Title: Waking Up to Us

Rating: NC-17

World Count: 8,100 words

Warning: Mpreg, lactation, sex, cursing.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything; just call me Ponyboy.

Summary: Sherlock can get pregnant and decides to test out his experiment, for the sake of science.

lj-cut text="John lifted up his glass and into the dimming light streaming through the kitchen window."

John lifted up his glass and into the dimming light streaming through the kitchen window. It was clean on the outside and only his fingerprints marred the inside. He put it onto the rack to dry and wiped his hands on his trousers and then began to wash the pan he used to cook the chicken.

He kept an ear out for Sherlock, always aware that his flat mate could come in and announce that he had a big case they needed to work on and why aren't you dressed and ready, John? Let's go! But that seemed less likely as the days went on and the length between cases grew further apart, especially big and wondrous cases that Sherlock specialized in. Sherlock should have been climbing up the walls now in boredom, throwing knives into the wall that Mrs. Hudson would merely chide him about and not raise the rent, but instead he was gone most of the day. He'd leave in the morning, eat a piece of toast or fruit and then take a cab to a mysterious location, and be gone until after dinner.

John sighed. He didn't mind being by himself, not really, but he'd gotten used to Sherlock's neuroticism and loud proclamations of when he got things right and practically hearing the motors reeling in his head when he was mistaken. Admittedly, things around the flat did get done faster when Sherlock wasn't there to protest every move of the furniture or announce that the vacuum cleaner was ruining his train of thought and couldn't John vacuum outside for God's sake? He never thought he'd miss them, but he did.

Sherlock came in as John was washing his last plate and he turned his head to greet him, hands still in the sink and smiled. "Hello there, Sherlock." The younger man gave a small, weak smile and came closer to his flat mate and John nearly gasped when he caught the sight of him. "What happened to you?"

Sherlock was iblushing/i. His high cheekbones were flushed with a pinkish glow and his eyes were wild and darting from John to the bedroom.

John approached slowly, like he would if trying to corner a scared and untamed animal. "Sherlock? What happened?"

He could see Sherlock take a visibly deep breath and then he felt lips awkwardly and roughly take his own. The angle was completely wrong and their noses bumped into each other and John pulled back as soon as he realized what he was doing.

"What the hell was that?" John asked, his heart beating rapidly and out of breath.

Sherlock shook his head and continued to kiss him, this time moving his hands slowly around John's back and chest. Sherlock broke the kiss, took his flat mate's hand and walked them over to his bedroom and onto the bed. As he was lowered down to the mattress, all John could think about was that he was pretty sure he left the faucet still running.

John liked having his nipples licked. He found that out when his particularly kinky last girlfriend, Lucy, decided to give him a blowjob and then, when he had come, she slinked her way back up and began licking and nibbling at the two dusky circles on his chest and he felt his cock hardening once again. So after Sherlock took off his shirt and cautiously and softly bit at John's left nipple, eyes still connected, questioning and unsure, John couldn't help but muffle a moan and he felt himself grow.

When he reached for Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock shook his head and took them off himself and that's when John noticed that Sherlock's hands were shaking. As Sherlock got back on the bed, John took his hands and kissed both of them.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he said, even attempting a smile and John was about to enquire further but then Sherlock began to toy with his nipples once again and he was silenced.

John shifted around on the bed as he pulled his own trousers off and then, feeling a large sense of bravery, took off his boxers to reveal his half-hard cock. He heard Sherlock take a sharp inhale of breath and then his boxers, too, were off.

Sherlock got up from the bed and opened the second drawer of his dresser and took out a small, blue tube and a wave of anxiousness struck John hard. He had never actually fucked a guy or had been fucked. He had thought about it, in passing, when he looked back at the gay rights movement that had occurred when he was younger but those were just musings. He had to admit to himself that when Sherlock squeezed a dollop of lube on his finger and inserted it into himself rather than John, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was too sudden for him to actually be fucked; he didn't think he'd have been able to enjoy it.

Instead, Sherlock prepared himself quickly and efficiently and John wondered if Sherlock had ever done this before but when he felt an odd sense of jealousy, he quickly suppressed it, confused. John moved to the far left side of the bed when Sherlock finished preparing himself.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked quietly. They were sitting side by side on the bed, like blushing, young virgins. Oh God, John thought, I really hope Sherlock's not a virgin.

"Fine."

"Are you ready?"

John nodded but then asked, "Why are we doing this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took another deep breath and gave John a long kiss, effectively silencing him. He lowered himself down onto John's cock slowly, wincing as it got deeper and when he was balls-deep, he froze.

"Alright?

Sherlock nodded quickly. "Move, John," he ordered, like he would if he was telling John to run quicker to catch a thief.

John obeyed and thrust up, only to receive a muffled groan as a response. John remained breathless and all he was able to do was put his right hand on one of Sherlock's thighs and squeezed. After a few moments, Sherlock loosened up and started to move, prompting John to do so as well. Sherlock would moan when John hit some places inside of him, and would encourage him to go faster. Their union took maybe two or three minutes, they were both too rushed and too excited to try to make it last any longer.

It wasn't until after John had come – they didn't use a condom, he realized with a start, wondering how the hell he forgot that – and Sherlock had moved off his cock that he saw that Sherlock hadn't orgasm. Sherlock was still half-hard but when John had reached over to his cock with his hand, Sherlock rejected the touch and, instead, turned over to his side and said, "Go to sleep, John."

John was about to get out of the bed and into his own when he felt his legs swim underneath him as he tried to get out and so he laid on the opposite side of where Sherlock was and fell asleep, thoroughly sated.

The alarm clock started to screech at five o'clock in the morning. Sherlock groaned and blindly reached for the off button, knocking over a small, tan pamphlet and a glass of water and sending it tumbling to the ground.

When the irritating noise stopped, John groaned and opened his eyes slowly, trying to get his bearings back. He was in Sherlock's room; he was in Sherlock's arms; he was seeing Sherlock's pale chest and arms and stomach. Taking a deep breath, he said, "So, we slept together."

Sherlock said nothing and didn't – couldn't? – meet his flat mate's eyes.

Concerned that maybe John had hurt him, maybe it wasn't good for him (though by the moaning and hitched breaths from last night, that didn't seem too much like a viable option), he reached out for Sherlock but Sherlock inched away and looked at the alarm clock.

"It's nearly time for me to go," he said.

"Go where?"

Sherlock finally met his eyes. "Nowhere. Perhaps you should leave. I need to get dressed now."

John was nearly overtaken by the urge to tell Sherlock that he had already seen him naked, no need to go get modest now, and they need to talk about this, don't they? They islept/i together. He didn't even know Sherlock was gay, or bi, or whatever. But he bit his tongue and remembered that his last girlfriend before he went to Afghanistan and before he became, in her words, 'mental', always told him that he was far too mouthy after they had sex, and he picked up his discarded clothes and left the room.

His bedroom was flooded with soft natural light coming from the windows and John slipped into his bed sheets, frowning when he found them cold and not nearly as welcoming as Sherlock's.

center~*~/center

Two months later and Sherlock had barely talked to him since they had sex. He had instructed John on what to do with a dead body when he didn't want Lestrade to know yet; he had critiqued the way John washed dishes of laundry irritably, but there was nothing of substance.

After he had slept with him, John hadn't expected any sweet endearments to be uttered from Sherlock's lips or for them to walk hand in hand to a crime scene but he hadn't expected pure indifference, especially because it was Sherlock who had initiated the whole thing. It wasn't just John he was acting differently to – he had seemed more cautious than ever and more reserved. He was far less likely to lash out at Molly or Lestrade or Anderson for their perceived stupidity. Less willing to go headfirst to chase possible murderers or thieves, he let John take over while he spread out on the couch, contemplating his or her's next move.

John wondered about his odd behavior and what could be possible explanations for it as he sat at their dining table reading the morning newspaper. Sherlock was on the sofa, staring blankly at his hands when there was a knock on their flat door. John rolled his eyes when he realized Sherlock wasn't going to get up and get it despite being closer. He sat up and walked to the door, saying sardonically, "No. Don't get up. I'll get it. Don't worry about it, Sherlock."

There was no response.

He peered into the small peephole, a habit learned after finding more often than not, there were dangers awaiting him or Sherlock there, but, instead, there was Mrs. Hudson waiting outside the door.

He opened it and smiled. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled back, wrinkles crinkling around her eyes and mouth. "Hello, dear. I just came by to bring Sherlock something." Mrs. Hudson procured a large yellow envelope from a red purse. "I got this in the mail just a minute ago."

"Oh," he wrinkled his nose in confusion. He couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had received any mail. "He's right on the sofa, if you'd like to give it to him."

She nodded and went to the small living room, where Sherlock's eyes were closed and his lips silently muttering something impossibly fast.

"Sherlock dear, I got an envelope for you," she said and right when she uttered 'envelope', his eyes snapped open and he grappled out of the sofa, almost stumbling on a large pile of books in his hurry, and practically snatched the envelope from Mrs. Hudson's hands.

Noting the befuddled expressions of the two people next to him, he straightened up and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." And he retreated to his room.

John was about to apologize for Sherlock's abruptness when she placed her hands on the man's arm to stop him. "Do you know what's going on with Sherlock, John?"

John shook his head. "No, but I'll find out."

Mrs. Hudson smiled again and put a soft hand on his cheek. "You do that, dear. And remember – I'm not your psychiatrist."

He nodded and showed her the way out, thanking her again.

John took a deep breath and entered Sherlock's room without a knock. Sitting on the bed was Sherlock, the envelope to his side and a hand on his bare stomach.

"What on earth are you doing?" John asked, thoroughly confused.

Sherlock started but quickly calmed himself down and put his shirt back on. He then moved into the kitchen without saying a word and poured some water into an old, rusty kettle they had and set it down on a lit stove. After a few minutes of silence – silence John desperately wanted to break but was unsure how to – the kettle started to whistle and Sherlock fixed himself and, remarkably, John tea and then sat on one of the dining table chairs.

Sherlock opened his mouths several times to talk but then closed it just as suddenly. He's speechless, John realized. He had never seen Sherlock speechless.

Finally Sherlock said, with a long drawn-out sigh, "John, I believe we need to talk."

John nodded. "Yeah, I think we should."

"When I was twelve," Sherlock began. "I was constantly bullied by my classmates. For being…"

"You?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes. And especially a group of boys, maybe a year or two older than me, would harass me as I went to and from primary school."

"Where was your brother?" John asked. "He seems concerned about your well-being these days."

"In America, studying abroad in New York."

"Oh," he replied and, after getting a raised eyebrow from Sherlock, continued, "I won't interrupt anymore, sorry."

Sherlock bowed his head and resumed his story. "One day after school, one of my classmates bought a knife and I, despite my exceptionally small size when I was younger, stupidly tried to fight back when I realized that the children around me were exceptionally fat and had a minimal chance of causing real damage. I had not seen the knife. I was stabbed in the stomach and – stop it, John. Stop making those insipid facial expressions. I'm still here, am I not? As I was saying, I was left in the streets to die after the boys fled in panic. I most likely would have died there if not for an elderly man who managed to be passing by and he hailed a police car to take me to hospital. They gave me a powerful anesthetic that made me extremely tired but I was still able to listen to the doctor and my mother speak about me.

"I heard the doctor mumbling about something impossible that was happening inside of me and he told my mother that I had a working uterus and asked if I was a hermaphrodite – or if I was born with a vagina. My mother was appropriately shocked and asked that if I was a hermaphrodite, if I did have a working uterus, wouldn't I also have developing breast or widening hips, as a twelve-year old girl would? The doctor didn't know and said that he had never seen anything like it in all his years. He said," Sherlock took a long breath. "That it seems that I had a channel in my anus that went towards the functional uterus. He said to my mother that I could get pregnant. My mother urged him not to tell me, stating that I already felt different than the rest of the children and that it could lead to worse bullying if anyone ever found out. Since I was a minor, he agreed and left the room with my mother. I was left alone with my thoughts. I tried to forget it, but the desire to investigate grew stronger as I got older. I knew that I had to get pregnant for science. It was my duty. I just needed someone to have it with. It had to be a strong man, intelligent, and not terribly old," he tried to smile, but, like most of Sherlock's smiles, it came out more as a grimace. "And I met you. A military doctor with desirable traits and I knew that you would be more than adequate for my experiment."

John raised his eyebrows, focusing on Sherlock's last word as he tried to take everything else in. "Experiment?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean…" he trailed off, and then put his head in his hands. "God, Sherlock, please don't tell me that you're pregnant."

Sherlock got up, not replying, and went to his room and then back to table, a piece of paper in his hands, which he handed to John to read. "I sent in to a lab with a blood and urine sample under the name of Rebecca Johnson. It reveals that my hormone levels indicate that I am pregnant, even if my testosterone levels are, understandably, relatively high."

After a long pause, John laughed mercilessly. "You're mad. You're just crazy. What would possess you to get pregnant?"

"So I could chronicle my journey as the first truly pregnant man. It's for science."

"This can't be real."

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. "I realize that this may seem shocking for your little brain, but it's written quite plainly on the paper by a reputable source that I'm with child," when John glared at him, hurt shining in his eyes, he apologized. "I'm sorry. Lately I've been feeling a little more anxious."

"You didn't tell me," he said softly, unbelieving what he just heard – the whole story. "You let me have sex with you and you knew that you were going to get pregnant."

"I had a suspicion, but it was impossible for me to know for sure. Until now."

"How could you?" he asked louder, getting up from his seat, thoroughly outraged and bemused. "I'm going to be a father and you never told me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, not sure as to why John was acting so upset. "I'm only two months along. I gave you sufficient time to prepare. And don't get too attached to it."

John sat back down. "Pardon?"

"The child within me. We don't know if it'll survive or not, or if it will be born with birth defects. The experiment isn't over."

John shook his head disbelievingly. "My God, you are a psychopath."

Sherlock groaned. "iSociopath/i. Why is that so hard for people to remember?"

There was another long pause. "You're sure you're… pregnant?"

"This report confirmed my suspicions, if my mood changes or morning sickness did not."

John frowned. "You've been getting sick?"

"Frequently. Mostly in the afternoons."

A sudden thought struck John violently. "Your nicotine patches."

"What about them?"

"The tobacco in them. I don't know much about…"

Sherlock said calmly, "Pregnancy, John."

"But I know that tobacco isn't good for a fetus."

"I stopped using them before conception. That would cause too many variables."

"This child - iour/i child – is not some damn experiment, Sherlock!"

"That was the purpose of getting pregnant. I have designed an experiment and have a hypothesis and an observation survey ready for the next seven months."

Out of a whim, John asked, "Hypothesis? What's your hypothesis?"

"That I will be able to successfully carry a child to term, considering my relatively wide hips and my proper knowledge of pregnancy and possible warning signs, thanks to my numerous readings."

John gave another groan and then, impulsively, a pinch, just to make sure he wasn't having some bizarre dream from eating too much of that shrimp last night. "What're you planning to do with it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"After you give birth. If all goes well, what are you doing to do with it?"

He tried to give a nonchalant shrug. "I hadn't thought of it yet."

"Bullshit," John replied. "I know you. I've lived with you for nearly six months. You won't just enter into something without having at least an idea of what's going to happen at the very end. You have a plan for everything. What's your plan?"

"If all goes well, I was hoping to keep the child," Sherlock confessed, tone still cold. "In order to chronicle his or her journey and to see if there was any immune deficiencies or physical deformities because of being carried by a male."

John snorted. "Very clinical of you."

"Yes."

"And my role?"

"As what?"

"It's father."

He straightened up. "It's up to you. I wouldn't care either way. It's not as if there's romantic possibilities between us – a one night stand, what we had, is not what a relationship makes – but I believe you would be a good enough father. It's one of the reasons I chose you. I've seen you with the children outside in the park. You're friendly with them."

John smiled slightly at the memory, indignation being pushed back for the moment. "Stopped you from scolding them about throwing Frisbees around."

"It could hurt someone. I've seen Lestrade investigate more than one murder caused by an exceptionally fast Frisbee to the neck."

There was a moment of silence before John continued, "You could have told me. Before you slept with me, you could have told me why."

"You wouldn't have agreed to it. You have fantasies of living a white collar life, with a wife and a child without having to worry about chasing down murderers or murderers chasing you down."

John shook his head. "Mycroft said it best: I crave the excitement, the thrill of the chase. I wouldn't have been satisfied with that life. Not now. But a ibaby/i, Sherlock. Are you prepared? I'm not; I know I'm not."

"I've been studying children text and have been studying psychology privately for many years."

John took a sip of the still-scorching tea. "Have you ever been around children?"

"I was one myself, John."

"Oh, God," John began, resisting the very urgent need to slam his head repeatedly on the table. "That's not going to help, Sherlock. And – Oh, why didn't I think of this before? – how is it going to come out?"

Sherlock smiled. "That's where you come in."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"You're a doctor."

"Don't be daft, Sherlock. I'm a military doctor, I can sew up a wound or pop a shoulder back in its socket, but I'm no obstetrician. I'm in no way qualified to deliver a baby."

"In training, you never had to assist or observe a birth?"

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah…"

"Then you're qualified, John."

"You mean a Cesarean section? I've never performed that before, ever. I wouldn't know how to navigate where your uterus is or anything of that nature."

Sherlock drank some more tea and raised an eyebrow. "Think on your feet, then."

"This can't be happening."

Sherlock took an uncharacteristically deep breath. "I can terminate the pregnancy, if you prefer."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not reacting like I thought you would."

"How the hell did you think I'd react?" he yelled and was about to continue when a car alarm went off outside of the building and – quick as a whip - Sherlock scurried off to the window to see. He smiled brilliantly.

"Oh, look at that," he said, wonder evident in his voice. "That man breaking into that car, I've seen him before. A few years back, when he was convicted of the serial raping of teenage girls and robbery. How'd he get out?" Sherlock looked back up to John. "Finally, something interesting. Ready to go?"

"Go where?"

"Run after him."

"No!" John said. "We still need to talk about this."

"What else is there to talk about? Do you want me to get rid of it or not?"

"Don't. Don't get rid of it." John wanted to blame the fact that he was really never good at making decisions so suddenly – they almost always turned out to be the bad one – or that he was so flustered that he couldn't think clearly. But actually, he secretly kind of liked the idea. Not the idea of Sherlock blatantly lying to him and knowing that he would get pregnant without letting John know, but the idea of having a kid was appealing. He'd figured himself too damaged to really get close enough to someone to ever have a child – night terrors and the constant need for an adrenaline rush did not make a good partner – and Sherlock would not be a boring parent either.

Sherlock's face lit up like Christmas. "Good on you, good choice. Ready?"

"You can't run after him."

"Pardon?"

"You-you're pregnant!"

"We've established that, yes." He looked back out the window. "He's getting away now, John."

"I'll go," he offered, mind swimming from all the new information. "You just stay here."

Sherlock looked at him oddly but allowed him to run out the door alone.

center~*~/center

Two months faded into three and then four and the relationship between Sherlock and John remained the same. Sherlock would investigate crime scenes and John would do the hard work, which consisted mostly of running around (there was an awful amount of running involved) and apprehending the suspects. The topic of the pregnancy remained, for the most part, unspoken. Every so often, Sherlock would overexert himself, would stay awake the whole night thinking of someone's next move, and John would find him asleep in his own morning sick the next day.

Lestrade noticed a difference, too. Sherlock would hear the police car park outside of their flat and call out for John to meet the detective inspector instead of leaping to his feet, raring to go. At one point, Lestrade had pulled John aside to question him.

"Is Sherlock okay?"

John had feigned innocence. "Pardon?"

"Is he ill? Is he losing interest in solving crimes?"

"No, no. He's fine, maybe he's mellowed out in his old age," he tried to smile but the weak joke fell flat, possibly because John was five years older than Sherlock. "Why aren't you talking to him about it?"

"I tried to. He said that it was none of my business," Lestrade said. "Just… he's okay, right?

There was a long moment of silence. How desperately John wanted to confide in Lestrade and vent his own frustrations about Sherlock. How he was worried that Sherlock would lose the baby and where would the rejected fetus go? How the hell were they going to afford a child when they could barely feed themselves? What were they going to tell it when he or she asked where they came from? Would Mycroft kill him for impregnating his brother?

Instead he had just replied, "He's fine, really. I think he just might be tired. All the stuff catching up to him at once, that's it."

Lestrade had nodded and smiled his thanks, but John could sense that he still doubted the story. He didn't blame him – Sherlock told John that he had been solving crimes since he had been able to talk. The fact that he seemed to take such a disinterest in his passion was disconcerting, to say the least.

Later in the week, John received a phone call from his sister. She had a strain of swine flu and the doctor sent her home but she needed help with things and, despite her high sense of pride, asked for him to take the train back home. John told Sherlock of this new development.

"Would you be okay if I were to go back?" John asked.

"I haven't had any complications so far in this pregnancy – I doubt you leaving for three days will cause any adverse effects on my person or the child."

John nodded, though he was apprehensive to leave. If anything were to happen, he wouldn't be there to help and Sherlock wouldn't be able to go to the hospital.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," John said.

"Hmm, hmm," Sherlock hummed, eyes retreating back to the obituary section of the daily newspaper.

With little fanfare, John left the next morning. Sherlock was still in his bed but John nudged him awake and whispered that he was going and for Sherlock to take care of himself. The previous evening, John had bought all the groceries Sherlock needed and then some, just in case. Sherlock shooed him away but did tell him to have a safe ride.

Harry's flat was neat and clean, unlike John's flat back in London. She spent most of the days in bed while John did her cleaning and cooking and fetching her medication. He called Sherlock periodically, just to check on him and he was always met with annoyed, terse comments that just because he was pregnant did not mean that he was an invalid. Luckily, Harry was too drugged up to connect the dots from the one-sided conversations John had with Sherlock. On the third day, he gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek as he said his goodbyes.

"Be safe, John. Thanks for all the help," Harry said, nose still stuffy but sounded clearer than before.

"You know it's no problem – anytime. See you."

"Cheers."

The train ride back home seemed shorter than the ride to there. He wondered how Sherlock managed without him, if the flat would be a mess, if Sherlock was taking on cases even though he knew, at least for the sake of the child, that he shouldn't be putting himself in such dangerous conditions.

He took a taxi back to the flat and felt a sudden sense of despair when he noticed that Lestrade's car was parked out in front. He quickly paid the taxi driver, took his luggage, and ran to the flat door.

He opened to find Lestrade on the couch, reading one of Sherlock's many encyclopedias, while Sherlock was fixing tea. Well, not total destruction yet.

"I'm back," John announced, making his presence known.

Lestrade looked up and smiled while Sherlock said, "I thought you were going to come back earlier today."

"There was an accident on one of the train tracks so there was a delay."

"Oh."

John turned his attention to Lestrade. "Is there something with a case?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, I was concerned about Sherlock and came over this morning to find out what was wrong."

John looked at Sherlock's face, trying to determine whether he told or not, but his face remained as impassive as ever.

"If it was earlier today, then why are you still here?"

There were a few moments of silence, before Sherlock finally said, tea making now abandoned, "He knows."

John sighed. "About…"

"The child, he knows about the child."

Lestrade smiled weakly at John. "Congratulations."

John sunk down on the couch next to Lestrade. "I thought we agreed to keep this a secret as long as possible, Sherlock."

"I came here this morning," Lestrade said. "To ask him what was happening. He was making up excuses when he started to clutch his stomach. He told me to get out but I didn't and…" he trailed off.

Sherlock continued for him, "And I took out the ultrasound machine I had stolen from the hospital a few days before and used it and he saw. I knew he would see but I had to make sure that everything was alright."

"And is it?" John asked, fear clutching at his heart. Was something wrong with the baby?

Sherlock nodded. "I had just eaten something that disagreed with me," after he said that, he got up and took a sonogram from the bookshelf and handed it to John. "That," he made a circle around a white blob. "Is it."

"That's …"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "The books I've been reading has assured me that physically, it's the same as any normal fetus."

Lestrade clasped John's shoulder. "And don't you have something else to tell him?"

"It appears to be female," Sherlock said, some glee evident on his face.

John looked harder at the sonogram. A girl. A daughter that would look a little like him and a little like Sherlock. He let out a soft laughter. "A little girl?"

"Seems that way."

"And healthy?"

"Developing well, yes," Sherlock said.

John could barely take his eyes off the gritty sonogram. That was his ichild/i, his daughter.

Lestrade got up. "I'll be going now. And Sherlock," he said, looking directly at the man. "Remember what we talked about. Don't go on investigations, don't get yourself into trouble."

"Oh God," Sherlock muttered, looking at Lestrade and John. "Now there are two of them."

center*/center

At the beginning of his sixth month, Sherlock started wearing jumpers constantly. Horrid jumpers with garish designs but they were the only ones big enough to fit his burgeoning stomach; they could barely afford rent, let alone new clothes.

Sherlock complained of an itchy stomach but he no longer had morning sickness nor was his nose as sensitive to certain smells. This was good for both John's taste buds and wallet – he could take home cheap curry without worrying about Sherlock throwing up because of it.

On one particular unseasonably warm day, John walked around with old work jeans and a t-shirt but Sherlock continued to wrap himself up with a thick, wool jumper and long trousers that restricted his stomach.

"Aren't you burning up?" John asked, noticing the fine line of sweat on Sherlock's forehead.

"Yes," Sherlock said but made no moves to take off his jumper.

"Then put on some lighter clothes!" John said, puzzled. "We don't need you to get heat stroke on top of everything else."

"I can't."

"Why?" John asked, concerned.

"I'm lactating," Sherlock said. "And if I were to take off the jumper, then the milk would leak through quickly."

John's breath hitched in his throat. God, he wasn't expecting an answer like that. He knew that it would happen eventually and that Sherlock was producing the right hormones, and how else was the baby supposed to get milk? But he never really thought about it.

"Is there anything you can do? A… pump?" John asked awkwardly.

Sherlock shook his head. "The breasts I do have are too small for it to latch on. I just have to let it run its course."

"You can take off your jumper. I don't mind seeing it if you don't care. I'd rather risk seeing it then you passing out because of the heat."

Sherlock gave John an unreadable look but did as he was told and he gave a sigh of relief when the thick jumper was no longer on him. And there it was, two stains on his shirt near his nipples.

"How long has it been leaking for?" He asked, voice deepening.

"For a week or so. It doesn't leak too much, but I have to change my shirts twice a day."

"And that's… breast milk."

"No, it's pre-milk. It comes before the actual breast milk."

John swallowed. "Does it hurt?"

"A bit. It's sensitive, but I've read that it's normal and expected during this period," he said. "Are you okay?"

John nodded quickly. "Right as rain. I'm not the pregnant one."

"Thank the heavens," Sherlock said, mouth twitching up a bit to show that he was only teasing. "You would make a bad mum."

John rolled his eyes, discomfort of the whole situation alleviating just a bit. "Sorry, imum/i."

"You're forgiven, as long as you go out and get me a new jar of peanut butter. We just ran out this morning."

"'Course," he said, grabbing his house keys. He was glad to be able to go outside to get some fresh air and clear his thoughts. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Me? Never."

On the way to the store, he felt the eerie sensation that someone was following him. This paranoia wasn't uncommon, but it greatly bothered him and he continued to look around as he made his way to the local grocery shop. It wasn't until he noticed the black car on the street following him that he went from strolling to running. It was no use, the car was faster and eventually John had to stop – the heat too powerful for him to continue his sprint. The rear door opened and there was Mycroft, dressed as dapper as ever and he motioned for John to come in.

Reluctantly, John did.

The window on John's side of the car was tinted so that he could not look out but he had a feeling that they were driving in circles. Neither man spoke for a few moments before Mycroft said, "What is wrong with Sherlock?"

John feigned innocence. "Pardon?"

"I've been tracking him. He has barely left the house in the past few months. Is he ill?" Mycroft asked.

John shook his head. "No."

"Then what is it? He cannot have lost interest in investigating. It's been a passion since he was a boy," Mycroft's voice turned darker when he continued, "What has happened to him?"

John looked down, he couldn't tell Mycroft. If Sherlock wanted him to know then Sherlock could tell him. "I can't say."

"You will say!" Mycroft yelled in frustration. "You will say it this instant, John Watson. What have you done to him?"

He shook his head. "Ask him yourself."

"Do you think I have not tried that? I have called him, sent text messages, letters, faxes. I would have tried to send him a fruit basket if it would have garnered his attention."

"Why didn't you come to the flat to ask him?" John asked.

"I went several times. He has ignored me. Which is why I need you to come with me."

"I don't know…" John trailed off. He knew that Mycroft would not – could not – hurt Sherlock but he felt a strong protective instinct towards him and their unborn child and this felt so much like a betrayal on his part.

"We are on the way now," Mycroft said. "You have little choice in the matter."

When they arrived outside of the flat, John and Mycroft walked up together to the door. "You must not upset him," John said pointedly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I promise. He's imy/i brother."

He's the mother of my child, John wanted to say but bit his tongue. All would be revealed in due time.

"Sherlock, I'm back," he called out, entering the living room with Mycroft. "And your brother is here as well."

Sherlock, who was in the bathroom, peeked out of the door with only his head visible and grimaced. "What are you doing here, Mycroft."

"I was concerned for your well-being."

"There was no need to be. Leave."

"Sherlock, come out," he said placidly. "And we'll talk. I've never seen you so declining of my presence."

Sherlock met eyes with John. "Why did you bring him here?"

"He kidnapped me into his car," John said. "Again."

Sherlock muttered something about the worthlessness of John and how he couldn't keep secrets but emerged into the living room.

He was wearing loose fitting jeans – were they John's? – and a too tight t-shirt that showed his bump.

Mycroft gasped. "You're pregnant."

"Six months along," Sherlock confirmed. "Are you happy, idear/i brother. You know the truth now."

Mycroft turned to John. "You did this?"

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock stopped him, "It's a long story, Mycroft, and if it's anyone's fault, it is mine," he said and then paused, studying Mycroft's face. "You're not surprised."

"Of course I'm surprised!"

Sherlock shook his head. "You knew I could get pregnant. How did you know?"

Mycroft sighed and went to sit on the sofa, gesturing for John and Sherlock to do the same. "Mother told me. A few days before she passed."

"Of course she would," Sherlock said. "You two were always too close."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It is not as if this child is the product of love between John and myself. This is an experiment, nothing more. And we both know how you react towards my experiments."

"If this is all an experiment, what shall happen when the child is born?"

"We're going to take care of her," John said.

Mycroft's eyes grew larger. "Her? A girl?"

Sherlock nodded. "If my research is correct."

"I never took you for a bleeding heart, Sherlock. Taking care of an infant when you can barely take care of yourself."

John gritted his teeth and Sherlock did the same. "I can take care of myself just fine, Mycroft. And this is purely for science. I will study her to see if there's any genetic or physical abnormalities present later on in life."

"Of course, of course," Mycroft said, waving him off. "Now that the mystery is over, I shall be on my way."

"That's it?" John asked.

"Yes, John Watson, that's it," he said, getting up. "Do take care of yourself, Sherlock. And I'm saying that not just for yourself, now."

"Will you be continuing to track us?" Sherlock asked, seemingly weary of how quickly Mycroft was leaving.

Mycroft smiled toothily. "I never stop, brother."

center*/center

In his eighth month, Sherlock began to stay more and more in his bedroom. He no longer lounged on the sofa, book in hands, but stayed in his room with his laptop for the entire day. The only time John saw him was during meals and even then conversation was curt.

Mrs. Hudson also worried for Sherlock. She had not seen him for nearly three months and when she did come around, Sherlock would hide in the bedroom while John made an excuse that he was out.

Finally, John had enough of the silent treatment and he was genuinely curious as to what offense he had committed to make Sherlock ignore him as much as he was. He opened Sherlock's door and gasped at what he saw.

Sherlock was on the bed, naked except for a thin t-shirt and his hand on his cock.

Sherlock met John's eyes and John sputtered, "I'm sorry," he said, moving back outside. "I'll leave you. I-I –"

"Don't," Sherlock said, hand still on his cock. "I…"

Something possessed John to move closer to Sherlock's bed. "Do you need my help?" He asked, still not understanding what was coming over him.

"Please," Sherlock said softly.

John nodded. "'Course." With trembling hands, he started to jerk off Sherlock the way he got himself off: tight around the shaft, looser as he came up. He was mindful of Sherlock's stomach, which was blocking Sherlock's cock from rising fully. The younger man's breathes hitched and he started making soft, moaning noises.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock said and repeated, "Please."

After a few moments and a deep grunt, Sherlock came. John reached for tissue from the bedside table and wiped off his hand and Sherlock's stomach.

"Is this what you've been doing in your bedroom?" John asked.

"My hormones have been causing an increase in my libido," Sherlock answered. "You just gave me a hand job."

"Yeah, I did," John said.

Suddenly, Sherlock lifted his upper half up, no easy feat at the moment, and kissed John square on the lips. "Thank you."

"It's fine," he said, and then motioned for Sherlock to move over to his left. "I'm tired too. Move, Sherlock."

John laid on the bed next to Sherlock, neither of them touching. Finally, he gathered enough courage to rest his hand onto Sherlock's swollen stomach and Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder.

They were like that for only a minute before Sherlock said, "You realize that this is the hormones, correct? They are urging me into finding security in others."

"Yes, Sherlock," John said, trying to keep sarcasm from lacing his tone. "It's the hormones."

And that now seemed where there relationship, if it could even be called that, was going. Sherlock ventured away from his bedroom and back in his rightful spot on the sofa and everyday or so John would jerk Sherlock off and they would cuddle for about twenty minutes. They were starting to kiss as well. The make out sessions never really got them anywhere and were usually after Sherlock had come, but it brought a sense of peace to both of them that neither wanted to pass up.

They also began to shop for baby items. Well, John mostly. Sherlock shopped online for the crib while John went out to get infant clothes, blankets and bottles. They managed to get all the items under Mrs. Hudson's ever-inquiring nose, which was an accomplishment unto itself.

They now had everything set up in Sherlock's room and were beginning to feel prepared for the oncoming baby.

At the beginning of the ninth month, Sherlock and John had started talking about the birth. They were going to deliver her two weeks early and at home. John had studied countless books on labor and c-sections and though he still didn't want to do it, he felt prepared and more confident that he wasn't going to accidentally kill Sherlock or the baby. John gathered his supplies a week before 'the event' as they started calling it, May 19th.

They decided to do it mid-morning, around eleven and Sherlock had made John inform both Lestrade, who dropped in on occasions to check on them and make sure that Sherlock wasn't overexerting himself, and Mycroft, who hadn't come back at all since the previous visit but had surely been keeping tabs on them, that the baby was going to be born and not to disturb them.

The morning of May 19th, John threw up. Nerves welled up inside of him and he felt a panic attack coming on. He had performed surgery, sure, had performed surgery in the worst possible conditions, but never to someone who he had cared as much as he did Sherlock and their child. Sherlock was his cool self as usual, but John noticed shaking hands as he prepared John's bed for the birth.

Neither ate that morning and after skimming the newspaper, Sherlock said, "I think we should start performing the surgery now."

John swallowed hard but nodded. No use delaying the inevitable. "Put on the sterile clothes and get in my bed, I'll be with you in a second."

Sherlock nodded while John went into the cabinet to get the epidural and his gloves.

"Are you going to be alright?" John asked, as he stepped into the room. Sherlock nodded. "Okay, let's go then."

The c-section itself was messy and John worried several times that he was messing up but finally he located the womb and carefully, tenderly, pulled out the screaming baby into the world.

"She's…" John said, unbelieving the baby in front of him.

"She was born May 19th, at 11:59," Sherlock said, voice slightly drowsy from the drugs.

"She's beautiful," John continued, placing her on her father's – or mother's? They needed to talk about that – chest while he tried to sew Sherlock back up again.

"Not really," Sherlock muttered, fingers smoothing the baby's dark, thin hair. "But newborns rarely are. She'll get there."

When John was done, he stepped back to admire the scene in front of him. The baby was born, with ten little fingers and ten little toes and Sherlock was fine. He took a deep breath and then joined his little family on the bed.

"She looks well," John said, and then reached out for her. "I need to check her heartbeat and put a diaper on her."

Sherlock shook his head. "Give me a few more moments."

John allowed it. "Have you thought about names?" He asked.

"Rosemary," he said softly, stroking her cheek. "After my mother?"

"Rosemary sounds good." There were a few moments of blissful silence before John said, "We did it. Your hypothesis was right. She seems like a healthy infant."

Sherlock gave him a full, genuine smile. "No, John. For a hypothesis to be correct, it must be tested more than once."

John gave him a horrified look. "Do you mean?"

Sherlock leaned against John as their baby quieted down. "For now, let's just enjoy this moment. We can talk about further experiments later, John."

He obeyed and kissed his daughter on the forehead as she seemed to tire out and her eyelids began to droop down. "Sleep well, Rosemary."

Rosemary gurgled in response.

iThe End/i

Comments are loved and always appreciated.

This was originally written for the Sherlock Big Bang but I didn't have enough time to finish it, nor did it meet the minimal requirement of 10,000 words. Prompt by lj user="andrea_deer".