, love. We're approaching the end, though, and I think you've been amazing."

Sherlock looks up, disdain quirking his lips down. "You always have the most stupidly romantic answers."

"Yes."

"It's easy to call me amazing when you aren't the one constantly plagued by many irrational fears that express themselves in the form of vivid, absurd dreams. Three times I dreamed I was giving birth to puppies instead of a baby. Three, John!"

John is giggling again, and when Sherlock pouts, he rocks him into his arms to calm him down. The intimacy between them right now is delightful. It is as if a barrier always present between them when it comes to Sherlock's pregnancy has suddenly disappeared. Thanks to a vivid nightmare including Mycroft. John is hit with another fit of laughter and, after a while, Sherlock joins him, his rumbling, wonderful baritone laugh resonating in the room.

They calm down when another deafening thunderclap buries their laughter. Sherlock turns on his side, with John's help, so he can shove his head in the crook of his neck. His belly is pressing on the side of John's body, just how he likes. He wraps an arm around Sherlock's thickened waist, caressing him in a slow, lazy motion.

"How is it," Sherlock murmurs after a few comfortable silent minutes. "How is it that despite having a brain so much more capable than most people, I am unable to control my fears regarding the birth?"

And here they are. John had been careful, over the course of the past ten days, not to mention the matters Sherlock had complained about to Amy Brown. He wanted to give him a chance to do it voluntarily, and maybe being on strict bed rest wouldn't be the best moment to do so anyway.

John is glad, though, that Sherlock seems to be ready to take the matter into his own hands. And before he can find a proper answer, Sherlock goes on. "I'm... I'm scared of dying! I never was before. My own finality is inescapable, so why bother being scared of something inevitable. Now I... not only do I fear death, but pain. Pain is something I usually manage quite well, why on earth is it so often part of my dreams, a pain that is more of the kind of an ordeal. It paralyses me and renders me unable to... to give birth to our daughter properly."

Sherlock swallows, his breath hitching. John holds him tighter. "It never leaves my thoughts, even though I try so hard to occupy my mind otherwise. A part of my mind seems to have decided it was a good idea to dedicate itself to my fears, and the worst scenarios I can imagine swirl around one after the other. There are so many things that can go wrong when a child is born, for the child as well as the father, and so many illnesses and birth defects that cannot be diagnosed in the womb. It is driving me crazy, John. I am used to managing my thoughts like a rider does a carriage driven by a wild horse, with firmness and a great amount of willpower. My brain is so incredibly fast that if I do not hold the reins firmly, my thoughts escape to many different directions and it gets impossible to function."

"Never gives you an instant of respite, that brilliant mind of yours," John says quietly, trying to imagine how it must feel. When he has a busy shift at the surgery, he feels so damn tired coming back home, mentally tired, as if he's given his brain too many things to work on. That mental tiredness times a hundred, or even a thousand, is it close to what Sherlock experiences on a daily basis?"

"Never did," Sherlock agrees, lifting his head to look at John. "Now it feels a lot like I have lost the reins, at least partially. My emotions and my fears refuse to be put to their place by logic. And I do not know how to control them."

"I am sorry, love. I wish I could help." John kisses Sherlock's forehead. He shrugs as if he does not expect that anyone can help. His eyes are getting wider, their blue colour more aqua than grey, as they get each time they are filled with tears.

"What is it about dying and suffering that has changed?" John asks, eager to keep him talking. It surely does him some good to get it out, and it might hold back a crying fit that could easily shift into a panic attack.

Sherlock frowns, concentrating. John's question seems to baffle him. "I... cannot give you a satisfying answer. It started when we had our first discussion about the birth with Amy, and choose a natural labour and delivery."

John nods. A common complication of carrier's pregnancies is the width of the pelvis, which often doesn't enlarge enough to allow the baby to pass through the birth canal. A birth canal sonogram is usually done after the six month mark to evaluate the exact broadness of the passage. It is then compared to an evaluation of the baby's weight. That is how, when there is even the shadow of a doubt, a scheduled c-section is planned. More than fifty percent of all carriers’ deliveries are done by c-section. Sherlock is one of the lucky ones whose birth canal doesn't pose a problem for a natural birth, but Amy Brown had still given them a choice. It hadn't been a tough decision. Sherlock had gone into a monologue citing studies and statistics proving a natural birth was preferable and held less risks. No need to speak of it any further, he had added, but John had seen how pale his face had turned.

"You can still change your mind, you know," he says cautiously. "No one will judge you if you-"

"I will judge myself," Sherlock cuts him off harshly. "We need to do what is best for our daughter; there is no other option for me."

"So it all boils down to this, your fear of dying and suffering, of something going wrong, of complications. It is all about the birth and the baby."

"Well..." Sherlock gives John an offended look. "It is much more complex than-"

"I don't think so, Sherlock. I think it really is that simple."

Sherlock tries to sit up abruptly, which he cannot do anymore. After the third attempt, he settles to turn his back to John, curling on his side and pushing him back when he tries to touch him.

Very well.

John sits up and bends forward to watch Sherlock's pouting face; he wants to be certain he will listen.

"You are angry because you think I am... I don't know... reducing the importance of what you are going through, but just hear me out, alright?"

Sherlock keeps his eyes shut tight.

"Sherlock..."

After a few seconds, Sherlock finally nods, almost imperceptibly but still.

"Alright. All I'm saying is that what you are going through, most pregnant people experience it as well. Of course you're scared of something going wrong, of being in pain. A labour is something huge, there is no human experience quite like it, and it's something you've never done before. As for your fear of dying -well, fearing death isn't a simple black and white matter. Right? I mean... You are part of a family now; of course your perspective is changing. You want to be there for your daughter. It's the most natural thing in the world."

Sherlock's eyes open. His expression changes from frustration to cautious interest. "Go on," he says.

John gives himself a mental pat on the back.

"Well, you think you should be above all of this, because you are a genius - I am not making fun of you, please bear with me."

"Of course I should be above all this," Sherlock mumbles. "I am a genius."

John holds back a smile, just in case Sherlock decides to look at him. "Right. You have all that knowledge stored into that giant brain of yours -everything that has been said and published about carrier's pregnancy, labour and delivery. I'm sure that at this point, you could beat the world's number one expert on a quiz show."

"It does sounds like you are making fun of me after all," Sherlock protests, turning on his back.

"No I am not. I guess, with the brain you have and all the knowledge you've stored into it, the normal fears everyone else in your state experiences are multiplied by a hundred, because you do know about every single problem that could happen -you've made it worse by becoming an expert. You cannot ignore the gigantic amount of facts you've fed your brain, and it only serves to feed your fears at this point. Sherlock, you said yourself your brain needs to be held firmly if you do not want thoughts to overwhelm you, and this situation... It is provoking so many feelings and sensations you've never faced before, isn't it normal, in the end, how badly you struggle with it?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. Then closes it. Twice. He blinks at John, his nervous blinking.

"You huh... you might be right," he whispers.

"You think?" John cannot hide the surprise in his voice.

"Well, it is hardly a reason to be surprised, John. You have always been my compass when it comes to emotions."

"Ok."

"So, what now?"

"What what?"

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "What can I do about it? I mean, you have very clearly described the reasons I am struggling with my fears right now. Surely you know of a way to alleviate my negative emotions."

John's mind goes blank. At least regarding Sherlock's question. He doubts the solution normal people use to deal with psychological matters would be to Sherlock’s taste.

"John?"

"What do you suggest?"

"I am asking the question," Sherlock exclaims, lifting his arms dramatically. "Because I cannot properly deal with my emotions. You know that. The only solution I ever found efficient was not to deal with them at all."

"Well, Sherlock, I am not a bloody therapist."

"You certainly sounded like one a moment ago," Sherlock snarls.

"I cannot get your... your brain to stop doing what it wants!"

"Nevertheless, you do it on a regular basis."

"What are you talking about?"

This gets John another phenomenal eyeroll.

"Sexual intercourse," Sherlock exclaims as if it is somehow evident. "I already told you what it does to my... numerous chains of thought."

"No, you haven't."

"Yes, I did."

"Trust me, Sherlock, if you had told me something like that I would remember. Plus, it's not like you never speak to me when I am not actually there and you forget.”

Sherlock has the decency to look apologetic. "When we share an intimate moment and I hum... become aroused to a certain level, I have the possibility to let go... As if physical pleasure allows my brain to rest, and everything becomes quiet in there. It is... quite remarkable, and the effect lasts longer than what you stupidly call the "afterglow", sometimes up to an hour. In my life, I've known two other things having the same effect : drugs that are depressors of the nervous system, like morphine -and hum... sometimes when I go deep enough into my mind palace, when I am not in the search of long-stored information and am just... visiting."

"So sex could possibly get you through the end of the pregnancy? How frequently should we do it? Four, five times a day?"

The hit John receives in the stomach is too light to really hurt. Plus, Sherlock is smiling. "Three-continent Watson," he murmurs, snorting.

John blushes. He had Sherlock promise not to mention it again after an old army body had talked about it in his presence.

"I will ignore the remark you haven't just made," he warns.

"Fair enough."

"And now, please shut up, I need to think," John adds in a - quite pathetic, truly - imitation of Sherlock.

"Careful not to hurt yourself, my poor John."

"Ha. Ha. You want me to help with your fears, I will. I just need more than three seconds to make up a plan."

Sherlock drags him down the bed on his back and nestles against him. "Oh, the intellectual agony of a modest brain," he mocks.

The smile dancing on his lips, though, is affectionate. So John kisses him and threatens not to play with his hair if he keeps mocking his intelligence. And while he does untangle Sherlock's messy curls as the storm is raging outside, he really tries to think of ways to help Sherlock. He is pleasantly surprised by the outcome of the conversation. He feels Sherlock's relief practically radiating through his skin. If simply speaking of what makes him so anxious has that formidable effect, John might not be completely useless at helping him further.

Emotions, unlike deduction and a genius I.Q. are, after all, universals, even though Sherlock treats his own like logical facts and proven theories. John has a feeling those won't matter much when Sherlock is in the midst of pushing a baby out of himself.

Then again, he could be wrong.

Chapter Text

Part 5 : Immersion

Chapter 1

The expression on Sherlock's face when Dr. Brown tells them she doesn't see the necessity to pursue the strict bed rest is lovely, a combination of surprise and immense relief. His smile does not leave his face while Amy helps him out of the stirrups and in a sitting position on the examination table.

"I am as relieved as you two are," Amy points out. "Given that you are into your thirty second week, Sherlock, every day that passes is giving your daughter better chances to have a birth with fewer complications."

John helps Sherlock back into his clothes. It might be because of the two weeks he's just spend completely dependent of him, but Sherlock accepts John's help all the time now, without much protest. He's put on a total of twelve pounds, which is very modest, but his delicate frame - and the fact that those twelve pounds are for the most part located in his belly, which is still pointing out straight in front of him - makes him a little more clumsy and slow every day.

The meeting with Amy Brown lasts another half an hour. With Sherlock's due date approaching, there is much to discuss.

::: :::

In the cab, Sherlock cannot stop talking. It is nervousness still, but the good kind. Even if he is freed from his bed rest, he needs to be careful, and Amy has been very specific regarding what he can and cannot do. She's used to Sherlock by now and knows how reassuring detailed facts are for him.

Sherlock is explaining out loud how he intends to pick up the case of the unidentified woman, and the schedule he intends to follow so that it is concurrent with their androcologist's instructions. "I should make a spread sheet," he exclaims, snapping his fingers. "I believe it is reasonable to limit my errands to just one each day. I am always in better shape in the morning so I will reserve my afternoon to do some work at home, and rest. Let's see... First, Bart's morgue, second, New Scotland Yard, or should I go back to the crime scene? The question is, are there any clues left now that it's been...”

John stops listening at that point. Sherlock isn't really speaking to him anyway: he's thinking out loud. He nods when he deems it appropriate, scrolling down his missed messages. There is a text from Mycroft. He had previously asked John to postpone revealing his new laboratory to Sherlock because there was "something he wanted to look into."

I would join you today whenever you deem convenient to show 221a to Sherlock. MH

We are coming back from a doctor's appointment. Sherlock is doing well; the strict rest isn't necessary anymore. Meet us at Baker Street in an hour," John types without asking Sherlock.

I am glad it seems my brother's health has been improving. Make it an hour and a half. MH.

"Why the hell are you texting my brother!" Sherlock asks, looking outraged.

John slides his phone into his pocket. "None of your business."

Sherlock gives him a stern look. "You know how much I hate surprises."

"Well, what can I do? I know you know I was waiting for your brother's permission to show you what we have done in 221a-"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Sherlock tries weakly, making huge, innocent round eyes.

John rolls his. "If you are going to lie, at least try to sound convincing. I did appreciate the fact that you pretended not to know, but I am not an idiot."

"I wondered why you couldn't show me earlier, since the workers left a week ago. What is it that my dear brother was looking into? Because you do not know. Mmh. Curious. It might simply be something that wasn't available immediately, some... furniture or equipment," Sherlock deduces, dropping all pretence of ignorance.

Better to try to change the subject. Sherlock might be able to find out the answer to Mycroft's secret even if John doesn't have a clue.

That is an easy one.

"The sonogram was quite impressive today," He says, knowing how moved Sherlock had been -John himself wasn't far behind, to be honest- to see their daughter at this stage of her development; a perfectly formed human being busy getting ready for her birth. Sherlock's mouth had dropped open when the screen had shown a profile of the baby's face, and her ears, and what might be a little bit of hair on the top of her head. She had blinked, then had started sucking her thumb.

"Hello, there," Sherlock had murmured, caressing his stomach lightly. Then he had looked up at John, smiling without reserve. "She is wonderful, isn't she?" John had nodded silently, incapable of speaking at that moment.

In the cab, Sherlock doesn't answer, but looks at his phone where he has the recording of the ultrasound downloaded. John inclines his head, his hair brushing against Sherlock's curls, to have a better look.

"It's incredible," he whispers, as if he's scared to upset the baby. "She was a sesame seed not so long ago."

"That is simplifying but true enough," Sherlock answers, just as quietly. "She's in there - I still have trouble believing it," he adds, looking down his belly where one of his hands is resting firmly. "I know it is nonsense, I feel her move every day."

"And night." John points out.

"... and night," Sherlock grimaces.

Sherlock had been woken up by Sage's "playtime", as he likes to call it, the previous night, and hadn't been able to go back to sleep for at least two hours. Of course, he had kept John awake with him, pointing out that there was no reason Sherlock had to be the only one suffering because he happened to be the one pregnant. She was their daughter after all.

John smiles, then yawns, just thinking of sleep. He doesn't have quiet nights these days. The more the pregnancy advances, the more Sherlock's sleep is agitated. He moves almost constantly, has long conversations with himself, huffs and sighs, all without waking up for good. John thinks it is due partly to his anxiety, and partly to the difficulty he has finding a comfortable position.

"... and yet, it is a remarkable emotional voyage to associate the human being growing in me to these images," Sherlock admits.

"Mmh." John's hand joins Sherlock's. On the small screen, the image is enlarged to show the head only.

"Oh," Sherlock says suddenly, frowning.

He pauses the video.

"Oh," he repeats in an alarmed voiced.

"What? What is it?"

"John, I am sorry," Sherlock says, giving him a mortified look. "But I... Look."

He turns the phone toward John so that he can have a clear view.

"What am I looking at?"

"Her... nasal appendix. I believe she has inherited Mycroft's nose, I am so sorry."

"What?" John laughs, taking the phone from Sherlock's hand.

The image is remarkably clear, but still, Sage’s tiny nose is barely little more than a white spot. Even if he squints until his eyes crossed, he doesn't see any resemblance.

"You are imagining this, Sherlock. And so what, she might have Mycroft's nose -and his eyes, and mouth, and character. He is your brother after all."

"Are you trying to give me a panic attack? I don't want to give birth to a tiny, female Mycroft!" Sherlock protests loudly.

"Not something you can control, love." John cannot hide his smirk. He sometimes has maybe a little too much fun having Sherlock freak out over the most ridiculous things. "Hey, I bet her first words will be: I am smarter than you, daddy."

The kick he receives below the knees has him groaning in pain, but he endures stoically. It's not like he didn't asked for it.

::: :::

"You want me to cover your eyes?" John jokes, counting the thirty-fifth yellow car passing on Baker Street.

"You're an idiot" Sherlock grunts, annoyed. He really does not like surprises, neither does he like receiving presents, mostly because it makes him so uneasy, as he tries to react accordingly to social norms and express his thankfulness.

Luckily, it will only be the two of them and Mycroft -Mrs. Hudson isn't even there. The new laboratory is a big deal, though, and John is almost glad Sherlock already knows about it: at least, the present isn't really a surprise anymore.

Mycroft finally arrives, and John can see Sherlock sigh in relief. After their appointment, he had refused to sit down, asking instead to go wait for his brother outside. It would be nice, he had said, to stretch his legs and muscles. He hadn't taken into account the too-warm temperature, and how his body would tire easily after two weeks of inaction. By the way he's leaning against the brick wall, he's already exhausted.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft grimaces a smile to Sherlock, with a little less disdain than usual. "I see you are... prospering," he adds, waving his hand toward Sherlock's protruding belly.

"Is it supposed to be a compliment?" Sherlock snarls. "I am not a business nor a town built near a gold mine."

"The term prosper can also refer to the physical-"

"I know that," Sherlock snaps, his cheeks getting redder by the second.

"I was merely observing," Mycroft points out, showing the small satisfied smile he always does when he succeeds in irritating Sherlock.

Before it turns to a full-on fight, John inserts himself between them and suggests they proceed. For once, they do not ignore him.

The stairs descending to 221A are narrow (it had the workers cursing the lack of space more than once) and steep. Sherlock grips the handrail -he always uses handrails now- but his gait still seems unsure, and John softly pushes him to the side to step ahead of him, the good old technique of -if-you-fall-at-least-you'll-fall-on-me that is still used in the army when one has to carry something using stairs.

Sherlock, for himself, is busy expressing his nervousness once again.

"I take it that you two know I am not especially fond of following what social norms expect of me when I am offered something. It often seems insufficient. Of course, it doesn't mean a simple thank you from my part isn't just as heartfelt as a more extravagant physical demonstration of my gratitude."

"You mean you won't jump in the air clapping and crying tears of joy?" John mocks.

Mycroft allows himself a discreet snort. Sherlock doesn't answer, but John can practically feel his exasperated gaze burning a hole in the back of his head.

Sherlock opens the door to 221a, and freezes, a shocked expression slackening his features. He pales at an alarming rate, and John stays close, just in case.

"So?" He asks after a few seconds.

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again, and again. Mycroft is observing him with a little smile, his eyes busy deducing his reaction.

"Why are you so shocked? You knew quite accurately what we were doing here," he states, tilting his head at Sherlock. “I imagine you hadn't considered that I would take such an interest in John's project, not enough to provide some improvements of my own. You thought about a microscope, maybe a working table and a fresh coat of paint, but nothing of this scale."

Sherlock nods. The transformation of the humid living room is quite impressive, and John is proud to have been part of it. It is like a whole section of one of Bart's laboratories has been rebuilt as accurately as possible.

"Come on," John coaxes softly, taking Sherlock's hand. "Come and see, this is all the most advanced instruments a civilian can legally own, and the fridge is simply gigantic, Mycroft picked it himself. The light over the working table is – “

"I know, I can see," Sherlock cuts him off in a low voice. He takes a hesitant step forward, pressing John's fingers with a death grip, and clears his throat. "As I was saying, a simple thank you carries as much... As much huh..."

It's torture, seeing Sherlock trying to find the right words while remaining in control of his emotions. His hormonal state must make it even more difficult than usual. With John alone, he might have just let go and allowed himself to feel but there is Mycroft staring at him with interest and intent.

It is also Mycroft, in the end, who comes to his little brother's help.

"Sherlock, you know how little patience I have for being thanked,” he states with as much disdain he can put in his voice, although his eyes stay soft. "Please save me from any form of discourse praising my generosity and just go play with your new toys."

"You are such a prig," Sherlock answers with more assurance. "Do not think I might become more tolerant of your insufferable personality because of a gift."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Their usual banter loosens the atmosphere. Sherlock slowly walks around the room, observing all the instruments, chemical products and professional furniture, letting his long fingers slide over things, delicately tracing their shape. Mycroft is careful to throw in a snarky comment here and there, which allows Sherlock to reply in the same tone and remain his good old self. It is fascinating, observing their little game, the both of them knowing Mycroft does it to get Sherlock more at ease and comfortable, all the while pretending to be oblivious to the whole thing.

At some point, Sherlock let go of John's hand, and John is content to just observe all the emotions passing into Sherlock's eyes while he takes into account the transformation of the room. He's happy, he's surprised, and deeply touched.

John waits until he’s finished his tour and is examining the decontamination shower to speak. "I was the one insisting we had one of those. I am not saying it will ever be used because you never make mistakes but..." He shrugs, and Sherlock's piercing gaze is a challenge; John must expect consequences if he dares tell Mycroft about that time John was in the shower and Sherlock crashed in, fully clothed, calling himself stupid while washing the chemicals spilled all over himself, ignoring John's presence.

John smiles and makes a gesture of keeping his mouth shut.

Mycroft is looking down his mobile, sighing. "Are we done? Not that I do not enjoy watching you drooling all over the place, but it seems someone in Colorado, U.S.A, has just done something incredibly stupid and dangerous. I am needed."

"I'm not holding you back," Sherlock dismisses him without a look. He turns toward John. "Is this really incredible present a pretence to keep me down here as often as possible?"

"Yes, you got me, I'm discovered,” John jokes, taking his hand.

They smile to each other, and John cannot help himself, getting closer (as much as he can, he always finds himself surprised to bump into Sherlock's belly) and bringing Sherlock's head down for a kiss.

A discreet throat clearing stops them just as their lips touch. Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks at Mycroft, waiting politely while leaning on his umbrella.

"What are you still doing here? Don't you have to stop the impending apocalypse or something?" Sherlock snaps.

"There is one last thing I need to give you," Mycroft explains, his expression telling just how he himself wishes he was already gone. "It was John's idea, but if I am honest with you, brother dear, it really is more of a gift to myself."

Mycroft is nervous, which has John suspecting he might just know what the gift is. No, wait, do not work yourself up just yet, he admonishes himself. He sees the envelope stamped with the British government seal and his breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock does not seem to have the slightest idea of its content, he stares at his brother suspiciously while he opens the letter.

It takes two seconds of reading before he gasps in shock. Mycroft is staring at him without disdain or exasperation, giving a rare glimpse at who hides behind that mask. He's anxious, and uncertain, and yes... emotional. His eyes are shining. He swallows several times in a row.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks in a timid, trembling voice.

John softly takes the letter out of his shaking hands. A sentence catches attention, and really, it is all he needs.

"... which is why, after many hours of analysis, we have decided it is no longer needed. Therefore, we have the pleasure to declare you free of your pupil status and..."

John puts the letter on the high black working table, he can read it in depth later.

"Thank you, Mycroft," he says with all the sincerity he's capable of.

Mycroft nods, unable to look at him in the eyes. He's waiting for Sherlock's reaction, drawing spiral patterns on the floor with his umbrella.

Sherlock's nervous blinking is out full force, and his legs are shaking, visibly. John grabs a chair nearby and forces him to sit. Sherlock does, still blinking, his body rigid and his expression unreadable.

"I should have done it sooner," Mycroft says. "I was... afraid, Sherlock. You can blame me, I deserve it. The only justification I have is that it was so hard back then. Do you remember it all? I am not sure. You weren't lucid most of the time. I was afraid you would put me, and our parents, through that hell again. It wasn't easy getting the clearance bypassing the official channels. I mean, when you threaten to blow up the British government, you tend to remain on their radars. John is the one you should be thanking. He has a way of presenting things that makes it hard to argue. I am a coward, as you so often say, Sherlock. It was as much out of fear than out of laziness I did not act sooner."

"No," Sherlock cuts him off. "You needn't apologise. I am well aware of the damage I have done in the past. You have been carrying the weight of being not only my brother but my keeper for way too long."

"Well, now, I am glad you see it that way," Mycroft admits, his eyes still firmly directed at the ground.

Sherlock stands up, giving John a quick look of reassurance that he is all right, he won't collapse on the floor. He grabs Mycroft's shoulder awkwardly, forcing the older man to look up, his eyes widening comically.

"What are you-"

"Yes, I am going to hug you now," Sherlock warns him dramatically, pulling Mycroft into what must the gawkiest hug in the history of the world. Sherlock's hips are twisted to try and get his belly out of the way with very little success, so Mycroft's upper body is pressed against his own, his carefully combed head shoved into his chest, and he is standing on his toes just to keep his balance. After a long, awkward moment, he relaxes a little and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, patting his back -what he can reach, anyway.

Sherlock has both arms over Mycroft's trapped shoulders and his chin resting on his brother's head. "Thank you," he says, holding him even closer. "I really appreciate it."

"I can feel something moving," Mycroft mumbles, his face evidently crushed against Sherlock's upper chest. "Is that normal?"

"It's your niece."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I had no idea a foetus' movement could be felt that way."

"It's her playtime."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I do not know what is the etiquette for hugs but I believe we've exceeded the determined period and are now heading toward an abnormally long time. Plus, I cannot breathe properly."

"Oh, my apologies."

Sherlock lets go of Mycroft. The older Holmes' face is beet red, his hair dishevelled. He looks adorably confused -an expression John had never thought could describe Mycroft Holmes. John's smile widens, and it starts to hurt, really, the muscles of his jaw are getting sore.

Sherlock rearranges his brother's jacket and John grabs his umbrella, which has fallen on the floor at some point.

"As I was saying," Mycroft goes on, trying to put himself back together. "Work awaits."

He leaves the room, leaning on his umbrella, his stance still unsure.

"Ok, so, the best way to kill your brother is evidently to hug him to death," John jokes, his laugh getting caught in his throat when he finds himself with an armful of Sherlock, hugging him way less platonically than he did Mycroft, arms around his neck, kissing him so brutally John almost chokes.

"My John," Sherlock breaths out between kisses and caresses. "You made me a free man. I am completely infatuated with you."

Later, he'll pretend he wasn't responsible for his "ridiculous display of affection" as it was most probably due to a "hormone overload."

Yeah. Sure.

::: :::

It is difficult, and in certain cases downright impossible, to hide anything from Sherlock. He's been on constant alert since his belly has started to show for any sign John was trying to take a picture of him.

Sherlock hates his picture being taken. He had conceded John a few when they had begun their relationship, as a "token" of the changes in their life, but has strictly refused to have his pregnancy being immortalized in any way, even when John had pleaded.

"It's for her, Sherlock, later. She'll want to see."

"No, she will not want to see one of her parents exhibiting his swollen belly in some ridiculous pose. Couples do those photos for themselves, not the children."

"For god's sake, I did not ask you to dress in a satin sheet and take a dramatic pose with your bump on display. I asked for a simple picture."

Sherlock had remained resolute. Of course, John had snapped a couple of poses (alright, maybe a dozen) but most of them don't show Sherlock's belly, and the others have the face of a very unhappy detective in the middle of telling the photographer to piss off.

John can be patient. And determined.

It's the eighth of May, Sherlock is reaching the thirty-third week of his pregnancy, and enjoying his fourth day as a "free man", as he likes to say. The day before, one of Mycroft's lawyers had spent the afternoon with the both of them, explaining to Sherlock how to access his accounts, the amount of money Mycroft had invested, and all the legal changes the end of his pupil state will bring about. Sherlock had known he couldn't get out of this one, he had to listen and remain attentive. The fact that he's been though a little more than two hours of signing papers and discussing trust funds without showing any sign of exasperation and boredom is a little miracle in itself. John had also listened, and discovered what he already suspected: Sherlock could basically live from his trust fund for five whole years. He's in no way "rich," but has the luxury to allow himself not to think about money too often.

At the end of the meeting, after having talked things through the same morning, Sherlock and John had taken advantage of the presence of a legal lawyer to have their wedding contract put down on paper in an official format. They can now get married any time, but have both agreed to wait until Sage's birth.

It had been a long day, with much to think about. That is how the morning after, John is going through the papers once more to be certain everything is in order when he hears the first note of one of Sherlock's own compositions. It is a new one he has entitled Melody for My Daughter. John loves it. It's soft and comforting but there is also a hint of mischief and joy, it is perfect. John closes his eyes and lets the music take him. Sherlock has been playing a lot since he's been allowed to leave his bed, which tells John he must have missed it terribly. He's now making up for lost time.

It suddenly occurs to him that Sherlock often loses himself in the music when he plays, and his usual hyperawareness is therefore absent. Praying for him to be facing the window, as he so often does, John takes his mobile and settles the parameters of its camera. He walks from the kitchen to the living room as silently as possible, and finds that indeed, Sherlock has his back to him. He's wearing new clothes, from the batch he had ordered from his tailor shop two days ago – an assortment of trousers in light neutral tones, new jeans, soft and pale, t-shirts -yes, t-shirts and long-sleeve shirts. No more shirts, or expensive, dark three-pieces. "Yes," he had admitted to John, "yes, you were right. Formal clothing has become incredibly uncomfortable, and I am very sensitive to heat. Comfort and lightness, as you can see, but still, I hope, in good taste."

John was getting hard, just imagining Sherlock in any of those clothes. This is what you get when someone dresses formally all the time. It is like having an anti-uniform kink. Watson, did you ever imagine a pair of jeans would give you an erection?

Today, Sherlock is wearing pale jeans and a light cotton long-sleeve shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It's of a baby blue colour, and gives Sherlock's peculiar silhouette so much sweetness. He's still thin, and more delicate than ever, the impression of fragility he emits is almost heart-breaking. Without his belly, Sherlock's body lines were all sharp and strong, his way of moving giving them a discreet but definite strength, graceful but dangerous. Now, the roundness of his baby bump, plus the few pounds he managed to put on, have broken those rigid lines, and with the haircut taking at least four years from him, it only reinforces this impression of frailty. Impression is the key word here. John knows Sherlock can be dangerously strong, even though he's not at the top of his game. Still, in the meantime, it is so damn hard to resist holding him all the time, shielding him away from the world.

John tries.

Sherlock moves from the window, not much, but just enough that, if John carefully takes a few steps forward, he could have a good profile. All or nothing, he thinks, going for it. Thank goodness, Sherlock's eyes are closed. He doesn't move a lot, but still swings his hips softly with the rhythm. John tries to time his picture not to have it blurred. He will have one chance only and doesn't want to waste it.

To his surprise, Sherlock does not seem to hear the discreet, electronic "click" of the mobile. John takes another chance, and another step. He now has the perfect view of Sherlock playing, his eyes closed, his features relaxed, except for a little frown of concentration. As he is trying to hold his violin correctly, he has no choice but to tilt his back slightly backward, exposing his lovely belly, all round and firm and there. He didn't put anything in his hair and the short curls are frizzy and catching the light, surrounding his head like a halo. John snaps three pictures in a row and begins to walk backward.

"You have what you want?" Sherlock asks over his music, and John jumps, gasping in surprise.

Of course.

Of course, Sherlock knew.

"Yes, I do," John answers, feeling a little vexed.

"Now I believe you will leave me alone and stop trying to take my picture," Sherlock smiles, eyes still closed.

He finishes the piece with a little smirk on his face.

John doesn't care. He's busy sending the best picture of the lot to Mummy Holmes, and half of his contact list. He wouldn't put it above Sherlock to go through his mobile and erase them.

::: :::

The documentary is following two American gay couples thorough both carrier's pregnancies, one of which ends in a planned C-section, while the other ends in a natural birth. Sherlock has been more than suspicious of John's idea to help him with his fears, and to his credit, John's explanations were a little blurry. In his head, it is so clear: Sherlock is focused on the science of birthing, on the logic behind every symptom, every fact, and in doing so, they both might have missed what normal parents-to-be experience; nervousness and joy, expectations, living in the present instead of worrying about the future -and most of all, enjoying the chance they have to experience the arrival of a child.

Yes, it sounds a bit melodramatic. Nevertheless, John hopes watching these couples welcoming their child might help Sherlock see the brighter side of things. He does promise to give the documentary a real chance -the fact that he has his mouthful of popcorn, then crisps, does help reassure John. Even if he does try to appear untouched, and even a little bored by the culmination of the documentary, John can see he is emotionally engaged, especially with the natural birth. The bag of crisps is forgotten and he's holding their old union Jack cushion tight against his chest. John has to admit he himself cannot help but imagine what it will be like to watch his daughter being born. His concern over Sherlock's well-being abates for a while and he can almost hear her faint cries, watch her tremble and jerk under the crude light, covered in vernix. Sherlock casts him a look, and John tries not to hide his sincere smile. They are both emotionally constipated, he thinks, and it is pathetic, how it seems almost indecent to enjoy the simplest things.

When they go to bed that evening, Sherlock settles in his usual position, sitting on the side of the bed, his upper body bent forward with his hands on his thighs to support himself. John sits behind him with the massage oil. They've been doing this every night for the past month. Sherlock's back is a constant source of discomfort, and he often suffers painful muscles spasms throughout the day, especially when he's sitting for too long. The massages are the only thing that help him, and while John is happy to help him, his task is far from easy. Sherlock might enjoy the massages just a bit too much, and he's not shy about voicing it out loud with unrestrained moans and grunts of satisfactions -and god his voice, so low and gravelly, it goes straight to John's cock. He always ends up half hard and in need to calm himself down. Sherlock's libido has seriously diminished. He doesn't like the discomfort, neither does he like feeling exposed and vulnerable with his "gigantic, ridiculous stomach," as he says. The last thing John wants is for him to feel pressure to engage in sex.

John is working on a tight muscle knot just below the shoulders when Sherlock -thank god- stops grunting all of sudden.

"It was good," he says out of nowhere, voice low and uncertain.

"What was?"

"The film. You were right, John. It does seem I have yet failed to enjoy the positive side of my predicament, and in doing so, the future presence of our daughter in our lives."

"Really? I mean, good. I was thinking the same thing."

"It does not mean the fear is gone, but it is... it feels... comforting, thinking of those couples."

"I think we've missed a lot."

Sherlock straightens his back to be able to cast him a curious look. "Like what?"

"Sharing, mostly. It's always you and me against the world, you know, and we've treated the pregnancy so clinically. I mean, even when we went shopping... we had our list and we were all about efficiency and... I mean, you picked all the newborns pyjamas while I was checking the list, and they are folded in the baby's room, ready to be used and I can't even name the colour of a single one."

"Well, we picked neutral, soft colours to favour sleep and-"

"Yeah, that's what I meant. My god, we aren't ready. I mean, Sherlock, have you ever held a baby in your arms?

There is a long pause.

"Does it have to be human?"

John snorts. "We are... look at us, the Great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, fearless crime fighters, and at the end of the day we are newbies at this."

"There is a white pyjama with a delicate thread, flowery patterns. It is my favourite."

"What?"

"You asked about the pyjamas. I knew I had the information stored somewhere."

"See? That is what I am talking about, it is... I mean, we cannot... oh, Jesus!" John shuts up, unable to express what he's feeling, and puts more pressure on the knot. The indecent grunt from Sherlock must be indicating it is better.

"Alright. Let's see if you can come up with more words," Sherlock whispers, a bit mocking.

"There, done," John says, patting Sherlock's back.

He helps him into the bed, settles the pillows and blankets to make sure Sherlock is as comfortable as he can, then turns the light off and slides under the sheets himself, stretching his arm to allow Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder. It is like a perfectly learned choreography by now.

"What do you suggest we should have done differently?" Sherlock asks tentatively, when it is clear John is done with trying to explain himself.

"I don't know... More sharing, I supposed, and belly rubbing, and consulting parents-to-be forums and... hell, have a plaster made of your belly, or something equally ridiculous. I don't think you would have found yourself so damn scared if we had taken the time to enjoy this pregnancy properly."

"There is still time," Sherlock murmurs, his speech slowing down, a sure sign he's about to fall asleep.

"I know." John kisses the top of his head. "That is why I enrolled us in a couple of prenatal classes."

What is the best time to announce this to Sherlock than when he's already half asleep? John figures he will eventually remember the following day, but that his reaction will be less... definitive.

He's thinking he got away with it and congratulating himself when all of sudden, Sherlock's body tenses and he moves away from John, fighting to sit up.

"What?"

"Yeah, it is part of my plan, you know, to help you. You did ask for my help, remember," John explains, feigning being close to sleep.

"I know you are perfectly awake," Sherlock snaps. "And if you think I am going to sit with other pregnant people speaking of baby kicks and gastric reflux you are so, so deeply mistaken, John Watson. By the way, I hope you do not really wish to have a plaster made of my belly because I can assure you it will not happen. Not in a hundred years. I cannot believe you really thought I would just go with it and..."

John blocks Sherlock's rant, and smiles into his pillow. He still has three days to make him change his mind - not about the plaster, god, no - and figures it is a challenge he could very well win.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The taxi's horn hoots for the third time and Sherlock is still on the phone. Sighing deeply, John leaves the door's threshold and walks back in the flat, following Sherlock's animated voice.

"No, I said a two-mile radius around Southend Airport. Am I...? Of course I am certain, Gene, what sort of question is this? Yes, I'll wait."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John, then stretches his hand, asking silently for his mobile. John gives it to him without discussion, and takes his arm.

"What?" He asks.

"The cab is waiting, Sherlock."

Sherlock follows, more or less. His own mobile is trapped between his shoulder and his ear while he types on John's phone, moving his fingers at a dizzying rate.

"Surely you do not think I am going to go now that the case is finally getting interesting?" He asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes, nice try, come on."

Sherlock lets John drags him out of the flat and down the stairs. He had agreed to try one prenatal class the day before, after John had finally lost his patience and taken his Captain voice.

("Stop being such a child. You asked for my help, this is me helping you. You will come with me to the class or..."
"Or what?" Sherlock had replied, unable to help himself, if the way he bit his lower lip was any indication.

"Or there will be no more going to Tesco each time you have a sudden craving for something, or crossing town in a cab past eleven at night because you absolutely need a bowl of that Japanese soup from the restaurant twenty miles away."

"It's called Su Udon soup and-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock had examined John's face for several seconds, probably pondering if he would really dare act on his threat.

"You wouldn't," he had tried, but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakeable. John had won.)

They have barely made it outside when Sherlock stops dead. "Gavin? Yes. Yes. You are looking for an immigrant or a refugee, someone who's presence here wasn't registered."

"Sherlock," John warns.

"The Southdown neighbourhood is mostly composed of white, upper middle-class families. If someone from a different ethnicity had been living there, her presence had to have been noticed. Yes. European father, south-American mother. I say there is a ninety percent chance the mother was from Argentina. No. Mmh. Text me if you find something. Yes. Yes, I'll be there. Nine o'clock. For Christ's sake, Lestrade, do you want to solve that case? It is...

"Sherlock," John repeats more firmly, giving him the most severe look he can manage.

"Oh Jesus, I am coming, stop harassing me," Sherlock exclaims dramatically.

He ends the call with Greg Lestrade and lets John help him into the back of the cab, twisting his belly to the side and cursing his "traitor of a transport". Once he's seated, he slides his own phone in his pocket and keeps John's one, dragging his finger on the screen a couple of times.

The cab driver seems to be the chatty type. John closes the window between them before he can start talking. With what might be unnecessary force. He feels nervous.

"Yes," Sherlock says with excitement. "There is a gardening shop less than a mile away from the airport. She must have been working there, with the quantity of phosphorus covering her hair."

Sherlock turns John's phone toward him to show the image of a shop with a yellow and green banner in the window. "Le Pouce Vert," John reads slowly. " It's French".

He sees Sherlock swallowing back an irritated obviously. "The literal translation is green thumb," he says instead, his voice high and debit fast. "Meaning one's natural ability to-"

"I know what it means," John cuts him off, with more impatience that he intended. Sherlock huffs at him.

"Am I not in the cab with you? You have what you wanted: we are going. Why do you feel the need to behave like an absolute arsehole?

"I am not!" John protests. He pauses, taking the time to really think about it. "Ok, maybe I am. Sorry."

"It's ok," Sherlock whispers, his eyes taking on that particular pale, static appearance, which happens each time he immerses himself in complicated, intertwined thought patterns.

It has been a busy three days, especially for John, who had done most of the legwork, going back and forth to the Yard and Bart's, amongst other places. It is as if the case had been waiting for Sherlock to be physically able to solve it. Thanks to a dirt sample coming from one of the body's shoes, John making an oblivious comment about watching the "Alien" movie (John, once again your ordinary brain is enlightening me!), and traces of non-lethal chemicals in the woman's hair, Sherlock is about to discover the identity of the mysterious mother.

The cab seat is old and hard. Sherlock moves his hips and winces, trying to find a comfortable position. It gets to John, twisting his heart a little; the same goes for the excitement he tries to hide. John sees it in the way he keeps touching his lower lip with nervous fingers. It is one of Sherlock's tells when his brain gears are not only working at full speed, but creating a manic high that feeds his addiction to solving mysteries.

Feeling a bit like an arse, John stretches his hand and lets it rest on Sherlock's belly, making him tense briefly in surprise as he comes back from inside his head - with regrets, if his expression is any indication.

"So, the Green Thumb."

"Le Pouce Vert," Sherlock corrects in an impeccable French.

"It’s a gardening store in the airport area?"

"Yes."

"And it explains the phosphorus traces in the hair how...?"

"It suddenly came to me, John. It's not unusual to find traces of phosphorus in hair or on the skin. When Molly and I analyzed the samples in search of poison, we neglected it because it isn't a lethal chemical. But it occurred to me that it was everywhere, in quantities that could be questioned. Thanks to my grandmother's passion for gardening, I remembered that phosphorus it is one of the main ingredients of most water-soluble plant fertilizer. Now the gardening store has a small greenhouse within its walls. Fertilizer is often distributed using some kind of spray system, similar to those you find in grocery stores to keep the vegetables fresh. If our victim still had phosphorus in her hair more than six months after her death, even though it is quite volatile, she must have been exposed to it on a regular basis. So, not a customer, but a probable employee of Le Pouce Vert. Tomorrow morning, we are meeting Lestrade at the Yard. And I know the first place we're going to visit."

"You seem pretty confident."

"Because I am."

Under John's hand, the baby kicks, hard enough for Sherlock to tense all over. "She bit me," he hisses.

"What? Sherlock that-"

"Does not make any sense, I know," Sherlock dismisses the idea. "Nevertheless, there is a particular movement she does... with her head most probably, that gives me the very strong impression something - well, someone - is biting the inside of my pelvis... right there."

He runs his finger low, under his belly. "It might be the location of a sensitive nerve," Sherlock sighs. "Hold your horses, Doctor Watson," he adds when John begins to reply. "I know. She is starting to be quite confined and must have difficulty moving as much as she used to."

"And that was the correct answer, Mr. Holmes." John smiles. Another kick, softer this time, presses against his palm.

"You see? I know all the answers, so I do not see the point in spending two hours re-learning them," Sherlock's tone becomes hesitant toward the end, as if he did not mean to say any of it out loud.

"Come on, Sherlock. Apparently, these classes are the best in London. The program is very modern and-"

"Stop selling it to me."

"Then stop whining."

Sherlock complies, deciding to sulk instead. The worst thing in this situation is that John isn't certain the class will be as great as he tries to... well, yes, sell it. The program is composed of two-hours classes addressing an array of subjects. Future parents can choose to pick only the classes they are interested in, or to follow the full course. The classes are discussion-oriented, leaving space for the participants to express themselves and share their experience. Tonight's subject is about the management of pain during childbirth. John's hope is that Sherlock will feel comforted, hearing the other participants speak of their fears, their doubts and uncertainties, all on different level, of course, but at its core, what Sherlock is going through emotionally is quite universal.

"Remember," John points out when the taxi stops in front of the community centre. "If you decide to spend the duration of the class in your mind palace, what we are doing is pointless."

"I know," Sherlock says with regret. "I will remain attentive, as long as you aren't forcing me to... huh... 'share'."

He puts the last word in quotes as if it is an exotic term he's still getting used to.

"Did anyone ever tell you how melodramatic you are?"

Sherlock gives him an affronted look and begins the complicated process of getting out the back seat, ignoring John's stretched hand and mumbling something about smartarse fiancés spending way too much time with disagreeable big brothers.

"And remember what you promised," John cuts him off.

Sherlock is so exasperated his eyeroll reaches epic proportions. "I will not deduce the teacher out loud, even if I think I know better than him, or her. The same goes with participants, as I have been informed by a certain someone that thinking they are a bunch of idiots does not allow me to state that very fact."

"That's my good boy."

Sherlock has the time to punch John's shoulder and give him another affronted look before they enter the building. "Do not call me your good boy in public. You know the er... effect it has on me."

John is still laughing out loud when the door closes behind them.

::: :::

The teacher is a retired O.B. nurse with some thirty years of experience under her belt and a talent of keeping her audience's attention -of course, said audience is very modest: they are four couples, including John and Sherlock who stand out immediately. Not only does the teacher -Marcie- recognize him, which has the other couples doing the same, but also because he is by far the most advanced in his pregnancy, and, last but not least, the only carrier. He takes the attention well enough , by remaining silent and uptight while John smiles for him.

(The only smile Sherlock allows himself is when he notices a small table filled with food, for an eventual break. John can hear him whisper "Gingernut biscuits" as if he was saying the name of a lover.)

The first hour goes well. Marcie gives an expose about the nature of pain and the unique way it is perceived by each individual (clever, as way of defusing the tendency to feel guilt a lot of patients have when it comes to enduring pain. Sherlock could be the poster child for this phenomenon). Then, she goes over the multiple methods used to manage pain during childbirth, from the good old breathing exercises to the most recent laughing gas administration. John and Sherlock have already discussed this with Amy. Sherlock is still undecided regarding the specifics of labour and delivery. They've been offered a lot of options, from a birth under water to the service of a psychologist practicing hypnosis. Sherlock has only said he needed time to think it through because he still has trouble imagining himself giving birth. John tries to respect it, even though he suspects the problem is not about the still unreality of the birth but the panicking fear it provokes.

The discussion planned for the second hour of the class starts slowly, awkwardly, with the nurse needing to ask a question specifically to one participant if she wants an answer. It is not long, though, before it becomes animated, everyone giving their opinion of the various methods to relieve pain, and sharing personal stories of a step-sister who used laughing gas and became covered in red blisters (allergic reaction, probably), or that article in the journal from five years ago about the dangers of hypnotism (there aren't any). Sherlock does not participate, but he seems to really listen. John tries to be the spokesperson of their couple, whenever Marcie throws a question in their direction. Of course, after a while, the subject shifts slightly, going from generalities to more personal experiences, as if ten minutes of speaking to each other has made all of them close friends. A delicate blond with the voice of a mouse reveals that she had witnessed the birth of her brother when she was five. Her parents thought it would be a great experience for her but on the contrary, she remained terrified years after the fact, remembering he mother's shrilling cries and what she describes as a gush of blood spatter from her vagina "like in horror movies." Today, she's still terribly afraid of being in pain and reliving what her mother went through, adding with a nervous snort that she would very much like to be asleep for the whole process.

That is the moment things go south.

John knows one of the participants has been getting on Sherlock's nerves since the beginning. She's a tall, red-headed woman with a loud, nasal voice, the type of person who has the impression she has to share her personal story for the benefit of humanity. Lisa something, or Lila something, had been interrupting the teacher almost constantly during the presentation, and now that discussion is allowed, she has her grain of salt to add to everyone else’s comments, mostly to put herself in a positive light. As soon as the blond is finished, once again, she's ready to fire back.

"Well, I know it can be scary but as for myself, I think those are things you have to settle before taking the decision to have a baby. That is why I am so confident and well prepared. There is nothing more natural than birth. A lot of people want us to believe we women are too weak to go through it without the help of modern medicine, but isn't it more of a question of determination and personal strength? Yes, there are women who aren't made to have children, because they miss that strength, and maybe they shouldn't.”

The little blond is blushing bright red and the teacher interrupts Lisa-Lila awkwardly.

"It is an interesting point of view, Lila, but-

"Actually, it is complete nonsense," Sherlock declares, shutting Marcie down. "I am personally keeping all the doors open regarding how I will deal with the pain, although I have a preference for the epidural. I am not being weak, Mrs. Reiner, I am being logical, as every man of science should be. Why suffer uselessly when there are other options, safe options. Medicine is evolving, making progress. You might say that women were stronger back in the nineteen twenties, but they had no other choice. Some had complicated labour that could last for days. All this without anything to alleviate their ordeal, because in a world dominated by men, pain during childbirth was nothing more than another form of hysteria."

Sherlock gets up on his knees and uses John's shoulder to stand up. John is quick to rise to his help, and catches him by the waist just in time, seeing how unsteady on his legs he seems to be. The room is silent, but Lila - Reiner, apparently - is breathing loud through her nose, staring at Sherlock in a mix of annoyance and derision. When she speaks, though, her voice is unassured and trembling slightly.

"Well I suppose we all have our opinion."

"We do," Sherlock agrees. "That is why we are here, after all. To... share," he adds, grimacing. "Sadly, your mere presence in this group is an obstacle to its efficiency. That you need to prove yourself better than everyone else is one thing, but no, you cannot achieve this goal without humiliating your entourage. Everything about you is fake : from the person you pretend to be to the clothes you wear, cheap imitations of great labels, which you swear are authentic. No wonder you have no friends : who can support someone lying constantly just to upstage them. And you think you are a good liar but you have tells, as I am certain anyone with even a modest intellect can see. As for your husband, he is quick to agree with everything you say but he is getting good at pretence, too. Just during the break, when he was on the phone with-“

"Sherlock," John warns. He does not deny the satisfaction he felt when Sherlock put Lila in her place, but it is starting to get a little too personal. To his relief, Sherlock doesn't add another word and gives him a quick, apologetic look.

"I think we are, hum... done here," John gives the stupefied room an artificial smile and takes Sherlock's hand. He follows without resistance.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Sherlock says once they are out on the pavement. "I know, I did not hold my end of the deal, and-"

"Sherlock. It's fine."

Sherlock gives him a surprised look. "Really?"

"She deserved it."

John begins to walk slowly, hands shoved in his pocket. Sherlock catches up with him, looking pretty pleased with himself to have gotten away with his digression so easily. He takes a crunching bite out of a ginger nut biscuit.

"Where did you hide that?"

Sherlock smiles. "Ah. It's a secret."

"You don't even have pockets in your trousers!"

"Yes, tell me about it. Whoever thought pregnant people didn't need pockets anymore? It is ridiculous."

"Let me call a cab."

Sherlock stops John from fetching his phone in his pocket. "No, wait. Maybe we can walk for a while? The night is quite agreeable.

It is, not too humid, with the smell of spring flowers hanging in the air. It's a clear night, the moon almost full, shedding its soft, white-blue light. Sherlock is beautiful -always is, of course, but especially when lit up by the moon's unique glow, as if he was made to live at night, his pale skin almost shining, his eyes translucent, and the shadows cutting his features more apparent, emphasising their singularity.

"Stop, you are staring, and I know you think the moonlight suits me," Sherlock whispers, staring straight ahead.

"You deduced it how?"

"I for once did not need to. You keep telling me."

John finds himself blushing. He can see the pleased smile Sherlock tries to hide, and decides he will definitely keep telling him. They are both silent for a while, which is surprising. John had thought Sherlock would get back on his phone as soon as they were out, or at least start babbling non-stop about the case.

"I lied, you know," Sherlock declares out of nowhere.

"Lied about what?"

"I am weak."

Oh. Right. That is what has been bothering Sherlock.

"Hey, do not let what that despicable red-head said get to you. You deduced her yourself, she's not worth listening to."

"I know. Still, I wanted to shut her up, and what I said, about being a man of science and using logic principles... It might be true for life in general. It isn't true for our daughter's birth. There are risks, albeit negligible ones, even with the epidural method, which has been around for more than eighty years."

"Nothing is without risk, Sherlock. "

They are crossing a pedestrian bridge over the Thames, one of the places in London Sherlock especially likes. He lets go of John's hand and walks toward the side wall, leaning forward on it to look down at the quiet water.

"I am not really afraid of the pain," he says, his voice soft, enough that John has to come close to understand each word. "I am afraid of what it can do to me."

John realises that he knows what Sherlock is talking about. Isn't it evident, after all? It all comes down to this.

"Losing control, right?" he asks, tilting his head to be able to look at Sherlock.

"Well, doctor, you always manage to surprise me," Sherlock jokes weakly. "John, what if...?"

"What?"

"What if I do lose control, during labour, what will happen then?"

"I will sound like an old broken record but... You cannot be in control all the time. We wouldn't be together if you didn't allow yourself to give it up from time to time."

"It is not the same," Sherlock replies. "Because I know you’ve got me. You’ve always got me."

John tries not to appear impressed, once again, by the complete trust Sherlock puts in him. "I do," he says with all the conviction he is capable of. "And I will have your back when you give birth."

"It is different, John. You cannot take my pain. Or give birth to our child, for that matter," Sherlock adds with a miserable snort. "Ten years ago, that is how I felt all the time, right before Mycroft had me put in solitary for a week, then in rehab."

"Oh."

"Yes. I can admit now drugs were taking over. I've always described myself as a user, not an addict, but it is such utter tosh. I was definitely not in control anymore. I would take a hit to get the control back, but it was worse. Nothing worked anymore, being sober or high, the control was gone. I huh... harmed myself, and others, I was at a point where I was obviously trying to end my life without admitting to myself I was suicidal."

Sherlock sniffs nervously and turns his head away from John, but he already saw the tears swelling in his eyes. He waits for Sherlock to continue. This feels like they are both walking on a tight rope and the smallest gust of wind could unbalance them. Instead of stating some empty reassurance, he takes a step closer, so that their legs and hips are brushing. His heart is breaking, hearing Sherlock admit to things he had suspected for a long time.

"Rehab wasn't your typical rehab," Sherlock mutters, his voice reduced to a faint murmur. "It was Mycroft's rehab. I wasn't a willing participant, as you might have guessed, but it did save my life, though. I owe him my life. Come to think of it, I never thanked him."

With an impatient gesture, Sherlock wipes the tears on his cheeks. "Well, look at me. I'm pathetic."

"No, you aren't."

"I still used after that, but very rarely, when boredom or depression were eating at me from the inside. Nevertheless, what I meant to say is...not being in control is not only about my emotions. It reminds me of a version of myself that I hate, and that frightens me, even more so now that I value my life because you and our daughter are part of it. I don't want Sage's birth to be tainted with those memories. I do not want to reach a point where there is that horrible sensation of not being able to contain myself, feeling like I am not retained by my carnal envelope anymore and that my mind is spilling, away from me and..."

The look Sherlock gives John is so frightened, so fragile, that he cannot help himself. He grabs him by the shoulders and holds him tight, as if he is trying to keep him whole. It's an awkward hug, with Sherlock twisted to the side, tensed and trembling in John's arm.

"It won't happen," John declares firmly.

"You cannot be certain."

"I am. Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

"Implicitly."

"Look at me."

It takes a couple of seconds before Sherlock lifts his head. Even then, it seems to be with great effort. He looks down at John, waiting avidly for reassurance, and his trust is once again complete and pure -naive, some would say. Whatever. They aren't geniuses.

"I am certain of it."

"What you are doing is positive reinforcement," Sherlock whispers. "It is impossible to be a hundred percent certain." He tilts his head and kisses him, soft and affectionate. "However, your belief is enough for me."

John smiles. "You will be amazing. Because you always are."

Sherlock blushes adorably. "I propose we head home, now, because I am in need of a thorough fucking.”

John's balls actually clench at Sherlock's declaration, such dirty words coming from his lovely mouth. And Sherlock, the smug bastard, knows exactly what he's doing, if his I'm-so-clever smirk is any indication.

::: :::

Each time John pushes in the tight, soft, warm channel, Sherlock trembles from head to toes, giving a soft, high-pitched moan. John keeps the pace slow, driving his shaft as deep as he can, then pulling back until the head of his cock catches the rim of Sherlock's anus. It's the first time they have had penetrative sex in two months. The intensity remains the same -yet it feels different now that Sherlock is so advanced in his pregnancy. Different, but fuck, just as amazing.

As soon as they had entered the flat, Sherlock had started to undress, dropping items of clothing like clues on his way to the bedroom. His smug expression has disappeared. He had dragged John onto the bed, his eyes dark and lips trembling. "Please, John. Please, hurry, I need it."

He is kneeling on the bed, holding on the tall bedpost in a vertical position, cushions pressed under his belly, and John can see, when he peeks over his shoulders, the pink, sticky head of his penis pressed against the fabric in a pool of precome. John can't remember a time where he had leaked so much. The same flow drips from his arsehole; John's cock is covered with it, and the wet, sucking noise it creates with each push and pull is dirty and obscene, so incredibly erotic.

"I am going to come soon," Sherlock whines, turning his head to the side. "John, please, stop, I want it to last. Make it last."

John buries himself until his sac makes a slapping noise against Sherlock's skin and stops moving. He lets go of Sherlock's hip to tug on his own balls, wishing his orgasm away. He feels like he's been on the verge of coming ever since they began. Taking a deep breath, he keeps playing with Sherlock's wet curls, then angles his head to catch Sherlock's mouth. It's clumsy and uncoordinated, but Sherlock moans into it and keeps going, licking at the inside of John's mouth, letting go of one bedpost to tease and pinch at his own nipples, one after the other, letting out a soft grunt each time he puts more pressure. He's lust and love personified, so full not only of John's cock, but also his child. And as soon as John's urge starts ebbing away, he slides his arm around Sherlock's belly and caresses it in long circling motions. His lover. His baby. Jesus, John's mind provides him with a steady flow of dirty poetry.

Sherlock breaks the kiss to catch his breath and tilts his head backward, letting it rest on John's shoulder. "Love you, John, my John, so very much," he rasps, his body crossed by a violent shiver when John tugs on a thick curl.

"Love you too, fuck, Sherlock, always. It's always so brilliant to make love to you."

"Missed it," Sherlock admits.

John has missed it too. There have been plenty of cuddling sessions lately, to compensate for Sherlock's lack of sexual drive, but it is now, in the middle of it, that John feels it in his guts, how much he needs the proximity, the emotional and physical connection they have in these moments. He pulls back, oh so slowly, and circles his hips before pushing deep. A groan escapes his lips. His hand is still on Sherlock's belly, and John cannot remember a time where he's felt so close to Sherlock, as if he is about to lose himself, his identity, in favour of becoming part of a whole - Sherlock, and him, and the baby they made together.

"Yessss," Sherlock moans. "Yesss, don't... don't go too f-fast, John, I want... Oh, I want you in me all the time, I wish we c-could stay... like this... Because... hun... I am never scared of losing control when you take me ap-part, you... you are always there to pull me back together..."

Leave it to Sherlock to say such lovely words, like whispered secrets, when they are like that. He's more romantic than John will ever be, because he doesn't know how to be otherwise.

John settles the rhythm, even slower than before, waiting for a few, languorous seconds when he's deep inside Sherlock, pulling back, then circling his hips, before starting all over again. Sherlock's moans have wrecked his voice, and it's raw, scratchy, as he keeps praising John.

"You make me crazy," John admits, forehead resting between Sherlock's shoulder blades, panting loudly. "Your... your body is amazing, oh god, you have no idea how sexy you are, full with my baby."

"I can feel my prostate each time you rub it and it's so swollen, and throbbing and-"

Sherlock tenses suddenly, letting out a surprised cry. "Oh John, it's... I cannot stop it it's coming and it's coming fast," he babbles in a panicked voice. "Faster, please, faster, need to, gonna-"

Sherlock doesn't wait, he's already moving against John's hips, his pelvis tilting forward, then backward in a desperate attempt to take control. John doesn't have to be told twice. He grabs Sherlock's hips with both hands and moves, pushing and pulling and again, faster, stronger... and, in just a few seconds...

Sherlock comes, his cock untouched. He freezes, his chin resting on his chest, as his anal muscles twitch in a violent spasm before tightening like a vice. Then, when he lets go for good, it's with a wail that rises, louder, higher. Sherlock's losing control of his body, allowing himself to, and the pleasure spasms wrenching it are so violent John cannot control his own orgasm. It takes over him so fast he cannot breathe anymore. His vision whites out. For a moment, he doesn't know who's groaning and who's moaning, his limbs tangled with Sherlock's in a mess of muscles tensing and relaxing and trembling. It's fierce, passionate love-making; and on an emotional level, it feels like a communion, as if they finally succeeded, and have become one.

John doesn't quite know how it happens, but he manages to pull off Sherlock and lies them down on the bed, right on the wet spot and unable to care, him spooning Sherlock's trembling body, caressing his hair and rubbing his belly. John finds he has tears clinging to his lashes, and cannot remember ever crying during sex.

Sherlock is panting, hard, letting out harsh, dry groans with a hint of distress in them.

"Relax," John coaxes, his voice completely wrecked. "I've got you, darling. I'm right here."

Sherlock nods and grabs John's hand, hugging it hard. He has a long, hiccupping sigh. "Juh-John," he whispers. "John, please..."

"Come on now, you're fine. It's all fine. You said it yourself, remember? I’ve always got you."

This time, Sherlock cannot relax so easily. It has been a while since he's been so overwhelmed after sex, and it's not surprising. Tonight was something else, not only physical but emotional. John suspects it is all their talk about Sherlock's fear of losing control, and all the reassurance he tried to put in their love-making. So he keeps caressing Sherlock's hair, murmuring silly love names here and there. Sherlock hiccups once more, that particular breath he does when he chokes back a sob, but finally, finally, he begins to relax.

"You put me back together, again," he says, voice very soft. "Thank you, John."

"Don't thank me. That's my job. Taking care of you."

Sherlock begins to turn. It is evident he wants to face John, and also evident he’s having trouble manoeuvring his clumsy, spent body. John helps, as gently as he can, unable to hide his smile at Sherlock, rolling his eyes at himself in exasperation, short of breath as much from the sex than from the simple act of rolling in bed.

"You know, John. We are incredibly melodramatic tonight."

"Yeah..." John agrees, unable to resist brushing the curls covering Sherlock's forehead. "Because we are disgustingly in love."

"We are, aren't we?" Sherlock asks, and it's meant to be an affirmation, not a question, but there is still a hint of insecurity -always- in his voice, and really, what he meant was : "You love me, do you?"

"Oh, there will be songs written about us, you daft git."

Sherlock snorts.

"I thought about my labour tonight, during that awful class. It is surprising, I have to admit, that I could concentrate enough for the case to take a farther spot in my mind. A lot of what the nurse said in her ridiculous power point expose made me wonder... what I really wanted."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I was serious about the epidural, John. There has been great progress made in recent years with that technique. It is now easier to control the intensity of the anaesthesia while..."

"Sherlock," John cuts in, when he hears his voice accelerating and his eyes take that nervous reflection. "Why are you justifying yourself? I agree with you. It is a good way to remain active during the birth without suffering, or not as much. And before you begin to question yourself, it is in no way a sign of weakness, or cowardice, to wish to be able to experience birth without being overwhelmed by pain.”

Sherlock frowns. "I am the one reading the other's thoughts in our couple, remember?"

"Well... I learned from the best."

"Maybe... maybe I'll become a bit... irrational during the more painful phase, and if it happens, if suddenly, I'm pleading for drugs instead of the anaesthesia, please remind me I'm an ex-addict."

"No problem."

"Good."

Sherlock yawns so loud his jaw snaps. He blinks lazily.

"You're going to fall asleep on me, aren't you?"

"Well, that is what one is supposed to do at night," Sherlock mocks in a tired voice.

"Don't forget, we have another class next week."

"What are you talking about? Surely you do not mean to go back, after tonight's disaster."

"Sherlock." John props himself on one elbow, his chin in the palm of his hand. "You just literally admitted that the class got you to think about what you wanted."

"I also said 'ridiculous' and 'awful' at some point."

"Don't be so obtuse. First, there is no telling the red head will be there: remember, it isn't a structured program, we might be with an entirely new set of couples. Second, we need that class."

Sherlock nods and sighs, loud enough that Mrs. Hudson might have heard him. "What is it about?"

"Caring for a new born. Given that neither you, nor I, have ever been in the presence of a baby, let alone taken care of it, I deemed that class essential. I mean, just dressing them seems so bloody complicated. Did you noticed how many poppers there are on some of the pyjamas we bought, only between the legs?... The other day, I hum..." John clears his throat. He hadn't planned to admit it, but now it is too late. "I opened one, the green and yellow with the matching bib. And then I tried to close it back. The poppers are minuscule, I could barely work them, and my hands are smaller than yours!"

John stretches his hand, fingers splayed, in front of Sherlock. He smirks. "Yes, but my hands are much more agile."

"Always so modest," John mocks. "I would like to see you try. Anyway, it took me twelve minutes to succeed. The hum... crotch region is especially challenging."

"Twelve minutes, challenge accepted."

Sherlock is already squirming to sit up. John presses softly on his shoulder. "You were about to fall asleep not even five minutes ago. You can always humiliate me tomorrow."

"Not so much humiliate as prove that being a violinist has all sorts of perks."

Whenever Sherlock is so determined, it is impossible to make him change his mind.

::: :::

He finishes the tasks in fourteen minutes.

John lifts a victorious fist...

...And sleeps on the couch that night. Luckily, it is a very, very comfortable couch.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

This case had been different from the beginning for various reasons, none of which were its weirdness, despite that being one of the main attractions of cases where Sherlock is involved. It gets under Sherlock's skin, deeply enough that John can feel it reverberate, like a vibration of sadness and melancholy reaching him when he comes close to the detective.

In the end, it does not take long until Sherlock is mobile again. After they visit Le Pouce Vert, there are a few cab runs, a couple of shouting matches with Lestrade and two hours of forced rest ordered by John at the end of the afternoon of that heavily humid day, when a series of Braxton Hicks contractions, which start right after he had harshly reminded to Andersen as to how to do his job, scare the hell out of Sherlock.

Being snappy and impatient on a case is far from exceptional for Sherlock, but there is almost always something positive underneath: excitement and trepidation, riding the high of having his intelligence defied, at last. This time, though, there is nothing of the sort. John cannot tell if the nature of the case, with its almost religious setting of a mother-and-child imagery being its most striking feature, or Sherlock not being well. He's hot and sore, short of breath, his feet so swollen he's had to wear a pair of trainers in lieu of his usual expensive leather shoes -and even then, he couldn't (well, John couldn't, as it is now physically impossible for Sherlock to lace his own shoes) lace them properly. This detail is what seems to set his mood, early in the day as they get ready to leave the flat. John knows, of course, that carriers last trimesters are known to be difficult and not well tolerated. Medically speaking, it isn't that the symptoms differ from women’s pregnancies, it is that they tend to manifest earlier during the trimester, and to be more acute.

Sherlock isn't one to complain about every little glitch his body encounters, except when he is in the mood to bask in John's attention, but for a doctor used to diagnosing people every day, there is no need for words to deduce the reason of a peculiar posture, a grimace, or a quiet groan. Nothing is out of the ordinary at this point, but it is hard not to worry. It doesn't take much for "Doctor Watson" to be shut down by "Sherlock's fiancé", who's the prominent figure between the two. Plus, it is not like John has had a pregnant wife, a close friend or family member before Sherlock to compare the symptoms.

Long story short, John knows, early on that it will be a difficult day. He's crouching on the floor helping Sherlock into his trainers and dares to remark that even with these shoes, the laces aren't long enough to tie in together. The kick on the chin he receives -accidental, of course- seems a bit extreme, even from Sherlock.

Whether it is because of the nature of the case or Sherlock's state, what does it matter in the end? John will have to resort to the role of shock-absorbing cushion.

It is a hellish day. And not only for Sherlock, if Lestrade's whispered commentary to John, mid-afternoon is any indication. "I hope no one dare dies in a fancy fashion before he gets this baby out."

(Which would have sounded incredibly insensitive in any other circumstance, but when you work on solving crime, you get all new measures for inappropriate jokes. Hence John's frank laugh at the poor D.I.’s confession).

It hadn't been hard to get information from the owner of the botanic shop. For the first time, they have been able to put a name to the human remains found near Bowes Park. Her name was Camila Jones, and she had been working at the shop for three years. She had a light Spanish accent and was very shy, even with the clients. The owner, a woman with flamboyant white hair and glasses artfully perched on the tip of her nose, says she kept her because she was doing wonders in the green house. Laurie Afton had lost some of her composure when Sherlock had pointed out the fact that she was paying her under the counter, so it really was a win-win situation, wasn't it?

Camila was secretive, and Afton had learned not to ask question because she rarely received answers to them. She must have been celibate because she had never mentioned otherwise, and since she had been paid in cash, Laurie Afton didn't even have an address, only the number of a mobile phone -which turned out to be deactivated when Sherlock had tried it.

She had stopped working at the shop eighteen months ago, telling Afton she had health problems and needed to take some time off. "She never came back. I told her I would reengage her any time, but she never showed up. I wonder if her health problems were serious... She actually seemed to have put on a little weight in the last month, which wasn't a bad sign wasn't it?"

Or she was pregnant, Sherlock had dropped coldly, leaving Laurie Afton looking slightly shocked behind her then skewed glasses.

Camila didn't like to have her picture taken, it appeared, but she was featured on a couple of photos taken the week they had been renovating the shop, by Laurie Afton's niece. The best one shows the profile of a woman with dark hair and pretty features, half hidden behind a pot plant.

The picture was not all that clear, and it would be difficult to identify anyone by those standards. It was one of the reasons for the fight Sherlock and Lestrade had had after the interview. Lestrade had trouble seeing how irrefutable the proof was that the mysterious worker at Le Pouce Vert was, without a doubt, the victim they were looking for. They wouldn't be sure until they found the baby she had or the father, unless they found something at the shop to compare the DNA they had extracted from the body. Anderson's team was already sweeping the shop. Sherlock had pointed out all the clues that had led them to the shop, and explained in a voice too quick for anyone to catch every word of it, how a simple mathematical formula about factors of correspondence meant he was right. Then, he had called a cab and dragged John with him, keeping silent despite Lestrade's questions.

There wasn't air conditioning in the cab. Sherlock and John were literally dripping sweat when they had exited it, and Sherlock had had to sit for a while, trying to catch his breath and snapping at John for suggesting going back to the flat.

He had a plan, of course. They had visited the three closest hospitals and looked at the birth register -each time, John had been the one dealing with the administrator and getting Scotland Yard on the phone for them to get the permission. He doubted they would find anything, but Sherlock was pretty sure of himself. And then, yes, they had found what they had been looking for at the last hospital; the record of a little girl whose birth corresponded to the window Sherlock had established, taking all the fact into account. Her mother had registered under Camila Beeks, wife of Stephen Beeks. Another Spanish woman had given birth in the first hospital they had visited, around the same time, but she had been registered as a legal immigrant ten years prior. Now, with the first name being the same as the one she had given to Laurie Afton, Sherlock -and John, to a point- had been certain he had found their unidentified woman's child and husband. The baby had been called Sophie Alba Beeks. Sherlock had read her name in a very soft, very low voice, completely oblivious, apparently, that he was rubbing his belly at the same time.

The address was three street corners away from Le Pouce Vert. As Sherlock and John were being cautious not to put themselves in danger, after what had happened to John a couple of months ago, they had proceeded as Lestrade always wanted them to and called him. He had been the first one to arrive, and was waiting for them with bad news. The family living there had bought the house from Stephen Beeks six months ago, and had no idea where he had moved. The neighbours didn't know either, but Lestrade had called some more officers to interview everyone living in the small street.

Anderson had appeared out of nowhere, coming from the shop where his team had finished their work. John hadn't even heard what stupid statement coming from him had triggered Sherlock's anger. He had just been there in time to see his face turn white as he had lay back to lean on the side of the police car, feeling a contraction.

Overall, a hellish day alright.

Sherlock states it himself in a low, scratchy voice. It is close to five pm, he's lying on his left side (it is always the preferred position to stop false contractions because it allows a better blood flow) on the sofa, strangely immobile, as if to avoid generating the slightest excuse for his body to go back into labour-practice mode.

"It's fine," John reassures him. "It's been forty minutes."

It becomes scary, sometimes, how often their conversations happen half out loud, half in their heads.

"Thirty-seven," Sherlock corrects.

"Want more water?"

"No."

Sherlock's eyes still give off that cornered animal fear.

"It's fine, you know,” John reassures him, sitting heavily on the coffee table, "it is bound to happen more and more. Remember, your muscles are practicing before-"

"The real thing," Sherlock cuts him off harshly. "John, what am I, five? Muscles aren't sentient, they do not 'exercise' consciously. It is more likely a series of electric signals coming from the brain that-"

"Ok, right, you get the general idea, great," John replies as harshly. "Shame on me for trying to reassure my insecure pregnant fiancé who, might I point out, was swearing he was going to kill Anderson if his daughter was to be born prematurely not even two hours ago."

Sherlock glares at John, and his face turns red alarmingly quickly.

John regrets immediately. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-"

"You have the patience of a saint, and I deserved far worse," Sherlock dismisses John's apology with a lazy hand gesture. "I am insecure. As for Anderson, you needn't worry. I am regularly overcome with the violent desire to terminate his life, and so far, I have been capable of restraining myself. If barely."

His mouth quirks up a bit to the left, and John cannot resist the malicious flicker of light in his eyes -never could, as a matter of fact. He smiles too. "That is a shame, although giving birth in prison probably wouldn't meet your standards."

Then he swallows Sherlock's giggle by kissing him, covering his belly with his arm. The silence between them is peaceful while they remain in that awkward embrace for several minutes. Sherlock nuzzles John's neck, sucks lightly at the sensitive skin, keeping his mouth there afterward, the warm, delicate skin of his lips barely making contact.

"Besides, I am the one who should apologise," Sherlock admits, breaking their silent embrace. "I haven't been on my best behaviour today.”

"Apology accepted," John replies simply.

"I hate this case. I cannot wait for it to be over."

"Tomorrow, surely, Lestrade will have found out where Beeks went."

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and begins to sit up. John grabs his arm to help. It's become an automatic reflex. They both land with an "ouf!"

"What is it, Sherlock?" John cannot hide his exasperation. Sherlock definitely has something to say about finding Beeks and meeting him. Tomorrow.

Oh. Of course...

Well, John is not an idiot. And he knows Sherlock has had plenty of time to find Beek's new address, lying down with his phone.

"I relaxed, like you told me," Sherlock protests. "And it was... relaxing, finding the man's address. Helped my brain to focus on something other than early labour and such."

John nods. "Where is he?"

"Still in London," Sherlock shows John a tiny dot on his gps map. “Not even ten minutes away from here if we take a cab."

"...And you want to go. Tonight. Without Lestrade."

"Yes," Sherlock admits bluntly. "Nevertheless, if you think we should wait until tomorrow, I will follow your lead."

Sherlock looks straight at John, and there is no frenzy or impatience in his eyes. He's sincere. It might not please him, but he is.

"Could be dangerous, Sherlock."

"If there is the smallest hint of danger we'll call Lestrade. Besides, I do not think Camila Jones, or whatever her real name was, has suffered a violent death. I am almost certain she hasn't been murdered at all, as a matter of fact."

"Then what happened to her?"

"We need Stephen Beeks to fill the holes left in my theory."

John hesitates, but not for long. He does not feel like being surrounded by police officers and playing third wheel to Sherlock and Lestrade. Besides, it is evident Sherlock isn't in his normal case-solving state, tired and obsessed by the hidden truth. He just wants to be able to close the file in his head. That, too, John can understand.

"I want you to eat a little something before we go."

Sherlock seems surprised by John's answer. He was evidently preparing for a negative one. It seems to trigger a wave of self-doubt, which he hardly hides, as both of his hands reach for his stomach, cupping it almost wholly, stretching his fingers.

"So, hmm... Despite the contractions I've had, you think it wise to..."

"Wise? Maybe not. But reasonable," John adds when Sherlock is about to interrupt him. "Listen, my answer has nothing to do with you experiencing that batch of Braxton Hicks contractions -not contractions for real, do not forget it. I know they stress you, but it is a completely normal process, bound to happen frequently in the coming weeks. Yes, they sometimes can be triggered by tiredness, just like today, but you did rest, and they stopped. Right?"

Sherlock nods curtly, and the last glimmer of fear disappears from his pale gaze.

“While I think it’s not wise but reasonable to visit this Beeks guy tonight, you are the genius after all, and you would never have suggested it if you weren't convinced there was no danger, not after my...um... incident with that knife-wielding girl."

"Incident? You could have died in minutes," Sherlock replies, dead serious. "Help me up."

John does. "You have become quite reasonable yourself, Sherlock, do you at least realise it? You have more consideration for your own life, which cannot be seen as something other than an improvement.”

Sherlock, after a false start that has John catch his waist before he lands back on the couch, makes his way slowly, in that adorable -in John's opinion, at least- slightly waddled gait that is now his. "It is barely worth of mentioning. I have not become a better person. I am forced to consider that my life goes on par with our daughter's," he dismisses it, opening the fridge. "My own life does not belong to me, John, that is what I learned, if you want honesty. Wasn't there some Chinese leftover?”

"Nope. You ate it last night when you couldn't sleep."

Sherlock's blushing face appears over the opened fridge door. "Well. I was hungry."

"Hey, I did not criticise," John laughs, arms opened in surrender.

He bends down to kiss Sherlock's embarrassment away, and stays close to him, their faces inches away from the other. "If what you learned prevents you from jumping in front of danger without thinking, it works for me. And, of course your life is not your own. It's mine," he whispers.

The blush takes a darker taint. Sherlock, annoyed by his own reaction, shakes his head, as if to order his blood to behave normally. "I need to eat, John. What do you suggest?"

"I can-"

"Order in. Greek. It's the fastest. We can have supper and be at Beek's door in less than two hours."

So. Greek it is.

::: :::
::: ::::

"We've found your wife, Mr. Beeks."

It is the first thing Sherlock says when John is done with the presentation. Stephen Beeks, a middle-aged man with soft features and huge, sad eyes, nods, showing no surprise, fear or shock. Nothing. It is clear he knows who they are, because he steps to the side and lets them in, asking them to be quiet since he's just put his baby daughter to bed.

"How old is she?" Sherlock asks.

"Almost one year old."

In the hallway, while they walk toward the living room, a timid head peaks out of a door to their left. It's a young woman with the typical features of someone with Down syndrome. As soon as John looks at her, she lowers her head, her thin, almost baby-soft pale hair falling into her eyes. Sherlock observes her with interest, and something almost imperceptible washes over his face, like a half second of enlightenment.

"It's okay, lovely, these men are here to speak with me," Beeks says. For the first time, nervousness appears in his eyes, and his tone changes from resignation to uneasiness. Which is understandable. He does not want his eldest daughter to be drawn into the drama that is surely about to take place. "This is my daughter Angie," he says reluctantly, as Sherlock has stopped moving. "From a first marriage."

Beeks then takes a couple of steps forward to get them to move, and John is about to follow when the door opens completely, and Angie takes a little step toward Sherlock.

"You have a baby," she says, tilting her head to look at him from under a strand of hair.

Sherlock blushes bright red. "Yes, I do."

John knows that Sherlock does his best to avoid people with an intellectual disability and young children during cases. He's often incapable of finding to right tone to reach them, and it's always been a source of frustration and embarrassment.

"Angie," Beeks warns, "it isn't polite to go about asking that sort of question to-"

"It's alright," Sherlock cuts him off curtly. "I am indeed pregnant, there is no problem in Angie stating a fact."

"I like babies," the young woman admits.

She stretches a short, chubby hand toward Sherlock's belly. To John's absolute surprise, he does not move. If there is one thing Sherlock hates since his pregnancy has started showing is random people asking if they can touch his stomach (most of them being older women for some mysterious reason.) He has trouble standing being touched by people normally, but now pregnant, his uneasiness has tripled. He's insulted at least four different women, lecturing them about not going around asking randomly to touch strangers. One cried, and John had to console her.

"Go ahead," Sherlock tells Angie, taking a step forward. "I do not mind."

John's mouth drops open just like in a cartoon.

Angie softly brushes her fingers over Sherlock's belly. He takes her hand and presses on it so she can really feel.

"It's hard," the girl says, smiling up at him brightly.

"It's because it is quite full," Sherlock explains. John notices he doesn’t talk down to her, but uses simpler words than usual.

Sherlock moves Angie's hand to the side, then up, explaining how the baby is positioned. Near his chest, where the bump starts to swell, he winks at her. "And now you are touching my little girl's bum."

He smiles, seeing Angie giggling.

John wonders when exactly his Sherlock has been replaced by a friendly doppelganger. There must be something to explain his behaviour. It is not that he is incapable of any interaction with people that are a little different, or that he hasn't tamed his emotional side enough to behave normally in those kind of situations - John would be an arsehole if he thought that way, as a matter of fact... Still, this is one of his tactics, when he wants to ply someone for information; he wants Angie on his side.

Has he figured out something in the last two minutes John hasn't? Well, asking the question is answering it, really. John just cannot figure out how Angela would be implicated in the case.

Angie has withdrawn her hand and is now babbling full-speed. What is Sherlock's name, is he a friend of her daddy, and is John his boyfriend because she knows boys can be boyfriends and oh, does he want to visit her room? It's a quite pretty room.

John cannot help being amused, seeing how Angie has grabbed Sherlock's hand and is trying to tug him backward.

"Angie, stop it, these gentlemen do not have the time for-"

"Oh, I suppose I can spare five minutes," Sherlock says, speaking over Beeks again. "If it is truly a pretty room."

"I swear it is!" Angie says, excitement making her spit with each word.

John catches Sherlock's knowing look while he lets her drag him inside. It is clear now he's onto something, something he cannot share with John just yet. All it takes is a quick stare into each other's eyes and John nods imperceptibly, knowing what has to be done. He must reassure Beeks about Sherlock's intention and keep him out of the way for as long as Sherlock needs.

"I was wondering if you would be kind enough to offer me a glass of water," he asks politely.

Beeks sights. His lips are reduced to a thin white line, his eyes still staring at his daughter's room door.

"My daughter must not be distraught. She is easily excitable," he protests.

"You know Sherlock Holmes," John says reassuringly, pressing Beeks to get on the move by trying to take a step forward in the narrow hallway. "Trust me when I say he can handle it perfectly."

Perfectly? Maybe not. Sherlock's uneasiness was almost palpable. John is curious, but he has a job to do, so he keeps on walking, and after a few more seconds of hesitation, Beeks leads the way to the kitchen.

Sherlock takes a little more than ten minutes in the young woman's room. When he joins them in the living room, John is struggling to keep the conversation going. Luckily for him, Sherlock wastes no time. He's filled with nervous energy, which means he has probably solved the case already.

John helps him sit while Sherlock, oblivious, stares at two pictures on the wall, letting himself be guided down onto the couch. The first photo is of a pretty woman with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. The second is the portrait of a baby girl that might be six to eight months old. She has a fair complexion and her father's wide blue eyes. The only thing Sophie Beeks seems to have inherited from her mother is her full, heart-shaped mouth.

"Her name wasn't Camila but Alexandra," Sherlock tells Beeks without turning his eyes away from the picture.

"Alexandra Jez, yes."

"Her mother was Argentinian, her father European?"

"Polish."

Sherlock gives John a short but triumphant look. He had predicted it. "The newspapers were silent about the body that was discovered; not enough information to ask for the public's help so Scotland Yard kept it to itself. But you know your wife is dead, Mr. Beeks. And you know where her body was found."

Beek’s eyes have taken on a strange dead stare, although they are wider than ever. When he answers, it's in a monotonous, detached tone. "She's been dead for more than ten months now."

He then gives the address of the abandoned building and the floor where the body had been found. "I did not kill her. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I would've never hurt Alex."

"I know you did not kill her," Sherlock says calmly, still staring at the photographs. "My companion," he points at John, "has a very imaginative mind, and it would be selfish of me to keep him from the interest of a tragic love story. So please, proceed. From the beginning."

Beeks speaks. It is peculiar, John thinks, how you can unravel the essence of a person's life in a ten-minute speech. He met Alexandra Jez at the little gardening shop. It had been love at first sight. He knew her as Camila, and it was only when he had suggested they could regulate her situation that she admitted she was on the run. She was the daughter of a Polish diplomat who was a psychopath that exerted complete control over her and her mother. She had tried to run when she'd been a teenager, but he had successfully used his numerous connections to have her back. There was no type of abuse - sexual, physical or psychological - she hadn't been submitted to. And although she'd been in England for a year at that point, and her father, who had suffered a stroke a month before her second tentative to escape him, wasn't as capable as he used to, she was still living in fear, constantly. Beeks had tried to help her at first, suggesting they could go to the embassy, explain her story to immigration. She said if he continued to insist one morning he would wake up and she would be gone. He also tried to get her to see a psychologist: her fear wasn't "normal" according to Beeks. It was too much. She was always watching her back, refused to do anything social, and only left the house to work, or when she was forced to.

Sherlock interrupts for the first time. "General anxiety disorder coupled with a form of PTSD, most probably. Paranoïa."

Beeks grimaced. He apparently does not like the term.

He loved her, and she kept saying the only time she ever felt safe was with him. Then, she fell pregnant, and it seemed that, for a while, she was more relaxed, almost happy. She agreed to go to all of her doctor's appointment and even took a prenatal class with Beeks. She was excited to be a mother. After the baby's birth, though, things took a turn for the worst. She was transferring her fears to Sophie, and began to worry that if her father found her, what would happen to the baby? Despite Stephen Beeks' promising he would protect them both, she refused to hire a nanny, or to go back to work, and left the house even less often. She loved Sophie, but she expressed, on more than one occasion, regret at have given birth to her, to have condemned her to a life of fear. Beeks knew she was mentally unstable, and he kept telling himself she needed professional help.

"But you did nothing," Sherlock cuts him off, his voice cold and his eyes sharp, now staring straight at Beeks who seems to crumble on himself.

"I was... Sometimes, I believed she was right. I never knew her father: what if he really was the monster she described, what if I exposed her by having her admitted to a mental facility against her will... It..."

"Folie à deux, Mr Beeks, you know that term?"

"Never heard it before."

"It is when a couple, or two people who are emotionally close and dependant of each other, experience a situation when one of them suffers a psychotic event, or acute mental illness, and contaminates the other. It's the psychological equivalent of a contagious illness. If you hadn't been contaminated by her psychotic thoughts, you would have done something when her state got worse, caused by what must have been a severe post-partum depression. "

Tears start to run down Beeks' pale cheeks. He nods.

"How did she kill herself?" Sherlock asks, trying to sound at least a little sympathetic, but John can read the physical signs, knows it is one of those case where Sherlock gets so angry at other people's "stupidity", as he calls it. Lives lost because of idiotic decisions, for absolutely no reason, he often says in these occasions.

Beeks had found her dead one day when he returned from work. She had chosen a Wednesday, because she knew Angie had an art class and wouldn't be back before Stephen. There were pills and alcohol on the bedside table. She had left a note, a note that was perfectly in harmony with her character. She couldn't go on, but she feared for Sophie's life. She pleaded for Beeks to dispose of her body so that there would be no record, no paper trail. That was the ultimate gift she could make to her daughter, she had written, freeing her from herself and her past.

And Beeks did what she asked. He admits he felt like it wasn't him, disposing of the body, as if he was observing everything from outside his body. His mother knew. She knew who Alexandra was, and she had agreed to help, staying home that night to watch over Sophie.

"And Angela," Sherlock added.

Beeks stops mid-sob, and blinks at him, several times. "...And Angela," he murmurs.

"That is what I thought," Sherlock says quickly. "John, help me up."

A bit confused by the silent conversation happening between Beeks and Sherlock, John nevertheless complies without a word.

"It pains me to see the ridiculous lengths you have gone to, to cover yourself and make it seem like she had been the victim of some... improbable serial killer. Did you find the idea in one of those idiotic thrillers they sell in every airport, Mr. Beeks? The doll, the writing on the wall, the rocking chair, you really think you could fool Scotland Yard? Well," Sherlock chuckles, "Scotland Yard working with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Apparently not," Beeks says, except... it has the intonation of a question.

"You are a building inspector for the city, which means you knew where to hide the body in a place it wasn't likely to be found... not immediately."

"How do you...?"

Sherlock explains, his voice quick and tinted with a tad of condescension, how he deduced it by the hints he got from Beeks himself, and around the house. However, John, who - he's not ashamed to admit - still loves those quick-fire deductions just as much as the first day, is distracted. Something is wrong. Sherlock seems to be acting... playing his own role, with just a bit of... too much.

"What did you tell your friends... Although I figure, by your late wife's behaviour, you didn't have many friends left anymore. Travel? Divorce? Ran off with another man?

"I told them that Alexandra, or Camila, as the rare acquaintances we had knew her, had to go back to Argentina to take care of her sick mother. Afterwards, I... made sure to cut ties with most people I knew that were more than simple co-workers, and I moved to another area. No one ever asked, you know? Sometimes it feels as if she never existed." Stephen Beeks adds, tears starting to flow again. "I have kept the note, Mr. Holmes."

"I know you have. Please, keep it. For now, that is our best proof that you didn't have anything to do with your wife's death. I will take care of speaking to the police first. The chaps at Scotland Yard can be quite thick, but they listen to me. You should be able to at least avoid prison. If you are intelligent enough to follow my lead, that is. Keep to your story, simply explain exactly what you told us. Do not add unnecessary details."

Stephen Beeks nods.

"John, will you call a cab, we are done here," Sherlock turns toward him, and John, who is still confused by how fishy this whole conversation has been, jumps in surprise.

"Yes, hum... right. I'm... calling."

He does not miss, though, how Beeks insists on shaking Sherlock's hand, and thank him with conviction.

::: :::

Sherlock is silent, looking out the window, for the first few minutes of the cab ride. He isn't locking himself away, as he has taken John's hand and is holding it, playing with his fingers.

John, for himself, replays the whole visit in his head, and it suddenly the solution appears to him. It was quite easy, come to think of it. He's an idiot.

"Angie was there," he says, after shutting the window of the glass panel. "That... set up, it wasn't Beeks trying to mimic a crazy killer."

"Very good, John," Sherlock murmurs, giving him a lopsided smile.

"How did you put it together?"

"It was a gesture of love: the doll, the clothes, the rocking chair... but something a child, or well," Sherlock makes a vague hand gesture," you know, would have done. When I saw Angela, I immediately though of the writing on the wall -which was the most puzzling element, nevertheless. I could picture her surprising her father as he carried the body to his car, and insisting on going with him. Alexandra Jez had apparently a lot of affection for Angie, and Angie called her "mommy Alex." There were drawings hung on the wall of her room, and Alexandra was always there, holding Angela's hand. "

"Well, that isn't heartbreaking at all," John murmurs.

Sherlock nods.

"Did you just ask her or...?"

"Oh, I could put the missing pieces together; asking without really asking. Angie only partially understands the concept of death. She thought, since Alexandra was spending so much time taking care of her infant, she would be lonely without her. Hence the doll. The rocking chair was a bit farfetched, in the line of thinking Angie is capable of, so she must have seen it in the building, maybe on the side of the street, or in another room. What was still a mystery was the Sussex Vampire. Why would she have the idea of writing such a thing on the wall?"

"Why indeed."

"It was a game Angie played with others at the day centre for people with an intellectual disability she attends. It is a role-playing game, with several characters, like The London Werewolf and the Worchester Ghoul. It is supposed to teach them about the geography of England, with monsters that visit each other until they collect all the train tickets. Quite clever and imaginative geography lessons, wouldn't you say?"

"Must have been created by one of the educators, because I've never heard of it."

"Yes. Anyhow, Angie's favorite character was the Sussex Vampire. She liked it because the costume was the scariest. She borrowed it each Halloween and confided that she wasn't scared of anything while wearing it, because it was magic. Angie's intelligence might not be typical, but she understood a lot more than her father and stepmother gave her credit for. She was also tainted by Alexandra Jez's irrational fears. My theory is that she saw her signature on the wall like some sort of magic spell, that would protect her stepmother's corpse, because she could not see it as a corpse, not completely."

John is impressed, and at the same time, hit by the incredible sadness of this case. He loses himself in his own thoughts as their cab grinds to a halt in the traffic. It is Sherlock who speaks next.

"It would be uselessly traumatic to implicate Angela Beeks in the case. There was no murder, after all. I know Lestrade will believe my explanation without asking too many questions. He is tired of this case - and of me. He will comply, I am certain."

John takes a long look at Sherlock. "You do not usually get involved in the consequences of a case, on what solving it really means for the people implicated."

"John, please... Let's not discuss that."

"Are you serious? You will plead in Beeks' favour with Greg, I know that, trying to diminish his responsibility as much as you can. And you've protected Angela from something that no one would hold her responsible for, and spared her from a traumatic series of police visits, and interrogations. At least a couple of Scotland Yard's psychologists would want to evaluate her. They would most probably involve social services and there is no saying if a man who disposed of the body of his wife with his intellectually disabled daughter would get to keep her at all. And Sophie, too, would probably be taken away from him. You saved that family, Sherlock."

"Because it is all so very stupid!" Sherlock shouts, lifting both arms. Trust Sherlock to get angry at the discovery of a true and impartial good action on his part. "It... this man, Beeks, he is not a bad person. He isn't completely stupid either. He just reacted in a stupid way. He must have been in shock the night he discovered his wife's body, and Angela must have been hysterical when she caught him. He just... made a series of stupid decisions. Because his traumatized, depressed, irrational wife had reduced his life to her universe. I cannot judge Alexandra Jez, we do not know the extent of the cruelty she suffered at the hands of her father. She should have accepted help. Beeks should have forced her hand. Angie shouldn't have been there that night. There is no logic in this case, and certainly no culprit. So tell me, John, what good would it do to put a seventeen-year-old with Down syndrome and her infant half sister through the hell of child protection services?"

"Hey, whoa, I am with you there. Calm down," John tries.

Sherlock gives him a furious look. "Do not treat me like some fragile flower. I do not have the faintest idea if what I have done tonight is the right thing to do. In these... morally ambiguous cases, I make a point of detaching myself from the aftermath, because it is not MY FAULT if people do stupid things, sometimes!"

"You are doubting yourself."

"Of course I am. I... this is... because of what I have become. Tonight, I have taken decisions base upon my emotions only. My... intuition," Sherlock almost spits that last word.

"And it was good. I think your emotions guided you the right way."

"Oh please, do not lay that thick, gooey crap on me. I am Sherlock Holmes, not a bloody social worker wishing to make the word a better place."

Sherlock is panting, but John can see that his little fit of exasperation toward himself is mostly done. He loves Sherlock for it, for the changes he's made in his character, in his openness to emotions. His heart has come to an almost perfect balance with his reason. Sherlock can fight it, can hate it, but he wouldn't do anything to change it. John knows. So he decides to let him off the hook. He deserves that much.

"If we get out of the cab now, there is an ice cream parlor right around the corner of that street," he points out of the window.

They've moved a couple of feet, maybe three, in the last ten minutes.

Sherlock is gaping at him. For a second only. "John Watson, are you trying to bribe me with sweets?"

John nods slowly, smiling.

"And I will succumb. I am now eating my emotions and it's all your fault," he murmurs, a little smile forming on his lips.

"You're welcome."

They do not speak of the case for the rest of the evening. Of course, it stays at the back of Sherlock's mind, but there will be time for subsequent analysis. It has been one hell of a day, after all.

Chapter Text

The real chapter will follow shortly.

I have been struggling in my life for a while now, and I am doing the best I can. It is hard being single parent when the father of your kids doesn't want to have anything to do with them, and keeps fighting not to pay any custody. I have been writing for a long time here, first for the SPN fandom, then for Sherlock. That is why I am leaving this link down below to anyone who has some spare change and would like to make a donation (it works with paypal). Of course, this will not affect my writing, I am not writing for the money.

I was so hesitant to do this. I've seen some people in the past not even ashamed of abusing the system and their friends' generosity, so it is with humility and thankfulness that I ask for some help. I hope no one will take it the wrong way.

Thanks you all!

Buy Me a Coffee

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

May sixteenth is a windy day, struck by a rain shower around noon. The temperature drops afterwards. John is glad; they have their second prenatal class after supper, and Sherlock suffers so much from the heat he would have ended up with a tired and grumpy pregnant fiancé, ankles swollen to twice their size.

The cool weather does its job, but a stupid argument during the evening meals ruins Sherlock's mood. Lettuce, of all things, is what makes him angry. He had planned to eat a salad for supper, because his stomach has been giving him hell and he wants to avoid meat, which tend to make it worse. Except what was left of the iceberg lettuce had been thrown away that morning, by John -because it had tuned bad, Sherlock, he protests, surprised by his killer glare.

It was perfectly fine yesterday, Sherlock shouts, and the frustration makes his voice tremble. For a second, it appears as if he's going to burst into tears.

Tears. Because there is no more lettuce. John is quick to erase the surprised expression off his face. He apologises as seriously as he can -but not too much, it could be read as sarcasm then- and hides himself in the fridge, pretending to look for something to replace the salad, when what he really wants is to give Sherlock some space while he gets himself under control.

"I'll have Cheerios," Sherlock mumbles finally. "John, stop hiding. I am not about to eat you out of spite."

It is a new thing, and it is happening more and more often, moments where Sherlock is overwhelmed by mood swings, and it is clear he hates it. Seeing him trying to cope is akin to watch an equilibrist on a rope caught in a sudden gush of wind. As hard as he tries, Sherlock has little control over the hormonal outbursts and emotive peaks he experiences. That lack of control scares him, and being scared angers him, and then he explodes anyway, over a lost pen, or a missing clothing item, or...

...well, lettuce. Except of course, Sherlock isn't having a fit over lettuce. Sherlock is upset because he's thirty-six weeks pregnant. He's clumsy, has trouble sleeping, needs to visit the bathroom every couple of hours andhas a very difficult relationship with his digestive system. Then there is the shortness of breath, and his brand new clothes already showing some strain over his ever-changing body. John honestly thinks that if he were in Sherlock's place, he would spend his days crying in a foetal position. So no, seeing Sherlock losing it over a vegetable isn't a reason formockery. If you ask John, Sherlock deserves a bloody medal for not throwing fits all the time.

Still, he finds it exasperating, because now it would take a bloody miracle for Sherlock to enjoy and participate to the prenatal class.

::: :::

John sees the consternation falling on Sherlock's face the second he notices the new settings of the large class room. He prepares himself for a death glare that doesn't come. Sherlock simply walks away, head held high, choosing the table at the back, like a rebellious teenager in a school class.

Very well. John casts a quick glance around, and is relieved to see no sign of Lila the red-headed. The teacher is the same nurse as before. When she sees him, she smiles and nods, but there is something definitely strained in that smile. Amused, John observes as she scans the room –to find Sherlock, obviously. When she does, the smile freezes on her face and she swallows hard enough for John to see her throat working.

It's funny, really.

There are more people this time, although they still are the only carrier couple. The room is buzzing with noise and lively chatter. It is evident most of the couples have taken more than one class together and, contrary to last week, when the whole room had froze at their arrival, no one seems to notice them except the nurse. Good.Sherlock hates being observed unless he is in show off mode.

Sherlock is standing next to his chair, looking at the table disdainfully, the object of his disgust being a hard, plastic doll dressed in pyjamas and tucked into a blanket like a real baby. John doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be realistic, but he hopes not, because the grimacing features and the too orange tint of its skin make for a very creepy baby replica.

"Really?" Sherlock whispers when John has joined him.

"Stop whining. We're here to learn how to care for a newborn, what did you expect?"

The table is covered in baby items, from nappies to bum cream, just to name a few. There is also a wide array of information brochures.

"It might be fun," John whispers, as the teacher invites everyone to sit. "Don't be a bitch about it."

Sherlock growls –yes, he growls- at him, and when John moves to help him sit, he ignores him and lowers himself, trying to pretend he almost fell onto his chair on purpose.

The teacher starts the class by presenting a short educational film. It is interesting, but John has trouble concentrating, because he keeps wondering if Sherlock is paying any attention at all, casting him furtive looks that he is certain Sherlock notices.

He is not paying attention. And now, neither is John.

He wonders if the case of the Sussex Vampire is still on his mind. It's been a week since they visited the Beeks family. The morning after, they had paid a visit to Scotland Yard and everything had playedout just as Sherlock had planned. Beeks will be charged on the account of having failed to declare his wife's death and dispose of the body, but Lestrade had assured them he wouldn't go to jail, given the circumstances. He could find the right prosecutor to be sympathetic to Beeks' cause, and Sherlock had asked Mycroft for the best attorney Beeks could afford. Luckily, Alexandra Jez's note has been examined and certified authentic, and now that the medical examiner knows what to look for, he might be able to find traces of alcohol and drugs used by the victim. No one has suggested that Social Services should be involved.

Of course, Sherlock had done a personal investigation regarding Alexandra’s family, and had found that her father was now incapacitated, living in a nursing home. He had assured Beek that no one was coming for his young daughter. Alexandra would havean official funeral as soon as the body was released from the morgue. Beeks was adamant on doing everything properly.

The Beeks family story doesn’t have a happy ending, but given the circumstances, and thanks to Sherlock, the outcome is the best anyone could have hoped for.

If Sherlock is still thinking about the case, it isn’t because of the outcome, or the role he played. He cannot help but identify himself to Alexandra, and has told John very frankly how frightened he is of suffering from post-partum depression. He is, after all, prone to violent mood swings, pregnant or not. He also has a history of mental issues, and is being more and more open about it. While John understands that, yes, Sherlock’s mental health is fragile, and must be handled with care, he is not especially worried. It has been more than two years since he touched any sort of drugs, and Sherlock himself admits that his depressive episodes have decreased in number and intensity ever since he and John got together. Besides, as John keeps telling him, as they are both aware of Sherlock’s vulnerability, they will be able to catch any early sign of the baby-blues that could transform into something worse.

The case’s nature has of course resonated deeply with Sherlock, and if he does appear to think about it often, he is in no way obsessed with it. To some extent, John figures, the fear of a post-partum depression has just glued itself to the swirling maelstrom of Sherlock’s insecurities regarding the birth. He is confident the case will fade away soon enough.

When the film is over, it is of course time to practice, and they are specifically asked to treat the doll as a real baby.

"That ugly thing doesn't deserve my attention, you do it," Sherlock declares with all the ill will he is capable of.

He crosses his arms upon his stomach and lays back on the chair, looking a lot like a petulant child. John decides that at least one of them will have a vague idea of what he is doing when Sage is born. He follows the instructions; he undresses the doll and gives it an imaginary bath. And since it is a newborn, John learns how to keep the umbilical cord nub clean until it fallsoff. He is standing up, bending toward the doll and concentrated on the task, which is using a cotton buddipped in saline to delicately clean the contours of the cord nub. He doesn’t know how long Sherlock has been standing up too, looming over him, but his shadow becomes very distracting. John drops the cotton bud and asks, trying to hide his irritation:

"Want to give it a try?"

"Nope."

Ok, then. John goes back to work, doing his best to ignore Sherlock and remain calm. This is bound to happen, he thinks: Sherlock annoying the hell out of him while a very real, wiggling, crying baby needs to be cared for. John needs to practice his patience. A calm parent means a calmer baby, after all.

After the "bath" comes time to dress the doll. John takes a newborn size nappy and manipulates the doll's legs with caution, lifting its bum to slide the nappy underneath.

"You just put the front of the nappy on its behind," Sherlock points out matter-of-factly.

And... he's right, damn it. John takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose, and shoves the nappy into Sherlock's hands.

"You do it, then."

"How susceptible," Sherlock smirks, pushing John aside to give it a try.

Two minutes later, the nappy is tied up, all neat and equal. Sherlock has the same expression he gets when he’s just made an especially clever deduction.

"There."

"Nope."

"What do you mean, nope?

John cannot hide a little smile of satisfaction.

"You didn’t listen, Sherlock. We've just cleaned her umbilic, which means it hasn't fallen, yet, which means you have to fold the front of the nappy so it doesn't brush against it."

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief for five seconds. Then, with quick, harsh movement, he tears the nappy down, takes another one and put it on the doll correctly, all the while leaning on the doll’s head with one hand to keep his balance. He has begun to sweat, the fine hair at the bottom of his neck curling.

"You are choking her," John states. "Sherlock."

Sherlock folds the front of the nappy with long fingers, and now it is his elbow crushing the doll’s face.

"Sherlock, you're crushing your newborn infant's skull. You are supposed to-"

"It's not a real baby!" Sherlock hisses, giving John a look that screams ‘you're an idiot’, and not in an affectionate way.

"That's the whole point of the exercise," John points out, his voice as low as Sherlock, but in a way it sounds like a shout. "Which you would have understood if you'd just-"

"Stop scolding me, we're not in primary school," Sherlock murmurs raggedly. "It is. A. Bloody. plastic. Doll."

He punctuates each word by shoving the doll's head in John's chest, holding it by a leg. John sees red, and grabs the head before he gets another shove.

"What are you, five? My god, Sherlock, grow up, we're supposed to learn something."

"Give it back to me," Sherlock snaps, tugging on the doll.

"Nope. You're acting like a child, you don't deserve to take care of this one."

John strengthens his hold. Sherlock snarls -snarls, like a freaking dog- at him and, without warning, gives a violent tug.

There is a loud pop as Sherlock falls backward, landing on his chair.

John considers what he now holds, which is a disembodied plastic head. Sherlock has the rest of the body dangling from a foot in his right hand.

And it occurs to John how silent the room has become, suddenly.

Everybody is looking at them. Every. Single. Person.

Probably since the beginning of the argument.

John blushes so suddenly his ears hurt. He drops the doll's head as if it is a bomb.

Sherlock, too, is blushing –a vivid cherry red.

"Vatican Cameo," John suggests.

No, no one is dying... except of embarrassment, maybe. But there is no going back when you just fought over a doll

Sherlock stands up with all the dignity he is capable of and lays down the doll's body on the table, delicately, making sure its resting on its little cot.

"Well," he says, then looks at John. Desperate.

Do something.

"We huh... we are... I'm a doctor," John babbles, careful not to stare at anyone in particular. "I just got a call from the hum... surgery and am needed to..."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock practically shouts, rolling his eyes. He grabs John’s hand.

They must make quite a picture, Sherlock with his belly standing out like an assault weapon, waddling as quickly as he can toward the exit, with John in tow, still stuttering some lame excuse about a patient to see.

Outside, Sherlock lets go of John, puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "If ridicule could kill we would both be death," he pants.

“I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Sherlock is pacing, now.

"What a great pair we make. Sherlock Holmes the genius detective and Captain John Watson, army surgeon, have just dismembered their newborn while trying to put it in a bloody nappy!"

That last sentence proves too much for John. A savage laugh bubbles in his throat, and gets out like a bark, making Sherlock jump in surprise. He stares severely at John, trying to intimidate him to silence, but damn it if John can control himself. He's laughing so hard tears are already streaming down his cheeks.

Then, a short giggles escapes Sherlock's throat. He swallows it back, but it is clear he's quickly losing the battle with his transport. A second later, he's laughing as well, holding on to John, one hand wrapped around his stomach. They share a hysterical giggle fit for about ten seconds, before Sherlock's eyes widen and he tenses, his already red face turning crimson.

"John, stop, you are going to-"

John tries to ask what is wrong, but cannot catch his breath. Sherlock frowns, his mouth shut tight. His chest, though, trembles through his rumbling giggles, and he grabs John's arm.

"John,” he hiccups, trying to sound serious,“it appears the mediocre performance of my bladder lately has finally proven fatal and I ...um..."

Sherlock moves his hand toward his crotch, to show John a darker spot the size of a tennis ball on his cream-colored cotton pants, just as if...

Oh. Yes. Mediocre bladder performance.

"Hey, it's alright, you know it's not your fault, the baby presses on your bladder and-"

"Shut up and take me back home." Sherlock is so deeply humiliated he has skipped anger to get right to pleading.

::: :::

Sherlock has been quiet in the cab ride, and quiet and compliant once they reached Baker Street.

Ten minutes later, John helps him into the bathtub filled to the brim, to which he added a generous quantity of the posh bath oil Sherlock likes so much.

Sitting down in the bath is a real challengewhen you've reached your third trimester and have a belly that's pointing forward like a vertical American football. Sherlock is panting by the time he's done.As he’s used todoing by now, John kneels besides him to wash his back, then helps him lay back on the inflatable cushion

Bath time has become something special. John loves the quiet intimacy between them, how easily Sherlock accepts his help, let it be by necessity or only to indulge him, or because he does enjoy it. With a flannel, he washes Sherlock's belly, slowly and carefully. He feels Sage under his hand, revels in the connection between them. John knows every square inch of Sherlock's belly perfectly; the location of each mole, the spots where red blotches are more likely to appear, the feel of the indentation of his navel under his fingers,andthe pale, thin blue lines that have appeared above his pelvis: there are three each side, in perfect symmetry –Sherlock doesn’t mind the stretch marks,he calls them his battle scars, with something like affection in his voice.

John might have very well lost the sense of time passing, or anything else existing, really, outsideof Sherlock's belly and himself, because the rumbling of Sherlock's voice has him gasp in surprise.

"As I was saying, John," Sherlock says, smiling a little. "Do not think I am having an internal breakdown because of a urine stain that was barely the circumference of an apple."

"Good, because you didn't have control over it anyway," John agrees, sliding down the bath until he reaches Sherlock's feet. "Massage?"

"God yes."

Sherlock wiggles his toes under the water, making John laugh. While he works the long pale toes, Sherlock apologises for his behaviour during the class, and John does, too.They come to the conclusion that they shouldn’t go back –not ever, dear god, John adds, and they both share a laugh again.

Afterward comes the washing of Sherlock’s hair, his most favourite part. John knows it is physically impossible, but he swears he can sometimes hear him purr while he massages his scalp and gently untangles his heavy curls. As usual, after the purring comes a state of complete relaxation, which has Sherlock’s eyelids heavy with sleep while a lazy smile dances on his lips. He sighs from contentment. “I will reach thirty-seven weeks in a three days,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Which means there will be no stopping my labour when it starts, from that point on.”

“Correct.”

“I am nothing else than an incubator on legs by now, let’s be honest,” Sherlock adds, his smile widening, as if he finds the image funny. “My body is entirely at the disposition of my pregnancy, to my detriment.”

“You make an incredibly sexy incubator, you know.”

Sherlock snorts. “I need quiet, uneventful days. I want to be very lazy while you spoil me rotten, until our little acrobat is ready to join us.”

John’s incredulity must be easy to guess, if only by the short hesitation in his massage of Sherlock’s hair. The other man looks at him, still smiling.

"You do not believe me. Nevertheless, there is something different in me. I did not enjoy working our last case, at least not in the way I used to. When I work, I give myself wholly, intellectual faculties as well as physical. It appears I cannot do it at the moment. It’s as if my whole being needs to be dedicated to my pregnancy, an act of creation, you see, that is stimulating in itself. I am preparing myself, and my child, for the birth. It is quite strange, but not disagreeable, and the more I progress toward the due date, the more intense it is.”

"And you are ok with it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Ok or not, it is not something I can control. With the hormones overflowing my brain, I can only go with it. It is only chemistry after all. Fascinating."

It is. John wonders if hormones can really keep Sherlock from getting bored.

To his surprise, they do.

::: :::

The next week goes smoothly; enough that John wishes he had a mind palace to store it somewhere, intact, in case he only remembers the less pleasant parts of Sherlock's pregnancy when time passes. Human memory has proven to be better at remembering sad and traumatic events, an archaic survival mechanism. Maybe John can ask Sherlock to store the 37th week of his pregnancy somewhere safe in his mind palace, for the both of them?

He probably doesn’t have to ask.

That week, John only works a couple of shifts, and each of them stretches disagreeably, as if time has decided to mess with him, give him a taste of unwanted eternity. John can only think about the flat, being back home with Sherlock, away from the rest of the world. It feels like they are wrapped in a cocoon at home; everything is soft, and quiet and subdued. Maybe they are both responsible for this state, needing to enjoy the final days of the intimacy they share. After all, they will never be two again, once Sage is born. It’s as exhilarating as it is scary.

Sherlock, true to his words, does not seem interested in experiments. Most of his instruments have been moved downstairs after his laboratory was done. Of course, he knows he only has to ask John for his help if he really wants to work. He doesn't.

It's not only the experiments. Sherlock does not touch his website, or his folder of unsolved affairs. He even texts Lestrade to let him know he is only available for "real" emergencies. Lestrade text John back in a frenzy, worried something is wrong. The answer doesn't seem to satisfy him. He, too, has never known a Sherlock who would voluntarily take some time off to rest.

If only he'd come by to see what Sherlock is up to, John thinks, snickering.

... On the other hand, no. John doesn't want anyone in the cocoon but him and Sherlock. Even Mrs. Hudson does not come in without knocking and never more than once a day. As she always brings food with her, she is forgiven. John notices that every meal or desert she cooks that week are Sherlock’s favourite - he puts on four pounds that week.

The extra weight fits him so well. He's astonishing, wonderfully soft and round, his movements slow, careful. There is something equally soft in his eyes, even when he concentrates on a series of deductions (mostly to determine if John’s shifts and errands have gone well). He's peaceful, even -most of the time anyway. His insecurities are still there, and manifest, but it seems now Sherlock finds it easier to talk about it, to allow himself to be soothed by John's words.

There is no brooding, no sulking session on the couch, no manic episodes. John just goes with it. He would know, if Sherlock was trying too hard for a serene state of mind he did not really feel. Besides, what happens to him isn't unexplained. It is a well-known old wives’ tale, how pregnant people’s habits change toward the end of the pregnancy, how reluctant they sometimes are to leave the house, how much time they spend preparing the nursery, and cleaning the house. Nesting, it is called. And it appears Sherlock isn’t immune to it.

It fascinates John. What really gets to him, though, is how adamant Sherlock is to include him, every step of the way. It is always vaguely frustrating, not being able to experience a pregnancy first hand, and knowing you will never truly understand what it is to have this new life taking root inside you.But as John feels truly and completely included in the experience, he doesn’t suffer much from it.

They watch lots of bad telly during that week; they play board games, they nap in the middle of the day, cook together. They also talk. John cannot remember a time when talking with Sherlock about their daughter and the changes to come in their life has been easier. Sage’s second name is chosen during those long conversations. John is surprised when Sherlock suggests Martha as the baby’s second name. It is true Mrs. Hudson has done a lot for them- she isn’t their housekeeper, at least according to her- but she is much more than this : she’s a second mother to both of them.

True to his word, Sherlock allows himself to be as lazy as he wants, but it doesn’t mean he is completely inactive. If he doesn’t touch anything related to the Work, he plays a lot of violin, and composes, too. He admits to John he wants to transmit his love of music to their daughter, the sooner the better. Music is important in his life. It should be important for Sage too.

Besides playing the violin, Sherlock reads a lot, going over all the baby books they have bought or received, even though he has already read them cover to cover. This time, he stops to take notes, share thoughts about them with John, ask some questions. They spend a lovely afternoon eating a box of gingernut biscuits, reading parts of the books, exchanging ideas. They laugh a lot.

It seems that all of their friends and family have consulted each other and decided the end of May was the best moment to send their gifts and congratulations cards. Sherlock had been clear with John, at the very beginning of the pregnancy, that there would be no baby shower. Because it implied a gathering. With “people”, he had added, grimacing. John had played with the idea of ignoring his protests, and giving Molly the permission she had been impatient to have –that is, until the day he had seen Sherlock react to his and Mycroft’s gift. Watching Sherlock so nervous and uneasy, just trying to react in a normal way to express his gratitude, had been a bit heart-breaking, for John. Sherlock’s hatred of social events is well known, and most people take it as another quirk of an antisocial, pretentious genius -because that is what Sherlock wants them to think. However, John isn’t fooled. There is, underneath, a real sense of inadequacy, the fear of being incapable to behave “normally”, unable to understand the parameters of that normalcy. And that fear leaves him vulnerable to be hurt, or to hurt, unintentionally.

No baby-shower. John had sent an email to everyone they knew to make sure they understood he was being serious, suggesting instead how lovely it would be to receive their congratulations through the mail –because it would have been cruel to not give their friends and family at least one chance to celebrate Sage’s arrival.

The mail had started in April, but most of the letters and packages arrive during the 37th week of the pregnancy. It is fun, at least for John. Sherlock rolls his eyes, mostly, although some of the presents seem to please him. The day they receive a set of pyjamas made by hand, from Sally Donovan (the things you learn about people, John would have never taken Sally as such a wonderful seamstress), he actually lays one of them on his belly, and John cannot resist snapping a picture, laughing; it is adorable, seeing Sherlock reacting exactly like so many mothers and fathers to be. Sherlock blushes, but makes a point of keeping the pyjamas there a few more seconds, lifting his chin, daring John silently to add something, or take another shot.

Speaking of...that week, John also spends an unreasonable amount of time observing Sherlock. He doesn’t even hide, and only stops when Sherlock comments on it. John especially loves to watch him play and compose, or sleep. Yes, John is a creep, who stands in front of the couch and just watches his fiancé’s chest move to the rhythm of his breathing –he might even be smiling like a creep, enamoured and stunnedonce again, realising that this unique, peculiar man is his, and is carrying his baby.

Well... John has never pretended to be a well-adjusted man.

That is exactly what he is doing Friday afternoon. He wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock asleep when he got back from the nursery. He had spent an hour and a half there assembling the baby swing Molly bought them, leaving Sherlock to play his violin. It had been silent for a while.

It is getting increasingly difficult for Sherlock to sleep at night, and he needs rest, so it is not uncommon for John to find him asleep on the couch in the middle of the day, sometimes twice–John even naps with him, sometimes.

He must have been standing for at least ten minutes. Sherlock is on his side, one arm draped across his belly, defining its shape. The couch’s blanket is discarded on the floor, and a thin layer of sweat covers Sherlock’s pink face, making the fine hair at his temple frizz. He has a long dark curl with golden highlights covering his left eye, and the rest of his hair is framing his face like a halo. It’s becoming too long, but not enough for a haircut that would facilitate their maintenance. John is completely enamoured by the mess of curls that Sherlock keeps cursing about.

He sighs, thinking he should go start the supper, when Sherlock stirs. Eyes still closed, he gasps, then grimaces. His belly changes shape suddenly, and an impressive bump appears on the left, close to his navel. Sage’s moving has become very uncomfortable. During their last appointment, Amy had found it funny that their daughter didn’t follow the usual pattern of reducing her movement progressively, as she became too big to have any space left to move, like most foetus.Not Sage. She is determined to be active as much as possible, hence Sherlock and John new nickname for her. She is indeed their little acrobat.

“It’s only a supposition, of course,” Amy had said with a malicious smile, “but something tells me this little one will be a handful.”

And while it’s funny, it’s not exactly comfortable. Sherlock tries not to complain, but John knows sometimes it’s not only uncomfortable, but really hurts. John has seen him swallow back tears of pain one evening, when she kept kicking up, straight into his stomach.

Sherlock stirs and yawns, blinking lazily at John.

“You ok, love?”

“Mhm. The swing set?”

“Done.”

“I um... need to sit,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice still low and scratchy.

John helps him up. Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hand when he’s done, though.

“Sit with me for a moment.”

“Bad dream?” John asks, sitting next to him.

Sherlock is quick to twist himself to the side, so he can let his head rest on John’s shoulder. “Nothing of the sort. I just feel like having you close.”

“I see no problems with it.”

John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and caresses his belly with his free hand. They stay in a peaceful, enjoyable silence, for several minutes.

“I think...I think I am ready, John,” Sherlock finally says –well, whispers.

“Ready for what?”

“For going into labour, giving birth.”

“Oh.”

“I am still scared, of course, but it is neutralised by my discomfort. It is more than that, though.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock lifts his head so that he can look at John. “Do not make fun of me. It is... a feeling, in my guts.”

“Why would I Iaugh ?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Sentiment?” he suggests, then rearranges himself to stretch his legs on the coffee table. “I have always reacted the same way when people I met for cases said something similar, like they knew X didn’t do it, they did not have any proof, it was just a feeling in their guts. And each and every time, I made sure to show my disdain and explain to them in no delicate terms that feelings don’t solve crime, let them be in the guts or elsewhere.”

“Well, I suppose you always knew it was more complicated than that.”

“Maybe”, he admits, his voice a soft rumble. “I am ready, though, John. I spent most of the morning imagining my labour, in great detail, and not once did I have to stop because I was overwhelmed.”

“It is good, isn’t it?” John asks, feeling the uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is very empowering and even exhilarating.”

Sherlock lifts his head to look at John, as if he wants to read on his features what he thinks of his declaration. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, and his cheeks are red, just like his lips. He’s gorgeous. “You really are a fascinating creature,” John says, and kisses him softly. Just as Sherlock’s mouth is opening to him, it closes abruptly, ending the kiss. Sherlock grunts loudly, then hisses, pressing his hand, hard, on the left side of his belly.

“That is extremely uncomfortable, Sage. You might want to wait until you are out to stretch like that,” he murmurs at his belly. “Sorry,” he adds, looking at John.

“Nah. So, ready?”

“Yes,” Sherlock resumes. “I better be, before our little alien digs her way out.”

“Oh. Pop culture reference. I am impressed.”

Sherlock elbows him before rearranging himself, as close to John as he can be. They remain like that in the dying afternoon, and John cannot help but think, very selfishly by his own admission, that ready or not, he would like to keep Sherlock to himself for as long as possible. Afterward, he will have to share, like it or not.

Chapter Text

Part 6
Accomplishment

1.

“So, the surveillance team has gone,” John announces.

He closes the door behind him, fighting a gush of wind, and then hangs his damp vest in the lobby’s closet. “Can’t say I blame them.”

“It is still raining, then?” Mycroft asks.

John follows his voice, shaking his head to get rid of the droplets of water sticking to the tip of his hair.

“Yep. And the wind is getting worse. It feels like bloody November out there.”

He finds the brothers in the kitchen, and freezes on the spot for a few seconds.

It is quite surprising, seeing Mycroft going about in the kitchen like he belongs there. He has dropped his tie, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and wears an apron John didn’t even know they had, a faded pink one with white, curvy letters stating that happiness is a shimmering cauldron. Mycroft is humming under his breath as he adds ingredients to a large saucepan, with the false casualness typical to people who enjoy cooking. What is also surprising is that Sherlock appears to enjoy the company. He could have stayed in the living room, where at least he would have been more comfortable than right now, sitting on a straight kitchen chair. There is a cushion behind his back, which has John wondering if Mycroft put it there, helping his sibling to be more comfortable. It is very strange to discover this caring side of the older Holmes. John knows Mycroft has been there for Sherlock through the most difficult period of his addiction, but this part of their life is still mostly kept from John. What he knows is that Sherlock and Mycroft’s physical proximity seems to make them both uncomfortable: it seems the cold distance their respective armour provides is multiplied when they find themselves in the same room. As such, their mannerism, and ostentatious attitude, stands out even more, not only having them stand apart from normal people, but from each other as well.

It is cracking, this facade; has been progressively, over the last few months. John can very well see in Mycroft’s eyes the quick flashes of affection, or worry, as Mycroft has witnessed Sherlock’s transformation from a too-thin man moving with grace and agility, to the slower, clumsier version of himself he has become, carrying an ever-growing belly in front of him. When they are together, he will behave less disdainfully and complacently than usual, and will often let go when Sherlock’s bantering gets too personal, or cruel. He just doesn’t answer, which takes Sherlock completely off guard, each time. With time, though, it seems he has processed the same observations as John and has decided he could deal with his brother’s less distant, more warm-hearted attitude.

Besides, it isn’t like Sherlock hasn’t changed as well. The closer he gets to his due date, the more vulnerable and overwhelmed he feels. He’s actively seeking John’s proximity, and for the first time since they have known each other, he seems content to let him take all the decisions, even when it comes to deciding what he should eat, when he should shower, and sleep. He’s gone quiet lately. John doesn’t think it is exclusively due to the negative repercussions of spending the past five days at the cottage. It had already begun before that. Sherlock’s quietness seems to be something necessary, for him, a way to concentrate on himself and what is to come, to be prepared.

But of course, Sherlock had been very upset to be forced to leave Baker Street. He had told John how it makes him feel even more vulnerable. There is now a passivity to him that gets to John and twists his guts –something so utterly fragile and human it hurts a bit, just to think about it.

Sherlock expresses it differently. He’s noticed John’s worries; of course he has, and had tried to explain. “I feel like my own being is entirely dedicated to the arrival of our child. It fills my mind just as my body, so full there is no place for anything else.”

John can understand, to a certain level, comparing it to his own experience. It appears he, too, feels the urge to prepare mentally, which is barely an extension of his constant need to take care of and protect Sherlock. It says a lot about their co-dependency.

John moves away from the kitchen’s threshold before anyone notice his surprised hesitation. He makes a first stop near Sherlock, bending down to kiss the top of his head while noticing he seems engrossed by a huge pharmaceutical compendium opened in front of him.

“Still trying to disentangle the Missing Head case?”

(It is one of the cold cases Sherlock goes back to more frequently. More than ten years old, it implies a negligent inspector, a strange message on a voice mail and an unidentified body missing its head, showing signs of poisoning despite the important state of decay of the corpse.)

“Mmm. Although, to be honest, I am only pretending to work. The... physical discomfort, it seems, makes me unable to think efficiently.”

John presses Sherlock’s shoulders empathically. He then joins Mycroft near the oven, taking the baguette bread and wine bottle he’d been commissioned to buy in Storrington out of the grocery bag. Mycroft takes the wine and grimaces, seeing the label.

“That’s all they had that was over ten quid and not cheap enough to come in a four-litre box.” John warns before the older Holmes can even open his mouth. He cannot keep his death glare for long, though, when the heavenly smell coming from the saucepan hits his nostrils. “Jesus Christ, what do you put in your Bolognese for it to smell so damn good?”

“It isn’t Bolognese, it’s Puttanesca sauce, Mycroft’s specialty,” Sherlock pipes without looking up. “He learned to cook it just to torture me.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft shakes his head, expression fond as he’s reminded of the memory. “You were so gullible.”
“Was not. You were seven years older than me; what merit is there into tricking a three-year-old child into eating anchovies?”

Mycroft lets it go and pours two glasses of wine for John and him. John takes a long sip. He’s never seen the older Holmes so relaxed. It’s a bit off putting: like how you feel as a kid when you meet a teacher during the weekend at the shops, dressed in jeans and a Beatles t-shirt and drinking a slushie. The first time always hit you hard, when you go through the startling realisation that teachers actually have a life outside of school, and do not go around wearing the uniform and asking people to raise their hand before speaking.

The wine tastes a bit too good, but after the stress John has been put through for the last five days, he deserves it.

He leans back against the counter, content to listen to the easy banter between Mycroft and Sherlock, who’s still going on about anchovies and the imprint of a variety of tastes on a young child’s brain. John is surprised to already feel the effects of alcohol. They were having lunch when Mycroft had arrived (well, John was having lunch. Sherlock was rearranging his food on his plate with an air of disgust. He’s had a hard time eating all week) and the whole conversation had put a premature end to their meal. Just on cue, John’s stomach growls. Wine on an empty stomach. It explains how warm and slow he feels right now. Even a series of loud, rumbling thunderclaps does not make him tense.

Too hungry to stay in the kitchen with the divine aromas of Mycroft’s cooking, John announces he’ll go get the guest room ready, getting an indifferent “mmh” from both brothers. Nothing like two Holmes to make you feel insignificant, he thinks, downing his wine in one long gulp.

Mycroft will get the upstairs master bedroom. As they did when they first came to the cottage, Sherlock and John are downstairs, once again out of necessity. Sherlock’s legs are sore and swollen: it would have been cruel to get him to take the stairs several times a day. His only complaint is that that the small bathroom on the ground floor is so narrow he can barely fit –he’s exaggerating, as usual. Sherlock has put up a total of twenty-five pounds since he got pregnant.

John grabs sheets from the linen closet and enters the master bedroom. It’s quite cold, but with the fire running downstairs, it should get warmer quickly if John leaves the door open. How strange it is, he thinks, flipping down the heavy duvet to have a look at the sheets, to prepare Mycroft’s room. Mycroft, who decided to drive down here by himself -John had thought he and Anthea were physically unable to stay apart for too long- and who suggested he could stay the night, what with the bad weather outside and the wrapping of the suspect chase. It will be surreal, John thinks, snorting, to see him tomorrow morning, what’s left of his hair messed up from sleep, half awake, his nose in his tea cup. How can a man be such a walking, talking cliché of the quintessence of British poshness that it hurts your brain to see him cook spaghetti in rolled-up sleeves?

The wine might be hitting even harder than John had thought, because there he is, still laughing softly, sat on the luxurious bed. It’s not only the wine, though. It’s the relief of knowing Peter Blair is back in jail and not hovering around, ready to attack Sherlock.

What a crazy life they lead. It isn’t the first time a criminal wanted revenge for having been caught. Sherlock is used to making enemies -he even brags about it. Most of the time, it’s no big deal. Because of his markers all over London, his homeless network, and having the British Government as a Big Brother, Sherlock can easily take the upper hand on any potential individual or collective plotting against him. If it comes down to a physical assault, well, John isn’t only following Sherlock around to ask stupid questions. Besides, although he likes to see himself as Sherlock’s protector, he has to admit Sherlock is a formidable fighter; agile and silent, deceptively strong: his technique is unique, a result of his boxer training and his knowledge of some obscure martial art called Baritsu. His hits are few but always efficient. He knows exactly where to hit on the human anatomy to have the best results. “Because I fight with my brain,” he had once told John.

Ah. Sherlock. Always so modest.

It is almost part of their lives, learning that the nephew of a mafia boss Sherlock had helped put away is planning to give the detective the beating of a lifetime, or catching a criminal that has been sending anonymous letters describing all the horrible ways he could torture Sherlock, before he even decided to act on his dark fantasies. “It’s part of the game,” Sherlock liked to say.

Take Peter Blair, for example; once a taciturn hospital janitor too cowardly to divorce his unfaithful wife, who thought he could do just like in old movies and disguise her murder as an accident to collect the insurance money. Sherlock had solved the case years before he had met John, and couldn’t even remember it when Mycroft had come to them with the news. There had been a riot at the detention centre where Blair was serving his sentence, and he was one of the seven inmates that had escaped. It was only then that Mycroft had been told that the years of imprisonment had allowed Blair had allowed Blair to develop an acute psychosis, with Sherlock being the main subject of his delirium.

Normally, Sherlock and John wouldn’t even have changed their routine. Mycroft wouldn’t have made the effort to announce the news himself –a text would have sufficed. But this isn’t normal circumstances, and Sherlock had been quick to understand he couldn’t take any amount of risk. He just couldn’t. Even though the chances of Blair reaching them before he was caught were quite low –around twenty percent, according to Mycroft- there was no way Sherlock could defend himself, not while so heavily pregnant. Not only couldn’t he fight: he couldn’t even get away quickly enough. Mycroft had suggested the cottage in Sussex as the safest place for them. Baker Street, for all its familiarity, is right in the centre of London, with a lot of movement, a lot of unfamiliar faces passing by each day; and with Sherlock unable to reach his homeless network or perform his routine checks (comprised of several techniques he keeps secret even from John), Blair could have gotten to them. It wasn’t like Sherlock’s address was a secret, after all, which is the exact opposite of their cottage near Storrington, a location John hadn’t even disclosed in their blog. The other advantage was the physical location of the cottage, on the point of a hill with the ocean at its back, there was only one way to the cottage, and the view from it was clear and extended. Besides, with a village as small as Storrington, an unfamiliar face would immediately stick out.

John can admit he had felt left out and underestimated, while the Holmes brothers were discussing the plan without paying attention to them. After all, he could very well defend Sherlock himself –he wouldn’t let anyone even touch a single hair on his head. Mycroft, another bloody mind reader apparently, had suddenly turned toward him. “You forget an essential element, John; if it should come to a physical confrontation with Blair, you will be emotionally compromised. As such, Sherlock is evidently in the same position and he will not be able to remain safe if you lose the advantage. He will try to help you.”

...And yes. John had admitted to himself that it was stupid letting his alpha male side be offended. The best way to keep Sherlock safe was to flee.

“John! Supper!” Sherlock calls.

Oops. John startles, realising he isn’t sitting anymore but lying downon the bed.

“Coming.”

He drags himself up, hit by a bout of tiredness. When was the last time he had more than four hours of sleep in a night? He has to restrain himself not to fall back on the comfortable bed and have a little nap.

Downstairs, a huge plate of spaghetti Puttanesca is waiting for him. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock has already started eating. Of course. John watches Mycroft, who is looking at Sherlock with a satisfied expression. He would have picked a meal he knew Sherlock would appreciate.

“More wine, Doctor Watson?”

John knows he shouldn’t, but he pushes his empty glass toward him.

The food is excellent, and the supper is surprisingly relaxed. Who would have thought? Mycroft’s conversation can be interesting, when he lets go of his cantankerous responsible big brother persona. Or maybe it’s the wine, but John finds himself laughing out loud more than once. Sherlock is quiet but this is nothing new. He keeps eating, very slowly, small bites he chews several times each, observing Mycroft and John’s conversation with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Despite his quietness, John knows he’s in a better mood now that Blair has been caught. First, he had thought Sherlock had taken it quite well, being forced to travel to Sussex when he could go into labour any day, while letting Mycroft and Lestrade take care of Blair’s research without getting involved. They had packed and left the next morning, the only person knowing where they were going being Amy Brown, who had immediately found the closest hospital in Sussex that could accommodate a carrier birth, just in case. She had contacted the resident gyneco-androcologist and had assured them Sherlock would be in good hands. Besides, St Mary’s hospital was only a little more than an hour away from London. She had promised she would try to be there.

When they had arrived, Sherlock had left John unpacking while he busied himself working a new spreadsheet for all the possible scenarios if he were togo into labour at the cottage, just like he had done in London, going as far as calculate the exact duration of the drive to the hospital, depending on the day of the week and the hour of the day, under different weatherconditions. John understood; it had been a way for Sherlock to keep as much control as possible over the situation. Wasn’t he doing the same thing? He had gone outside to check on the security team Mycroft had set around the cottage, feeling like a host who had to take care of his guests. He had been told quite abruptly that the less they he and Sherlock came in contact with them, the better. Government agents. Often regarded as amateurs by the army, but John knew Mycroft wouldn’t just have anyone watching over his brother. Besides, over the next fewdays, John had found it easy to completely forget about them. Two teams comprised of two agents were on rotation; their car was completely hidden in the small wooden area west of the cottage. As for the agents, they were making their rounds discreetly, only coming into contact with Sherlock and John at the beginning of their shift to ask if they had experiencedany strange phone calls or emails.

It had been surreal, like some sort of bad espionage novel.

That first day, when John had returned from his very brief conversation with the agents, he had found Sherlock lying down in their bed. Not asleep, nor thinking. Crying very silently. John had taken him into his arms and used all of his tricks to get him to talk. “I miss home,” Sherlock had finally admitted between hiccups. “This isn’t how the end of my pregnancy is supposed to go. I refuse to give birth in Sussex. I tried, but I cannot establish all the possible scenarios with the same precision because I am not familiar enough with the region. I have never been to St Mary’s, and I will be forced to allow a stranger whom, for all I know, could very well be the worst androcologist in England, take control of my delivery. It is awful, John.”

For Sherlock, it was. He would have never admitted such vulnerability before, not so candidly. John had felt how lost and scared he was and had tried to comfort him the best he could. His due date was still almost two weeks away, after all, and it wouldn’t be long before Blair would be caught, not with so many people working on the case. Blair had no experience with clandestine life, no helpful contact on the outside. It was almost a done deal. All they could do was wait. They would be back in Baker Street soon enough.

Sherlock had calmed down, but he had remained moody and irritable. He was too tired to do anything physical, even walks were reduced to rounding the cottage a couple of times. He had already lost some of his newfound hunger before the Blair mess, and it got worst. He made an effort, though, and it was almost painful watching him eat out of obligation. All he did for four days was sit on the porch, in the old rocking chair, looking at the sea. His mood did improve, but very progressively. John couldn’t wait for Blair to be caught. He had given it two days, three at most. He knew the man wasn’t that much of a menace. He knew they were protected, but he couldn’t shake off the fear of something going wrong, and his soldier hyper-awareness had prevented him from getting any good sleep or letting Sherlock out of his sight for more than a few minutes.

In the end, of course, it was much ado about nothing. Late this morning, Peter Blair had been arrested when he tried to break into his brother’s flat. He’d been half starved, dirty, still wearing the prison uniform. He’d been hiding under a bridge for the past days.

Mycroft had thought it would be good to bring them the news in person; more accurately, he had been commanded by their worried parents, who needed him to report back on how Sherlock really was.The reason they haven’t left yet is because of the weather wreaking havoc outside. In the afternoon, the cold rain had turned to hail, accompanied by thunder and lightning strikes - some hailstones were as big as grapes. John had been worried Sherlock would insist they leave immediately, especially since he had heard on the radio the motorway they needed to use to get back was a complete disaster because of water accumulation, and that the rush hour would be very difficult. “I hope you aren’t in a hurry, because we’ve just heard that drivers should add two hours to their usual commute time,” the radio traffic guy added with misplaced, savage enthusiasm.

However, Sherlock had listened to the same news coverage and had also read something about an overflowing river somewhere close to Storrington. This, and tiredness, got the better of him. He was usually able to get a couple of hours of sleep at the beginning and the end of the night, but last night, he just couldn’t. The baby had been hiccuping for hours, and moving accordingly so, to express her own frustration. John had found Sherlock on the loveseat early that morning, staring outside the window, his eyes sunken, his skin almost translucent. “I used to function normally despite my insomnia. This is very frustrating,” he’d whispered, his voice low and uneven.

That is an understatement. Sherlock isn’t the only one who’s had it with the pregnancy. John wants him to be able to rest, finally, and not eat for two days in a row if he doesn’t feel like it, andmove around the flat like the bloody graceful ninja he usually is. Hell, he even misses Sherlock’s sheepish expression when they both know he did not go out for a walk, but to smoke a cigarette.

Tomorrow morning, hopefully, the worst of the storm will be over and they’ll all head back to London -even Mycroft, whom, to Sherlock and John’s complete surprise, had agreed it wasn’t a good idea to drive in the tempest and invited himself to stayfor the night. While John was trying to stop himself from gaping, Sherlock had started a long questionnaire to be certain Mycroft wasn’t sick or delirious, and John wasn’t even certain he’d been joking.

“We didn’t have mincemeat pies with us.”

John is brought back to the present by Sherlock frowning at his brother, who’s presenting him with a plate of little pies. Sherlock’s favourite. Especially out season.

“I baked them and brought them here.” Mycroft sighs dramatically.

“Strange...” Sherlock trails off, taking a pie while his stareat his brother intensifies. “It’s almost as if... it was your idea to stay for supper all along.”

“Well well, brother mine, you should be a detective,” Mycroft deadpans, then drops three more pies in Sherlock’s plate.

John chuckles and ends up choking a bit on the excellent coffee Mycroft just made.

“You are good at this,” he tells Mycroft, and his voice might sound a little more admiring than he wished. Too bad. “Being a host.”

“Of course Mycroft would be an excellent host in somebody else’s home,” Sherlock adds, and the little smile he’s making lacks the sarcasm that usually accompanies it.

All the same, it is with candour that Mycroft accepts the “compliment.”

“Well, one of us at the least has to prove mummy her education wasn’t a complete waste.”

A few minutes later, John follows Sherlock in the sitting room and helps him settle on the sofa close to the fire. It’s been Sherlock favourite place to rest since they had arrived, because of the way it is shaped, like a Victorian settee, or a chaise-longue, with a tall armrest to one side and completely opened on the other. Sherlock can stretch his legs without feeling trapped, and the armrest is high enough that he can lie down in a half-sitting position, which does wonder for his gastric reflux.

Sherlock yawns until his jaw snaps. He tries to stare at John, but his eyes keep rolling back, just like a baby fighting to stay awake.

“You should go to bed,” he whispers, walking over to the back of the seat to massage Sherlock’sshoulders.

“Too tired,” Sherlock mumbles. “It is my brother’s fault. He over-fed me.”

“Good. You haven’t eaten a lot this week.”

“Maybe because I don’t need it. I can barely move my enormous body without help.”

“Well, that wasn’t at all an exaggeration. Twenty-five pounds, Sherlock, not sixty.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, busy groaning from pleasure when John presses on a tensed muscle.

He falls asleep like that, less than five minutes later. John is glad. He intends to pack most of their things tonight so that they will be ready to go in the morning.

He finds Mycroft still in the kitchen. He’s done the dishes and is giving their oven a thorough clean. Of course, Mycroft would be a neat freak. John knows better than offer his help but decides to keep him company. Almost immediately, another cup of coffee is put in front of him, silently. John smiles and wraps his hands around it. He’s part tired, part tipsy, and it feels good to be inside while the rain keeps pouring in the cold night.

“Sherlock has fallen asleep in the sitting room. It would be good if we kept quiet. He needs it,” John explains.

“Good. He looks exhausted,” Mycroft answers, then sits in front of John. He has an open, worried expression, and it is strange to see it on a face that’s usually so neutral.

He is truly worried about Sherlock, John realises.

“You know it is normal, right? I mean, sort of, being tired and slow, and uncomfortable, when one reaches a pregnancy’s full term.”

“I know,” Mycroft cuts him off quickly.

“He’s ok. I watch him closely,” John adds.

“I know you do, John.”

Mycroft stares at his fingers as if they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. He snorts derisively. “He would be absolutely delighted to hear me worry like this. Makes for good humiliating material for future banter.”

“You are a rightful opponent,” John replies.

Yes, the wine has untied John’s tongue He smiles at Mycroft.

“He’s going to be a great father.”

“Yes.”

“Of course, he will also be impossible to live with –but that’s my problem. Our daughter will adore him.”

“How can she not?” Mycroft says, smiling, and then quickly straightens himself, casting John a quick look, as if he’s been caught saying something indecent. When John does not react more than a knowing smile, it seems to encourage him to continue. “Sherlock will hold himself to impossible standards, and I fear he will constantly beat himself up over it.”

“I won’t let him.”

“I know. You have been very good for my brother, John. Do not think my parents and I aren’t grateful for your presence in his life.”

This turns out to be too much sentiment. Mycroft stands quickly, and begins cleaning the table. John stands up too, stretches languidly. “I’m going to start packing, if we want to leave in the morning,” he announces. “I take it you’ll follow us?”

“Mhm.”

John walks slowly to the sitting room, and remains at the entrance, leaning against the door frame. Sherlock is still fast asleep, curled on his side, one arm wrapped around his belly, the other resting, folded, under his head. His sleep is not completely peaceful. His mouth, half-opened, lets out a breathy moan on each exhale. The frown between his eyes appears and disappears. He’s stunning; vulnerable and strong, delicate and robust all together.

“It is very strange to see my brother in this current predicament,” Mycroft whispers, just behind John, startling him. “The imperfection of the human brain, I suppose, but I have difficulties imagining him other than heavily pregnant. It has changed him. A lot more than I thought it would.”

It has changed you too, John wants to add, but decides otherwise.

“He is my little brother,” Mycroft goes on in a dreamy voice. “He was such an emotive child. I adored him. I think a lot about it these days, considering he is about to have a child himself. I hope, if your daughter inherits Sherlock’s brain, he will be wise enough not to do what I myself did to him. It is probably the mistake I regret the most.”

“But it’s not all bad, right? You never stopped taking care of him.”

“Seeing him like this reminds me of the many times I almost lost him. I find it... almost miraculous, that he’s reached his thirties –even more so that he is... perpetuating the Holmes lineage.”

“He’s a miracle alright,” John agrees.

Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder, still and cold, showing he’s not used to those sorts of gesture.

“Thank you, John.”

And before John can answer, Mycroft gets away, runs almost, to the stairs which he climbs four by four.

Well... That was ... interesting.

All John wants is to curl around Sherlock and succumb to sleep himself, but there is work to do, and besides, he’s not cruel enough to wake Sherlock up and drag him to their bedroom - the chances he would find sleep again are too slim. With a groan, John stretches, then goes to work.

Chapter Text

2.

“John.”

John stirs, then turns on his side and buries himself under the covers.

“John, wake up, I don’t feel well.”

The worried fiancé/doctor radar gets through John’s heavy wall of sleep. He sits up abruptly, blinking in the darkness, asking what is wrong before he can process anything else.

Sherlock is bent over him, a hand laid on his shoulder. The darkness is misleading, John realises, seeing the pale light illuminating Sherlock’s face. It’s morning, but a cloudy, rainy one. His watch indicates it’s ten minutes past seven.

Sherlock’s face. This should be John’s point of focus. What is wrong? What did he say?

“Sherlock?”

“Are you awake?” Sherlock snaps. “I am telling you something is happening. I do not feel well. Not at all.”

Oh.

Oh! John slides to the side of the bed and stands up, a bit wobbly on his feet. He gives Sherlock a quick once over. He’s wearing the clothes he had on yesterday evening, which means he must have slept through the night on the chaise-longue, or else he would have changed into his pyjamas. He doesn’t appear to be in pain, holds himself straight, and his pallor hasn’t worsened. He looks more scared than in pain.

“Hey, it’s ok, tell me, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock protests, visibly exasperated at himself. “I’ve been experiencing pain in my lower back,nothing like the usual pain, but now it’s gone, and I... had the strangest feeling, a few minutes ago, as if... something... my god, I hate having trouble putting words to things,I...it’s as if something has snapped, in me. It didn’t hurt. It felt –do not laugh at me-“

“I wouldn’t. How did it feel?”

“Like a ‘pop’. Like a silent ‘pop’ inside of me. Oh, this is ridiculous!”

Sherlock is shaking a little, so John takes his arm and helps him sit on the bed, all the while murmuring reassuring nonsense.

“Wait, I’ll turn on the light.”

“You can’t. The power is out.”

“Since when?”

“I don’t know, I just woke up and it was already out.

“Ok, well, at least it’s daytime. It will get clearer soon.”

“The rain hasn’t stopped,” Sherlock says with a somewhat dreamy expression. “There are still lightning strikes once in a while... I... Oh my god, John!”

Sherlock shoots straight up on his legs, moving more quickly than he has in months. He has both hands underneath his belly, his legs parted and slightly bent, and looks down himself with an expression of complete disbelief.

John sees what has gotten him in that peculiar position, as a dark stain blooms under his crotch and quickly spreads to the inside of his legs.

“Your waters are breaking, Sherlock,” he explains, sliding an arm around his waist.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock repeats.

“It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s... You’re going to have a baby.” How can those words sound so surreal, even now that John is living them?

“Take me to the bathroom,” Sherlock orders.

“Yes, ok, let’s go.”

It would be funny to see Sherlock waddle like a duck with his legs apart, if John wasn’t fighting hard a sudden bout of nausea –he always is nauseous when he’s about to panic.

Calm down, John, calm down. Panicking is the best way to ensure Sherlock does the same, and by his expression, he’s not far from it.

In the bathroom, John helps Sherlock wash and change into a new set of clothes –those in the hospital bag, Sherlock insists –he had picked them himself, for the day he would go into labour. It doesn’t surprise John: they are his most comfortable, with the softest fabric. Sherlock has always been overly sensitive, and a rough shirt can, according to him “prevent him from thinking.”

He runs back with the clothes and the pads Sherlock had insisted they buy. Only one labour out of ten starts with the waters breaking, but Sherlock had prepared for all eventualities.

John leaves the bathroom door open because the window is very small and the house dark. He needs to know if the amniotic liquid is clear, because if it isn’t, it’s a sign the baby might be in distress.

Sherlock is up near the toilet, his wet pants and trousers pooling at his feet. He stares down with the same startled expression he has since his waters broke.

“Hum... I just lost the mucus plug, I think,” he says, looking up at John.

Oh, it’s heart-breaking, how young and lost he looks in the moment. John finds it in him to push back his own anxiety. Not now. He’ll allow himself a good old breakdown, but only after their daughter is born.

Good.

A quick look at the toilet confirms what Sherlock has just said. The mucus plug is, basically, a thick cluster of mucus serving as a supplementary layer of protection at the uterus’ entry. It can fall days before labour actively starts, but this time, it clearly has been dragged by the amniotic liquid. It appears healthy, filled with bright red cells.

John also has a look at Sherlock’s pants and assesses the clarity of the amniotic liquid. Everything is under control.

“It’s normal, it is only normal,” he coaxes Sherlock, closing the toilet seat and sitting him down. He takes his hands and crouches in front of him. “Did you have any contractions?”

“See, that is the thing,I slept all through the night –not deeply, it was as if I was always on the verge of waking up, with this strange back pain and huh...” Sherlock blushes at that, “also bad cramps, in my lower belly, as if I needed to go hmm... you know... Nevertheless, it wasn’t painful enough to wake me up completely, it’s as if my body had decided I would sleep no matter what.“

“Well it isn’t surprising, Sherlock, you’re exhausted with the lack of sleep.”

“But that is not point,” Sherlock cuts off, looking annoyed. “It might have been contractions, right? They do not hurt much when they start, and... what if they were, John? I might have been in labour for hours without realising it. Oh. John, it’s still dripping...”

John helps Sherlock into his new clothes, folding the cotton pad and settling it in place. It is a very intimate moment, and they are so close John can smell the slightly acrid odour of Sherlock’s sweat, and his soap. He holds out his hand to him and Sherlock stands obediently, waiting while John pulls up his trousers.

“Listen, Sherlock, I don’t know if they were contractions or not, but we’re going to the hospital anyway. There is nothing to panic about or-“

“I’m going to have a baby,” Sherlock rasps. “John. I am not ready. We aren’t in London, we’ll have to go to St Mary’s.”

“And everything will be fine, I promise. I will be with you every step of the way, do you hear me? Every. Single. Step.”

“If the amniotic sac is ruptured, we need to leave now, there is the risk of the baby having moved down and compressing the umbilical cord, albeit it is not very common, but the more we wait the more chance there is for an infection to develop, my uterus isn’t protected by the amniotic pouch anymore. This... oh, this is all wrong, John. I was supposed to wait, wait at home as long as possible. With you. Away from all those nurses and doctors and machines, but now we can’t, and besides, this is not home, not like Baker Street... Mrs. Hudson is supposed to be there and come every once in a while to ask how I’m doing until I snap at her and say something impolite, and you... you are supposed to call everyone and to take care of me and before we have to leave for the hospital we have a few hours just for ourselves and...”

Sherlock presses both indexfingers against his temples. He is shaking.

“I am sorry,but we can’t wait, and I promise I will do everything for us to be left alone as much as possible once we’re at the hospital,” John says, trying to keep his voice low and even. “We have a new plan, that is all. We gather our things, I call Amy, and we leave for St Mary’s.”

“Yes.”

“And Sherlock, do you realize? Soon we’ll be holding our daughter in our arms?” John smiles.

“Sherlock, John? Is everything alright?” Comes Mycroft’s voice.

Mycroft is standing in the hallway, not even looking toward the bathroom. It wouldn’t be polite, John thinks, and has to bite back a nervous laugh. He stands up, leaving a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“We are out of power,” Mycroft declares. He looks funny, wearing one pair of John’s pyjama pants, way too short for him.

“Sherlock’s water broke. We need to go to the hospital.”

“Wh...What?”

“I’m having a baby, you genius,” Sherlock snarls, and it’s reassuring to hear him acting normal again.

“Oh. It’s. Oh...” Mycroft gasps at John. “Really?”

“Yes, really. If you want to wait a little you can close the cottage. If you’re following us, we’ll leave in ten minutes.”

“John! Oh!” Sherlock exclaims, pressing his hands on his belly.

“What is it? Is he alright?” Mycroft asks in a panicked voice.

“Sherlock?”

John crouches back in front of him. Sherlock is very still, a frown between his eyes.

“Oh. Touch my belly John. I think it is a real contraction.”

John finds it really firm. His heart skips a beat. This is really happening.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes, it does, and it hurts in my lower back as well,” Sherlock hisses. “What if I was in labour last night? I’m almost certain... What if I’m way more advanced than we think?”

“Tell me when it’s over, I’m writing it down,” Mycroft announces. “It is better to closely monitor the length of everything contraction and their dura-“

“I am not an idiot, Mycroft, I know that!” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft ignores him, and keeps texting on his mobile.

“Listen, Sherlock,” John says, wanting to get his attention before nervousness has him yelling at Mycroft. “We’ll be at the hospital in less than half an hour. They will check you as soon as we arrive. In the meantime, you’re with me. I’m a bloody doctor, remember? I’m going to take care of you, and you’re going to be great. I’m calling Amy.”

Sherlock nods. John is counting on the car trip to calm him down.

::: :::

The sky is so dark it seems the sun has not risen. The wind howls, blowing the trees, and the rain is icy cold. The thermostat of the rented jeep indicates five degrees Celsius.

And it is the second of June.

John drives slowly. He is so concentrated on the wheel his hands are shaking. Sudden wind gusts precipitate icy rain against the windshield, accompanied by tree leaves and other debris. Even with the wipers at maximum speed, the view is barely acceptable.

Mycroft’s car is right in front of them, and John is glad not to be alone. When they had settled in the car, the radio was blasting information about the huge low pressure system responsible for the “apocalyptic conditions”. That was when John turned it off.

They’ve been driving for ten minutes and Sherlock hasn’t uttered a word, except to warn John he was having another contraction. So far, they are six minutes apart, which is, admittedly, a bit fast for a labour that’s just starting. It does happen that the water breaking kick-starts the labour into high gear, but it is also possible Sherlock has missed the first wave of contractions. The whole escaped-prisoner episode must have been stressing him more than he let on; once the stress had gone, he’d been able to sleep longer than he had in weeks. His body must have taken over his mind, to gather some energy for the upcoming labour and delivery.

Another factor hinting at the theory that the labour is either more advanced than it seems, or progressing at a fast pace, is that the contractions appear to be already painful. Of course, Sherlock shows great restraint –he has been practicing mediation exercises to control the pain assiduously- but the way his face quirks into a grimace, the heavy breathing through his nose, his clenched teeth, and the grip he has on John’s wrist – are all sings of how much he’s suffering already. Sherlock has a great tolerance to pain –he’s been running after suspects with sprained ankles and concussions, has let John stitch his wounds more than once without any lidocaïne. John doesn’t think he would react so strongly to contractions at the very beginning of the labour.

John would very much like to accelerate, but it would be unwise considering the weather.

“We’re in no hurry. Better drive safe,” John says, unsure if he is speaking for Sherlock or trying to reassure himself.

They should be at the crossroad soon. The road to the part of the Chalk Hills where their cottage is located is a single track one, covered in gravel instead of asphalt because it only serves a few people. It shifts to a double asphalt road down the hill, with three possible directions, the principal being Storrington. The road to Storrington follows a small river offering a lovely view during the summer. Like right now. It should be lovely right now.

That is what John is thinking of when Mycroft’s car suddenly slows down –not only that, but he has put on his four-way indicators. John slows down too, and then stops behind him when Mycroft’s car comes to a halt.

Not good.

“What is he doing?” Sherlock asks, exasperated.

“I don’t know; stay here, I’ll go check.”

John isn’t prepared to step in what must be at least two inches of water. He curses as the cold liquid fills his shoes and soaks his socks. Using one hand over his eyes to fight off the wind and see where he is going, he joins Mycroft who’s standing still, looking straight ahead of him.

The closer he gets, the more of the situation becomes clear to John. First he sees the flashing lights. Police cars. Emergency vehicles. Then he hears, beyond the howling wind, human voices, lots of them. His view is almost completely blocked by Mycroft’s car.

“What is going on? He asks, but receives no answers.

And then he sees.

Oh. Shit.

Oh fucking shit.

Mycroft doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. He’s on the phone, his face as pale as Sherlock’s can sometimes be.

In front of them, about a quarter of a mile ahead, the road junction has disappeared. All that’s left is a giant pit of mud that the - supposedly lovely- river now fills.

On the other side, police officers are assessing the situation, screaming at each other. John begins to walk toward the pit, but with each step he takes, the water gets deeper. It’s up to his calves and he’s less than a foot away from Mycroft.

And that is the moment he makes the realisation. A realisation that is way colder than the water freezing his feet.

They are stuck. The mud pit isn’t a mud pit. It’s a landslide cutting off their onlyaccess to Storrington, and the hospital.

“Sir!” A police officer yells at him, using the megaphone. “Please remain at a safe distance. We can’t assure your safety.”

“My fiancé is about to give birth!” John yells back, using his hands to carry his voice. “We need to get to the hospital.”

It is clear the officer has not heard him. “Please go back to your house. We’ll send a team as soon as possible. Do not try to find another path, I repeat, do not try to find another path. The ground is still unstable.”

A firm hand on John’s shoulder makes him jump. It’s Mycroft. He’s completely wet, his hair dripping down his ears and neck. He shoves his mobile in his pocket and gives John a serious, contrite look.

“The landslide happened at six this morning. It goes on for half a mile. It seems therewere environmental studies done here five years ago, and the file had shown instability in the soil, due to an underground branch of the river, but it had been stamped ‘not urgent’ and ‘to be monitored.’” He states the facts almost mechanically.

“You got that from a two-minute phone call? Mycroft, what are we going to do?We can’t cross over and there is no other road. Unless we uh...” John bursts out laughing, but stops abruptly, before the nausea gets worse. “Unless we find a bloody boat and...and... get Sherlock down a-“

“John. Calm down. I am waiting for my assistant to call me back. We are getting Sherlock out of here.”

“How?”

They both startle, turning back to find Sherlock watching them, shivering in too light clothes, his hair a windy mess. “The only vehicle that could reach us at the moment would be by air, but no helicopter would risk flying in this weather.”

“You cannot be certain of it, Sherlock. I swear I will get you to an hospital,” Mycroft repeats.

As if on cue, his mobile rings. His nervousness shows in the way he fumbles to catch it in his pocket.

John goes to Sherlock and grabs his hand. He needs to be solid, needs to be the rock on which Sherlock can lean. He finds he still is able - at least partially- to separate himself from his emotions, an old trick he learned in Afghanistan. Well, not so much learned as developed unconsciously. You cannot care for a patient with the world exploding around you if you’re unable to compartmentalize.

So John does. And as he takes Sherlock’s hand, a deep, deep calm falls over him. His mind is clear, silent.

“We are getting you out of here. Everything will be fine. Now, let’s get you back to the car, alright? You are cold, and wet, and in no state to stand in the rain.”

Sherlock is frowning and observing him attentively, with that pale blue piercing gaze that can learn and deduce so many things, emotions as well as intentions. Lies. He is wondering if it is an act. If John’s calm is artificial, a display for show. The frown disappears after a second, replaced by perplexity.

“Aren’t you worried, John?”

Without answering, John gets Sherlock to follow him to the car, opens the door and helps him sit. “What is the worst that could happen, Sherlock?”

“John, I...”

“This is a serious question.”

Sherlock nods, and closes his eyes. He’s silent for a bit. A deafening rumble of thunder resonates against the hills.

“The worst case scenario is being unable to reach the hospital, being stuck at the cottage. Me, giving birth, without medical assistance.”

“And I am a doctor. If it comes to that- and trust me, Sherlock, Mycroft will use all of his resources to get us out of here -but if even the British government himself can’t get you to a hospital in time, I swear on my mother’s grave I will take care of you and deliver our baby safely. I am an army surgeon. You are in good hands. Alright?”

Sherlock nods eagerly, despite his lips trembling and his eyes too big, too liquid.

“Another contraction,” he announces, his whole body tensing.

John bends toward him so that their faces are inches away from each other. He hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Ok, breathe through it. That’s it. You’re doing great.”

“It seems... ah... the pain is already getting worse,” Sherlock whispers, then moans quietly.

The strain in his voice alone worries John. Normally, a first time labour is a long, arduous process. Childbirth tends to be faster when the person is down to their second or third child. It isn’t unheard of, far from it, that it happens too for a first child. It is called a precipitate labour... and now John should stop imagining the worst, it doesn’t do any good. He needs to stay focussed on Sherlock and keep him safe, whatever is going to happen.

“Keep breathing,” he tells Sherlock calmly. “It hurts, I know, butthe important thingis to keep breathing evenly.”

“Right,” Sherlock agrees, eyes closed, nostrils dilated. “There,” he exhales, his body starting to relax. “It’s almost... almost over.”

Another few seconds, then Sherlock releases the pressure on John’s hand and blinks at him, as if he’s just woken up. “I can do this,” he says, trying to smile. “I trust you, John. We can do this together, right? It’s just like it’s always been. You and me against the world.”

“Do not forget we also have nurse Mycroft, isn’t it great?” John jokes, sliding his fingers through Sherlock’s wet curls.

Sherlock huffs. “I sometimes wonder if he’s been genetically programmed to harass me.”

John laughs out loud, head turned toward the sky. He feels something cold landing on his lips, and opens his eyes wide, wondering if it really is what he thinks it is.

“Oh. It’s snowing,” Sherlock murmurs, sliding his upper body out of the car to stare at the sky as well.

“Snow. In Sussex, on the second of June,” John says in a low voice, as if it is too improbable to state out loud.

“It is quite exceptional,” Sherlock agrees, using the same quiet tone. “How can it be otherwise, though. Isn’t today the birth of an exceptional human being?”

“Sherlock, you’re a poet,” John mocks gently.

Sherlock looks at him sternly. “Shut the door. I am cold.”

John is still laughing when he goes back to find Mycroft. He finds he can still maintain a clear mind, and a calm, stoic attitude. For now anyway. He hopes the older Holmes has just made a miracle possible, and that some special helicopter from the army or even the MI-6 is on the way. When it comes to Mycroft’s resources, nothing is ever farfetched.

They head back to the cottage. It is eight thirty in the morning.

::: :::

Sherlock’s thighs are shaking and his hands are gripping the comforter. John has settled a thick towel under his hips, and it’s already wet with more amniotic liquid –clear, still. Good. The few blood trickles are of a bright red colour, which is good, too. John presses a hand on Sherlock’s knee, making him jump. It is only now that he understands Amy’s warning, from that day at the hospital a few months ago. She had said Sherlock would need John to be a comforting presence, not a doctor. Right now, he would like to be sat close to him, holding his hand and telling him to breathe, having him focus on him instead of what is going on down below.

It is difficult to hold both roles.

They can hear Mycroft’s voice from the kitchen. He got on his phone as soon as they arrived. Even though John cannot make out the words, he guesses Mycroft doesn’t have good news, and knowing him, it must be extremely annoying. He’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it, but it appears even the puppet master of the British government doesn’t have any power over the elements. Huh. Who would have thought?

“We have three minutes before the next contraction, John,” Sherlock points out, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“I know. Here we go.”

John was eager to check Sherlock’s dilatation, as soon as they were back. Sherlock had been reluctant, and John can guess why. He doesn’t want to know. He’s scared that the labour is going too fast for help to arrive in time. John gets it, god, does he, but it’s no use to be in denial.

John slides two gloved fingers covered in lube into Sherlock’s birth canal. There is little resistance, since the muscles are already softening, getting ready for birth. John tilts his fingers upward and pushes slowly, finding the uterus cervix almost immediately. Sherlock is holding himself very tense.

“It won’t be long now,” John says in a reassuring tone. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers honestly. He’s speaking through his teeth. “But it is bearable. Just, get on with it please.”

“You need to relax, or it’ll hurt even more.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sherlock snaps, but John has already stretched his fingers in the correct position, each one touching a side of the uterus’s entrance. He takes them out quickly and, without moving them, carefully lay his hand on the rule he had settled on the towel.

Six centimetres. Oh.

Really, it’s closer to six and a half.

John takes a deep breath. His face is covered in sweat. When did that happen?

Whether it is because Sherlock’s been having contractions through the night, or that it is, in fact, a precipitate labour, the results are the same. Sherlock is close to the active phase of labour : the last three centimetres usually dilate faster. The contractions are longer, closer together, and, of course, the most painful ones.

“John?”

Sherlock is raised on his elbows, staring at him with wide eyes. John tries to smile; he hopes it comes out correctly, because he doesn’t feel like smiling. At all.

“John? What is it? What’s wrong?”

You’re going to have him panicked, Watson, get yourself together.

“Nothing is wrong, Sherlock. Your cervix is softening nicely, and you are six centimetres dilated.”

“Six?” Sherlock rasps, and his already wide eyes are almost crossing from surprise. “No, you have to take the measure again. It’s supposed to take hours. I should be around two.”

“Sherlock. You said it yourself, you might have been having contractions through the night. Even if nothing happened until your waters broke, some people have faster labour.”

“John, we are stuck here, and... Oh. God. Help won’t get here in time.”

Sherlock falls back on the pillow. John lets him digest the information while he cleans him up. He’s about to pull back his pants when Sherlock fights to sit up, his arms stretched. It takes a moment for John to understand he wants him to take his hands.

“Contraction?”

“Yes, help me, my back hurts too much,” Sherlock says quickly, already short of breath.

“Hey, it’s ok, calm down, I got you. Alright? I got you.”

John finds himself kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, his arms wrapped around his waist. Sherlock is bending forward, holding John back in a similar fashion, his head shoved in the crook of his neck. His belly is hot and hard, pressed against John’s. Sherlock is not only tense, but trembling.

“Come on, keep a regular breathing rhythm. You’re ok, I’m here,” John murmurs straight into his ear.

He knows Sherlock is close to a complete breakdown. It’s too much, what he’s been through over the past week. It’s one thing to acknowledge that, if it comes to the necessity of giving birth here, he has an experienced doctor with him. It’s another one to realise it might very well happen.

“John,” Mycroft calls from the doorway.

Sherlock grips John tighter. A low, long pained groan vibrates against John’s neck.

“Tell me help is coming,” John asks, moving a hand to caress Sherlock’s head. His curls are damp with sweat.

“Not right now. I’ve requested a military helicopter, a prototype that isn’t even officially part of our air force, it is a part of a secret-“

“Mycroft, I don’t care if it’s a bloody spaceship, what is going on?”

“Even that particular helicopter cannot fly right now, the weather is too dangerous –there is a fifty percent chance it wouldn’t reach us, and endanger gravely the life of people on board.”

“Jesus Christ,” John swears. “And I suppose the sea isn’t a viable option?”

John already knows the answer, but he still needs Mycroft to validate him. The older Holmes shakes his head curtly. Then, for the first time since John has known him, he gives up control of a situation he’s part of. The sentence is simple; a few words, but they carry an immense weight with them.

“What are we going to do?”

John doesn’t have time to worry, to curse the bloody weather, to wonder if he is up to the task. There is no time for hesitation.

“Ok, hmm... Ok. Mycroft, you need to get the fire going, we’ve put it out not even an hour ago, it shouldn’t be too hard. And after that, well...last time we were here I saw a fuel generator in the shed behind the house. I have no idea if it’s working, but it would be good to get electricity back in here. Alright?”

“Is Sherlock very advanced?”

“Yes, he is.”

John and Mycroft exchange a silent look. It’s happening, Mycroft’s eyes say. Yes, it is, John answers.

Sherlock has remained immobile, breathing heavily into the crook of John’s neck. He waits for Mycroft to walk away to look up at John, tightening his arms around his waist. “This is it, this is the worst case scenario,” he says, studying John’s traits with his deducing detective frown.

John cannot lie to him. It wouldn’t do any good.

“If you keep that rhythm, Sherlock, It is highly doubtful you’ll give birth in a hospital.”

“So no epidural, no foetal monitor, no surgical unit close by, no-“

“Sherlock.”

“Forceps, no neonatal ICU unit, no- “

“SHERLOCK,” John repeats firmly.

Sherlock stops and blinks nervously at him. “Apologies.”

“It is like you said, love. We can do this. Do you still trust me?”

Sherlock has a small smile. “My opinion hasn’t changed in half an hour.”

“Amy told us during your last appointment that she was expecting you to have an easy, natural delivery. She expected no complications. I will make sure there isn’t. I swear, Sherlock, if help isn’t there in time, I will do whatever is necessary to keep the both of you safe.”

“I know that,” Sherlock protests softly. “Do not think I doubt you, but this is... overwhelmingly scary.”

A shiver runs through him, and he has another series of nervous blinks. John’s heart breaks in tiny pieces, but he keeps his own emotions to himself, instead focussing on Sherlock.

“I know, and it’s fine. But you are the strongest person I know, Sherlock, and you will do an amazing job –you already are.”

“Another contraction,” Sherlock warns. “Please keep holding me.”

“Of course.”

John does. He knows there is no way six minutes have passed since the last one, and Sherlock must know it too. Neither of them mention it.

Afterward, John takes a quick look to his watch, surprised to discover it’s only nine. The morning feels like it’s been going on forever, and still, at least another eternity is about to pass, he knows, before they see the end of the day.

Chapter Text

3.

Sherlock has asked to walk around, saying it is easier to keep worrying thoughts at bay that way. John had agreed -anything to keep him calm- and he follows him around in between contractions. The fire is now burning brightly, and the lights are up. It took Mycroft a little less than half an hour to start the generator, and when he walked inside, oil was smeared on his face and hands, his hair was standing straight up on top of his head, but he looked so satisfied it took John all his will not to burst out laughing.

Give a challenge to a Holmes, you will not be disappointed.

At least, John doesn’t have to worry about keeping Sherlock warm. The warmth isn’t only for their comfort –a new-born is extremely sensitive to cold.

And as the minutes pass, John has given up the hope help will get to the cottage in time. It is a waste of his energy. He prefers to concentrate on Sherlock, and on everything he’s learned about birth -the ones he assisted, the ones he did himself –if only he had more experience in carrier’s labour and delivery. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, a birth is a birth, and the differences at this point are minimal. Usually, the pushing phase is longer with carriers than women, because of the length of the birth canal and its position, in the shape of a stretched “S” instead of the straighter one women have. Carriers’skin and tissues around the birth canal do not have the same fragility that women’s do, so this is an advantage : John will not have to worry that much about the skin breaking.

Those small differences can be dealt with, that’s the point. What is worrying John the most, though, is a possible uterine haemorrhage, another complication that is more common with carriers. Because of this, he’s been encouraging Sherlock to drink. Usually, people in labour are forbidden from eating and drinking, in case they need an emergency C-section under general anaesthesia. Nevertheless, drinking only water isn’t like eating a steak, and given the probabilities, John knows a haemorrhage is more likely to happen than the other option. Gosh, Mycroft would be proud of him, thinking in matters of probabilities and percentages.

John’s mind is too full of procedures and useful memories –hell, some textbook passages from his student years are coming back to him in whole paragraphs. He wonders if this is how Sherlock feels all the time.
Since they’ve been back at the cottage, the time between contractions has gone from six to four minutes. They are getting longer too –the last couple of ones lasted more than sixty seconds.

Sherlock is doing incredibly well. Whenever a contraction starts, he holds onto John, facing him, hands wrapped around his neck. He concentrates on his breathing, and very rarely lets out a groan of pain. Still, John can tell it is getting harder. His legs are less steady, and he needs more time to relax after a contraction. Despite the fact that they remain close to the fire in the living room, and that John has put him in one of his old jumpers plus a pair of wool socks, Sherlock’s body is racked by shivers, some strong enough to have his teeth chattering. It isn’t worrying. It is a normal biological reaction to the hormonal outburst and the rapid changes Sherlock’s body is going through –it is the same principle as going into shock. Nevertheless, John knows how exhausting shivering can be –it is draining the body of its precious energy, and Sherlock will need some later. There is little John can do besides cranking the electric heat up and mop up the sweat from Sherlock’s face and hair.

After successfully working the generator, Mycroft has opted to give them space. He’s in the kitchen, almost constantly on the phone. He tries to keep his voice down, and John is glad. Sherlock doesn’t need to hear conversations that could upset him or give him false hope.

Outside, the snow has slowed down, but the wind seems to have picked up. John curses nature, man-made climate change and exceptional low pressure current, but also isolated locations and untended unstable soil. It makes him feel just a tiny bit better.

“John,” Sherlock warns, stopping his slow, waddling walk.

It is now close to ten, and Sherlock has been walking about for more than forty five minutes.

“Ok, alright, come on I got you,” John tells him, careful to use a calm, quiet voice, which he learned on the battlefield. The calmer you are, the more likely your patient will calm down. It’s a simple mimic technique.

Sherlock once more wraps his arms around John’s neck, and John holds his waist, massaging his lower back. Sherlock’s forehead is resting on his good shoulder, and he knows he’s being careful not to use the other one, not to hurt John, even though he is the one in pain. Thinking about it has John’s throat swelling. He gets himself under control quickly. He won’t bloody cry in front of Sherlock.

“This one is... this one burns, a lot,” Sherlock chokes in an almost inaudible voice.

His legs are shaking. John isn’t certain they would hold him up, if he wasn’t there to support him.

“John,” Sherlock groans.

“What? What is it, love?”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock pants. “Don’t stop speaking... pleathe. I... I know it is stupid, but I feel better when you speak.”

“Ok, alright... mmh... What was I saying? That you were brilliant, right?”

It’s a lame attempt at humour, but Sherlock lets out a shaky laugh.

“Ok,” he murmurs afterward, “ok, it is almost over... god, that one felt... different, and not in a good way.”

“Do you want to sit for a little bit? You must be getting tired.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not now.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock holds onto John’s hand very tight and walks a few steps before he stops. “I... I think another one is coming already. John?” He asks, his voice slightly panicked. “I need... I can’t stay up, John, I’m going to fall, pleathe don’t let me fall.”

“I won’t, of course, I won’t. Calm down, lean on me.”

Luckily for them, the two-seater sofa Sherlock has been spending most of his nights on is close. John feels Sherlock’s knees giving up, as he finds himself carrying most of his weight. Sherlock is collapsing, and John decides it is safer to slowly lower himself down with Sherlock, until they are both seated, although Sherlock is leaning heavily against him, panting, with each breath ending in a soft moan.

Mycroft, alarmed, comes almost running to see what is going on. John tells him silently to remain where he is. Sherlock tries, without success, to lift his legs on the couch, as if he wants to curl in on himself. His eyes are shut tight, his face a deep red, except for two white circles around his eyes.

“Breathe, Sherlock, come on, I got you, you’re doing so well.”

“I can’t...” Sherlock pants, “I can’t... concentrate enough to alter my perception of the pain... John...”

He reaches with a trembling hand and grabs John’s shirt in a fist. John caresses his back and his head, waits for the worst of the contraction to be over. He feels it, probably before Sherlock, the moment his body unwinds, but the tensing of his muscles is immediately replaced by another series of shivers. Sherlock’s teeth are chattering, hard, but he still tries to speak.

“Wuh-why two in a r-ruuh-row? Is it nuh-normal? I can’t remember, I can’t, John.”

“Hey, relax, there is no reason to panic. It happens, in the active phase, sometimes the contraction lose the pattern they were following. It’s ok to be hurting, Sherlock, you’ve been managing brilliantly so far, but you are going through the most painful part. Relax, alright? I’m here.”

Sherlock nods and takes a few hiccuping breaths. He relaxes his mouth to stop the chattering and looks up at John. His eyes are wide and pale.

“I don’t think I can keep walking.”

“It’s ok. Do you want to lie down?”

“Maybe... John. Another one, it’s only be a minute, what is happening...”

Sherlock pushes John away and lets himself slide on the floor, where he kneels, his upper body resting on the sofa. He shoves his head between his arms and lets out a long, painful moan. John is quick to kneel next to him, but when he starts massaging his back, Sherlock snaps at him in a shaky voice, “don’t touch me!”

“Ok, alright, sorry.”

“Shut up, please shut up...”

Going from needing John’s voice and touch to the opposite so abruptly would be surprising, if Sherlock wasn’t who he is. Nevertheless, it still is alarming. Things are moving. Fast.

Sherlock’s long moan ends on a dry sob, followed by a series of curses. Mycroft walks over to them. He looks a bit scared and unsure what to do. “John? Do you need me to prepare something? I don’t know, boiling some water or-“

John, stressed by Sherlock’s sudden change of behaviour, has to bite his lips to stop himself from shutting Mycroft up. It would be stupid. He does need him. He has the feeling Sherlock’s labour is once more picking up speed.

“I want you to get all the towels and sheets from the linen closet upstairs, and also the pillow from your room. Use the oldest comforter and a sheet to cover the mattress in our room. Get my medical kit in there and yes, boil some water.”

“Got it,” Mycroft is gone. John can hear him climb the stairs two by two.

“You are getting ready for the delivery,” Sherlock murmurs.

The contraction is over. Sherlock turns his head to look at John. His eyes are still huge, and more scared than John has ever seen them, except maybe for that time John had been stabbed in the thigh.

“Yes, I am. It’s alright, Sherlock. I’ve done this before, you know.”

“John,” Sherlock rasps, his lower lip shaking. “I am very, very scared.”

“It’s ok, darling. It’s ok, to be scared. Can I... can I touch you?”

Sherlock nods. John presses his forehead against his. It is damp and hot. “You can do it. Sage is ready; your body will tell you what to do. Don’t fight it. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you or the baby. I promise.”

“But... there are so many variables that are out of your control, John... what if...?”

John takes Sherlock’s face between his hands. “Look at it logically. Right now, it’s no use to think about what could go wrong. It won’t change anything. I want you to concentrate on the here and now, block everything else. One contraction at a time.”

Sherlock stares at John –one of those piercing gazes that always feels like he’s digging into John’s mind and soul with a simple look, reading him, in and out. Then, he nods slowly. “Alright.”

“I would really like to check you. We’ll wait until the next contraction and then I will take you to the bedroom.”

“I don’t think I can walk that far.”

“You won’t have to. Mycroft will help. Trust me.”

Sherlock nods.

This time, a whole five minutes passes before another contraction starts. Sherlock refuses to move from his spot. The best John can do is slide a cushion under his knees. He encourages him to rest while he can, caressing his hair –it’s always done wonders to calm him down. Meanwhile, Mycroft is walking back and forth, taking to the bedroom everything John asked him to. It would almost be funny to watch him half walking, half running, with none of the slow, lazy elegance he usually displays –John is too worried to laugh, though. He’s anxious to get Sherlock settled in the bedroom and to evaluate his progression, which won’t happen until after the next contraction. When it finally comes, John can immediately tell it is a bad one, by the way Sherlock clenches his teeth as tears of pain slide down his cheeks. The quiet moans are stuck in his throat. He’s working hard not to be too loud, which has him breathing way too superficially, and must be physically exhausting.

“Sherlock-“

“Pleathe don’t talk,” Sherlock hisses.

“I’m sorry, I have to,” John says more firmly, with a hint of his captain tone. “Stop holding back. If you need to groan, or shout, or downright scream, let it out. It doesn’t matter. You’re not breathing, and you are too tense when you try to keep it all inside.”

“Shut... oh my god John, it burns, it burns so much...”

New tears appear at the corner of Sherlock’s closed eyes. He shivers, and allows a silent sob to escape. It’s not good enough. He needs to breathe. John orders him, hating himself for being so commanding.

“I... can’t...” Sherlock whispers, before finally, he swallows a huge gulp of air. The contraction is receding. Sherlock stretches an arm toward John, and John takes his hand immediately, pressing it softly.

“I’m not good at this,” he rasps in an apologetic tone.

“Nonsense. You are amazing. Listen, I’m sorry to insist, but you need to let go. You are working way too hard to keep yourself under control. I know breathing through the pain is hard but-“

“That’s not it,” Sherlock cuts him off, with what is supposed to be an exasperated eye roll, but turns more pleading than anything else. “I... if I let myself go, as you say... John, I will lose whatever control I have left. I can’t... I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it back.”

“That won’t happen,” John tells him, firmly but softly. “You don’t need to control your reaction to pain, you need to accept the pain. It will allow you to breathe better and to be less tensed. Don’t waste your precious strength to keep up appearances. Alright? And I’ll take care of the rest, Sherlock. I’ll be there to put you back together, as always. You know I will.”

John kisses Sherlock’s chewed lips. “Now, we really need to move you to your room.”

John calls Mycroft who comes back from the kitchen with his medical bag in hands.

“Help me take Sherlock to our bedroom.”

“Alright.”

They try.

It doesn’t work. While they succeed in getting Sherlock up, they cannot move him further. He’s a dead weight, and his body refusing to collaborate scares him. He begins to scramble backward, to get back on the sofa, and neither John’s commanding voice, nor Mycroft’s soft one, seem to get through his panic outburst.

“No, no, no, I can’t, put me down, another contraction is starting,” Sherlock finally shouts, angry and exhausted.

“Ok, ok, calm down, forget the room,” John surrenders.

It’s another fight to get Sherlock on the sofa instead of kneeling in front of it. John has to shout over his own cries, explaining he does not have a choice, he needs to check him. Sherlock stops working against them, then, and they can lower him safely onto the sofa. Mycroft’s face is deep red, he pants loudly through his nose and seems close to panic himself. Sherlock is groaning from the effort of turning on his side, curling in on himself, groaning through the contraction.

“Alright,” John murmurs, taking a deep breath to remain calm despite what just happened. He needs to be. Mycroft has never seemed so lost and out of his element. As for Sherlock, fear has taken over logic and judgement. John cannot blame him. He presses his hand over his face, rubs at his eyes. “Alright,” he repeats. “New plan.”

::: :::

“No, I can’t, let me... Don’t... John, it hurts too much, stop it!” Sherlock’s spite reminds John of the way he addresses Anderson, when his incompetence is slowing down a case.

“Sorry, love. Sorry. I don’t have a choice. Mycroft, keep his legs bent.”

John feels like an arsehole, forcing Sherlock to remain on his back in the middle of the contraction. The pain is worse that way. “It’s like a metal rod piercing me from hip to hip.”

John fights to put his gloves on while Mycroft stretches over Sherlock, effectively keeping his legs open. Sherlock curses in between moans. John, seeing his hands scratching frenetically at the sofa’s fabric, swallows another lump in his throat. Come on, get to it. There is nothing you can do for him right now, except his examination, so do it.

It’s easy to slide his fingers into the birth canal, soft and covered in fluids. The uterus entry shows the cervix completely erased. John pushes his fingers a bit deeper, but is stopped by something hard and warm, covered in fluid.

The baby’s head. I’m touching my daughter’s head, he thinks, blinking rapidly to chase the tears filling his eyes.

The distance between his fingers has changed from last time, he can tell that much, and when he pulls them back and check with the rule, he finds Sherlock is nine centimetres dilated.

He wipes away the secretions and blood staining Sherlock’s genitals, makes a sign to Mycroft, who lets go of Sherlock’s legs, which both fall sideways, like lifeless, rubber members. Sherlock is trying to catch his breath. The contraction is over.

John covers Sherlock’s lower body with a sheet and looks up at him. Sherlock is staring back over the swell of his belly, looking wild, but calmer.

“I am sorry, I am being hysterical,” he says, clearly embarrassed.

“Come on, Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous, you are in pain,” Mycroft replies, which earns him an irritated look.

“You are almost fully dilated.” John announces.“Nine centimetres.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock blinks nervously at John, several times in a row. Mycroft takes a step back. He’s pale as a sheet.

“It... it is really happening,” Sherlock whispers.

“Sherlock, I touched her head,” John announces, unable to hide his emotions.

Sherlock still seems to be in shock, unable to stop blinking. John stretches his arm and caresses his belly, pressing softly under his navel. “That’s where she is,” he explains. “She’s already engaged. This is excellent news, as far as delivery goes. It means she hasn’t shifted position at the last moment, and that she’s already done some of the work ahead of the pushing phase.”

“She’s so clever,” Sherlock says, and the uncertain smile that illuminates his tired face has John’s heart breaking once more. God, he loves that man. He never thought you could love someone that much, never thought it could grow exponentially with time.

“If help gets here, they won’t take you in the helicopter until the baby’s born. You are too close. They’ll wait until after.”

“I figured that much. Please, can you put my clothes back on?”

Mycroft retreats to the kitchen, but John shakes his head. “You’re too close to the delivery phase, I prefer to keep an easy access.”

Sherlock nods, but once again, embarrassment stains his cheeks, deep red. John is about to comfort him when another contraction begins.

Without waiting for help, Sherlock manages to kneel on the sofa, with his arms crossed over the tall armrest. John makes sure the sheet follows –if keeping his dignity is important to Sherlock, it is important to John too, let it be futile or not. Sherlock is moaning softly, pressing his head hard into his shaking arms. John, knowing he does not want to be touched or spoken to, tries not to feel too helpless. It was so much easier in the beginning, when Sherlock was reaching for his touch and comfort. Nevertheless, John needs to respect what Sherlock wants. At least, he’s allowing himself to voice his pain, not completely, John can tell just by hearing him breathe, but it’s a start.

He wonders if he should try once more to move Sherlock to the bedroom. Logically, it would be easier to deliver the baby there, and would allow Sherlock more space to move around and choose a birthing position.

It might not be possible, though, and there is no way John is forcing Sherlock to move if he refuses. The advantage of the sofa is that it only has one armrest (which is the reason Sherlock could fit on it in the first place), with the other side giving John an easy access. It is also close enough to the fireplace that he won’t have to worry about Sage suffering from hypothermia.

It is doable. Hell, some people give birth in cabs after all. It is John who needs to adapt, not Sherlock.

As soon as the contraction is over, John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and presses a cold flannel - brought by Mycroft at some point- against his face. Sherlock leans into it, his eyes opened to slits. “It’s... ah ....getting... extraordinarily painful... More than I ever allowed myself to imagine,”he pants, trying to smile at John.

“Look at you though; you know how proud of you I am, right? You’re doing so well, Sherlock...you’re brilliant. Listen, if you want to try for the bedroom, I think we should do it now, before the expulsion phase begins –but we don’t have to,” he adds quickly, when panic widens Sherlock’s eyes once more, “ if you think you can’t, but you would be more comfortable in a bed and...”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock whispers, licking his dry lips. “I... we can maybe try, but I feel another contraction already, so maybe after?”

“Of course. No problem. Don’t think about it now just concentrate on breathing.”

“Jesus, it hurts,” Sherlock says, shaken by a shiver. “John.”

“I’m here. I’m right here, I’m not leaving you.”

Sherlock nods and shoves his head back in the crook of his arms. The soft cries he allows himself to let out are swelling with every new contraction, and are now ending on long, agonised moans, with each exhale. John aches to touch him, reassure him. He’s never seen him so vulnerable and lost, in that amount of pain, and it is difficult, not to get angry at the situation. Angry isn’t good. John always has trouble shaking the feeling off, and there is no place for this right now.

As if on cue, Mycroft materialises in the living room. He crouches near John and observes Sherlock for a few seconds, his expression raw and open. He seems close to tears.

“Is he ok?” He murmurs.

“No, I am not ok, shut up!” Sherlock shouts before letting out a string of curses.

Mycroft ignores the insults and turns toward John. “I just spoke to Anthea. If everything goes well, the helicopter should be able to take off in twenty minutes. The weather is improving. I had someone pick up Doctor Brown, she will be part of the flight.”

Of course. Mycroft could probably get the Prime Minister on board if he thought it useful.

“It will be too late by then,” John whispers back. “But I am glad there will be someone competent here for Sherlock and the baby.”

“I don’t want a whole bloody delegation trooping into the cottage while I’m pushing a baby out of me,” Sherlock protests, with enough strength that John knows he is serious.

“Don’t worry about that, they’re not even in the air yet,” he coaxes, “and I’ll make sure only the essential medical team has access to you.”

Sherlock doesn’t hear the last words of the sentence; he’s groaning, loud and unabashed, moving his hips back and forth, as if trying to get away from the pain. Meanwhile, John asks for Mycroft’s help once more. He looks doubtful. “Are you sure...”

“No, of course I’m not sure, but we can try,” John snaps, feeling immediately guilty. He begins to apologise but Mycroft stops him with a dismissive hand motion.

“We are all on edge, it’s perfectly alright.”

A few seconds later, Sherlock says he’s ready. They succeed in getting him up. Sherlock’s legs are still shaking, but he holds his head high, trying to disguise his embarrassment at being half naked while John quickly wraps a sheet over his hips.

“Come on, Sherlock, I’ve changed your nappies,” Mycroft reminds him, shaking his head.

“I cannot help it,” Sherlock hisses. “I know it’s not rational. So stop trying to reassure me with your stupid stories. What’s next? That first time you did it and I peed all over your face? Mummy is so fond of that memory.”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to blush, and John cannot help it, he finds the whole thing incredibly funny –must be his nerves- and bursts out laughing.

A killer look from Sherlock stops him as abruptly as he started.

“Yes, um, let’s... Do you want to try to walk?”

Sherlock nods. It appears this time, they will be successful. At least he seems to wants to move to the bedroom. They take a couple of steps when suddenly, Sherlock’s knee buckles. He appears equally surprised, if his panicked expression is any indication. Luckily, Mycroft and John are holding him up.

“Hey, it’s ok,” John says, “we’ll carry you, you don’t have to...”

“No it’s... Oh. My god. John, the pressure, down there. Oh.... it’s... I can feel the pressure, god...”

Sherlock widens his legs. The sheet falls down, but none of them care. Amniotic liquid is dripping on the floor, almost as much as when his water first broke.

“John?” Mycroft asks, looking shocked.

“It’s ok, no one panic, every contraction pushes the amniotic liquid out. The baby must have moved a bit and more of-“

“GOD,” Sherlock shouts, trying to get down on his knees. “John, I need... I need to push, I need...”

Oh god.

Already.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock, who’s face has turned a deep red. His eyes are shut tight, and he is pushing, groaning deep in his throat.

“Not now, not now,” John orders, unable to hide the panic in his own voice.

“I can’t...” Sherlock cries. “Let me down, I need...”

“John,” Mycroft repeats, the strain of holding Sherlock up against his will making him shake.

“ALRIGHT,” John shouts, ex-captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in full display. “Sherlock, stop fighting us. Mycroft, follow my lead.”
They get Sherlock back on the sofa in a seat carry and lay him on his back. He is panting quickly, through his teeth, and it is apparent the urge to push is overwhelming and difficult to fight.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rasps. “John, let me push... I gotta... GOD, IT HURTS...”

“Soon, Sherlock, soon I promise.”

Sherlock scrambles to sit, pushing Mycroft away while grabbing John tighter. “Help me, please.”

“Of course, here we go. That’s it. Better?” He asks, his voice back to the calm, controlled tone he has been careful to use.

“Oh, god, the contraction is almost over,” Sherlock says, short of breath. “John, it’s time, isn’t it? I’m sorry I couldn’t go to the bedroom, the need to expel has been quite sudden, and brutal. I’ve read about it, of course, but I’ve never thought...”

Nervous babbling is better than downright panic, John thinks, vaguely nodding at Sherlock while trying to think. About what is soon to be happen. About what needs to be done. He covers Sherlock’s belly tenderly and looks up at Mycroft, wondering if the poor guy can be of any help.

Of course he can. He was the one who took care of Sherlock through his addict years, he’s seen worse, without a doubt.

“Ok,” John says, feeling once more focused and in control. “Ok. Mycroft? You know everything you carried to the bedroom?”

Mycroft doesn’t need more explanation.

Chapter Text

4.

It’s ten twenty in the morning. Sherlock has been pushing for half an hour.

His attitude has changed completely. John has no doubt he feels better now that he doesn’t have to simply endure but to work actively to deliver his baby. It all comes down to control and empowerment.

They’ve tried the most common position, which has the patient lying on his left side, with his right legs propped up by pillows (or in this case, Mycroft) but Sherlock didn’t like it. He’s back to kneeling on the sofa, his upper body supported by the armrest. It isn’t an easy position for John, who has to kneel too, head tilted to the side to have a clear view of his birth canal, but the pushes are extremely efficient that way.

Mycroft is sitting on a kitchen bench near Sherlock’s head, comforting him, feeding him ice chips and wiping his face with a washcloth when Sherlock asks for it. It’s fascinating to see how Mycroft easily manipulates Sherlock to keep him positive and in good spirits. He’ll cleverly direct the -admittedly short-conversations they have, kindly accepting being the focus for Sherlock’s feelings, even if it means being insulted and called names. John might start to believe Mycroft really is the cleverest of them –or at least, a cleverer big brother.

Sherlock gives everything he has, and more. He hasn’t needed John’s instructions to know how to push more efficiently (avoiding pushing with one’s “chest” instead of the lower belly muscles being the most common mistake) and is going at his own rhythm. It’s a given that the method of having your patient give one long push or two with each contraction, coordinating them while counting, is a practice that is less and less used by obstetricians, and John didn’t even try; he had the feeling Sherlock would have quickly dismissed it. It doesn’t matter really, he gives about four good pushes by contraction, and it is easy for John to see how effective they are, the birth canal expanding with each one, showing a little bit more of the baby’s head each time. For now, it is pulled back inside at the end of each push, but it does progress, if only by the number of seconds it takes for the head to go back inside, expanding slowly but surely.

The only truly negative aspect of the expelled phase is the short period of time in between the contractions. A new pattern has emerged: they are regular again, but with barely two minutes in between, it doesn’t give Sherlock much time to rest. John has suggested he can skip a contraction, and keep his strength to push during the next one, but Sherlock can’t. The urge is too great to fight it. Nevertheless, so far, he’s holding his own.

Outside, thunder rumbles, and lightning strikes abound. It has begun quite suddenly. John wonders if it’s the same back in London, or wherever the secret army helicopter is located, and if it could take off as planned. Mycroft’s phone has rung a couple of times, but he didn’t answer, finally discarding his mobile by throwing it haphazardly on the floor.

“That’s it, Sherlock,” John says, delicately sliding his index around the birth canal, “that’s a good one, keep going.”

Sherlock does, doubling his efforts, grunting low in his throat. Once more, the shrivelled, pulsing skin of the baby is showing, and John works the rim of the birth canal. The small circle showing the head is about the same circumference as a walnut. They’re not there yet.

Sherlock ends the push on a painful moan, his whole body shaking. One of the disadvantages of this position is that John cannot see his face. It is Mycroft who’s sliding his hand over Sherlock’s forehead, pushing the damp curls away, telling him to relax now, and how good he is doing, calling him ‘little bee’, which seems to be an old nickname. John is a bit jealous. He covers Sherlock’s backside once more and leaves his spot, asking Mycroft to go fill a bowl of boiled water, so that he can sit in his place for the short time they have until the next contraction.

Sherlock is panting, trying to slow down his breathing. He looks exhausted but focused, determined. His eyes light up when he sees John, and he gives him half a smile.

“Hey,” he rasps, his voice raw from all the groaning.

“Hey you. How are you holding up?”

“I’m ok.”

John smiles too, presses a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you, I’m so proud of you.”

Sherlock swallows audibly. He seems close to tears. “Are... are you sure I’m doing it the right way? Is there really progress?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“Good.”

Sherlock shivers, then lets out a tired laugh. “Some are lucky enough to expel the baby in three or four pushes. Of course, it isn’t my case. It would have been too simple.”

“You know it is usually more work for carriers, darling,” John reminds him. “But the head is engaged and with each push it gets closer to be expulsed. We’re getting there.”

“Good. Because I’m... I’m not sure I can keep the rhythm for much longer,” Sherlock admits.His eyes fill with tears and he wipes at them impatiently. “I hate being so emotional,” he admits with an embarrassed smile.

“I could tell you it’s only normal, but you already know that, right?”

John runs his fingers into Sherlock’s wild curls. He wishes he could stay right there with him, and not worry about the rest. Sadly, he can see Sherlock straightening his back and rising on his knees, and right on cue, Mycroft is back. With regret, John kisses Sherlock once more and goes back to his spot at the other end of the chaise-longue.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he says, rubbing the small of his back. “Give me a good push.”

And Sherlock, obediently, does.

It goes on like this for fifteen more minutes, more or less, and the head of the baby is showing a little more each time. It is the largest and most difficult part of the small body to breach the birth canal, and as it gets closer, the pressure intensifies, and it takes its toll on Sherlock as the pain becomes more acute. The birth canal’s entry is swollen and red. John is massaging it to prevent any tear of the skin, and to try to relieve some of the pressure, but only the head getting expelled will do so.

They are in the middle of a contraction that has Sherlock groaning and moaning like an animal. He ends the push on a sob. John can see Mycroft wiping tears away from his face, murmuring something to his ear. Sherlock’s whole body is trembling from exhaustion.

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock is panting, grabbing Mycroft’s hand. “I have time for another one,” he announces.

“Alright, go for it,” John instructs.

This time, Sherlock tilts his hips slightly downward. It seems to make a difference, because the baby’s head makes enough progress that John can see the fontanel pulsing, and a few vernix-covered hairs. Sherlock’s groan transforms into a scream, harsh and unabashed. He stops pushing, shaken by a sob. “No, no, no, it hurts, it can’t be normal it hurts too much,” he cries, leaning into the hand Mycroft is using to caress his hair.

Very slowly, the head recedes back. John begins massaging the red skin vigorously. “Sherlock, listen to me. It hurts because you’re very, very close to pushing the head out. I believe you can do it with the next contraction. You won’t feel as much pressure after that. I want you to give everything you have, ok?”

“I’m ... I’m already doing it,” Sherlock protests, his voice small and childlike. “I’m... What if I can’t do it?”

“Of course you can, little bee,” Mycroft tells him with a hint of brotherly indulgence.

This is apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock’s head lifts up, turning toward Mycroft. “And how would you know? I would like to see you in my place, brother dear, given that you faint each time you see a needle.”

Good. If Sherlock can still snap at Mycroft, he still has some energy in reserve.

The older Holmes remains calm and unfazed. “I know, and I know you, Sherlock: that’s why I know you can do it.”

“You are such a sycophantic sucker,” Sherlock spits, but his tone is almost affectionate. “John,” he warns. “It’s starting.”

“Alright, try to keep your pelvis angle down, and if I tell you to stop pushing, you listen to me.”

“Mhm. Oh. Oh god. Ok... ok,” Sherlock murmurs, as if to motivate himself.

As soon as he starts pushing, the baby’s head becomes visible. “Come on, keep going,” John instructs, once more circling the entry of the birth canal with an index, until he needs to stop because the head is breaching. Sherlock is moaning, trembling, but keeps it up, and finally, finally... The head is coming out. “A bit more, Sherlock, love, she’s almost here,” he says, preparing his gloved hand to grab the small head.

Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding, and this time, the head doesn’t move back. John can almost grab it, and doesn’t realise, at first, how hard Sherlock is shaking, and that’s he’s actually, sobbing, moving his hips from left to right, hiccupping a few words. “Hurts... John... Help me... oh god... oh god...”

“You’re alright,” Mycroft repeats again and again, one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, but by the way he looks at John, he wonders what the hell is happening.

“Sherlock, listen to me. I know it hurts, because the head has breached. That’s what you feel. It’s good, it’s almost done. You have to push it out now. Come on.”

Sherlock doesn’t wait another second and pushes, three short but strong pushes, before he collapses against Mycroft, still sobbing. John tries to reassure him the best he can. He had hoped the head would be out, and it almost did, but really, it’s a matter of minutes. He coats his finger in lubricant and tries to circle the skin, but the head doesn’t leave him room, and when Sherlock yells, actually yells from pain, he stops.

It goes downhill from there. The two next contractions provide no progress. The head doesn’t move, despite Sherlock pushing with everything he has, and John knows what is happening. God. After the fourth push without progress, he cannot keep encouraging Sherlock and act like everything is under control.

Panic settles low in his guts. After another useless contraction and forceful push, Sherlock’s upper body is sliding down the armrest, and when Mycroft tries to keep him up, he sobs that he can’t, that it hurts too much, and ends up on his side, sobbing silently, shaking and sweating. Mycroft looks at John, the question clear in his piercing eyes. “What are you doing, what is going on?”

John doesn’t answer, he can’t. What he does is shove a pillow in between Sherlock’s legs and move next to him, rubbing his back and telling him to breathe. When Sherlock looks at him, his swollen, liquid eyes are as intelligent as they always are, despite the pain, the exhaustion and the fear. He already knows what John is about to tell him.

“She’s stuck, isn’t she?”

“Wait, Sherlock, we still have options.”

“The measurements were incorrect. It happens. There is always...ah... a margin of error. My hips are too narrow, and now... god, it hurts... the head is stuck and...”

“Yes, it is. It is, Sherlock, but there are some techniques I can perform while we wait for help, it’s alright, I’m going to fix it.”

The baby might already be in distress. There might be no time.

He catches Mycroft’s eyes, who is listening to the messages on his phone, and he knows, without a doubt, that the bloody helicopter hasn’t taken off.

Mycroft drops his phone once again, and shakes his head slowly. Whatever happens, it’s between the three of them, and good god, John doesn’t know what to do.

“John.”

“Yes, darling, I’m here,” John smiles to Sherlock, as though there is a god damn reason to smile.

“I want to try something.”

“What? Wh-“

“Wait,” Sherlock cuts him off, swallowing audibly.

God, he’s pale. He’s going through another contraction, and he doesn’t seem to have enough strength left to do more than whimper softly, eyes closed shut. John takes his pulse, and is relieved to find it strong, albeit a little quick.

“I have an idea,” Sherlock rasps, as soon as the contraction gives him respite. “And you will have to listen to me, and trust me.”

“Sherlock, what we-“

“John, please,” Sherlock cuts him off, voice strong and assured. “I know what you are thinking, and yes, you might be able to practice a c-section here -I would trust you to do it. Nevertheless, you might find yourself with the same problem we are currently experiencing, if the head is truly stuck, there is a serious risk of damaging the neck vertebra, and I will not get into specifics because I am currently trying very hard to ward off an impending panic attack. What I am thinking of is a position that would allow my hips a larger width, a few millimetres, maybe, but it is better than nothing wouldn’t you say? If I am crouching, we will obtain that effect, as well as be helped by gravity.”

John nods. He isn’t sure crouching is the best position to-

“It is, John, and we are doing it.”

::: :::

Sherlock gives his instructions quickly, in a tone that forbids any protests. Mycroft sits in the chaise longue, while Sherlock crouches, supported by his brother’s arms, with his back to him. John will have to lay down on the floor to get access to the baby, but he does not care. They need to do this, he realises. Sherlock’s brain is in command, and it’s so very rarely wrong.

“I know there is a lot of fluid, John,” Sherlock pants, “but if you can add lubricant it wouldn’t hurt... I’ve got to push now. Are you ready?

At some point, Sherlock has taken control over his own delivery. It is like he’s discarded the pain completely and found a hidden source of energy.

“Sherlock, you should widen you stance a little, it will allow the ishial spine to pull back,” Mycroft instructs.

“You’re right.”

“Come on Sherlock, whenever you’re ready,” John says.

“Ok... It’s coming... God it’s...”

Sherlock pushes, as strongly as he has done before. His hands are on Mycroft’s knees to give him some leverage. The push is silent and the longest one he’s given. John, half kneeling, half lying on his side, doesn’t have the clearest view, but he is using one hand to lubricate the birth canal, and feel the baby’s head at the entry.

The first series of pushes doesn’t move the head. Sherlock seems unaffected by it. He asks John to help him widen his stance a bit more, and to push down on his belly during the next contraction. It is a good idea. John is actually a bit ashamed not to have thought of it. He warns Sherlock, though.

“You know it will hurt.”

“At this point, I never cared less. Ok, there it is, are you ready, John?”

“Of course.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, come on little bee.”

As soon as Sherlock starts pushing, John presses on the lower part of his belly, down the lump that is undoubtedly his little girl’s bum and legs. Sherlock stops to take a quick but deep, shuddering breath, then pushes again, this time unable to tone down his loud cry of pain, as tears leak from his shut eyes. It’s my fault, John thinks, feeling his own tears finally letting loose as he keeps the pressure, unable to comfort or encourage Sherlock, his throat too tight with fear and sorrow, at everything that could go wrong, at the ordeal Sherlock has endured for hours.

“Yes, you’re doing an excellent work, bee, come on, you can do it,” Mycroft provides.

Sherlock stops pushing suddenly. “John, I feel...” he pants. “JOHN!”

John drops on his belly and reaches for the birth canal opening. And god.

God.

The head is halfway out.

“My god, Sherlock, my god, you... you... come on, another one, another one and-“

Sherlock nods and pushes once more, shouting through the pain, his features contorted and shaking. John twists himself to reach with both hands and grab the head. Tilting his head, he sees it, the scrunched up, bluish face covered in vernix, the frontal fontanel pulsing, covered in a few hairs, curling. Sherlock is pushing still, and it’s going too fast.

“Sherlock, stop, the head is out, stop for a min-“

“I... can’t...” Sherlock rasps, trembling all over, still pushing, while John frees a tiny shoulder, then the other.

“The shoulders are out, stop now, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I need to lay on my back,” Sherlock says in a choked voice, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Mycroft, help me. John, don’t let go of her.”

John knows what Sherlock is doing. There isn’t enough space between him and the floor for John to work properly. At this point, he doesn’t even question Sherlock and just goes with the motion. Mycroft slowly slides down the floor, bring Sherlock with him, careful of the baby hanging between his bloody legs.

“On my back, on my back!” Sherlock instructs, and somehow they make it work. Mycroft is sitting with his legs stretched, Sherlock resting against his chest, half sitting, half lying.

John, of course, had previously laid down on the floor a couple of clean sheets,which are getting soiled rapidly with watery pink fluid. He still holds his baby –his baby girl, with her tiny face frozen in a decided pout- and grabs a towel, beginning to clean her up.

“My god, Sherlock, you are amazing, you are doing it, you can push now, the worst is done.”

“Is she alright? John? Is she?”

“Yes, she is. Of course she is. Come on, now, you don’t have to wait for another contraction, come on, push her out.”

Sherlock twists himself so that he’s almost lying flat on the ground, and grab his thighs, his fingernails digging into the skin as he lifts his legs with a growl. Mycroft helps him, murmuring a series of encouragement words and endearment terms.

Sherlock pushes one last time. It doesn’t take much. Two tiny arms plop out, like rubbery appendages, and then comes the belly and the legs.

“Stop Sherlock, stop, it’s done, she’s here,” John instructs in a firm voice.

He lays the baby in between Sherlock legs and rubs her little body, then her face once again. She’s opening his mouth, her small chest expanding. John bends down and put his mouth over her nose, sucking forcefully. His spit the secretions on a towel just as the newborn’s arms jerk open, and then she takes a long, hiccupping breath.

John lifts her up, Sherlock’s voice coming to him like a distorted echo, pleading to see her, asking if she is fine. His blue eyes stare into John, then at the small bundle in his hands, just in time to hear her first wail.

“Oh my god,” Mycroft whispers, his awed expression making him look ten years younger. He covers his mouth with both hands, looking shocked and shaken like John has never see before.

Sherlock is staring wide in complete surprise. His sweaty hair is stuck to his head, his lips swollen from having been bitten so much. He has white circles around his eyes, the rest of his face is beet red, with tiny dots on his cheeks, where capillaries have burst.

He’s never looked so beautiful.

“She should share your heat, she needs it.” John instructs, smiling, and maybe crying –he’s not sure.

John lays the baby on Sherlock’s chest, careful not to compress the umbilical cord. He grabs another towel and gets on with cleaning the fluids and vernix, going at it quite vigorously to stimulate the blood circulation. Sage is crying still, squirming on Sherlock’s deflated stomach and chest, the bluish tint of his skin receding rapidly to turn to a healthy pink.

“She’s perfect,” John rasps, overwhelmed by emotions. “Look, Sherlock, look at what you’ve done, oh my god, she’s here, it’s our daughter.”

Sherlock has yet to move. He stares down at the newborn, his mouth gaping, his eyes so wide they keep crossing. Then, very slowly, he lays down a hand on her back, covering it from neck to bottom. He looks up at John and tries to smile, but instead bursts out crying, shaking with the force of it, caressing Sage’s back with his indexfinger and staring at her in wonder.

John wishes he could lay down with them, just for a minute, just to take Sherlock into his arms, be skin against skin, with their wailing daughter close to them, but it’s not over. He needs to stop the blood flow to the umbilical cord, and to get ready for the placenta’s expulsion. He still stretches to kiss Sherlock, then his daughter.

They’ve made it. Sherlock’s brilliance allowed him to perform a miracle.

John looks at his watch. It’s fifteen minutes past eleven.

Outside, the thunder is louder than ever, shaking the ground beneath them. There is a series of lightning strikes, illuminating the inside of the cottage in a shade of electric blue.

John thinks it’s beautiful.

::: :::

When the helicopter arrives, Sage Martha Holmes-Watson has been born for forty-five minutes. She is resting in her father’s arms, her tiny mouth around a nipple, sucking on and off lazily. John watches over the both of them, monitoring them closely. According to Sherlock, Sage is five pounds two ounces, maybe three (one of his most surprising talents is how he has taught himself to evaluate the weight of things without using an instrument). She’s a small baby, but she is healthy. John has submitted her to a make-shift Agpar test , which is carried out on all new-born babies at the hospital and serves to evaluate their general health quickly and precisely. Sage’s score was more than satisfying.

Sherlock has barely taken his eyes off his daughter since her birth, even while pushing the placenta out, and being submitted to John’s constant examinations. He has the look he gets when he examines something fascinating, let it be footprints or chemical reactions. John knows he is taking in every single centimetre of their daughter’s skin, every shade of the few auburn hairs sticking up the top of her head, and her scent, and every tiny noise she makes, her fingers and toes, and so many more characteristics, categorizing all of it in his mind palace where he must have built a whole new wing just for her. He doesn’t smile, or interact with her out loud, but John knows better than to question Sherlock’s love. That is how his brain works, that is how much dedication he already has for Sage, using all his mental capacities to learn her.

Medically speaking, Sherlock is doing well, considering the difficult circumstances of the birth. He has bled a little, but not worryingly so, his vitals are good, and the genital area, although swollen and bruised, has not suffered any skin tearing. John had been wondering about his colostrum production, since more than half of the carriers do not produce enough to feed their baby. Evolution, it appears, still has some catching up to do. For the moment, though, it seems Sherlock can supply Sage with the richest and best nutriment she can receive.

John is sitting on the side of the bed, caressing Sage’s small head, when the far away noise of the approaching helicopter reaches them. He looks at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes. “Well, better late than never, I suppose,” he says, his voice still weak and raw from all the yelling.

John smiles in understanding. He knows Sherlock isn’t looking forward to the commotion that is about to happen, and to be honest, John isn’t either. Here in this room, they are a family for the first time, and it feels private and precious; a moment out of time they will never get back. Even Mycroft, after helping carry Sherlock to his bed, has made a point of leaving them alone.

Sage lets go of Sherlock’s nipple with a soft “pop” and then yawns, before she shoves her tiny face into Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock observes her with a wide smile. Once more, his eyes fill with tears. He curses at himself and wipes them away. “Cannot wait for my hormones to settle down,” he grumbles.

“That won’t prevent you from finding everything she does completely adorable,” John warns.

“I do not think she has the tiniest of imperfections,” Sherlock goes on, avoiding John’s gaze. “I observed her very carefully, but it seems I now have to make-do with a new lens added to my perception filter.”

“Oh, you mean she’s perfect because she is your daughter.”

“That is one dull way to put it,” Sherlock mocks.

The noise of the helicopter is getting closer. Sherlock tightens his hold on their baby, as if she needs protection. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he adds, “if we could just stay here? I mean, it wasn’t that long ago that women would give birth in their home. Some still do, as a matter-of-fact. And besides, nowadays, the average hospital stay after giving birth is two point five days, to monitor the parent’s and baby’s health mostly, which you could do, John.”

“Well, if we weren’t trapped because of a bloody landslide, love...”

“I know. It is just wishful thinking, I guess. Imagine the story we will tell our daughter about the day she was born. All those events that lead us here, the tempest of the century trapping us... Every single element that had to be put in place so that I gave birth in that manner, with chaos all around, thunder, wind, hail, snow... A landslide... “

“Are you a sudden believer of something holy? Faith putting us here at that exact moment, as if Sage was meant to be born that way?”

Sherlock huffs. “Oh, John, do not be ridiculous. I was merely predicting the undoubtedly romanticised version of today’s event from your overly sentimental prose. If we want to be down to earth and pragmatic... Sage’s birth is more of a consequence than anything else. My body was submitted to stress for a few days, and I couldn’t rest properly. It is enough to kick-start a labour, as you well know.”

John sighs and wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I prefer my overly romanticised version.”

Sherlock stares at him with fondness, an expression John rarely sees, and always directed at him. He supposes from now on, he’ll have to share itwith their daughter.

The helicopter is now landing, and they both have to speak louder to hear each other. Sage wriggles against Sherlock, and John immediately lands a comforting hand on her back. “It’s ok, sweetheart, it’s just a loud noise.”

“John.”

Lifting his head, John sees that Sherlock is trying to straighten himself, while his eyes move quickly from left to right. He looks very anxious.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m not... I’m not ready for this,” Sherlock babbles.

“You...?”

“The people! Everyone barging in here and...”

“Hey, woah, calm down.” John reassures him. “Mycroft will make sure everything goes smoothly. And I’m here. Everything will be fine.”

Sherlock nods. His lower lip is trembling. “God, I hate this sort of attention.”

“I know, but at least your brother promised it would stay out of the news. What happened today is ours, and only ours.”

There it is, the sound of people walking in; loud voices, Mycroft’s amongst them. Without realising it, John has tightened his hold on Sherlock. He kisses his temple and gives him his most assured, confident look. “Trust me, darling, I’ll be there every step of the way.”

Sherlock nods and swallows loudly. “It was incredible,” he whispers, “what our daughter did today. Do you know the amount of stress a new-born is submitted to? And look at her, already calm and content.”

“It’s because of you, Sherlock. What you did today... what you did...”

It’s John’s turn to swallows back tears. Sometimes the love you have for someone feels like a punch in the guts. Double that, when that someone is holding another someone just as precious and loved.

“I only did what I could,” Sherlock cuts him off. “And now get yourself together, because if you cry, my sympathetic system will have me cry too, and I don’t have enough energy left to fight it.”

John nods, smiles, and kisses Sherlock’s dry lips. He tries to smile back, but he’s too busy blinking away threatening tears.

And then the bedroom door opens, and the World gets in.

End of part 6 : Accomplishment.