![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
verucasalt123Title: One In A Million
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock; appearances by Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, Harry and Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
W/C: ~14,100
Summary: Why is it not so shocking that Sherlock is one of the almost unheard of men on earth who is a male carrier? This is just a story about two people dealing with the effects an unplanned pregnancy has on their life, their work, and their relationship.
It was raining, of course, because it’s London and because John had suffered a spectacularly miserable day at the surgery. So getting soaked on his way to the front door was just a fitting way to end the day.
Or so he thought. Until he opened the door.
“What the hell is going on in here?” John shouted from the doorway of their Baker Street flat. He’d smelled the smoke as soon as he’d stepped onto the stairs. No doubt another of Sherlock’s experiments gone awry. Typical. If they didn’t have a case to be worked, the goddamn experiments were near constant. Something had to occupy that brain, after nearly two years John had grown to accept it, except when things were being caught on fire.
John did the best he could to keep Sherlock occupied these days. They’d stepped over the line from flatmates to lovers a couple of months ago, but it hadn’t been long enough that the shiny newness of it had worn off. They snogged on the sofa, traded blowjobs on the kitchen table, spent long mornings and afternoons and evenings and nights in bed together, still caught up in what they’d found in each other.
It didn’t keep Sherlock from his godforsaken experiments, though. Pieces of bodies, mystery chemicals, hypotheses and conclusions. Surely there was no way John could put a permanent end to these occurrences, no matter how much distraction and persuasion and downright bossy-ness he’d put into the effort.
Once John reached the kitchen, Sherlock was fanning the air, trying to dissipate the smoke just as much as he was trying to look casual, like nothing was wrong. “It’s fine, John, it’s all fine, a little mishap is all.”
“I swear one of these days you’re going to blow this whole damn place to bits. Think of Mrs Hudson! Lying in pieces out by the sodding bins because you had to try some crazy shit out for curiosity’s sake!”
“Oh, you’re being dramatic, love, you know I’d never…”
“How the bloody hell could I know if you don’t know?” John was still annoyed but the underlying concern came through clearly from the soft look in his eyes. “I get that you’re in danger while you’re working sometimes, but when you’re not, can’t you just…please, just try to not put yourself in harm’s way any more than necessary?”
Sherlock recognized the look and was chastened within seconds. “I’m sorry, John. You know I get a little carried away sometimes. I’ll try to do better, I promise.” And he meant it, he really did. Of course, he always meant it, every time he said it, but that didn’t stop him from doing it again a week or a month later. Every one of his little projects started off as something benign, but with perspective from John, he was beginning to see that there was more risk involved than he ever gave a minute’s thought to when he started them.
“It’s all right, just been a long goddamn day. I’m going to get a shower, will you clean this up?”
“Yes, I – yes, of course I will. I’ll be up to bed in just a bit.”
John left the room without kissing him, and Sherlock set about getting the kitchen straightened up. He knew John was upset, not really angry, but not happy either. On the Watson Cursing Scale (which Sherlock had designed himself, assuring its complete accuracy), their earlier discussion had only been about a 4, so it couldn’t be that bad. He genuinely hoped he’d get a chance to make it up to John tonight. Get him out of this mood, coax him into forgetting the whole smoking chemical mishap in the kitchen. There were ways…
Half an hour later, Sherlock opened the door to their bedroom to see John climbing into bed. Not naked, as he had done since they’d started sharing a room, but in sleep pants and a t-shirt. Damn.
Sherlock crawled into bed, still fully clothed, saying, “This wasn’t how I’d hoped this night was going to end up, love.”
“Oh? You had some kind of plan for how this night would go, then?” John asked.
“Well, you know, it was just the other day we got our test results back…”
John got it then. Yeah, they’d been sleeping together for a good while but neither of them was willing to take any chances until they were both tested for sexually transmitted diseases. Sherlock wasn’t experienced, honestly, he really hadn’t even had any sex at all for years before John, but he had engaged in some unprotected sex in the past. Not to mention his IV drug use (which, thankfully, was no longer an issue). John, on the other hand, had rightfully earned his nickname of “Three Continents Watson”, and though he’d done his best to be safe in his past sexual encounters, there were no guarantees. There had been more than one occasion where a drunken sexual liaison had led to faulty judgment.
So every time they’d had sex, they’d used a condom. No need to take an unnecessary risk, John had insisted and Sherlock had agreed. Neither of them had ever exhibited any symptoms, but from his medical training, John knew that it was far more common for men to harbor sub-clinical illnesses than women. The fact that they hadn’t seen or felt anything wrong didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.
Sherlock hated the condoms, though. He claimed it tamped down the sensation, which was not entirely unreasonable, and he longed to feel himself filled with his lover’s release, to have John’s cum dripping out of him after John had climaxed. To feel the same for himself when he’d come inside of John.
John didn’t like it any better, but he was above all a practical man, and wasn’t willing to take a chance with something so serious.
Eventually, both of them had gotten up the courage to get tested. They went together, to a clinic far from where John worked, so that the necessary examinations could be completed. It was just a few days ago that the post had brought their results: neither of them were positive for anything, both completely clean.
Since then, though, John had the misfortune of double-shifts at the surgery, and Sherlock was finishing up the details of a kidnapping case he’d helped Lestrade solve. There hadn’t been much time to talk about it, or, for John’s part, even think about it.
And now wasn’t the time for it, either. “Don’t take it personally, love, I know I was ticked off earlier, but I’m not angry with you, honest. I’m just that I’m completely exhausted and you’re…well, you smell like burnt eggs. Go take a shower and come sleep with me, yeah?” John smiled and kissed Sherlock softly, hoping it would help ease the tension.
“Of course, it’s all right. I understand.” Sherlock tried to mask his disappointment but he really did get it. John was tired and not in the mood and that was to be expected sometimes. By the time he returned from his shower, it was obvious that his lover had been making a valiant attempt to stay awake until Sherlock returned to their bed. Even half-asleep, John always knew how to make him feel better.
Sliding under the covers, Sherlock felt John shift, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back and reaching out to pull him close. He felt the brush of John’s lips against his shoulder, the heat of John’s breath as he whispered, “Love you” into his skin. For once, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for Sherlock to fall into a comfortable state of rest, sleeping along the side of the man who was his partner in so many more ways than one.
John, as usual, woke first. His years in the Army had trained his body to wake with the sun except under extreme circumstances. He’d gotten used to being the early riser in their flat. Extricating himself from his hold on Sherlock, he quietly got to his feet and crept out of their bedroom, heading toward the lav, then directly to the kitchen. It was a comfortable morning routine; putting the kettle on, humming a pop song that he knew Sherlock would have frowned at if he’d been awake, fetching the day’s paper from outside the doorway to 221.
This particular morning, he met Mrs Hudson on his way back to the stairs.
“John! It’s good to see you, dear, you must have been working terrible hours lately. It’s been too long since I’ve even seen you walk in the door.”
“I have, Mrs Hudson, but I’ve got a couple of days off now, a little time to rest. How are you? Anything you need down here?”
“Oh, no, not – well, I’ve got a drawer in the kitchen that’s a bit wobbly…”
“I’ll take care of it today”, John replied, kissing her on the cheek and heading back up the stairs as he heard the kettle starting to whistle.
Returning to his morning routine, John made his tea and toasted his bread, covering it with jam before settling into a sitting room chair with the newspaper. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. More genocide in Africa, riots in the Middle East, disgusting bigotry in the United States…never anything good on these pages. He wasn’t about to start his day off in a foul mood, though, so he just pulled out the crossword and grabbed a pencil. A small laugh made its way to the surface at the random realization that Sherlock would have used a pen.
Sherlock. Just the thought of him, of what they had together, made John feel a little cozier, a little more at ease. He’d never thought he’d find someone he’d want to share his life with to this extent. Staring down the barrel at forty, John had almost given up on the possibility that one day he’d settle down into a domestic routine, a steady relationship. But then came Sherlock, the friend of a friend, the mysterious stranger who had ended up meaning more to him within a day than anyone else he’d ever known.
Suddenly feeling a little bad about the night before, John set down his paper and made his way back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was, of course, still soundly sleeping. He got back into his side of the bed (oh, they had sides of the bed, that was really something), wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s chest and breathed in the scent of him…remnants of cologne, sweat, sleep…
Sherlock stirred at the recognition of his lover’s touch, and pushed back a little, snuggling farther into their embrace. He didn’t mind being the little spoon, regardless of the fact that John was smaller (no, he wasn’t, not really, just not as tall). “Morning, John.”
“I’ve been up for an hour, darling. Just thought I’d see if you wanted some company in here. I’ve got the day off, you know.”
“Mmmmmm”, Sherlock sighed contentedly. “The whole day?”
“And tomorrow, too. I can’t imagine how we’re going to fill up all those hours” John replied, a small grin on his face.
“Oh, I think you can. I think you already have, in fact.”
“Well, you’ve caught me out on that, then.”
Sherlock turned to face John and kissed him slowly, gently, wanting to start off the morning at a good pace. If what he wanted for the next day or so was going to become reality, they couldn’t burn off all their energy at once. John seemed to sense it and just kissed him back, running his hands softly against Sherlock’s arm and chest. After a few moments, though, John’s fingers found Sherlock’s nipples and started stroking there, then pulling a bit, eliciting some very satisfactory moans in reply. It wasn’t more than five minutes of that before Sherlock reached into John’s sleep pants and wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock.
“Fuck…”
“Yes, John, I’d like that” Sherlock replied, knowing John had just been cursing, the way he always did, not actually suggesting an activity.
Not that John didn’t want to fuck. He did. He really did.
Moving in closer, John was happy to feel that Sherlock’s dick was as hard as his, thrusting against his hip. “I’m taking off my clothes now” he said, completely unnecessarily. Sherlock pulled up at the hem of John’s t-shirt as John kicked off his pants. They were both now equally naked and wanting and trying so hard not to go too fast.
“Do you want-” John didn’t get a chance to finish his question before Sherlock responded.
“God, yes, please.”
Reaching behind himself to the nightstand, Sherlock handed John the bottle of lube they kept there, but not one of the condoms they normally used.
Today was different. Today they didn’t need one. Today they weren’t going to use one, for the very first time.
Shifting himself on the bed, John pushed Sherlock’s knees up and back, giving him easy access, then coated his fingers with slick. At first, he just teased a bit, pushing against and around Sherlock’s entrance as he listened to his lover whine and finally plead for more. Even after all this time, Sherlock still gasped at the first intrusion, John’s index finger breaching his hole. It didn’t take long, though, before he was pushing back against it, wordlessly asking for more.
John was fine with giving him more. He never wanted to fuck Sherlock until he was sure Sherlock was ready, physically ready. He took his time opening him up, one finger, then two, three, with more lube, until he heard what he wanted to hear.
“Please, for the love of God, get inside me, John, please…”
And that was all it took. John slicked up his own erection and looked Sherlock straight into his eyes from above as he pushed, little by little, until he was fully seated inside his lover. He waited, like always, for Sherlock to adjust and give him a sign, just a small nod of his head, until he started to move.
Christ, he’d never felt anything like this before. John hadn’t thought it would be quite that different without a condom, but it was, it was amazing, just his cock inside Sherlock’s ass, skin to skin. Even that thin barrier of latex had blocked this incredible sensation. Neither of them expected it to be this intense…either from the lack of a physical barrier between them or the meaning behind the act of having unprotected sex, nothing separating them.
Sherlock could feel his heart racing, his pulse increasing, could hear his breath hitching with every thrust. All he could do was wrap his arms around John’s neck, his legs around John’s waist, and love each second of it.
Both of them wanted this to last longer, to be more romantic than frantic, but it just wasn’t going to happen. When John felt his orgasm growing closer, he reached between them and grabbed Sherlock’s dick, stroking it in time with each of his thrusts inside him. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before they were both shouting each other’s name as they were overtaken by their release.
Lying next to each other afterward, Sherlock, of course, was the one to break the silence.
“This is messy.”
John laughed into Sherlock’s chest, where his face was buried since he had no energy to move. “Quite. So, you want to go back to-”
“God, no! It’s glorious, I love it. Can’t wait until it’s my turn to get you all dripping wet”, he replied, kissing the top of John’s head and laughing along with him.
“Me too. But for now, let’s get cleaned up, yeah? I promised Mrs Hudson I’d fix her kitchen drawer, so we can’t spend the entire day in bed.”
“All right, not all day, but most of it? Please?”
And damn if Sherlock saying ‘please’ wasn’t one of the biggest turn-ons of John’s whole fucking life. “Yes, love, most of the day. And most of the night”, John responded, landing soft kisses across Sherlock’s chest as he finally gained enough strength to move his head a bit.
So they took their showers, separately (no matter how much lust was involved, a man’s refractory period had to be taken into consideration). John dressed and went downstairs to make his promised repair, while Sherlock just threw on a dressing gown and settled into reading the newspaper after John had brought him tea and toast of his own.
Returning to their flat, John found Sherlock finishing the crossword puzzle he’d started earlier. And he was right, Sherlock was holding a pen. He’d even corrected a few of John’s responses, which wasn’t really a surprise.
They did end up spending most of the afternoon and evening in bed, alternately cuddling and fucking and making messes. Both of them fell into a contented sleep earlier than usual; for once, Sherlock succumbing before John.
John took the opportunity to study his lover, his features relaxed and calm like they almost never were while he was awake. Sherlock was beautiful, always, but like this…God, John still couldn’t figure out what he’d done in his life to deserve such happiness. That was the thought that carried him away to sleep himself, wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms like a blanket, like a safety net, like everything he’d always needed but never known until now.
So they weren’t teenagers, and they didn’t have sex every day, but over the next couple of weeks, it happened more often than usual. The newness of not using condoms anymore was exciting, and both men reveled in the feeling of bare skin against bare skin.
Another case came up about a month and a half after that first time, and Sherlock was his usual hyperactive self, except for one strange thing – he slept. It had been established early on that while Sherlock was working, he never ate or slept, which John accepted because he knew once the case was done he’d be able to feed his lover boxes of curry and noodles before Sherlock would fall into a twelve or fourteen hour sleep to catch up.
This time was different. Alarmingly so, in John’s opinion; not a concern for Sherlock since he brushed it off as “Just a little rest, I’ll be back on in an hour or two”. He’d even gotten Sherlock to eat, just once, but still…something poked into his brain, wrong, not usual, find out why. John had developed an instinct for ‘finding out why’ since he’d been working with his flatmate, his friend, then his lover.
Eventually, he decided to confide in their friend Greg, who knew as much (maybe more?) about Sherlock than John did.
“Have you ever known him to sleep or eat while he’s working?”
“No, honestly, but I’m not the one who goes home with him. Is it that out of the ordinary?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. He won’t admit it, obviously, but something’s off. I can’t tell what, exactly, because he’s acting like it’s no big deal, but…I can’t help it. Just a gut feeling.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, mate. I’d encourage you to try coaxing some information out of him if I didn’t already know he’s not going to say anything he doesn’t want to say.”
So, yeah, not a helpful conversation.
Even after the case was done, John could see a difference. Sherlock slept more, ate more (without prompting), and generally seemed a bit fatigued. He wouldn’t admit to feeling any differently, though.
Not until he was utterly caught out.
For once, John had woken to an empty bed. When the hell had Sherlock ever gotten up before he did? But then he heard it. Wretching sounds from the lav, which got John on his feet and out of the bedroom in seconds. Standing in the door to the bathroom, he took in the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of the toilet, naked and dry-heaving and sweaty.
Immediately, John was on the floor next to him, rubbing his back and trying to making comforting sounds into his right ear. He was not prepared for the reaction that followed.
“Get out! For God’s sake, get the fuck out, I can’t have you see me like this, it’s disgusting. Just go!”
The outburst startled John, but not enough that he didn’t follow Sherlock’s instructions. He slowly got to his feet and backed away, closing the door behind him. He had no idea what to make of this situation, he’d never seen Sherlock sick before, and he understood why his lover wouldn’t want him to see what he would view as a weakness. Sherlock had always been the strong one. As long as they’d known each other, John couldn’t recall Sherlock having so much as a common cold, let alone something that would take him down this hard. It was spring, his doctor’s mind supplied, hardly flu season, and there was nothing in recent memory that would have exposed either of them to a stomach bug.
Chastened by Sherlock’s harsh words, John stayed away. Eventually, though, Sherlock emerged into the sitting room, his face washed but still looking pale. “I’m sorry for shouting, John. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m not used to…”
“Being sick?” John supplied. “Yes, I know, I haven’t ever seen you sick before. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s not a weakness-”
“Fuck if it’s not a weakness! It is!” Sherlock shouted, and all right, that was the second time today John heard Sherlock curse. That only deepened his concern. Sherlock frowned upon John’s frequent profanity, had expressed his opinion that cursing was pedestrian, in that condescending way of his that John had learned to brush off long ago.
Something was definitely wrong. Really, truly wrong. John felt it instinctively.
“Sherlock, you’re going to fight me on this, but you’ve got to see a doctor.”
And of course, Sherlock laughed. “I’m looking at a doctor right now. Maybe I ate something…bad? Too much? I’m not used to eating so often, it’s just thrown me off a bit.”
“So why are you eating so often? Do you feel hungry or are you just eating when I do, you know, like a normal person eats, a couple of times a day?”
Sherlock considered his response for a moment, then said, “I’m hungry. I’m eating because I’m hungry and I’m sleeping because I’m tired and I don’t know why” with a resigned sigh. “You’re going to make a big deal out of this, I can already tell.”
“It is a big deal, love, I’m not making that up. You’re doing things that are completely abnormal, for you, and you’re sick. You’re going to see a doctor and that’s that, don’t bother arguing” John responded with his very best Captain Watson tone.
Sherlock’s reply was icy. “I just said, I’m looking at a doctor right now. Why can’t you just figure out what the hell this is and fix it?”
So, no surprise there, Sherlock didn’t want his business made public. All right, John could deal with that.
“Fine. I’ll bring you into the surgery and examine you myself, get a blood sample maybe and a piss test, see if I can figure out what’s going on. We’ll have privacy, I assure you. But we’re going now. Today. No negotiations.”
Sherlock recognized the tone in his lover’s voice and realized there was no point in fighting it. “All right. I’ll go.” Honestly, he wanted to know what was going on. He almost never got tired or hungry unless he’d just finished working a case, and he couldn’t remember vomiting (other than the whole drug withdrawal thing) since he was in primary school.
Hours later, John assured Sherlock that he’d labeled the samples under an assumed name, but that it might take a few days to get the results back. And then, of course, they just went home. Sherlock wasn’t feeling any better, but John knew he didn’t have a fever so there was probably not any kind of viral or bacterial infection happening. So events continued, John brought Sherlock tea in bed, Sherlock worried quietly and John fought back panic.
Until the next day, when John was accosted while picking up sandwiches at Speedy’s.
“Why did you take my brother for medical testing, John? What’s wrong?”
Fuck. Mycroft. How the hell did he not anticipate that Mycroft would know everything about everything? John sighed but resigned himself to the inevitable.
“He’s sick, I think. Tired all the time and hungry but vomiting. Probably a bug, I don’t know, but we’ll get some results from the blood tests in a day or two.”
“John, I apologize in advance for asking such a personal question, but you two don’t have relations…unprotected? Right? I assume you’d take that precaution given both of your backgrounds.”
Anger surged up in John, and he resisted the instinct to knock a couple of Mycroft’s teeth loose. “Our sex life is none of your sodding business. And anyway, what the fuck would that have to do with anything? If, hypothetically, we didn’t use protection, it would only be because we’d both been tested and assured neither of us had any kind of sexually transmitted disease. Not that one of us having the goddamn clap or something would make Sherlock exhibit the symptoms he’s having now.”
Mycroft took a minute before responding. “I am sorry for upsetting you, honestly. Won’t you please just sit with me a moment? Let me give you some information?”
And yeah, there was no way John was saying no to that. Mycroft bloody Holmes voluntarily sharing information. Not passing up the opportunity, not a chance. So they sat, John holding onto his bag of sandwiches and Mycroft resting his umbrella against the table. “I assume you’ve heard, at some point in your medical training, about the rare incidents of male carriers?”
It took a minute for John to make the connection, but when he did, he was incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. Yes, I’ve heard of two cases, two, in all my years studying and practicing medicine. The incidence is, as I recall, less than one in ten million. Mathematically, as close to impossible as it gets.”
“You’re correct. Far less than one in a million, as the saying goes. There’s a story in my family that our great -grandfather’s older brother was a carrier.”
“Sherlock never told me anything like that.”
“He never knew. Times were different then, it was more than a century ago. People found out about him, and he was found beaten to death just outside our property before either of our parents or our grandparents were even born, when our great-grandfather was still just a boy. No one ever spoke of it. I only know because-”
“Because you know fucking everything. Right. So are you trying to tell me that Sherlock is…he’s a carrier? He can…” John almost choked on the words, “get – be – he’s fertile? He could carry a child?”
Mycroft had the decency to look just the slightest bit chastened. “I suspected, but I didn’t know, all right? If I had, I would have told him, I swear. But he was almost never sick as a child or teenager, never had much medical testing, so there was no indication, physically. The only way to identify a man as a carrier is genetic testing or finding out that he’s conceived. I decided there was no reason to worry him over some old family tale and some unreliable instinct on my part. You know how he reacts to assertions that can’t be proved.”
John’s head was spinning. No way, no fucking way, this couldn’t be-
“Look, all I’m saying is, if you’re doing tests, you’re doing the wrong ones. Blood test for hCG, or have him do one of those things where you urinate on a plastic stick. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry to have worried you unnecessarily. But I couldn’t keep this from you, even if it’s just a remote possibility.”
Before John had a chance to gather his thoughts enough to respond, Mycroft and his umbrella were gone. He was alone at the table with his bag of sandwiches and his newly discovered, absolutely horrifying, information.
There was really nothing left to do now, except carry the food back up to the flat and try to find a way to break the news to Sherlock. It was highly improbable, clearly, but the possibility couldn’t be overlooked.
Spreading out their lunch on the kitchen table, John started in, trying to keep his voice casual. “I ran into your brother downstairs.”
Sherlock was no fool. “Mycroft doesn’t just run in to anyone. What did he want?”
“Well, he knew I’d taken you for a checkup. But…he had a different theory. Maybe that this isn’t some kind of bug making you not feel well.” John could already feel his cheeks heating up at the thought of disclosing the rest of the information he’d been given.
“All right, so what’s big brother’s idea? Something that’s got you worried, clearly.”
Steeling himself for a clinical explanation, John started, “So, I guess you’ve probably heard that there is a tiny incidence in the male population that are carriers?”
It took Sherlock approximately sixteen seconds to make the connection. “You mean fetal carriers? Men who can gestate a fetus? They’re almost non-existent. The statistical odds-”
“Yes, Sherlock, I know. But if you would just humor me. Humor your brother. Please. We can eliminate that as a possibility and move on with finding out what’s really going on here. Will you?”
“Well, of course I will. It’s a ridiculous notion. We can have it over with in minutes. Have you got to take some more blood, or…?”
“No, actually, I stopped to get one of those ‘pee on a stick’ things down the block. It’s got an electronic reading, you just do what you’ve got to do, and it’ll light up the results in two minutes.”
“Fine, let me have my sandwich first, though, I’m starving.”
They both let the declaration hang in the air for a moment, then started in on their lunch. Afterwards, Sherlock simply said, “Give me the thing, the…stick, whatever. I’ll piss on it and we can put this to rest.”
Four minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the lav, his eyes wild and his hands shaking. He held the plastic bearer of horrific news out to his lover as he leaned against the wall for support.
God, no. No, no, no, it couldn’t be…
Positive. Clear as day.
John wasted no more time before heading out to purchase four more instant tests. Each one left them with the same result, and each one had Sherlock increasingly agitated.
“Shh. Sherlock, I am so, so sorry. I never meant – if I had known, I never would have agreed to unprotected sex. You’ve got to know that.”
“Of course I know that, John. You never had any intention of getting me…knocked up. Neither of us knew it was a possibility. But now it’s a fact. So we’ve got a serious decision to make. This thing, the, uh….the pregnancy. It can obviously be terminated straight away.” Sherlock said, in a manner-of-fact tone with just a hint of his voice shaking underneath it.
Slightly taken aback, John replied, “Is that what you’d like to do? I won’t fight you over it. You’re right, we didn’t know it was a possibility, but now…well, it’s up to you. Whatever decision you make, it’s your body…” John choked on his next words but felt they were the right thing to say, “you’re the one who has to live with, ah – you know. With having a baby or not. So yeah, you” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck “you don’t have to worry, if you don’t want this,” lies lies lies lies lies “if you want to have it or not, it’s your call.”
Sherlock, of course, saw through it before the words were even out. “Do you have any idea how transparent you are, John? Honestly? If I’m pregnant, that means you’re the” not the father, that would make Sherlock a mother, and no, just no “other parent. You’ve got a say in this too. And if you think for a second that it’s not obvious you want me to keep this baby, you’re far less clever than I’ve ever given you credit for.”
For a moment, there was silence. Sherlock gave John a few minutes to process the situation, to come to his own conclusions, maybe find his voice again. When he did, the result was certainly not what Sherlock expected, and not what John expected, either, given that up til now, a situation like this was purely theoretical. John hadn’t had many long-term relationships before. If he’d been told by a woman who’d been his girlfriend for a couple of months that she was pregnant because they hadn’t been careful, what he said to Sherlock was exactly what he would have said to whoever that hypothetical woman was. He believed absolutely that in this kind of situation, the woman was the one who had all the decision-making power. In a case like that, John could have walked away at any time, could have lived with a woman not wanting to have a baby she conceived with him, or with being a part-time dad and providing for a child that was his responsibility.
That wasn’t the case here, though. John hadn’t even been with a woman he’d contemplated spending the rest of his life with; there had never been a woman (or a man) that he’d loved the way he loved Sherlock. Ever since they’d been together, he hadn’t considered having children, because they couldn’t have children together.
Except now they could.
“Well, yeah….yeah, all right, I do. I want you to keep the baby, I want you to have it, I want to be its father, for both of us to be its father. But I can’t” John’s voice broke then, a tear escaping and making its way down his cheek, “I can’t ask you to go through all of that just because it’s what I want. It’s asking an awful lot, more than I’d ever ask of you. Please, you have to tell me the truth. Do you want to keep the baby or not?”
Sherlock wished like hell that he had a better answer, but John had asked him for the truth, and that’s exactly what he was going to get. “I don’t know. I need some time to think about it. It’s not a decision I can make in five minutes. Just give me a day or two? We don’t have to decide this very second, right? I mean, it’s still…early. Early enough, I mean, that I can take some time to think it over.”
Composing himself, John replied sensibly, forcing himself to be realistic. “That’s more than fair. I can get you some information, if you want. About, you know, all the options. Any choice you make would result in a surgical procedure, considering that you don’t have…I mean, you’re not…well, anyway, whatever research materials you might want, I can get them for you.”
“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, and I’m so sorry, John, please don’t think this means anything about us, about our relationship, but if I could just have some time alone…”
Chapter Two
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock; appearances by Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, Harry and Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
W/C: ~14,100
Summary: Why is it not so shocking that Sherlock is one of the almost unheard of men on earth who is a male carrier? This is just a story about two people dealing with the effects an unplanned pregnancy has on their life, their work, and their relationship.
It was raining, of course, because it’s London and because John had suffered a spectacularly miserable day at the surgery. So getting soaked on his way to the front door was just a fitting way to end the day.
Or so he thought. Until he opened the door.
“What the hell is going on in here?” John shouted from the doorway of their Baker Street flat. He’d smelled the smoke as soon as he’d stepped onto the stairs. No doubt another of Sherlock’s experiments gone awry. Typical. If they didn’t have a case to be worked, the goddamn experiments were near constant. Something had to occupy that brain, after nearly two years John had grown to accept it, except when things were being caught on fire.
John did the best he could to keep Sherlock occupied these days. They’d stepped over the line from flatmates to lovers a couple of months ago, but it hadn’t been long enough that the shiny newness of it had worn off. They snogged on the sofa, traded blowjobs on the kitchen table, spent long mornings and afternoons and evenings and nights in bed together, still caught up in what they’d found in each other.
It didn’t keep Sherlock from his godforsaken experiments, though. Pieces of bodies, mystery chemicals, hypotheses and conclusions. Surely there was no way John could put a permanent end to these occurrences, no matter how much distraction and persuasion and downright bossy-ness he’d put into the effort.
Once John reached the kitchen, Sherlock was fanning the air, trying to dissipate the smoke just as much as he was trying to look casual, like nothing was wrong. “It’s fine, John, it’s all fine, a little mishap is all.”
“I swear one of these days you’re going to blow this whole damn place to bits. Think of Mrs Hudson! Lying in pieces out by the sodding bins because you had to try some crazy shit out for curiosity’s sake!”
“Oh, you’re being dramatic, love, you know I’d never…”
“How the bloody hell could I know if you don’t know?” John was still annoyed but the underlying concern came through clearly from the soft look in his eyes. “I get that you’re in danger while you’re working sometimes, but when you’re not, can’t you just…please, just try to not put yourself in harm’s way any more than necessary?”
Sherlock recognized the look and was chastened within seconds. “I’m sorry, John. You know I get a little carried away sometimes. I’ll try to do better, I promise.” And he meant it, he really did. Of course, he always meant it, every time he said it, but that didn’t stop him from doing it again a week or a month later. Every one of his little projects started off as something benign, but with perspective from John, he was beginning to see that there was more risk involved than he ever gave a minute’s thought to when he started them.
“It’s all right, just been a long goddamn day. I’m going to get a shower, will you clean this up?”
“Yes, I – yes, of course I will. I’ll be up to bed in just a bit.”
John left the room without kissing him, and Sherlock set about getting the kitchen straightened up. He knew John was upset, not really angry, but not happy either. On the Watson Cursing Scale (which Sherlock had designed himself, assuring its complete accuracy), their earlier discussion had only been about a 4, so it couldn’t be that bad. He genuinely hoped he’d get a chance to make it up to John tonight. Get him out of this mood, coax him into forgetting the whole smoking chemical mishap in the kitchen. There were ways…
Half an hour later, Sherlock opened the door to their bedroom to see John climbing into bed. Not naked, as he had done since they’d started sharing a room, but in sleep pants and a t-shirt. Damn.
Sherlock crawled into bed, still fully clothed, saying, “This wasn’t how I’d hoped this night was going to end up, love.”
“Oh? You had some kind of plan for how this night would go, then?” John asked.
“Well, you know, it was just the other day we got our test results back…”
John got it then. Yeah, they’d been sleeping together for a good while but neither of them was willing to take any chances until they were both tested for sexually transmitted diseases. Sherlock wasn’t experienced, honestly, he really hadn’t even had any sex at all for years before John, but he had engaged in some unprotected sex in the past. Not to mention his IV drug use (which, thankfully, was no longer an issue). John, on the other hand, had rightfully earned his nickname of “Three Continents Watson”, and though he’d done his best to be safe in his past sexual encounters, there were no guarantees. There had been more than one occasion where a drunken sexual liaison had led to faulty judgment.
So every time they’d had sex, they’d used a condom. No need to take an unnecessary risk, John had insisted and Sherlock had agreed. Neither of them had ever exhibited any symptoms, but from his medical training, John knew that it was far more common for men to harbor sub-clinical illnesses than women. The fact that they hadn’t seen or felt anything wrong didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.
Sherlock hated the condoms, though. He claimed it tamped down the sensation, which was not entirely unreasonable, and he longed to feel himself filled with his lover’s release, to have John’s cum dripping out of him after John had climaxed. To feel the same for himself when he’d come inside of John.
John didn’t like it any better, but he was above all a practical man, and wasn’t willing to take a chance with something so serious.
Eventually, both of them had gotten up the courage to get tested. They went together, to a clinic far from where John worked, so that the necessary examinations could be completed. It was just a few days ago that the post had brought their results: neither of them were positive for anything, both completely clean.
Since then, though, John had the misfortune of double-shifts at the surgery, and Sherlock was finishing up the details of a kidnapping case he’d helped Lestrade solve. There hadn’t been much time to talk about it, or, for John’s part, even think about it.
And now wasn’t the time for it, either. “Don’t take it personally, love, I know I was ticked off earlier, but I’m not angry with you, honest. I’m just that I’m completely exhausted and you’re…well, you smell like burnt eggs. Go take a shower and come sleep with me, yeah?” John smiled and kissed Sherlock softly, hoping it would help ease the tension.
“Of course, it’s all right. I understand.” Sherlock tried to mask his disappointment but he really did get it. John was tired and not in the mood and that was to be expected sometimes. By the time he returned from his shower, it was obvious that his lover had been making a valiant attempt to stay awake until Sherlock returned to their bed. Even half-asleep, John always knew how to make him feel better.
Sliding under the covers, Sherlock felt John shift, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back and reaching out to pull him close. He felt the brush of John’s lips against his shoulder, the heat of John’s breath as he whispered, “Love you” into his skin. For once, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for Sherlock to fall into a comfortable state of rest, sleeping along the side of the man who was his partner in so many more ways than one.
John, as usual, woke first. His years in the Army had trained his body to wake with the sun except under extreme circumstances. He’d gotten used to being the early riser in their flat. Extricating himself from his hold on Sherlock, he quietly got to his feet and crept out of their bedroom, heading toward the lav, then directly to the kitchen. It was a comfortable morning routine; putting the kettle on, humming a pop song that he knew Sherlock would have frowned at if he’d been awake, fetching the day’s paper from outside the doorway to 221.
This particular morning, he met Mrs Hudson on his way back to the stairs.
“John! It’s good to see you, dear, you must have been working terrible hours lately. It’s been too long since I’ve even seen you walk in the door.”
“I have, Mrs Hudson, but I’ve got a couple of days off now, a little time to rest. How are you? Anything you need down here?”
“Oh, no, not – well, I’ve got a drawer in the kitchen that’s a bit wobbly…”
“I’ll take care of it today”, John replied, kissing her on the cheek and heading back up the stairs as he heard the kettle starting to whistle.
Returning to his morning routine, John made his tea and toasted his bread, covering it with jam before settling into a sitting room chair with the newspaper. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. More genocide in Africa, riots in the Middle East, disgusting bigotry in the United States…never anything good on these pages. He wasn’t about to start his day off in a foul mood, though, so he just pulled out the crossword and grabbed a pencil. A small laugh made its way to the surface at the random realization that Sherlock would have used a pen.
Sherlock. Just the thought of him, of what they had together, made John feel a little cozier, a little more at ease. He’d never thought he’d find someone he’d want to share his life with to this extent. Staring down the barrel at forty, John had almost given up on the possibility that one day he’d settle down into a domestic routine, a steady relationship. But then came Sherlock, the friend of a friend, the mysterious stranger who had ended up meaning more to him within a day than anyone else he’d ever known.
Suddenly feeling a little bad about the night before, John set down his paper and made his way back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was, of course, still soundly sleeping. He got back into his side of the bed (oh, they had sides of the bed, that was really something), wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s chest and breathed in the scent of him…remnants of cologne, sweat, sleep…
Sherlock stirred at the recognition of his lover’s touch, and pushed back a little, snuggling farther into their embrace. He didn’t mind being the little spoon, regardless of the fact that John was smaller (no, he wasn’t, not really, just not as tall). “Morning, John.”
“I’ve been up for an hour, darling. Just thought I’d see if you wanted some company in here. I’ve got the day off, you know.”
“Mmmmmm”, Sherlock sighed contentedly. “The whole day?”
“And tomorrow, too. I can’t imagine how we’re going to fill up all those hours” John replied, a small grin on his face.
“Oh, I think you can. I think you already have, in fact.”
“Well, you’ve caught me out on that, then.”
Sherlock turned to face John and kissed him slowly, gently, wanting to start off the morning at a good pace. If what he wanted for the next day or so was going to become reality, they couldn’t burn off all their energy at once. John seemed to sense it and just kissed him back, running his hands softly against Sherlock’s arm and chest. After a few moments, though, John’s fingers found Sherlock’s nipples and started stroking there, then pulling a bit, eliciting some very satisfactory moans in reply. It wasn’t more than five minutes of that before Sherlock reached into John’s sleep pants and wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock.
“Fuck…”
“Yes, John, I’d like that” Sherlock replied, knowing John had just been cursing, the way he always did, not actually suggesting an activity.
Not that John didn’t want to fuck. He did. He really did.
Moving in closer, John was happy to feel that Sherlock’s dick was as hard as his, thrusting against his hip. “I’m taking off my clothes now” he said, completely unnecessarily. Sherlock pulled up at the hem of John’s t-shirt as John kicked off his pants. They were both now equally naked and wanting and trying so hard not to go too fast.
“Do you want-” John didn’t get a chance to finish his question before Sherlock responded.
“God, yes, please.”
Reaching behind himself to the nightstand, Sherlock handed John the bottle of lube they kept there, but not one of the condoms they normally used.
Today was different. Today they didn’t need one. Today they weren’t going to use one, for the very first time.
Shifting himself on the bed, John pushed Sherlock’s knees up and back, giving him easy access, then coated his fingers with slick. At first, he just teased a bit, pushing against and around Sherlock’s entrance as he listened to his lover whine and finally plead for more. Even after all this time, Sherlock still gasped at the first intrusion, John’s index finger breaching his hole. It didn’t take long, though, before he was pushing back against it, wordlessly asking for more.
John was fine with giving him more. He never wanted to fuck Sherlock until he was sure Sherlock was ready, physically ready. He took his time opening him up, one finger, then two, three, with more lube, until he heard what he wanted to hear.
“Please, for the love of God, get inside me, John, please…”
And that was all it took. John slicked up his own erection and looked Sherlock straight into his eyes from above as he pushed, little by little, until he was fully seated inside his lover. He waited, like always, for Sherlock to adjust and give him a sign, just a small nod of his head, until he started to move.
Christ, he’d never felt anything like this before. John hadn’t thought it would be quite that different without a condom, but it was, it was amazing, just his cock inside Sherlock’s ass, skin to skin. Even that thin barrier of latex had blocked this incredible sensation. Neither of them expected it to be this intense…either from the lack of a physical barrier between them or the meaning behind the act of having unprotected sex, nothing separating them.
Sherlock could feel his heart racing, his pulse increasing, could hear his breath hitching with every thrust. All he could do was wrap his arms around John’s neck, his legs around John’s waist, and love each second of it.
Both of them wanted this to last longer, to be more romantic than frantic, but it just wasn’t going to happen. When John felt his orgasm growing closer, he reached between them and grabbed Sherlock’s dick, stroking it in time with each of his thrusts inside him. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before they were both shouting each other’s name as they were overtaken by their release.
Lying next to each other afterward, Sherlock, of course, was the one to break the silence.
“This is messy.”
John laughed into Sherlock’s chest, where his face was buried since he had no energy to move. “Quite. So, you want to go back to-”
“God, no! It’s glorious, I love it. Can’t wait until it’s my turn to get you all dripping wet”, he replied, kissing the top of John’s head and laughing along with him.
“Me too. But for now, let’s get cleaned up, yeah? I promised Mrs Hudson I’d fix her kitchen drawer, so we can’t spend the entire day in bed.”
“All right, not all day, but most of it? Please?”
And damn if Sherlock saying ‘please’ wasn’t one of the biggest turn-ons of John’s whole fucking life. “Yes, love, most of the day. And most of the night”, John responded, landing soft kisses across Sherlock’s chest as he finally gained enough strength to move his head a bit.
So they took their showers, separately (no matter how much lust was involved, a man’s refractory period had to be taken into consideration). John dressed and went downstairs to make his promised repair, while Sherlock just threw on a dressing gown and settled into reading the newspaper after John had brought him tea and toast of his own.
Returning to their flat, John found Sherlock finishing the crossword puzzle he’d started earlier. And he was right, Sherlock was holding a pen. He’d even corrected a few of John’s responses, which wasn’t really a surprise.
They did end up spending most of the afternoon and evening in bed, alternately cuddling and fucking and making messes. Both of them fell into a contented sleep earlier than usual; for once, Sherlock succumbing before John.
John took the opportunity to study his lover, his features relaxed and calm like they almost never were while he was awake. Sherlock was beautiful, always, but like this…God, John still couldn’t figure out what he’d done in his life to deserve such happiness. That was the thought that carried him away to sleep himself, wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms like a blanket, like a safety net, like everything he’d always needed but never known until now.
So they weren’t teenagers, and they didn’t have sex every day, but over the next couple of weeks, it happened more often than usual. The newness of not using condoms anymore was exciting, and both men reveled in the feeling of bare skin against bare skin.
Another case came up about a month and a half after that first time, and Sherlock was his usual hyperactive self, except for one strange thing – he slept. It had been established early on that while Sherlock was working, he never ate or slept, which John accepted because he knew once the case was done he’d be able to feed his lover boxes of curry and noodles before Sherlock would fall into a twelve or fourteen hour sleep to catch up.
This time was different. Alarmingly so, in John’s opinion; not a concern for Sherlock since he brushed it off as “Just a little rest, I’ll be back on in an hour or two”. He’d even gotten Sherlock to eat, just once, but still…something poked into his brain, wrong, not usual, find out why. John had developed an instinct for ‘finding out why’ since he’d been working with his flatmate, his friend, then his lover.
Eventually, he decided to confide in their friend Greg, who knew as much (maybe more?) about Sherlock than John did.
“Have you ever known him to sleep or eat while he’s working?”
“No, honestly, but I’m not the one who goes home with him. Is it that out of the ordinary?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. He won’t admit it, obviously, but something’s off. I can’t tell what, exactly, because he’s acting like it’s no big deal, but…I can’t help it. Just a gut feeling.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, mate. I’d encourage you to try coaxing some information out of him if I didn’t already know he’s not going to say anything he doesn’t want to say.”
So, yeah, not a helpful conversation.
Even after the case was done, John could see a difference. Sherlock slept more, ate more (without prompting), and generally seemed a bit fatigued. He wouldn’t admit to feeling any differently, though.
Not until he was utterly caught out.
For once, John had woken to an empty bed. When the hell had Sherlock ever gotten up before he did? But then he heard it. Wretching sounds from the lav, which got John on his feet and out of the bedroom in seconds. Standing in the door to the bathroom, he took in the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of the toilet, naked and dry-heaving and sweaty.
Immediately, John was on the floor next to him, rubbing his back and trying to making comforting sounds into his right ear. He was not prepared for the reaction that followed.
“Get out! For God’s sake, get the fuck out, I can’t have you see me like this, it’s disgusting. Just go!”
The outburst startled John, but not enough that he didn’t follow Sherlock’s instructions. He slowly got to his feet and backed away, closing the door behind him. He had no idea what to make of this situation, he’d never seen Sherlock sick before, and he understood why his lover wouldn’t want him to see what he would view as a weakness. Sherlock had always been the strong one. As long as they’d known each other, John couldn’t recall Sherlock having so much as a common cold, let alone something that would take him down this hard. It was spring, his doctor’s mind supplied, hardly flu season, and there was nothing in recent memory that would have exposed either of them to a stomach bug.
Chastened by Sherlock’s harsh words, John stayed away. Eventually, though, Sherlock emerged into the sitting room, his face washed but still looking pale. “I’m sorry for shouting, John. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m not used to…”
“Being sick?” John supplied. “Yes, I know, I haven’t ever seen you sick before. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s not a weakness-”
“Fuck if it’s not a weakness! It is!” Sherlock shouted, and all right, that was the second time today John heard Sherlock curse. That only deepened his concern. Sherlock frowned upon John’s frequent profanity, had expressed his opinion that cursing was pedestrian, in that condescending way of his that John had learned to brush off long ago.
Something was definitely wrong. Really, truly wrong. John felt it instinctively.
“Sherlock, you’re going to fight me on this, but you’ve got to see a doctor.”
And of course, Sherlock laughed. “I’m looking at a doctor right now. Maybe I ate something…bad? Too much? I’m not used to eating so often, it’s just thrown me off a bit.”
“So why are you eating so often? Do you feel hungry or are you just eating when I do, you know, like a normal person eats, a couple of times a day?”
Sherlock considered his response for a moment, then said, “I’m hungry. I’m eating because I’m hungry and I’m sleeping because I’m tired and I don’t know why” with a resigned sigh. “You’re going to make a big deal out of this, I can already tell.”
“It is a big deal, love, I’m not making that up. You’re doing things that are completely abnormal, for you, and you’re sick. You’re going to see a doctor and that’s that, don’t bother arguing” John responded with his very best Captain Watson tone.
Sherlock’s reply was icy. “I just said, I’m looking at a doctor right now. Why can’t you just figure out what the hell this is and fix it?”
So, no surprise there, Sherlock didn’t want his business made public. All right, John could deal with that.
“Fine. I’ll bring you into the surgery and examine you myself, get a blood sample maybe and a piss test, see if I can figure out what’s going on. We’ll have privacy, I assure you. But we’re going now. Today. No negotiations.”
Sherlock recognized the tone in his lover’s voice and realized there was no point in fighting it. “All right. I’ll go.” Honestly, he wanted to know what was going on. He almost never got tired or hungry unless he’d just finished working a case, and he couldn’t remember vomiting (other than the whole drug withdrawal thing) since he was in primary school.
Hours later, John assured Sherlock that he’d labeled the samples under an assumed name, but that it might take a few days to get the results back. And then, of course, they just went home. Sherlock wasn’t feeling any better, but John knew he didn’t have a fever so there was probably not any kind of viral or bacterial infection happening. So events continued, John brought Sherlock tea in bed, Sherlock worried quietly and John fought back panic.
Until the next day, when John was accosted while picking up sandwiches at Speedy’s.
“Why did you take my brother for medical testing, John? What’s wrong?”
Fuck. Mycroft. How the hell did he not anticipate that Mycroft would know everything about everything? John sighed but resigned himself to the inevitable.
“He’s sick, I think. Tired all the time and hungry but vomiting. Probably a bug, I don’t know, but we’ll get some results from the blood tests in a day or two.”
“John, I apologize in advance for asking such a personal question, but you two don’t have relations…unprotected? Right? I assume you’d take that precaution given both of your backgrounds.”
Anger surged up in John, and he resisted the instinct to knock a couple of Mycroft’s teeth loose. “Our sex life is none of your sodding business. And anyway, what the fuck would that have to do with anything? If, hypothetically, we didn’t use protection, it would only be because we’d both been tested and assured neither of us had any kind of sexually transmitted disease. Not that one of us having the goddamn clap or something would make Sherlock exhibit the symptoms he’s having now.”
Mycroft took a minute before responding. “I am sorry for upsetting you, honestly. Won’t you please just sit with me a moment? Let me give you some information?”
And yeah, there was no way John was saying no to that. Mycroft bloody Holmes voluntarily sharing information. Not passing up the opportunity, not a chance. So they sat, John holding onto his bag of sandwiches and Mycroft resting his umbrella against the table. “I assume you’ve heard, at some point in your medical training, about the rare incidents of male carriers?”
It took a minute for John to make the connection, but when he did, he was incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. Yes, I’ve heard of two cases, two, in all my years studying and practicing medicine. The incidence is, as I recall, less than one in ten million. Mathematically, as close to impossible as it gets.”
“You’re correct. Far less than one in a million, as the saying goes. There’s a story in my family that our great -grandfather’s older brother was a carrier.”
“Sherlock never told me anything like that.”
“He never knew. Times were different then, it was more than a century ago. People found out about him, and he was found beaten to death just outside our property before either of our parents or our grandparents were even born, when our great-grandfather was still just a boy. No one ever spoke of it. I only know because-”
“Because you know fucking everything. Right. So are you trying to tell me that Sherlock is…he’s a carrier? He can…” John almost choked on the words, “get – be – he’s fertile? He could carry a child?”
Mycroft had the decency to look just the slightest bit chastened. “I suspected, but I didn’t know, all right? If I had, I would have told him, I swear. But he was almost never sick as a child or teenager, never had much medical testing, so there was no indication, physically. The only way to identify a man as a carrier is genetic testing or finding out that he’s conceived. I decided there was no reason to worry him over some old family tale and some unreliable instinct on my part. You know how he reacts to assertions that can’t be proved.”
John’s head was spinning. No way, no fucking way, this couldn’t be-
“Look, all I’m saying is, if you’re doing tests, you’re doing the wrong ones. Blood test for hCG, or have him do one of those things where you urinate on a plastic stick. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry to have worried you unnecessarily. But I couldn’t keep this from you, even if it’s just a remote possibility.”
Before John had a chance to gather his thoughts enough to respond, Mycroft and his umbrella were gone. He was alone at the table with his bag of sandwiches and his newly discovered, absolutely horrifying, information.
There was really nothing left to do now, except carry the food back up to the flat and try to find a way to break the news to Sherlock. It was highly improbable, clearly, but the possibility couldn’t be overlooked.
Spreading out their lunch on the kitchen table, John started in, trying to keep his voice casual. “I ran into your brother downstairs.”
Sherlock was no fool. “Mycroft doesn’t just run in to anyone. What did he want?”
“Well, he knew I’d taken you for a checkup. But…he had a different theory. Maybe that this isn’t some kind of bug making you not feel well.” John could already feel his cheeks heating up at the thought of disclosing the rest of the information he’d been given.
“All right, so what’s big brother’s idea? Something that’s got you worried, clearly.”
Steeling himself for a clinical explanation, John started, “So, I guess you’ve probably heard that there is a tiny incidence in the male population that are carriers?”
It took Sherlock approximately sixteen seconds to make the connection. “You mean fetal carriers? Men who can gestate a fetus? They’re almost non-existent. The statistical odds-”
“Yes, Sherlock, I know. But if you would just humor me. Humor your brother. Please. We can eliminate that as a possibility and move on with finding out what’s really going on here. Will you?”
“Well, of course I will. It’s a ridiculous notion. We can have it over with in minutes. Have you got to take some more blood, or…?”
“No, actually, I stopped to get one of those ‘pee on a stick’ things down the block. It’s got an electronic reading, you just do what you’ve got to do, and it’ll light up the results in two minutes.”
“Fine, let me have my sandwich first, though, I’m starving.”
They both let the declaration hang in the air for a moment, then started in on their lunch. Afterwards, Sherlock simply said, “Give me the thing, the…stick, whatever. I’ll piss on it and we can put this to rest.”
Four minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the lav, his eyes wild and his hands shaking. He held the plastic bearer of horrific news out to his lover as he leaned against the wall for support.
God, no. No, no, no, it couldn’t be…
Positive. Clear as day.
John wasted no more time before heading out to purchase four more instant tests. Each one left them with the same result, and each one had Sherlock increasingly agitated.
“Shh. Sherlock, I am so, so sorry. I never meant – if I had known, I never would have agreed to unprotected sex. You’ve got to know that.”
“Of course I know that, John. You never had any intention of getting me…knocked up. Neither of us knew it was a possibility. But now it’s a fact. So we’ve got a serious decision to make. This thing, the, uh….the pregnancy. It can obviously be terminated straight away.” Sherlock said, in a manner-of-fact tone with just a hint of his voice shaking underneath it.
Slightly taken aback, John replied, “Is that what you’d like to do? I won’t fight you over it. You’re right, we didn’t know it was a possibility, but now…well, it’s up to you. Whatever decision you make, it’s your body…” John choked on his next words but felt they were the right thing to say, “you’re the one who has to live with, ah – you know. With having a baby or not. So yeah, you” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck “you don’t have to worry, if you don’t want this,” lies lies lies lies lies “if you want to have it or not, it’s your call.”
Sherlock, of course, saw through it before the words were even out. “Do you have any idea how transparent you are, John? Honestly? If I’m pregnant, that means you’re the” not the father, that would make Sherlock a mother, and no, just no “other parent. You’ve got a say in this too. And if you think for a second that it’s not obvious you want me to keep this baby, you’re far less clever than I’ve ever given you credit for.”
For a moment, there was silence. Sherlock gave John a few minutes to process the situation, to come to his own conclusions, maybe find his voice again. When he did, the result was certainly not what Sherlock expected, and not what John expected, either, given that up til now, a situation like this was purely theoretical. John hadn’t had many long-term relationships before. If he’d been told by a woman who’d been his girlfriend for a couple of months that she was pregnant because they hadn’t been careful, what he said to Sherlock was exactly what he would have said to whoever that hypothetical woman was. He believed absolutely that in this kind of situation, the woman was the one who had all the decision-making power. In a case like that, John could have walked away at any time, could have lived with a woman not wanting to have a baby she conceived with him, or with being a part-time dad and providing for a child that was his responsibility.
That wasn’t the case here, though. John hadn’t even been with a woman he’d contemplated spending the rest of his life with; there had never been a woman (or a man) that he’d loved the way he loved Sherlock. Ever since they’d been together, he hadn’t considered having children, because they couldn’t have children together.
Except now they could.
“Well, yeah….yeah, all right, I do. I want you to keep the baby, I want you to have it, I want to be its father, for both of us to be its father. But I can’t” John’s voice broke then, a tear escaping and making its way down his cheek, “I can’t ask you to go through all of that just because it’s what I want. It’s asking an awful lot, more than I’d ever ask of you. Please, you have to tell me the truth. Do you want to keep the baby or not?”
Sherlock wished like hell that he had a better answer, but John had asked him for the truth, and that’s exactly what he was going to get. “I don’t know. I need some time to think about it. It’s not a decision I can make in five minutes. Just give me a day or two? We don’t have to decide this very second, right? I mean, it’s still…early. Early enough, I mean, that I can take some time to think it over.”
Composing himself, John replied sensibly, forcing himself to be realistic. “That’s more than fair. I can get you some information, if you want. About, you know, all the options. Any choice you make would result in a surgical procedure, considering that you don’t have…I mean, you’re not…well, anyway, whatever research materials you might want, I can get them for you.”
“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, and I’m so sorry, John, please don’t think this means anything about us, about our relationship, but if I could just have some time alone…”
Chapter Two
