(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Warning: This story contains pregnancy fetishism. Like with many fetishes, there are some people who may find this uncomfortable and disturbing. With this fetish in particular (for obvious reasons) there are issues with it being immoral. I wrote this, in part, to fight against those views. There is no point in hating something for which you have no control over. Do you consider yourself a racist? Or sexist? No. But would you consider someone disgusting and socially unacceptable for admitting to a fetish? Think about that. On the other hand, some of you will find this exceedingly hot. This is for you.
If you are somewhat uncomfortable with this fetish, I suggest considering it instead as an 'Alpha's instinctive pride over successful breeding', if you will. It fits rather well.
You have been duly warned, and I hope I have been duly ignored - at least enough for you to keep on reading with an open mind. Thank you.
Around fourteen months ago, when Sherlock dived head first into John’s lap just as he was about to take what he thought were two innocent capsules of paracetamol, John pushed the ridiculously lanky man onto the floor, kicked him in the side for good measure and sulked off to his bedroom to sleep off his hangover, the pills left to collect dust under the sofa.
Then, little over than two weeks later, John used what he presumed was Sherlock’s shower gel. There wasn’t a label on the bottle – never had been – which was bizarre. But seeing as he was late for his shift, he thought nothing of it. That was until he walked straight into the lobby and Olivia (receptionist) wrinkled her nose is disgust.
“What do I smell bad or something?”
Olivia bit back a laugh and shuffled a stack of paperwork very diligently “Oh no, it’s not that at all.” She leant over the desk and breathed deep through her nose, “You smell stronger, but it’s...artificial almost.”
The point trying to be made is that when John returned from work that evening, the first thing he did was stand directly in front of Sherlock who was lounged on the sofa and declared: “You, Sherlock Holmes, are not a bloody alpha.”
Now, what he had expected next in this little game was Sherlock’s confession of being an undercover beta. This didn’t really bother him as such as it wouldn’t really affect their domestic lifestyle. As an alpha himself, John was always far more intrigued by Omegas and in particular: male Omegas.
But then Sherlock stood up, grabbed John by the shoulders and spoke with utter defiance and perhaps a hint of self loathing, “No John. And I’m not a beta either.”
John then went on to fall to his knees and mumble profusely, which earned him a cup of tea and a very, very lengthy talk about heat suppressants, scenting and an astoundingly anticlimactic plan of action.
Sherlock continued to take his medication whilst John kept his mouth shut and did his best to keep his thoughts away from the primal, instinctive side of things.
Alas the plan pretty much went to shit and within the month the pair of them had made love in John’s bed. And so it continued that way, not drunk off pheromones, but simply finding desire in each other, almost as if their ranks didn’t apply. Sherlock then revealed to John he had in fact also started taking birth control. And my God did they use that to their advantage: having sex wherever and whenever they so desired.
Plan B – Sherlock now had to admit to being a ‘beta’ (new shower gel, easy as) in order to justify his newly developed relationship with John, which he considered a small price to pay for finally finding someone who didn’t want to flush his medication down the toilet and force him into heat.
All was well in 221 B – the sheets were filthy, the rug became threadbare (and in turn they were covered in friction burns) and the leather sofa worn. Most importantly, there were absolutely no heat-related issues with dubious consent.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Now, John had lived with the assumption that everyone had a fetish or kink of some kind. Of course, he heard the worst came out of you when mating, but this was casual sex he was talking about. This concept may have only just started losing the ‘taboo’ label, but the idea of fetishes still had a long way to go in society. Some people hid theirs behind closed doors, some people hid it behind leather masks and hell, some really fucking brave people just didn’t hide it at all.
As a matter of fact, it was just a couple of nights ago that this concept had been brought back into the forefront of his mind. He found himself at The Tipperary (what was considered ‘St. Bart’s local’ in his Uni days) with Mike and a couple of other Bart’s doctors that John had studied with.
Unfortunately one doctor, Stephen, had already bailed on the evening, on account for his mate going into heat. Mike called him ‘lucky sod’ and John pretended to go along with feign disappointment, yet secretly thrilled at the thought of also having an Omega male at home.
The first pint was to get over awkward conversation. The second pint was because it was offered. The third pint because John, being the polite man that he is, felt complied to buy the next round. The fourth pint is when things got interesting. Really interesting.
They unanimously agreed that they’d all ‘forget’ - or in Mike’s case, actually forget – this conversation the next morning. There we are, now the four of them could bear their greatest secrets and humiliate themselves over a pint by talking about their casual sex lives.
Standard British tradition.
Paul Horton was forty something, lived somewhere and was a self-proclaimed Beta. John never really paid attention to that first awkward conversation everyone had. How are you? What are you up to nowadays? Oh you know, failing at life. Dying of boredom. The usual. He was starting to go bald though, hair thinning at the sides. John took a smug gulp of his pint. Paul was about to take the first jump into the ravine. He slammed his empty pint glass against the bar and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “M’ afraid it’s just plain old feet for me.”
“Bit vanilla.” John stated nonchalantly, catching eyes with Mike across from him in their little social circle and simultaneously biting back a smirk.
Paul shouted to the barman and gestured to his empty glass before replying over his shoulder, “You do realised the main concept behind fetishes is that- Oh cheers mate,” Awkwardly handed over money to the barman, elbowed Mike in the side for his sniggering and continued in a much more hushed tone: “The main concept is that you can’t choose it. Just happens.”
Please bear in mind that the volume of the conversation altered from a noisy oh-i’m-so-drunk-everyone-in-the-pub-needs-to-hear-me volume to just normal, socially acceptable for chatting volume so in effect, everyone still heard – especially the barman, who rolled his eyes dramatically.
“It’s quite true,” Edward (not Ed, Eddy, Ted or Teddy. It’s Edward, thank you very much) began eagerly, “I spent most of my teenage years in the blooming missionary position, taking anything I could find,” (Edward’s an alpha. He lost the plot in his teenage years) “-until one night I go back to this girl’s room-”
“-And studied physiology with her. That’s not an innuendo. He actually did!” Mike blurted out with a cheeky grin and earned himself a holler of great masculinity from the men.
Edward became so flustered his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose and his cheeks burned as brightly as his red hair, “No! This night I go back and she...she practically strangles me, whilst we are... you know!"
The four doctors were rather speechless at this point, so much so that John lifted his glass to lips, frowned when he noticed there was nothing it in and got away with it, without a single schoolboy tease.
“My God, Eddy’s into breath play.” Mike said after a time, still quite astounded.
“You can say that again,” John mumbled, eyebrows raised in shock.
The four of them raised there newly filled glasses (courtesy of John...again) to their mouths – having mutually decided that it was the best way to get over the news.
Edward grimaced a little as he swallowed his pint, “Actually, I couldn’t say anything for the next couple of days after that...” He remarked and leant against the bar with a beaming smirk that caused John to spit out the remainder of his lager.
With glares from the rest of the bar’s current inhabitants and further hollering from his mates that sounded something along the lines of Wheyyy! Oooohhwheyyy!, John set about wiping his soaked jumper courtesy of napkins from the not – so – friendly barman. There was a certain pre-heat tang in the air about him. Nervous then. Poor bastard. John on the other hand, was in a good enough mood to laugh along with his mates, thank God.
“And this isn’t one of those dodgy kinks that just comes out when your mate’s in heat?” Mike spluttered out.
“You mean, you actually do this in non-hormone riddled, not-for-procreation sex?”
Edward rolls his eyes and sighs in impatience, “Yes.”
“Well,” John began, “At least you didn’t get caught right out, unlike Mike in Fresher’s.”
The group fell into laughter again, John’s eyes actually stinging a little at the mental image of Mike walking back from the Girl’s dorms in just his pants. Mike joined in too – that had always been the best thing about him, not afraid to take the piss out of himself.
“-He just bloody stood outside her door, trying to hide his boner-!”
“-Well, I wanted my bloody tie back, there would always be someone else!-”
“-Brilliant idea to suggest bondage to a rigid Feminist Beta Mike, sure she’d appreciate that-“
“-I didn’t bloody know. She wasn’t so strong in her views it stopped her sucking me off at the back of the cinema did it?” Mike added with a wink before he turned to John, “What about you Johnny-Boy? Surely a year with that Detective of yours has finally revealed the socially unacceptable in you?”
John rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his pint once more. “Dunno what you mean by that...”
Edward took of his glasses and proceeded to clean them on his shirt. “I’d never have taken Sherlock for a Beta; I swear it’s only his scent that gives him away. Could’ve sworn he was an Alpha.”
“Well one things for sure, he’s eccentric in every aspect of the word. So, he must be in the bedroom too, right? ” Paul beckoned rather hastily, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets in a rather poor attempt to not look desperate for answers.
John smiled a little to himself, “Look, I just don’t have a fetish or a kink, ok? Different positions? Sure. Different locations? Hell yes. Nothing more!”
The thing was, John wasn’t actually hiding anything. A year of sex with Sherlock Holmes was the most exciting he had ever had in his life. He’d shagged him up against the tiles in St. Bart’s staff showers, had him sit on his cock in the back of a Police Patrol car just out of sight of Sally and Anderson and indulged in a lovely bout of the 69 position on Sherlock’s Mother’s bed.
Admittedly, he still feels a little guilty about the last one. (Though not enough to deny himself if the chance should arise again.)
Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him a little, “John, there’s no such thing as a person not having a fetish-”
John looked around at the other blokes for reassurance on his part. He got none, just pitiful half smiles. “But-”
“Seriously mate,” Paul began, slapping John rather forcefully on the back, “People who say they don’t, just haven’t found it yet.”
The fact that John’s sex life may not have truly started yet – and he’s just turned forty - is rather horrifying to him. He had orgasms, he had rutted to his hearts content and although his refractory period wasn’t as short these days, he could go for a couple a night if his shoulder would allow it.
True, he’d never actually had an Omega in heat. He hadn’t bonded because he had always denied himself, having a problem with the concept of simply taking what he apparently deserved as an Alpha. But he had Sherlock now. What more was there?
An hour or so later, the four of them slipped into their coats and briskly said their Goodbye’s in order to get out of the evening December air as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry mate,” Stamford sighed, shaking John’s hand when the two of them moved to part ways on the Underground. “Just think, it’s like having the main course, but not the dessert. No having the...” Stamford tapped his lips (sometimes his chin due to his reduced co-ordination) in search for the correct word. “The indulgence.” He finally settled on, a little twinkle in his eye, “You know, the whipped cream, the melted chocolate and strawberries.”
There was also an underlying message of and that’s nothing. Wait till you fuck an Omega in heat, which John chose to ignore.
John’s lips puckered in thought as the pair of them headed off for different lines, and noticed that the thought of Sherlock lathered in whipped cream and melted chocolate (as nice an idea as it was) did not leave him with an aching erection.
John found himself rather thankful that he could cross food sex of the list. What with Sherlock’s poor eating habits, it would surely be a kink he would rarely be able to indulge.
But John needn’t have worried - although it had taken him a damn sight longer than most - he really didn’t have much longer to wait to find his kink after all.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first hint of it came precisely two weeks, six days and fourteen hours later. Or rather, one New Years celebrated at the Holmes residence, twelve egotistical Holmes members and another twelve really quite beautiful shags at said Holmes residence later.
John drops the bags right at the door (notice the plural, Sherlock of course, did not contribute) and heads towards the kitchen to make two cups of wonderfully bog-standard tea. It’s made from a Typhoo teabag, not using dried black tea leaves and a strainer, with semi skimmed Asda milk, not fresh single cream from some rare breed of cattle and served in a chipped IKEA mug and not in an intricately decorated bone china cup and saucer.
Sherlock does not fling himself onto the sofa in a sulk, nor does he skulk off to his bedroom and slam the door behind him. His bottom lip doesn’t even jut out a bit with his nostrils flaring with distaste.
When John heads towards the front room and hands Sherlock the cup, he finds him perched just on the edge of the sofa, looking rather pensive. He asks if Sherlock is alright, gets a sharp nod in return and thinks little of it, except to throw the tartan blanket over both of them until the heating kicks in.
Then Sherlock blurts out John’s name with such velvet softness, that it has John pausing mid reach for the tele remote. He looks back at the man who now seems unable to meet his eye, cup of tea held in both hands and one foot bouncing anxiously on the floor boards.
“Yeah?” John sighs, leaning back into the settee and reaching out a hand to card through Sherlock’s bulk of curls at the back of his head.
“Do you remember...?” Sherlock pauses and swallows, “Do you remember a few weeks ago, when you asked about....children?”
John remembered. Of course he did. It hadn’t been a soppy, lets-talk-about-the-future conversation, as such. John had simply asked if Sherlock was still fertile after the years of taking the Omega suppressants and his horrendous eating habits.
Sherlock stated that although it would be a lengthy process and that both John’s age and Sherlock’s lengthy course of medication (due to potentially increased time between heats) was against them: coming off both the birth control and the other pills should allow Sherlock to – in theory– fall pregnant.
“Kind of, yeah, though that’s not exactly what I asked.”
Sherlock turned his head to John, “But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?” He asked quietly, eyes lacking their usual glitter of an accurate deduction.
“Sherlock, if you could just help me see where this has come from....” John says softly, wearing a frown of confusion and moving his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw and run his thumb over the bottom lip.
Then comes a great audible sigh that causes Sherlock’s shoulders to slump, “Back at the Manor, the way you were with the children...”
“You mean Shackleton’s children?” John asks.
Shackleton was Sherlock’s cousin on his mother’s side and had two rather beautiful children who were both fascinated with John and his soldier past. He was more than willing to indulge them, even if at first it was mostly an excuse to leave the drawing room and the continuous battle of wits between the Holmes members behind.
Sherlock blinks slowly in confirmation, “When you were with them, I got a strange feeling...here.” He admitted, gesturing to the left side of his chest.
John shuffles closer to Sherlock and places a hand directly onto his heart, “You mean here?” He breathes and dares to smile a little when Sherlock makes a little whimper of confirmation, and leans his forehead against John’s.
Sherlock tilts his head just so, and captures John’s top lip between his own, sucking softly and John clenches Sherlock’s shirt in his fist.
Then, Sherlock sighs John’s name, except his voice cracks and John does nothing but cling tighter to him, until Sherlock takes a deep breath, and murmurs against his lips:
“John, I think I want a baby.”
A few seconds pass, and then: “Oh God Sherlock.”
“I know that it’ll be difficult-”
Taking Sherlock’s head in both his hands, John presses the lightest of kisses to Sherlock’s lips, “You’ll have to come out as an Omega-”
“I know. But I know what I want, and if that means finally accepting life as an Omega then so be it.” The left side of his mouth twitches into a smile and Sherlock leans forward to capture John’s mouth again.
Such gentle kisses shouldn’t leave them so breathless, but soon enough Sherlock is kneeling on the sofa cushions and so is John, pressed up against one another and arms entangled.
A state of chaos follows, with John hastily yet clumsily undoing Sherlock shirt as Sherlock takes his mouth and kisses him with such an intensity that John is quite willing to just get inside him as soon as possible.
“So, you’ll come off the meds, then?” John gasps.
Sherlock responds by burying his hand deep into his trouser pocket, pulling out a bottle containing a cocktail of different pills and promptly tossing it as far away from them as possible, chuckling from deep within his chest. John laughs too, though it’s cut off rather short as Sherlock grabs his hips to grind them together.
“Would you stop trying to cover your scent?” John heads for that wonderful column of neck and trails it with his tongue, “You haven’t been able to use the Beta gel for a couple of days, have you? Fuck I can smell you, really smell you...”
“If i’m going to get a response like this, I’d certainly consider it-” Sherlock purrs, removes his shirt and moves to lie lengthways across the sofa. He then spreads his legs and wastes no time in cupping and rubbing himself between his thighs, eyes fixed on John the entire time, “Now come here.”
After pulling his own shirt over his head, John crawls up the sofa and makes sure to align his hips just so-
“Oh God John,” Sherlock pants into the space between their mouths, “You know I love it when you do that- Oh!”
John smirks and takes Sherlock’s mouth again, this time wasting no time in breaching his mouth with his tongue and well and truly fucking him with it. His hips still rocking against Sherlock for that heat and friction that he knows his lover gets wet for.
“Show me,” Sherlock croaks against John’s neck a moment later, “Show me how much you want it.”
John leans up and kneels over Sherlock, hand on belt “You show me too.”
Admittedly John – being the rough and ready bloke that he is – soon undoes his belt and pushes both his jeans and boxers down to his ankles in one swift motion. By the time he’s kicked them off and looming over Sherlock stark naked, Sherlock’s done very little, just the head of his weeping cock peeking out from his rumpled trousers.
“Why do you have to be such a living piece of art all the bloody time?”
Sherlock beams then, blown eyes watching John as he edges closer to Sherlock and hooks his fingers into his trouser pockets before pulling them down those willowy legs and kicking them to end of the sofa where their feet wrestled and tickled.
John then grabs for Sherlock’s cock, using the pre come pooling on his stomach to pump his fist up and down the length, cradling his sac with his other and oh God did Sherlock love that.
Sherlock, wraps an arm around John neck, and uses all his power to have the man lying between his thighs again, John’s forehead resting against his – steel London Office Blocks boring into Afghanistan skies.
“Give me a child John.”
Of course he means it in an abstract concept, he’s not in heat and John has no chance of knotting inside him. But both of their eyes widen simultaneously: John from feeling a sudden spark of heat in his groin and Sherlock from feeling the distinct twitch of John’s cock against his thigh.
“Good God, i’m not even in heat yet.”
John smiles gingerly, “I know. Sorry. Bringing out the alpha in me I guess?”
Sherlock hums in response before pulling John into a deep kiss, reaching down for John’s cock and pressing the head against him, John gasping into his mouth and instantly rocks his hips forward – slowly and forcefully – as though it were instinctive.
Sherlock lets in a sharp intake of breath at the first feel of John inside him, one hand clutching John’s hip to push him forward and further into him, and another entwining with John’s free hand.
“You always...Oh God...You always do that.”
Sherlock clenches his eyes shut as John pulls out of him a little, only to push back in with more fervour, “Do what?
“Gasp, when I first – ah! - enter you.”
At the first touch of John’s hips resting against his own, Sherlock lifts his legs and wraps then around John’s waist. “Because I will never adjust to the sensation-” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear, only pausing to take breath when John slowly begins to move inside him, “-Of you being inside me.”
John moves to pin Sherlock’s hand above his head and burying his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, trying to concentrate on the smooth slide of his cock inside Sherlock’s hole.
“Oh that’s it-” Sherlock pants, “Oh God John.”
John can’t tease for long. Not when all he can think about is coming deep and hard, giving Sherlock his seed. The pace soon turns fast, hard, shallow and fucking relentless, Sherlock breathing harshly against John’s temple and digging the pads of his fingers into the back of John’s skull and John in turn biting down on Sherlock’s shoulder to hold off, focusing his attention on the filthy sound of his balls slapping against Sherlock’s skin and trying to maintain a rhythm with his hand around Sherlock’s cock.
“Yes, oh fuck, John.”
“Sherlo - I can’t-” John warns through clenched teeth, letting out a deep groan when Sherlock digs his heels into his arse to push him closer.
“Come inside me, go on, do it.”
“Sherlock....Oh fuck Sherlock.”
John lets in a shuddering breath, and comes so hard it thinks it might hurt, gripping the arm of the sofa to push himself forward so his upper body arches over Sherlock, his cock forced inside deeper still. He’s forced to look over the sofa, and not at Sherlock underneath him due to the angle straining his neck and blinding white dots dance in his eyes from the last of the sun rays filtering through the window.
Sherlock writhes underneath him, contracting around John and back arching off the sofa and comes over John’s stomach – wet and warm - with a guttering groan.
“Ooh John, all of it,” Sherlock whimpers softly, clenching his arse to hold him in for as long as possible. “Give me all of it.”
John lets go of the sofa and moves to realign himself, slowly so as not to pull out. That’s when the bone aching exhaustion hits him and causes his elbows to give out, collapsing onto Sherlock with a groan.
A muffled voice comes from Sherlock’s collarbone, “m’sorry” and feels Sherlock turn his head to kiss John on the temple, arms moving to cradle him and hold him there, giving time for sweat to dry and the heat to subside.
“Mhhm. You scared me for a moment there.”
John feels the rumble of Sherlock’s chest, rather than hears him. It takes a few seconds to analyse. “Wha?”
“Your whole body went taut,” Sherlock, moves to hitch up one of John’s legs, and rub the twitching muscles of his thigh. “Your legs were shaking and then your eyes rolled back, thought you were going to pass out.”
Sherlock ‘tuts’ under his breath affectionately and shifts to make himself more comfortable, indulging in the slightest of smiles when John hums with content and nuzzles into his chest.
For the next few days his thighs burn and his muscles ache, causing John to wonder why that particular night gave him the most intense orgasm of his entire life.
Sherlock comes off the birth control immediately. The very next morning he strides into the kitchen and dramatically drops a handful of blister packs and unopened boxes into the bin, catching John’s eye from across the table and receiving such a blissful grin in return that his insides feel all gooey.
He reaches over the table and nabs a piece of toast, pausing mid – bite when John’s eyebrows reach dizzying new heights on his forehead, “What? Got to look after myself now, haven’t I?” He uttered, rubbing his stomach fondly.
Then, as soon as Sherlock leaves to go the lab, John pulls out his cock - right at the kitchen table - and wanks himself to oblivion. He doesn’t really know why.
Unfortunately, coming off the heat suppressants isn’t quite so easy. First there is a gradually reduced dosage, then there are injections every other day, then every four days, then every week and so on...
Over breakfast one morning, Sherlock slides the bottle across the kitchen table. John takes one look, and puts down his newspaper. Just enough for one more.
Then a needle joins the bottle, procured from Sherlock’s pocket.
“You want me to do it?”
“But I’ve never done it for you before; I’ve never even seen you do it.”
Sherlock removes his hands from underneath his chin and moves to stand next to John, untucking his shirt and releasing the button on his wool trousers as he goes.
He grabs John’s hand and places the needle in his palm, “We are doing this together, are we not?”
John smiles serenely, “Yeah, course we are.”
“Do this for me, then. It holds too much significance for me to do it myself.”
The sterile packaging is ripped and the barrel in filled. As the needle breaks the skin, John pauses to take a look up at Sherlock’s face: lips thin in determination.
John’s finger lingers on the plunger. “Last time.”
“Hmm. The end of an era.” Sherlock muses with a poignant smile and a hand reaches to cup the back of John’s head. “Do it.”
Then, with the needle and empty bottle carefully disposed, Sherlock wraps his arms around John and kisses his forehead, before taking his mouth in a deep kiss.
John pulls back, “I guess it all changes from here.” He sighs, wrapping an errant curl around his fingers.
“Yes. Yes it does.”
They each smile against each other lips and proceed to snog blissfully against the fridge.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
For the first four months, there’s nothing. No heat, no knotting, no nothing.
Then, on the fifth month, Sherlock’s riding John’s cock, bouncing on it with fervour, hissing with pleasure and holding onto John’s shoulders for dear life as the bath water churns around them.
“Ohhh holy shit”
“I know, oh fuck, I-”
John grabs Sherlock’s hips and forces his body down so he’s buried up to the hilt, keeping him there, despite the whines of protest.
“It’s coming Sherlock, oh God-”
When John’s orgasm hits him, he thrusts his hips upwards and moans loudly into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. At first, Sherlock is happy to help him along, tugging his damp, sandy hair and trailing his tongue along the shell of his ear.
Then all of a sudden his body tenses, his eyes thrust open and he lets out a wail of surprise.
John lifts his head up immediately, moving his hands to hold the small of Sherlock’s back to support him.
“You’re trying to knot-” Sherlock manages to say, gasping for breath, one hand now gripping the side of the tub and the other at John’s nape, “Oh God, thicker...”
John watches Sherlock wriggle on his lap, now also noticing how much snugger he is inside him. With new found enthusiasm he dips his hands into the water and rolls Sherlock’s sac in his hand to help bring him over the edge – watching as his orgasm is almost ripped from his body.
Although removing himself from Sherlock takes a little more hesitance than usual, and some wincing on Sherlock’s part, the afterglow is much sweeter.
Sherlock moves to lie back against John’s chest, his long legs bent and feet planted on the bottom of the tub. John is able to stretch his leg, and use his toes to turn the tap to warm the water again. Perfect to soothe the aches.
“I didn’t even notice.” John mumbles against the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder, lapping a little at the beads of moisture – a mixture of soapy water with sweat.
Sherlock frowns, “Have you never-?”
“No, never. Wanted to wait.”
“I don’t quite know what to say to that.”
John huffs and places a kiss behind Sherlock’s ear, “You must be releasing the hormones then. Just at really low levels I guess.”
“It’s a step in the right direction at least.”
John lifts his arm out of the water, and turns Sherlock’s face more towards him, “Too bloody right.” He growls, before suckling at Sherlock’s bottom lip and having him again.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The ‘half-heats’ then carry on for another four months. A period of three to four days, every two months or so. At first, the pair revels in it, happy for the progression. But it’s short lived. Sherlock still can’t get pregnant after all, and eventually it simply becomes a period of slightly more painful, awkward sex.
Painful for Sherlock and awkward for John, for John’s body has started to recognise Sherlock’s scent patterns. Now during these periods, he’s rougher, more demanding, but not so completely lost to his basic instincts. This means he feels truly wretched later, when Sherlock’s covered in bruises and sulking. Rightly so.
Then, on one particular morning, John gets ready to leave for work and is actually glad for it. He stomps down the stairs, slams the cup of tea on to the table (every single time) and yells “I’m fucking going then!” before well, fucking going.
You see, two days ago, Sherlock decided to barricade himself in his room, claiming he was sick. But John’s an Alpha, and with that comes the scent of a blood hound.
Scrap that, it comes with the scent of Baskerville hound.
He could smell Sherlock through the sodding door. It’s not particularly strong mind you, but it was enough to make him agitated and fidgety. The only time John’s heard anything from Sherlock was when he demanded to take his temperature, his Doctor side getting the better of him.
Sherlock complied, but insisted that John went upstairs so as not to catch anything. Bullshit, John thought, he just doesn’t want me to touch him. But then he felt a stab of guilt, which was enough to send him away, only coming back down once he got a text saying it was safe to do so.
It was 37.25 degrees Celsius, and the thermometer itself felt clammy. A mild fever then. Or perhaps very precise timing against a light bulb, John couldn’t be sure.
Anyway, when John finally sits at his desk in his office, he has to tell himself not to be angry that Sherlock is denying him sex when he may well be sick and then he has to tell himself not to feel guilty for being angry that Sherlock is denying him sex when he may well be sick.
God, he’d never felt like such an Alpha in his life. Hope fully by the end of this nine hour shift Sherlock might actually venture out of his room (his room, honestly, the man had barely been in there since he and John had got together) so they could sort this out.
John didn’t have to wait that long.
His phone rings in a ten minute gap between patients luckily enough, and although Sherlock’s name on the screen is surprising, John knows it must be important for him to call in the first place.
At first all there is, is the sound of heavy breathing.
Then a whimper. John can’t tell if it’s pain or...something else.
“Are you ok?”
John hears Sherlock say his name – or at least try to but his voice breaks. He ignores the pop – up on his monitor that tells him his next patient is ready.
“What is it Sherlock?”
The voice one the other end of the phone is obviously trying to maintain self – control, “John, I need you to come home.”
John frowns and has to ask again, “What do you me-?”, but stops at the sound of Sherlock taking a very long, guarded breath.
“Listen.” Comes the voice again, “I need you to come home. Right. Now.”
John stands up to quickly, and his head spins “Oh God. Oh my fucking God... Is it coming now?”
“It’s not coming. It’s fucking here!” Sherlock hisses.
He’s already halfway out the door, almost bumping straight-on into Amelia, a fellow doctor and quickly explaining the situation to her in hope that it gets back to his boss. She owes him after all, “I’m on my way.”
“John. John, I’m scared.”
“It’s alright sweetheart,” John says softly, practically leaping into the back of the cab and using the time wisely to prepare Sherlock before he gets to the flat and the pheromones take over him. He can’t very well smell Sherlock’s heat through the phone now can he?
“I need to sit on something. I need to sit on something right now-”
John claps his hand over his mouth to stifle a moan, thankful that at that precise time a car honks its horn, “Just breathe, I’m nearly there.”
“So wet, it’s dripping down my thighs John...”
“I’m trying to wait, but I’m so wet. I’ll fuck myself with your Goddamn revolver if I have to-”
The cab stops, John throws money at the driver, ignores his complaints and shakily pulls his key from his pocket. He knows the scent will hit him as soon as he opens the door. He’s just thankful Mrs Hudson is away visiting family in Birmingham.
“I’m here, I’m at the door.” John looks up – none of the windows are open, oh God it’s going to send his mind reeling. “I won’t be able to hold back Sherlock, not after this.” He warns, an underlying tone of tenderness.
“I know. I love you.” Sherlock replied, desperately holding onto the remnants of his self control as they slipped through his fingers.
“Yeah, love you too.”
He drops the keys twice, but eventually John unlocks the damn thing and nearly falls into the threshold as the smell hits him. He falls back against the door to catch his breath, cock already hard and pulsing and the only remaining blood left is in his ears, pounding. His skin itches, and his co – ordination has gone to shit.
Sherlock is whimpering wantonly down the phone now, as John grabs the banister and sprints up the stairs-
“Come on John.”
-and thrusts open the front door, charging right into the front room. Sherlock is found naked and waiting for him, phone still clutched to his ear.
“I want you to give me a baby, right now”
Sherlock drops his arm, and the phone slips from his hand to the floor. He blinks slowly, and his breathing is so shallow his chest barely rises. His skin is prickled and glowing with fever all right, though the fire burning in the hearth surely isn’t helping.
“Just fucking look at you.” John croaks, his head spinning from all the hormones and sending him to his knees on the Persian rug.
Then Sherlock slithers off the chair and his cock, red and weepy, slaps against his stomach from the force of his knees hitting the floor.
They indulge in around three seconds of stillness. Three seconds of tingling static and dilation and panting. Three, two, one...
Sherlock pounces, quite literally, latching onto John’s shirt and having just enough time to tear it open – buttons scattered – before the force of his weight sends John onto his back, winding him.
But he’s having none of it; John puts his palms on Sherlock’s chest and uses his weight to roll them over, cursing as an elbow jabs him in the side as he moves to sit astride Sherlock’s thighs.
“I’m going to fuck so hard-” John growls, one hand pining Sherlock’s hands above his head and the other hastily unbuttoning his trousers. “-you’re going to be sore when i’m finished with you.”
“Oh yes, John”
Soon, John’s bare skin is flush against Sherlock, legs entwined and hips aligned.
“I’m going to fill you with cum and you’ll have to carry my babies, whether you like it or not.”
“Babies?” Sherlock cries, body convulsing as he feels two fingers breech inside him, stretching and teasing.
John laughs darkly, revelling in the wetness seeping from Sherlock’s hole, “Oh yeah. Twins at least. You poor thing...”
Sherlock can only moan, John now tossing his legs over his waist, so he can bury himself to the hilt immediately. They bowl cry simultaneously as he does so.
“You’re going to get so big aren’t you?”
“Yes John.” Sherlock pants, the sense of dread low in his belly slowly dissipating. The rational side of him was terrified at the prospect, but the Omega in him – the side that was controlling him right now - thought it was it was the most arousing idea he’d ever heard.
John instantly begins pounding at Sherlock’s arse, ignoring the sting of the carpet fibres on his knees and focusing only on the intense need to cum deep inside him.
“Oh yeah, you’ll be so big you’ll be bed ridden.” John pants, pausing only when Sherlock leans up to lick the sweat from his upper lip and take his mouth, if only so he could fuck John in some sense of the word. “Then everyone will know that I bred you, that you’re mine.”
Sherlock pulls him down for another kiss, biting down on his lip and hands slipping on the sweat off John’s back. “Haven’t I always been yours?” He whispers against John’s lips, and after that, the rhythm of their hips skews.
“Hold onto me.” John warns, a groan curling from his mouth, “S’coming – you need to hold on.”
At the first sign of something thick pressing on the inside, Sherlock digs his heels in, wraps his arms around John’s neck and clamps his eyes shut, because it feels wrong, it’s an intrusion, it’s an unbearable pressure in an already tight place and because his reptilian brain is taking over-
“Oh God, oh Sherlock, here it is-”
It feels right though, doesn’t it? It’s holding John, inside him, closer to him. This is what they were made for, wasn’t it? It’s what they’ve waited for, what Sherlock waited for since his first and only heat when he was fifteen, and what John waited for since he had to lock himself in a bathroom stall to stop him taking an Omega in the Caretaker's closet.
This moment right here, where John bares his teeth and howls and Sherlock feels his eyes sting as he feels himself being filled; crying out so loud he matches John’s volume in kind.
“Oh fuck, oh fucking fuck...”
Sherlock laughs breathlessly - intoxicated on Alpha and blissfully aware of the knot inside him - till rocking his hips to draw all from John that he can, his words barely coherent, “Little more, c’mon, so close...”
“Yeah, yeah alright.”
John might as well; his knot’s so tense he’s probably not going to able to budge for an hour at least. A few more ruts and Sherlock comes hot and hard, though it seems more from relief than pleasure.
Some time later, John and Sherlock truly learn the meaning of Sod’s Law:
“You might be able to pull out now.” Sherlock breathes, his head lolling back from exhaustion and legs slipping from John’s back to make it easier for John to remove himself, the knot finally weakened.
“Yeah I probably could but I think -”
And as John raises his head, Sherlock feels a shot straight to his cock at the glazed eyes bearing into him, and the tongue peeking out to lap at his bottom lip, like a flame licks at the air, “-I think I need to have you again now.”
Sherlock shivers and already feels his legs moving to pinch John between his thighs, reaching out to cup his face and letting out a shuddering breath at the intensity of John’s stare. It all smells too good, feels too good. “Yes, alright.”
“You feel it too?”
“Hmm.” Sherlock replies, “Want to ride you though.”
And so the slow crawling smoulder quickly returns to a blistering burn as John manages to move on to his back, Sherlock straddling his thighs and still inside him. He reaches out to grab the edge of the armchair for leverage and support when he feels a warm hand on his abdomen.
“I bet it’s already happened. I bet you’re already pregnant.”
“Perhaps.” Sherlock blurts out, showing a weak smile at John’s rare moment of clarity, of sensitivity.
But then Sherlock raises himself up, clenches himself on the head of John’s cock before slamming back down. And John is lost.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In the next three days, there are many casualties in 221 B Baker Street. For example:
1) Skulls: In a moment of utter derangement, Sherlock – whilst gripping the mantle of the fireplace to stop his head smacking the wall from the fervour of John’s thrusts – catches ‘eye contact’ with Skull and feels embarrassed at being caught in the act. He has to turn Skull in the opposite direction before continuing. Later, he hides Skull completely from sight.
Another occasion finds Sherlock kneeling in front of a kitchen cupboard, about to go rooting for crisps. Arms wrap around his waist, and John’s cock presses up against the small of his back.
“Please John; I haven’t eaten in thirty two hours-”
“Eat while I fuck you then.”
And so he does, stuffing his mouth with Quavers as John fucks him relentlessly. Which works for a while, until John’s leg slips on the floor and send Sherlock flying forward and smacking his head on the cupboard door.
There are few awkward moments of stillness, which is quite a feat in their condition.
Sherlock cradles his head, and shuffles himself back, and away from anymore kitchen – related hazards.
Not only does this push John’s cock further into him, John humming deeply at the sight, but a few stray Quavers crunch under his knees, turning them to a cheesy, yellow powder.
So that makes Sherlock angry twice over. Oh, and the headache. Sorry, three times over. They still get the job done though, because they still smell so delicious to each other.
2) Furniture: Sherlock is sore and bleeding from more than one orifice. He crawls across the floor, John hot on his heels and yelping when he feels hands on his hips, pulling him back.
Then comes the sound of a zipper (why was John even clothed? You ask, well, Mrs Hudson was forced to go and fetch them supplies and John was thankfully coherent enough to know not to answer the door with his intimidating cock hot against his belly) and Sherlock responds to the stimulus. He lunges forward and grabs onto the closest thing.
“No, John, wait!”
It happens to be the lamp. So when John pulls Sherlock’s arse towards him, the lamp comes to, crashing to the floor. But John gets to watch his come trickle a little down the back of Sherlock’s thighs so apparently it’s all good.
“Please, one more, I need it.”
“Just lie there and I’ll do it. You won’t even know-”
“Please, John. Please no.”
“But look! I’ve fallen on top of you now.”
“Fine, I’ll just have to make you want it, won’t it?”
John does an admirable job.
(There is in fact a time when Sherlock secretes a lysozyme filled liquid from his, erm...‘seeing spheres’. Yeah alright. The poor bastard is hurting all over and on one of the last instances, he ends up crying. But they both refused to ever mention it.)
Then, on the fifth day, Sherlock peels his eyes open. Right, so, he’s lying on his side, underneath the kitchen table (his poor attempt at hiding when he was at that point feeling pretty comatose with it all) and John is spooning him from behind.
He’s not inside him. Sherlock allows himself hope.
“Sherl, you awake?”
He swallows and it clicks in his throat. It must have been hours since he even drank. “Yes.” He croaks.
John forces air out his nose and shuffles closer, “Sherlock, I think I might be finished now.” He admits meekly.
“Oh thank the Heavens.”
Sherlock turns in John’s arms and nuzzles into his side.
“Hmm, that bad was it?”
“It was the single most horrifying, eye-opening, euphoric four days of my life.” Sherlock admits, kissing John softly (oh thank God that’s no longer an open invitation for sex, he thinks). “Though i’m rather glad it’s over. Never mind the Heavens, thank Anderson for all I care.”
“My Sentiments exactly.” Sherlock mumbles, fighting back a yawn.
John grabs the table cloth that’s pooled at their feet and throws it over them. Next come the jumpers and a couple of pillow cushions that he can reach (don’t even ask...oh okay, it makes it easy on the knees.)
“Here, just lift you head up...there you go.”
Sherlock moves to lie on his stomach and closes his eyes again immediately, burying his head into the pillow.
“Tired still, my sweet?” John asks softly, finger’s skimming along Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
“Very much so.”
John bites his bottom lip to hide back a grin. Even with Sherlock’s eyes closed he’d be able to tell.
“Well I mean-”
“You fancy the fatigue is due to pregnancy, which is ridiculous at the stage.”
“Alright, alright.” John sighs, admitting defeat and kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, which quirks up into a half – smile, “But still...”
The smile stays, “But still.”
They giggle softly, Eskimo kissing and then actual kissing. Then they fall back to sleep underneath the kitchen table, Sherlock losing consciousness well before John, who spends time counting freckles.
When they wake up again in the early afternoon, there’s a bag of shopping on the table. For the next few days they vehemently strive to avoid Mrs Hudson.
“Look,” Sherlock sighs with frustration, tossing his pipette onto the table in front of him, “Surprisingly enough, staring at me constantly has absolutely no effect on the implantation of a blastocyst.”
He lingers at the front door and actually manages to look physically pained, “Yeah alright. I know. Sorry, it’s just-”
“John. Just go would you?”
With the door shutting behind him comes that stabbing tingle in Sherlock’s stomach. He’s been getting that a lot lately. It may just be guilt.
Because Sherlock’s pregnant. Has known he’s pregnant for almost a week.
But because deception is part of his job, he does a damn fine job of it. It’s a miracle that the morning sickness hasn’t really kicked in yet. Every time Sherlock goes to tell him, it feels like there’s a cork bung from one of his test tubes stuck in his throat.
Let’s just say nature helps him along - gives him a shove (not a little push, a great big shove) in the right direction.
Nausea churned in his stomach all morning. He’d managed to make it to the toilet the first time as he was lucky enough to only have to leap out of the shower (which thankfully covered the sound).
But then he shuffled into the kitchen, collapsed into a chair and promptly heard the sound of the tin opener.
And oh God the smell.
“Er, tomato soup. Why? Want some?” John calls behind him.
The scent was bad enough, now the thought of the thick, curdling stuff almost has Sherlock keeling over. “Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod.”
“No, no no no...”
He thrusts himself out of his chair – it almost falling back from the force - turns around and immediately retches into the kitchen sink.
Almost instantly there’s a hand slipping under his untucked shirt to rub soothing circles on the small of his back and another pushing back the hair hanging in front of his eyes.
There’s barely time to catch his breath before he has to grip the rim of porcelain again, knuckles just as white.
“Shhh, it’s alright ‘lock.”
Sherlock didn’t even realise how loud he’d been breathing, instead just concentrating on how to breathe. His arms are shaking now and John goes to wrap an arm around him.
“Reckon that’s it?”
“Yes, think so.” Sherlock moans, spitting in the sink to get rid of the last of the bile.
John clears his throat, “So, err, how long have you know then?”
Sherlock stops shuddering and turns his head towards him. But John’s not angry. John’s smiling. A great, big, beaming smile that looks like it ought to make his face ache.
(Come on, it’s a white lie but it holds better results for both parties.)
Then there’s a wet kiss on Sherlock’s temple, his cheek, his chin, (his other chin), and the bridge of his nose. Sherlock lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“I’d very much like to have a tender moment John, but I would rather we do this in bed. I’m exhausted.”
“Sorry, what was that?” John mocks, handing Sherlock a glass of water to rinse out his mouth.
“I shan’t repeat myself,” Sherlock sighs, “You heard me the first time.”
John chuckles and heads upstairs to wait for him. He’s dozing when Sherlock eventually slips into bed beside him, long dextrous fingers curling under his t-shirt and lips pressed against his with the tang of toothpaste.
Touches are soft and teasing, with John leaning against the headboard and Sherlock next to him, dextrous fingers dancing under the hem of a thread-bare army t-shirt.
At the first touch of firm lips upon his, John opens his eyes a little, to find Sherlock looking back up at him through his lashes. He sighs, and presses a hand to the base of Sherlock’s spine, trying to convey his wants with words.
Sherlock understands, of course he does, and reaches for his shorts. He waits for John to do the same, and in the same instant ease them down their legs, both of them whimpering softly against each other’s mouth at the feel of new skin to press against.
On his side, Sherlock’s at the better angle to venture, and so his lips trail down John’s neck and across his collar bone, giving John the loveliest line of sight:
A storm of curls, pale slender neck, the ridge of his clavicle and dark, soft-
“You’re changing already.”
Sherlock lifts his head and looks at him through his fringe, youthful and innocent from this angle. Cocks his eyebrow in summoning.
So John lifts his hand, “Look,” and brushes a thumb across a nipple.
“Careful, I’ve found I’m tender there as of late.”
John apologises by kissing Sherlock again, slow and wet. His hand is guided slowly down, until Sherlock shows him the slight swell of his stomach.
Their smiles are all teeth with glassy eyes.
There’s that familiar tingle in the base of John’s spine, that ache between his legs, “Lie back, love.” He breathes.
Sherlock does so slowly, John not far behind. He catches Sherlock’s eye, who forces the sudden shyness off with the slightest of smiles as John moves to join their bodies.
Following tradition, Sherlock lets out a mewl as he does so, pressing his palms against the headboard to push back at John when he begins a slow, lazy rhythm.
Within minutes John’s back glistens with sweat from the exertion and being under the sheets, muscles shifting and tensing as lips move down Sherlock’s neck, suckling on the skin in an attempt to hold back his grunts of holding off. For some reason his thoughts seem to trickle back to the swell of Sherlock’s stomach, the skin already tight and unyielding. He gave Sherlock that-
Sherlock moves his arms back down at the first sting of cramp. A hand goes to cup the back of John’s head and Sherlock lifts his own, eyes latching onto the shifting of John’s shoulders, sweat dampening the tips of his hair, “Up here. Want you-ohhhh, up here.”
His head flops back onto the pillow and the mattress dips as John slides his arms under Sherlock’s upper back and his fingertips curl up to latch onto the curve a shoulder, holding his body closer to him.
This sudden closeness, along with occasional caress of John at the opening of his womb makes Sherlock’s thighs quiver and his fingers to clench in the sheets, which is lucky for John because-
“You’re working so, Oh God, so hard for me...”
-he’s praying to God that Sherlock will come soon, letting out a sharp breath and burying his head in pale skin. With a few more well placed thrusts and with John’s last thread of energy (and coherence) he pants Sherlock’s name and his entire body goes rigid, biting down so hard on the skin there’s sure to be a mark – a signature of their bonding.
“Sherlock, oh fuck, Sher-”
Not wanting to be left behind, Sherlock grabs John’s hand and places it on his chest, “Here, touch me here,” He begs.
Sherlock lolls his head from side to side, holding a breath when John does just that, calloused pads of his fingers just skimming over the sensitised nipple, and his head dipped to just skim over the other with his lips.
John, who’s past his rapture, can watch as Sherlock’s body stills, all the way from his toes up to fluttering eyelids. He watches as his head falls back and bares his neck, lips parted to form the pinkest heart. Then he watches as the muscles clench in his thighs, come spitting from his cock and toes curling.
Most importantly, John watches as his own breath catches in his throat, and feels his heart swell with blood and pound erratically when those almond eyes finally open, great glossy pools of black, wet curls plastered to his forehead, and face glossy and pink with the afterglow.
John beams and cups the side of Sherlock’s face.” Hello, you.”
“Hel-” The words catch in his throat and he swallows forcefully, “Hello, John.”
“We’re having a baby...”
“...We’re actually having a baby...”
John accepts Sherlock’s lack of a witty retort as a sign of perfect contentment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Early pregnancy is not kind to Sherlock.
Not only does he sleep every night without fail, but he sleeps well, nine hours at least. Of this he does not approve. Less time to think/mope, less time to act/further insult Scotland Yard. Less time to spend applying HTML colour codes to the different shades of John’s body hair. To further add to his frustrations, his body has this sudden need to sleep during the day.
He’s nodded off whilst watching crap telly (“All ‘telly’ is crap telly John”), drooling onto John’s shoulder. Then it happened again whilst attempting to read a book on Organ Theft, after having read the same page four times and after only being awake for four hours. The worst time was when he attempted the first forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and instead sent it down his shirt to pile in his lap. Except he was so lethargic he hadn’t even known he’d done it, just swayed a little in his seat.
John turned to the table with his own plate, pausing mid-step at the sight, “Oh love,” he sighed, ignoring his food and standing over Sherlock with a damp cloth, his head a heavy weight in John’s hand, “you poor thing.”
“You look like you don’t even know which day it is.”
Sherlock frowned - which looked utterly adorable to John what with his pout - and mumbled, “Do. S’Friday.”
“Alright you,” John ordered with a smile (it was Wednesday, actually) “bed. Now.”
He hauled Sherlock to his feet, and gave him a little pat on the bum in the right direction.
Then there’s the nausea. Sherlock actually spent a whole day trying to find who created the term ‘morning sickness’ just so he could sue, on the grounds that it was...well total bullshit.
Unfortunately his growing disgust for thick, red substances also turned to other...thick, red substances. Sherlock had gone to a crime scene; his scent suppressed by lying in a vat of Beta-gel (his scent changed around the fifth week, not particularly stronger, but sweeter and lighter. Practically any Alpha or even Beta could distinguish it as the scene of a pregnant Omega). Within the hour, he had to be practically dragged up the stairs to the flat by Lestrade, whereupon John had to create some food-poisoning related story, whilst pressing a cold compress to Sherlock’s fevered skin.
Let’s just say it got to the point where John went to the supermarkets, came back with a handful of buckets and just ended up putting one in every. Single. Room. Although it admittedly was a rather effective method of saving the carpet and the furniture, watching Sherlock currently snuggled up to his side, bucket clutched to stomach and hands shaking with anticipation put John’s sympathy complex into overload.
At nine weeks, he dragged Sherlock to the Doctor’s and demanded a dating scan. After a slight awkward moment where the Doctor practically purred at the scent of fertile Omega (John swore he saw her actually rub her thighs together), she saw sense, or rather, she saw a pale, lethargic creature slumped in a seat, wearing bespoke tailored trousers (top button undone) yet a rather flimsy cotton t – shirt over the top. The curve of his stomach was really rather clear to her trained eye.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When the Sonographer left to ‘talk to a colleague’ mid-scan, John acted like any other human being would in the situation. He panicked, he paced, and he tapped his finger impatiently on the mattress beside Sherlock’s head.
Then Sherlock let out a chuckle. A ‘well whaddya know, high – off – his superior – intellect’, kind of chuckle.
“What?” John sighs impatiently, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Sherlock chuckles for longer this time, eyes fixed on the Display Screen.
“I swear to God Sherlo-”
“Because I can’t reach.”
A likely tale. John moves to stand next to Sherlock and rolls his eyes, “Can’t reach what?”
Sherlock gestures to the probe and promptly gets a lecture about how only professionals can use technical equipment, blah blah blah... Sherlock blinks once throughout the entire thing, and instead heaves his body up and grabs the probe himself.
“Don’t look at me, look at the screen.” Sherlock orders, placing the probe on the under curve of his belly.
John makes a valiant attempt to continue being angry, but then there’s white on the screen, there’s a baby on the screen.
“Do you see John?”
John’s so transfixed by the image that he doesn’t hear.
Sherlock huffs out a breath, and grabs John’s wrist to pull him closer, eye’s now fixed on his, “John, remember when you said something about ‘carrying your babies, whether I liked it or not?’” He says suggestively.
John swallows and feels his face go hot, “Er, yeah...”
With the smuggest grin John has ever seen, Sherlock beams, “Well, let’s say you got what you wished for.”
“Oh God.” His voice breaks on the last word. “How bad is it?”
Sherlock throws his head back and laughs deeply, John is swaying slightly on his feet, “Not so bad,” He begins, grabbing John’s hand and pressing his finger to a white mass on the screen, “enfant numéro un”, then moved his hand to a slightly smaller white mass adjacent, “enfant numéro deux”.
After taking several very deep breaths, John turns to face Sherlock, who looks even more celestial bathed in a pool of white light from the machine, “Bloody hell. Guess that explains everything.”
Sherlock gives John’s hand a tight squeeze, “You’re in shock.”
“Course i’m in bloody shock. We’re having twins.”
The reality of the situation hits them rather hard, and they both fall into giggles, John clutching his stomach and leaning over the bed for support. With John’s lips hovering over his, Sherlock kisses him softly, smiling against each other’s mouths.
Then when they pull away, the smiles fade, and a hand clasps the back of John’s neck to bring him closer so that they are kissing again, deep and passionate that has Sherlock whimpering into John’s mouth.
“I need it, John.”
Most of his life had been spent being a pretty poor excuse for an Alpha, but oh God are his instincts controlling him now, truly considering fucking his pregnant Omega in a Hospital Bay. With unlocked doors. And not to mention the prospect of the Sonographer walking back in at any moment.
“Yeah?” John pants suggestively, nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Want me to make love to you right here?”
Sherlock plays his part of helpless Omega well and writhes a little on the bed, “Ohhhh John.”
“You want me to take you? Right here on this trolley?” John purrs into Sherlock’s ear, before tracing it with his tongue.
John’s made up his mind. He pulls himself from Sherlock’s arms and runs to the door, “What can I do? Tell me.”
“There’s no key, we can’t-”
“Well it’s this or the fucking fire alarm, so hurry up smart arse.”
The thought of John even daring to do such a thing in a hospital has Sherlock clenching the thin sheet. “I.V bags - use the cable.”
John loops said cable through the handles on the double doors, calling over his shoulder, “Get on your knees, quick.”
Sherlock wasted no time in removing himself of his clothes and moving himself onto his hands and knees, keening at John as he decided to also wedge a chair against the doors.
“John, come on.”
The desperation of his mate has John clambering onto the back of the trolley in moments – jeans and boxers barely past his thighs as he presses the head of his cock against Sherlock’s hole.
“So wet for me aren’t you?”
Sherlock feels his head flop forward, cooing as he feels firm hands on hips and John moving inside him.
They fuck so frantically they needn’t have bothered locking the doors. The trolley rattles with each of John’s thrust, and Sherlock is forced to grip the edge of the mattress to stop himself from toppling over, knuckles whiter than the sheet.
Sherlock pushes his hips back against John so strongly that he can’t move, looks over his shoulder, and snarls “Hurt me John, go on, hurt me.”
A hand comes to the back of his head to push it into the pillow, and he’s rewarded/‘punished’ with John’s teeth digging into his shoulder, pounding into him without mercy. Which suits him fine, there’s so time for sweet nothings, this is the time to feed off their hysterics.
John tests his luck, removing a hand from Sherlock’s hip to reach under him, but it’s no use, there’s that burn in his groin and his eyes are rolling into the back of his head and...
He slumps forward and Sherlock’s only able to take the weight because his body is still so tense, as taut as an elastic band pulled tight. The only obvious movement of his body is his flushed cock, swaying heavy between his thighs.
Biting down on the pillow is his only respite as John clumsily takes hold of him and cradles him, his other hand coming down to cup Sherlock’s slight swell of his stomach (Did John’s hips just stutter again?)
His jaw clenches, the cotton of the pillow cover still between his teeth and his gums ache as he releases all over John’s hand. He breathes harshly through his nose until he reaches the surface again – limbs burning with cramp and lungs burning with much needed oxygen. It’s utterly spectacular.
By the time they’ve caught their breath, re-dressed and John’s removed the frankly pitiful attempt at barricading the doors, they only have to wait another three minutes before the Sonographer casually strolls back in.
“Got to love the NHS...” John bites under his breath.
“Hmm, I do after that.” Sherlock purrs with a glint in his eye, before clearing his throat, “Twins is it? Only took fifteen...oh wait, sixteen minutes to figure that out. Give us the picture so we can be off will you?”
For once, John doesn’t want to warn Sherlock of his lack of tact, only to get out of the hospital before the scent of their rutting makes its way to the lobby and sends other potential Alpha’s into a frenzy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
John’s been banished from the flat.
He’s been, quite literally, forced down the stairs and shoved out the door. Without a key, with his wall-
Oh, the slimy bugger, John thought, reaching into his trouser pocket, of course I have my wallet. Then his other trouser pocket vibrates.
Don’t come back until you’ve got it. Or I’ll set fire to the bed. – SH
Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes had well and truly embraced the concept of ‘mood swings’ with open arms.
When John comes back from the supermarket, (and has pleaded for forgiveness) Sherlock opens the door for him. Or rather, throws the door open and immediately goes to root through the bags.
“Give us a minute Sherlock, Jesus.”
The Detective bounces on his heels impatiently like a little child, fists clamped at his sides, “Oh John, where is it?”
With his head buried in the fridge, John gestures to the bag on one of the kitchen chairs, “That one, I reckon - oi careful! I’m still pissed at you mister!”
“Hmm, yes, and I you.”
John’s warning falls on deaf ears. The tub of cream falls to the floor and begins to pool around the chair leg. John curses under his breath and kneels down to mop the mess, pausing only when Sherlock lets out a shameless groan, followed by a very...wet sound.
John lifts his head up to find Sherlock looking down at him, suckling madly at the two fingers in his mouth, “Do you even know what sound you made just then?”
Sherlock only hums removing his fingers with ‘pop’ and dipping them back into the tin container held in his other hand. He took a glance at John, just daring him to watch, before scooping the thick tar-like substance onto his fingers, lifting his head back a little, and drizzling it into his mouth.
Some of it drips down his chin, some pools at the corner of his mouth. Eventually, when only the residue was left - John could just see from his position on the floor - the lovely pink tongue reaches upwards to lap lazily at the digits.
Then Sherlock looks down at John again, smirking at how dark his eyes have gotten since the last time he saw them.
“You’re going to wreck your teeth.”
Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and carries on licking, “Not my fault,” He puts the tin of treacle on the kitchen table and moves his hand to cup his now rather obvious bump, “The babies want it.”
That, along with Sherlock’s toes purposefully tickling his thigh, has John putting his hands firmly on Sherlock’s even firmer arse, bringing his body forward so he could nuzzle the warm skin shown from his too tight sleep shirt ridding up.
He kisses and laps the skin, hands still kneading Sherlock’s arse as a hand comes to cup the back of his head, fingers feathering through his hair. It’s as good a sign as any, and John teases the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas before slipping his hand inside, fingers dancing down the cleft until –
Sherlock’s whole body jolts and he groans deeply.
In fact he groans with such want it sounds almost fake, like the sounds you hear when you watch trashy pornography.
Now John’s good in bed. He knows he is. Sherlock knows he is. Mrs Turner, sadly for her, has no choice but to know he is. Etc, etc, etc. But even John Watson knows that Sherlock isn’t making noises as though he’s coming because of one measly finger trailing around the edge of his slightly wet hole.
“Here I am planning to give you an orgasm, and all you care about is bloody treacle...”
Sherlock furrows his brow, “Why can’t I have both?” He asks casually.
There he goes again, questioning John’s previous assumptions about sex, if not his entire existence in general. “Hmm. Fair enough, I suppose.” With a final kiss to Sherlock’s belly button (oh, he actually managed to get a timid smile that time) John rises to his feet and gestures to the sofa, “Off you pop then.”
Sherlock tries to act all blasé, but John can see the pulse in his throat, the way his eyes flicker from him to crotch and back again under lowered lids as he shimmies his body down the sofa a little.
“Bring the cream too.”
“If there’s any left, bloody idiot.” John retorts with fake irritence, grabbing the tub anyway and making his way to the living room, “As long as you don’t bring Roast Chicken crisps into this...”
With sudden wide eyes and a slightly maniacal grin, Sherlock shuffles his bum, thrusts his arm under the sofa cushions and brandishes a packet of the dreaded things, waving them in front of John’s face excitedly, who’s now kneeling on the floor between Sherlock’s slightly spread thighs.
“It’s an empty packet, Sherlock, Jesus.”
Sherlock raises his finger to stop John mid-rant, ignores the roll of his eyes and unrolls the packet. “There’s a few shards at the bottom, I think I coul-”
A finger is pressed to his lips, and he attempts to look at it with irritence, though instead just goes cross-eyed.
“No bloody chance,” John warns, patting Sherlock’s thigh to get him to lift his hips and then reaching for Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms as he does so, “Sugary or indulgent foods are good with sex. Poultry flavoured things? Not so much.”
“Hmph. Can think of better things to do with this finger.” Sherlock mumbles around the intrusion, throwing the packet to the other side of the sofa. (For later).
“The sad thing is,” John begins, now using hands to caress the very top’s of Sherlock’s thighs, “Is that should be sexy to me. But I know you don’t mean a finger up your arse or-”
“So glad we’re on the same wavelength John.” Sherlock purrs, pushing the tin of treacle along the arm of the chair, so it was within John’s reach. “I promise I shall make this worth your while.”
And oh does he. First he paints his lips, barely shifting his head side to side so John’s fingers can glaze that lovely pink skin. Then, that eloquent tongue runs ever so slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other, lightly brushing against the pad of John’s finger, which twitches slightly at the touch, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the man below him.
“I believe the term is-” Sherlock pauses to clear his throat, “’Suck me beautiful’?”
“Oh fucking hell. Should be illegal for you to say things like that.”
The Detective cocks his eyebrow and indulges in a light kiss to taste the black sugar syrup.
John brushes Sherlock’s cock with his knuckles, though chooses to keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face: almond eyes staring back at him defiantly through his unruly fringe, the way his nostrils flared slightly at the first touch of his cock, and those slightly crooked teeth clamping down on his treacle – coated fingers.
“No, wait.” John warned, indulging in swipe of his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock and feeling the exhalation of hot breath on his fingers in Sherlock’s mouth, “Not yet.”
Sherlock’s frown soon dissipates and John feels the skin of Sherlock’s lips stretch into a smirk as he moves he head between those lean, pale thighs.
At the first feel of lips of the head of his cock, Sherlock adds a little suction to those fingers, and the slightest scrape of teeth that John likes to think is in response to his tongue flicking across the head.
John decides not to tease; Sherlock’s leg is bouncing impatiently and he’s not willing to test the limits of his mood again. With a hand firmly on his knee, John takes more of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. He inches down ever so slowly, humming in pleasure when he feels Sherlock bend his head down to watch intently, his fingers slipping into Sherlock’s mouth.
The sounds Sherlock makes as John happily sucks on his cock are, to be honest, rather inelegant. With his mouth stuffed, John can imagine it’s his cock causing those muffled moans, those little coos of satisfaction as John allows his tongue to trail a vein, from base to tip.
John knows Sherlock’s cock so very well. He can have his eyes closed, one hand being above him and his hand well below him and still know every single inch of it, mapping the ridge of the blood vessel with perfection, to Sherlock’s delight.
Fingers slip from Sherlock’s mouth, and fall onto his chest. John could try and be annoyed he really could, but all he gives is a little grunt of frustration, too captivated by the warmth of that tight skin.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, as though it’s a crime a speak, to break the tension.
Their eyes align, refusing to stray to John’s fingers now being dipped into the tub of cream, nor to John’s lips pursed around the head of Sherlock’s cock, paused in hesitation.
This time, Sherlock spreads each of the fingers apart slowly, giving time for the cream to seep into the webbing of skin in-between. Then, just as it begins to trail over John’s knuckles, a long, luxurious lick of the tongue comes from the v-shape of the index and middle finger.
John’s always been disgusted by such a gesture, but my God, now he knows how good Sherlock would look licking out. Hot, damp breath and long eyelashes dancing across his skin. Not to mention that tongue lapping at his digits.
Eyes try to stay fixed on that delicate mouth ‘eating out’ the ‘cream’ on his fingers, but he takes Sherlock’s down to the base, and even with an Omega’s cock, John’s eyes flutter closed in reflex as the head rubs along his tonsils.
Only seconds later, Sherlock’s thighs lift up slightly, and with a softest sigh of, “Ohhhh hell...” comes in John’s mouth, a hand buried in his nest of curls.
The arch of Sherlock’s body causes John to nuzzle the curve of Sherlock’s belly, and almost from nowhere, John comes too, with Sherlock’s softening cock still in his mouth.
John’s exhausted by the shock of it, the way one moment he was idly palming his own cock and the next moment he’s fingers are digging into Sherlock’s thigh and his pants are soaked.
When he finally has the strength to lift his head, Sherlock is flushed and panting, but his eyebrows are furrowed and his right eye is squinting just a little. Yes, only around thirty seconds after a mind blowing orgasm, Sherlock Holmes regains full cognitive ability.
“So...” Sherlock asks from the corner of his mouth, his arms folding and resting above his stomach, “When did you realise you had a pregnancy kink?”
Apologises for the wait and here is my meagre attempt at adding some plot to the porn.
Thirteen Weeks, Redux
“So...” Sherlock asks from the corner of his mouth, his arms folding and resting above his stomach, “When did you realise you had a pregnancy kink?”
John can blame it on the intensity of his orgasm. He can blame it on the fact that Sherlock’s voice is so low that it surpasses the ability of his ears to hear it. He could, if he was desperate, blame it on how he was so entranced in watching a rosy flush creep up Sherlock’s neck that he didn’t even hear the man.
But being with Sherlock means that all those factors don’t really account for anything. Because even though John’s dealt with a plague of desert Locusts in the flat, the changing of the Trivial Pursuit categories ‘Entertainment’ and ‘Sports and Leisure’ into ‘Molecular Pathology’ and ‘Post 29/01/2010 Case Files’ before the game was flung under the sofa when Sherlock los-
Sherlock takes the time to tuck himself back into his trousers before trying to get his mate’s out of his daze. “John.”
- and the bathroom sink being turned into a makeshift cooler, whereby Sherlock with his blackest of black humour thought it hilarious to arrange the two eyeballs and human tongue he had smuggled from the morgue into a cross-eyed face that stuck it’s tongue out at John whenever he went to brush his teeth or use the loo, John is quite sure he’s never really going to get used to Sherlock.
That might be rather good for his leg, but somewhat of a problem for his heart. (Adrenalin from a successful stake out is all well and good, but the stress of living with a pregnant, immature, petulant, absolute genius of a Consulting Detective who also just happens to be an Omega is not quite so beneficial...)
The shock from Sherlock’s most recent deduction makes John’s stomach gurgle a little.
A few seconds of silence follow.
“Do you need a blanket?”
John doesn’t reply for a moment. But he does blink three times, so Sherlock is 98% sure he isn’t catatonic.
“What about him?”
Sherlock smirks when John drops his head onto the sofa cushion between his thighs and mumbles “ahmadiguztinhmnben...”
“John, we can’t deal with your sexual, epiphany – related, self loathing if your'e developing Pica.”
Banging his head once more onto the cushion for good measure to try and show Sherlock I’m currently facing a major dilemma and a need you to notice my behaviour and be...sensitive, John raises himself up and repeats himself, “I’m a disgusting human being.”
“On the contrary John, I consider you a very hygienic man...”
A tongue runs along John’s bottom lip, his fist clenches just next to Sherlock’s knee. John tells himself to bite his tongue.
“I would rather you bit mine.”
Thankfully, Sherlock’s ability to read body language isn’t just a tool for manipulation and a means to help solve his cases. At the sound of a sob bursting from his Alpha’s throat, he leans forward, one hand clutching his stomach protectively and the other hand cupping John’s jaw.
"It's immoral, unethical, I feel as though I'm taking advantage-" John blurts, his eyes darting from Sherlock’s face to the window uncomfortably.
"John.” Sherlock breathes softly, “Welcome to my World."
"Being a social deviant and a 'high-functioning sociopath' isn't quite the same as...as this."
Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s forehead, “I need you to be aware that this social deviance of mine is what allows me to be so unaffected by this.”
With a grumble of something incoherent, John buries his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“You accept my lack of social etiquette, my absence of empathy-” Sherlock pauses to chuckle to himself, “And now, I accept this of you. It’s about time this became a more reciprocal part of our bonding, don’t you agree?”
John pulls away gingerly, eyes scanning across Sherlock’s face for any sign of sarcasm, where’s there’s none to be found. “You’re bloody golden, do y’know that?”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“I quite fancy talking about your fetish John.”
John proceeds to spit tea all over his breakfast.
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slumps into the seat across the kitchen table and salvages a bacon rasher from John’s plate. “Honestly, I would have thought that spending...49, 381 hours in my presence would have habituated you to my bluntness by now.”
“That’d suggest that I don’t stress any more over that unruly mouth of yours. I do!” John exclaims, attempting (very poorly) to look engrossed in that day’s copy of The Guardian. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock, grimaces. “Please don’t.”
Sherlock flutters his eyelashes challengingly, “Please don’t what? Please don’t ask about your fetish or-?”
“Yeah, that and all.” John growls in that tone that means shut your bleeding trap. One that Sherlock is just about docile enough to comply with.
For about thirty seconds.
John manages to finish the article on ‘Selfishness, Sociopathy and the effect of disobedient children’. Too bloody well-timed for his liking.
“An average of three orgasms a day-”
“Oh for God’s sake...” John mumbles under his breath, folding his arms on the table and burying his head into the crook of his elbow.
With palms flat on the table – his fingertips purposefully tickling John’s arms - Sherlock pushes onward once more, quite frenzied to tame his brain by wringing out every possible morsel of knowledge from this new development.
“John, surely you must grasp by now my longing for the unknown. I simply wish to know why. You won’t hear me say this very often, but I am...fascinated.
Trust John to be perhaps the most ordinary looking human being Sherlock had ever come across, yet the only one capable of enduring him, changing him. He has in fact become so important in Sherlock’s life that he barely even thinks of the knowledge he has gained from their relationship. Be it medical, psychological or social.
“Why what?” John grumbles against his arm. Ignores the excitable fidgeting of Sherlock’s legs under the table.
Sherlock bites his bottom lip before saying: “Let me first say John, that I have thoroughly enjoyed the changing dynamic of our sex life.”
“Don’t be nice,” John begins, raising his head and propping his chin his arm. “Nice doesn’t suit you.”
No longer having to continue with the act, Sherlock’s entire posture and behaviour alters to something much more him. You could say he looked more relaxed, but Sherlock by nature (when researching at least) is rigid as a cadaver suffering from rigor mortis.
“Fine. What is it exactly about my...” Sherlock clears his throat, thinks about the correct word, or at least the word least likely to make John uncomfortable, “condition, that makes you so...”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Libidinous.”
“I’ve tried to think about it... I reckon it’s because it’s taboo, it’s just wrong isn’t it? Socially at least. I feel very possessive of you all of a sudden – much more than we were newly bonded even- because you’re carrying my children.”
“That would explain why you’ve never felt this way about another pregnant Omega...” Sherlock ponders, a finger trailing his bottom lip.
John hums in agreement and takes another sip of tea. “Plus, you can’t deny that your libido has increased since you became pregnant.”
“True. But mine is biological. Yours is psychological, at least in some part.”
“Well, don’t go all Freudian on me.”
“I don’t really wish to analyze your dreams...do you?”
With a small smile, John gets up from chair and begins to fill the sink. “Plus you know, your body’s changing all the time, it’s almost like a whole new body to worship every time we go to bed, I suppose.” He calls over his shoulder with a shrug, before doubling back and giving Sherlock a deathly glare. “I already said not to do that.”
“Actually, you didn’t specify for me to abstain from this in particular.”
“I mean it Sherlock. It’s gross. Don’t do it. It’s not good for you.”
Sherlock pouts. “But John! I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s driving me up the metaphorical wall!”
“Fine, do it while I can’t look then.”
At the first instance of John turning back to the washing, Sherlock picks up the bacon fat and shovels it into his mouth with a sigh of bliss.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sixteenth week is rather monumental.
First of all, Sherlock’s mood swings managed to be diminished somewhat thanks to a stack of musty, dust filled cold cases that Lestrade just ‘happened’ to drop by to keep Sherlock from losing his remaining sanity to boredom. (He had become even more frustrated by the fact that he could no longer throw his body onto the sofa in a fit of pique, making it very difficult to sulk and therefore get attention from John.)
Of course, Sherlock knew who to really thank for something to occupy his mind. And he showed his thanks by waking him up with the most glorious of blow-jobs.
It was whilst Sherlock was looking through a particular cold case that he made a particular sound that John hadn’t heard in long time. It was a somewhat like a gasp, somewhat like a groan.
“So, you finally solved it then?” John says, absently typing away on his laptop, expecting Sherlock to divulge his epiphany.
“No.” Or rather ‘nooooooooo’
John looks over the lid of his laptop. Sherlock’s enthralled gaze is not on the file spread out on the coffee table, but down onto his belly.
A shy smile graces his lips, and his eyes flick up to look at John’s face, before looking down again. “John I think-”
John goes into doctor mode, slamming down the laptop lid and moving to sit on the edge of his seat, “Oh God what-”
“They’re moving John,” He gasps, hand cupping his stomach, “I think they’re moving.”
John knows he won’t feel it for himself for a few weeks yet, but that doesn’t stop him from falling to his knees in front of Sherlock, pushing up his shirt and kissing every inch of skin that he can.
And then, by the end of the week, ‘they’ becomes ‘she’s’.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Why’s that sweetheart?”
Sherlock grumbles incoherently into the pillow and attempts to pull his t-shirt (John’s t-shirt actually, Sherlock’s wardrobe was off limits some time ago, and he’s not yet stopped sulking to actually go out and buy new clothes) over his belly. “Don’t be so obtuse John, you know full well why.”
In response to this, a warm hand reaches over Sherlock’s body and unashamedly cups his cock through his boxers, firm and insistent, causing Sherlock to squirm a little and whimper.
“You poor thing,” John breathes into Sherlock’s ear, his index finger now teasing up and down the length of his cock, “All those hormones...”
Grey eyes thrust open – and even pressed against Sherlock’s back – John can see the upturn of his mouth into a one sided smirk.
Sherlock turns his head and John leans closer to him so their foreheads are touching, being pulled in by the rapid alteration of Sherlock’s body language.
His body once curled up and hidden now pressed against the entire length of John’s, from the back of his head resting against John’s shoulder to their entwined legs. Within the blink of an eye (quite literally), his eyes – no matter how watery and diluted in colour – now posses a heat in the coal of his pupils, even if John can barely see them through Sherlock’s lowered lids.
“But you made me like this, didn’t you?” Sherlock murmurs, breathing hotly against John’s lips and moving the hand on his cock to the now obvious swell of his belly.
John turns his head to the side in slight embarrassment as he bit his lip to hold back a moan, still getting used this alteration in their sex life. But more on that later.
After several deep breaths, John allows himself to look at Sherlock once again, pressing his lips against his with insistence.
“I suppose there’s nothing for it...” John breathes, lips now skimming along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, “I’ll just have to fuck you, won’t I?”
Sherlock whimpers helplessly as he feels John’s cock against him, “Kiss me, pl-”
Even with a hand reaching up around John’s neck to pull his lips closer, the angle is rather awkward, the kiss somewhat forced and hardly a leap into passion due to their strained necks. Sherlock moves onto his back to rectify this, which also makes it easier for John to curl his hand around Sherlock thigh possessively, pulling his body closer to him.
The kiss itself is slow, hot and lingering, with John pulling back every so often just so he can hear and see Sherlock panting, his eyes squint in pleading.
At the first breech of John’s tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, he lets out a little moan of what John thinks is surprise, until he feels Sherlock’s hands flat against his chest, pushing him away.
Sherlock presses a finger against his lips to quiet him, watching John’s frown turn into an intense fascination and he takes the hand from his thigh and once again presses it firm to the right side of his belly.
After a matter of seconds, John’s frown returns with a vengeance, “Sherlock, I just can’t feel them alright?” He sighs, attempting to pull his hand away.
“Trust me,” Sherlock insists, pressing John’s fingers more firmly into his side, “Just wait.”
John’s mouth bunches in frustration, and then, there it was. “W-was that-” He starts, blinking his eyes rapidly in disbelief. He is answered with a small, blissful smile of cupid lips and slightly crooked teeth and another tremble under his fingertips.
“When you look at me like that,” Sherlock begins heatedly, eyes fluttering and lifting the hem of his t-shirt up so John can gaze lazily across the entire expanse of his abdomen, “The girls always kick. They must respond to my heart rate-”
His eyes settle on Sherlock again, “Tell me what it feels like.”
“I suppose I would use the expression ‘butterflies in my stomach’ although how anyone is to know how that actually feels I’ve no idea...”
“Oh shut up you,” John warns warmly, his little retort fixing Sherlock’s eyes on him as John cups his womb with both hands. “Don’t ruin the moment now...”
The Omega clicks his tongue and allows John a few minutes of venturing across his skin before he starts squiring impatiently.
“Well,” John begins with a sigh, “We’ve reached eighteen weeks, and you’re jealous of our children. I was wondering when this was going to happen.”
Sherlock bunches up his mouth petulantly, pushing John’s hands away and pulling down his t shirt with a that’ll teach you glare of his eyes. “That would suggest resentment – that I wish to be in their position-”
“Oh come off it Sherl-”
“Do you think I would rather have an underdeveloped brain and lay in a sac of amniotic...fluid...?” He retorts with a shudder.
John smirks a little to himself, thankful for his medical training to allow him a retort, “You wouldn’t have to eat, or drink, or go to the loo...” And then his eyes widen with glee, because he’s got the clincher, “You wouldn’t even have to breathe Sherlock.”
“Is that a fact?”
There are fingertips on John’s jaw and breath hot against his lips, “Hmm. Touché.” Sherlock exhales, before taking John’s mouth, consuming him.
With his hands tantalizingly dancing across the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt – and his lips pursed on the corner on Sherlock’s mouth- John kicks off his pyjama bottoms. His cock rises defiantly. “Now,” John sighs, nipping the bow of Sherlock’s lip, “Sit on it.”
“Excuseme? What did you just say to me about ruining the moment?”
John licks his bottom lip and Sherlock can’t decide whether to fix his gaze upon that, or the frankly huge cock that he’s just begging to impale himself on.
“Sit. On. My. Cock. Sherlock.”
Now whilst Sherlock tries to haul himself up (John’s already made the grand mistake of asking if Sherlock wants help in the past, and there’s still a sore spot on the back of his head to remind to never do it again), John lies back, and waits for Sherlock to shimmy his pants down his legs.
“No,” John blurts out as Sherlock reaches for the hem of his shirt, “keep it on.”
Sherlock looks heatedly at him through his fringe and smirks as he grabs hold of the headboard.
“I know what’ll wipe that bloody smile of your face.”
Sherlock slowly trails his top lip with his tongue and rocks his hips a little, “Oh yes?”
With John’s hands on his hips, he slowly inches himself down, instantly throwing his head back and sighing with satisfaction.
“That feel good sweetheart?” John pants, his hands running over Sherlock’s thighs.
“You have, ohhh, no idea.”
Sherlock is able lift himself up slightly, and then lower himself back down, a hand coming down from the headboard and fisting in John’s t-shirt as he hisses in pleasure.
As Sherlock slowly begins to rock his hips and find a rhythm, he takes John’s hand yet again and slips it under his too – tight t shirt, which, inch by inch is lowly ridding up and revealing his swollen belly.
Since that conversation five weeks ago, John’s barely been able to keep his eyes away from Sherlock’s growing girth, the glow of his skin and the ribbons of pink lines weaving across the underside. Sometimes he thinks he catches Sherlock rubbing his stomach tenderly just so John can watch him, though he’s been trying to stop doing it subconsciously – as many pregnant Omegas are wont to do.
It wouldn’t be good for John to ‘embrace his Alpha’ when there are visitors around after all.
“You’re getting so big...”
Sherlock lets his head fall forward, letting go of the headboard and reaching for John’s outstretched hand and linking their fingers together for moral (and back, though he’ll never admit to it) support.
His other hand trails down his chest and joins John’s other hand on his stomach, “Only...Uhhh...” He pants, slowing down in order to catch his breath – carrying twins now truly having an effect on his body – “Halfway...there...”
The thought of another possible four months of pregnancy ahead of them, when Sherlock already seemed so...so gravid makes John’s leg tremble so badly he has to bend his legs at the knees and plant his feet firmly on the mattress just to get them to stop. Sherlock hums in approval and begins to move himself in response.
“Lean back, come on...fuck that’s it...” John pants, pinning Sherlock’s feet to the bed to reduce his movement as he begins to slowly rock his hips and allow Sherlock to give in.
His lover had tried so hard. His curls are now streams of ink matted to his temple, his entire body glowing with hormones and sweat. His eyes, now fluttered closed and his breathe hoarse in his throat.
“Come on Sherlock...come on.” John beckons, trying a different approach and suddenly turning to shallow, jabbing thrusts that have Sherlock groaning deeply in surprise, his hand clasping around his cock.
“John, I’m – Oh God John!”
His nails dig into John’s knee as he comes with a relieved shudder, his come spurting onto his heaving stomach and John groaning uncontrollably at the sight.
Sherlock lazily looks downwards, his fingers dancing across the taut skin of his stomach that’s peeking beneath his shirt,” You like that John?” He breathes.
John throws his head back and curses something awful.
“You like how big I’m getting?” Sherlock purrs, playing with the come on his belly and smiling lazily as John’s body goes taut and comes inside him.
“Fucking hell Sherlock...”
There’s a few moments where the pair of them lay entwined and catch their breath. And then:
“Little help, John, if you please.”
John slowly lifts his head, trying to hold back a smirk as he helps Sherlock clamber off of his lap. It’s not the most dignified, and it’s not just John who seems to think so.
Sherlock finally manages to throw his leg over John and stand up at the foot of the bed, one hand rubbing the small of his back and grumbling under his breath.
The sudden head rush along with Sherlock shuffling (not quite waddling, he isn’t that incapacitated yet, but give him time) to the bathroom has John beaming a little to himself, burying himself further into the covers to bask in their wonderful scent.
Of course, this doesn’t last. With the slamming of the bathroom and the sound of his Omega grumbling under his breath soon comes with the sight of a rather displeased Sherlock, now dressed as though to remove all remnants of their recent lovemaking.
“Lot of good that did...” Sherlock curses under his breath, looking down at the belt round his waist – the one that was no longer able to keep his Sapphire robe together – with perhaps just a little more hatred than it was worth.
He begins to pace impatiently (or as much as he can do in his condition), head tilted back in frustration as his hand rubs small circles on the side of his belly. “I’m getting pains-”, he winces as he feels a particularly sharp spasm and waves his hand away to banish John who’s already kneeling on the bed with wide eyes.
John clears his head and moves to reach out towards him, “Come on Sherlock, lie down,” He says softly, fluffing up the pillow next to him as Sherlock lowers himself back on to the mattress, “Stop pacing and just try and relax.”
Sherlock harrumphs, dropping his head onto John’s shoulder and letting him roam his hands over his belly, “Is it the pains the midwife was telling you about?”
“The ‘round ligament pain’, yes.”
“I thought you were told it wouldn’t start for another few weeks yet?”
Another jab of pain - caused by ligaments around the pelvis stretching to accommodate his growing uterus - had Sherlock curse under his breath. The pain was suspected to be worse for male Omega’s, as their uteri were less developed than female Omega’s – the Midwife has told them as much - but as for precautions and methods of pain relief her ‘expertise’ were practically non existent.
They had been told the pain would only worsen for the next few weeks. Sherlock buries his head into the crook of John’s neck. “One can only assume they are growing at a faster rate than expected.”
John kisses his forehead, “Well they would do being yours wouldn’t they?”
A friend told me of Berlynn Wohl's recommendation, so this chapter is for you sweetness.
I did a bad thing.
Of course, when I say bad, I mean wickedly delightful. Eheheh.
See you all in Hell.
It’s the middle of the night. Neither of them is asleep. John’s too bloody hot and Sherlock’s sure his heart is currently lying in a vat of hydrochloric acid.
Sherlock breathes harshly out of his nose, kicks his legs a bit. That’s his way of telling John that he isn’t going to be allowed to enjoy the peace.
Sherlock’s bed mate mumbles something incoherent, that most likely involves a curse word, Sherlock’s name and finally a little purr of contentment as he flips his pillow over and buries his head into the only part of the entire room that’s below 24 degrees.
“John.” Sherlock repeats, pressing one ridiculously long middle finger (John’s sure Sherlock is in fact more closely related to aye-aye’s as opposed to other primates) into John’s arm. “I feel now is an important time to make you aware of something.”
Tutting under his breath, Sherlock heaves himself onto his side to face John’s back and says “Let’s hope I don’t go into labour in the night, your level of SWS suggests you’ll be absolutely useless.”
Sherlock shuffles a little more, puffs air out of his mouth impatiently. “Do you not think it’s bizarre-”
“With you?” John mumbles to the pillow, making a rather over – the – top groan of contentment as he’s still half asleep, “Fuckin’ course I do.”
A growl of irritence and Sherlock flops his head onto the pillow with a pout.
“Whassamatter now?” John grumbles, sorts out his twisted pants a bit.
“John, we-” Sherlock swallows loudly as if it were a cliché horror film, “We haven’t heard from Mycroft.”
His words have the same effect as being doused in cold water. John should know, seeing as Sherlock once did it post domestic and didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend it was experiment. And that was before he was pregnant and hormonal.
John shudders at the thought and slowly turns on his side to face Sherlock. “You’ve gone and bloody jinxed it now!” He exclaims, his voice turning to a whisper after Sherlock warns him to shush. “That’s not fair. How can that possibly be bad news?”
“It practically defies logic, I know. He must be biding his time.”
“Waiting till your mood swings phase passes if he has an ounce of brains.”
Sherlock can’t decide whether to make a quip about Mycroft’s definite lack of grey matter or be angry about John’s sly little remark. He’s siding on being horrible to John but realises it’ll only support his pre-school - quality hypothesis.
“Oh and why are we whispering by the way?”
“I believe the girls are asleep. I’m uncomfortable enough as it is, I don’t need-”
Sherlock knocks his head against the headboard in frustration at the stirring he feels in his belly.
“Oh sweet. I’m sorry.” John uses the opportunity to scoot closer to his mate and run his hand appreciatively over that ever growing belly. “What else is up?”
Sherlock no longer has the capability to turn on his side in a huff and so has to make do with just showing his irritence audibly. “Well, it is actually.”
“No.” John sighs, rolling onto his back, “S’not what I’m saying. You may well have heartburn, but that’s not all.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Sherlock says as he hauls himself up and sits up against the headboard with a wince.
John flutters his eyes open and poorly attempts to pick sleep out of his eyelashes to try and hide what he’s sure are some pretty dilated pupils, which have nothing to do with the lack of light in the room.
And has everything to do with the fact that Sherlock looks damn criminal with that threadbare t-shirt straining across his stomach and -
“Because baby daddy-”
“No” Sherlock interrupts sternly, even if John has crawled his way towards him and is now nuzzling at the column of his neck, “Lets not start that again.”
John just carries on regardless. He is starting it again, because it either makes Sherlock pout or makes him angry. Either of which can lead John to getting ridiculously aroused, which in turn makes Sherlock aroused. It makes everyone happy, even though nobody wishes to admit it.
“Because” John repeats, “You’ve had heartburn on and off for weeks. So it must be something else, am I right?”
“Hmm. I’ve taught you well. Too well. Sod’s law I suppose.” Sherlock replies, tutting under his breath and swatting John’s hand away from the elasticised waistband of his pyjama trousers.
“So, you gonna tell me what else is keeping you up or what?”
Something in the way John’s eyes burn has Sherlock thinking that perhaps John knows exactly what’s wrong.
“All these hormones have made you go soft John.”
John chuckles darkly, and purrs into Sherlock’s ear “Soft? I’ve never been less soft in all my bloody years.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his head to the window to hide his smirk as he feels John’s cock pressed against his hip. “Look at what my life has become. Amused at innuendo. Just look at me.”
“Oh don’t worry.” John says cheerfully, licks his bottom lip. “I am.” He snuggles closer to Sherlock, completely inconsiderate of one of his hot flushes coming on and making his top a little damp around the collar.
“You’re making me hot.” Sherlock grumbles, trying to sound like a petulant child with such a deep voice.
“That’s generally the idea.”
There’s a hand trailing over his navel, which Sherlock does not appreciate. The shape of his belly button is not being consistent and Sherlock finds it less fascinating than he expected. It makes him rather disturbed. “No I mean hot .”
John moves to lean over Sherlock’s belly, fingertips teasing under the shirt. “We had this same type of conversation not five minutes ago.” John warns, one hand rubbing back and forth across Sherlock’s girth. “Stop milking it for all it’s worth.” John takes a glance at Sherlock’s chest and his eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise. “Well. Metaphorically at least.” He adds with a smirk and a wicked little growl that crawls from his throat.
“That is absolutely, 100%, not fair.” Sherlock whimpers with a pout, his arms crossed over his chest protectively, “I can’t help it and-” He begins to add, attempting to shuffle himself away from John’s prying hands, “It’s not for you!”
“Well the girls aren’t here yet are they? And I know it must be aching a bit, come on, let John play.”
Sherlock lets out a long breath and then reaches behind him to haul off his t-shirt, trying to ignore the sinful gleam in John’s eyes. “You are positively scandalous John Hamish Watson.”
“And you,” John begins, pausing only to place a few smacking kisses along Sherlock’s sternum, “Are utterly shag-worthy, Sherlock Babydaddy Holmes, now shut your blood cake hole.”
Although John attempts to kiss Sherlock in an effort to shut him up, he’s well aware that Sherlock absolutely has to have the last word. So, when John’s finished trying to force Sherlock’s attention to the tongue invading his mouth, and John’s teeth nibbling at that plush bottom lip, John pulls away and waits.
There’s a little mumble under Sherlock’s breath, “If anyone has a cake hole, it’s Mycroft. ”
John lets him have that one, besides, he’s more focused on the fact that Sherlock has put his arms at his sides and is even sticking out his chest a little, beckoning John forward, rather like a rabbit to a snare.
He doesn’t jump straight in because that would give Sherlock something to winge about. John kisses his neck and collarbone a bit until Sherlock’s little grumbles turn from bad frustration to a kind of good frustration.
After a few minutes of that, John dares to blow air lightly over one of Sherlock’s nipples.
Sherlock places a hand on the back of John’s neck and pulls him closer, sighing in absolute contentment. Knowing how tender Sherlock’s skin must be, John barely has to touch him at all to turn him into a writhing mess.
Pulling lips away from Sherlock’s clavicle, John rests his chin on his mate’s chest.
“You can stop fluttering those eyelashes at me.” Sherlock warns.
Even if they do look like wisps of gold leaf in the lamp light, and Sherlock does find it rather endearing, he doesn’t much like the predatory glare that he can see behind them.
John takes a very slow breath, making Sherlock’s skin quiver a little. “Let me taste it.”
A few seconds pass. Then:
“You can’t be serious.”
John’s face bunches up rather unpleasantly.
“Oh God you are aren’t you?”
“You promised me you wouldn’t judge me for this” John whispered softly.
“I don’t John. You promised me you’d try to understand if I were uncomfortable.”
“You promised you’d stop rubbing your belly constantly when people are around but you bloody haven’t. Making me look like a rightfool...” John turns his head slightly and nuzzles into the hand cupping his jaw. “Do you have any fucking idea how much I want you?”
Sherlock hums in amusement at John’s sharp intake of breath when he removed his hand and instead dips it into John’s boxers. “Hmm, yes I believe I might.”
“Well, there’s no bloody going back now is there?”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows, beckoning John closer. John flicks his tongue.
The bead of pearly white disappears momentarily, and then reappears as John paints his lips.
“That’s a sight.” Sherlock sighs with a fascination that gives John the confidence to latch onto Sherlock’s nipple and suckle.
Sherlock gets a sort of power from watching his mate nuzzling his chest, mewling like a babe. Even as open minded as John is, this is the first time he’s been submissive, the first time it’s felt as if their roles were reversed.
“My alpha’s a hungry boy, hmm?” Sherlock tightens his fist around John’s cock to get his attention.
John pulls away and gulps, before leaning forward and kissing the hell of Sherlock’s mouth so he can taste.
Then John’s babbling away, his chin still wet. “Okay, I don’t really know how to say this without sounding like a vulgar Alpha stereotype, so I suppose I’ll just spit it out yeah?”
There’s a lovely little wet patch forming on John’s pants that Sherlock seems much more interested in.
Sherlock raises his head and manages to look attractively bewildered, mouth agape.
“What did you just say?”
“Erm.” John fiddles with a non existent thread on the duvet. “Can I ... cum on your...” the last word comes out in a bit of a squeak, “tits?”
In response, Sherlock presses his arms tightly to sides and arches his back just a little, giving him the impression of mounds on his chest, along with his dusky nipples and the rather bizarre luminosity of the veins against the paleness of his chest.
To be honest, as long as it doesn’t become so bad that he has to add those horrific looking nursing pads to his shirts or even those contraptions that aren’t unlike what early pubescent females have to wear, Sherlock is willing to indulge in his Alpha’s wishes.
When he feels a prodding on the side of his belly, Sherlock reaches an arm over to soothe the stirring infant within. John’s too past it to notice Sherlock’s sly little ways.
The action practically creates a little cleavage for John to slide his cock into. It seems John is able to catch on, as he presses the heel of his hand against the base of his cock and reaches over for the bottle of lotion conveniently on the beside table.
As John revels in making Sherlock’s tits nice and glossy, Sherlock contemplates the mechanics of such an...endeavour.
“Please don’t expect me to move.” Sherlock whimpers, partly in begging and partly due to John’s well timed thumbnail catching on his nipple. “I can barely move at all, I’m so big.”
“It’s alright love,” John soothes, pecking Sherlock on the lips. “Let me do all the work.
And with that, John stands up, puts a leg on either side of his mate and grips the headboard with one hand.
The pair of them look down in rapt fascination as John’s cock slowly slides up Sherlock’s chest, until the fat cockhead rests against Sherlock’s lips.
Desperate to please his practically whining Alpha, Sherlock nuzzles the head until it’s kissing his lips, and laps at the pre come that’s already oozing copiously down the shaft.
Some of it drips onto Sherlock’s chest, which is enough to drive John into a frenzy. Sherlock grips onto John’s thigh, feeling the muscles shift as he pulls back and thrusts between the valley of Sherlock’s pert little breasts, his sac slapping against Sherlock’s fingertips with the force of his movement.
“Oh my, fuck Sherlock, baby-”
“Come on me John, come on me you dirty, dirty Alpha.”
“Can’t stop, fuck!”
John buries his hand into Sherlock’s hair and tilts his head down a little, just in time for the first spurt of come to hit Sherlock’s chin. Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to taste something of his mate.
By the end of it, wisps of Sherlock’s curls are stuck to his cheek. He’s an absolute mess.
John collapses between Sherlock’s already spread legs, orders him to lie on his back, and proceeds to eat him out. He tastes so ripe, and when John looks up, all he can see is Sherlock’s flushed cock leant against his heaving belly.
Sherlock holds the back of his thighs to open himself as much as possible.
“Such a little whore. John mutters darkly, “So desperate for me to eat you up aren’t you?”
A glistening hand reaches between Sherlock’s legs. “Are you putting my come inside you?”
With the tips of two fingers inside himself, Sherlock’s hand stills. “Have to. Need. Something” He pants desperately, daring himself to rock back a little on himself.
“I can’t get you any more pregnant, love.” John leans forward to lap at the come around Sherlock’s fingers. “God I can taste us both.”
“John, oh God John...”
John slips a finger in with the two that Sherlock already has inside himself and sighs in wonder at the sight.
“Fuck that looks good Sherlock, what me to find that sweet spot?”
Sherlock coos with every breath he takes, which is a good enough answer for John.
There’s the tell tale clench around his finger, and seconds after, Sherlock pants John’s name into the pillow, his cock pulsing onto his belly.
Minutes later, Sherlock is drifting off, the duvet tangled between his legs. John would believe he was sleeping peacefully, if it weren’t for the flinch or scowl on his face every few seconds. He knows exactly who’s responsible for that.
John scoots down the bed, slowly so at not to disturb his mate. He presses his lips softly to tight skin of Sherlock’s stomach and whispers, “Shhh now...”
What am I doing.
Twenty Two Weeks
John, as per usual, barely makes it through the door before Sherlock’s up in his face. Of course, due to Sherlock’s rapidly progressing state it’s less up in his face and more from across the living room.
It’s a rather endearing trait of Sherlock’s, John thinks. The immediate demand of attention the Omega has the moment John walks into the flat is incessant, no matter his mood, “It’s official! I now walk up the stairs at a slower pace than Mrs. Hudson. I lack the capacity to carry on!”, his quality of conversation, “I’m starting a new project on Turbellaria to see if I can use cross species genetics to grow myself another anus. I could really do with it in a few months, don’t you think?” or the mischief he gets himself into, “I’ve currently two bodily fluids escaping from me. Put the shopping down and let’s make it three!”
It’s been a bog standard day at the surgery, but Sherlock keeps up his standards. John stands in the doorway and smiles to himself, despite the extra pheromones in the air.
Sherlock’s lounging on the sofa, back to his brother and both hands cradling the underside of his belly.
“Mycroft being Mycroft has deemed it his responsibility to provide us with sustenance. And by us, I mean me. And by sustenance, I mean foods that will make me impossibly larger than I already am and crush my self esteem.”
John adds his own purchases to the fridge, which do seem to be of a slightly higher nutritional value than the stack of chocolate and puddings that he can see looming on one of the shelves. He dreads to look in the freezer.
“I don’t think a nuclear weapon could damage your self esteem Sherlock, never mind a bit of chocolate. Isn’t that right Mycroft?” John asks, his concentration fixed on putting on the kettle as opposed to giving any actual eye contact.
John will be respectful to Mycroft when the damn Alpha learns to smile without flaring his nostrils as if there’s a bad smell in the room, which there isn’t. Well, there is, but people aren’t usually able to detect their own scent.
Pretty much all John can smell is Sherlock. Warm, ripe, milky, protect me, protect me! Sherlock that John wants to bury himself in.
His thoughts are stopped when Mycroft appears next to him and helps himself in a not so helpful way to one of the cups on the kitchen counter, before folding himself awkwardly into Sherlock’s armchair. He’d already tried John’s chair on his last visit a couple of days ago and Sherlock had shown his distaste more menacingly than his gravid form ought to allow.
Mycroft decides to ignore the quip about nuclear weapons, which is exactly why he hasn’t been in contact for the last few months. It seems that protecting the world from North Korea is more important than his brother’s pregnancy. Ridiculous.
“Logic aside, John’s right. You Doctor says you ought to put on a little more weight Sherlock.”
Both John and Mycroft have to awkwardly wait for Sherlock to get himself sat upright, which certainly takes a lot longer than it used to, whilst John bites his tongue. On Mycroft’s last visit it all blew up because he – with his twisted God complex – thought he was being helpful by having a good look at Sherlock’s medical records. There’s no denying that there will be another fight today, but when it comes to the topic, its nice to add a little variety.
“Is this,” Sherlock begins, his hand gesturing to belly, which is visible between the buttons of his straining maternity shirt. “Not weight? Tell us Mycroft, you seem to be a scholar of such things.”
Mycroft clicks his tongue and rests his teacup on the armrest. “Honestly Sherlock. It’s weight but it’s not fat. Have you not done any research at all? I’m terribly disappointed.”
Barely a grunt of annoyance is heard as Sherlock digs his fingers into the skin of his palm, but John joins him on the sofa and wraps an arm around his shoulder.
“Mycroft, I’d rather you didn’t wind Sherlock up. I think offering to help him gain a little weight but making him stressed is rather counter productive, don’t you think?”
Sherlock nuzzles into his Alpha’s side, humming in agreement. “Well of course Mycroft would help with my weight, of all things.” Sherlock shoots Mycroft a look from over John’s arm.
John chuckles and presses a kiss atop Sherlock’s curls. “Anyone would think we’d got four kids in the flat.”
Mycroft takes a sharp breath, like he does when he’s about to declare something of upmost importance, which is usually him declaring his leave. As this is usually timed with him getting out of the chair, Sherlock likes to think it’s him preparing himself for such a tiring endeavour.
Sherlock’s one to talk.
“No, I’m afraid it’s only three John.” Mycroft clips, standing up and buttoning his jacket efficiently.
A muffled growl comes from Sherlock, who’s practically buried his face into John’s chest, consuming the smell that’s clinging to his plaid shirt. It’s calming.
“Get out of here, you’re stinking the bloody flat out!” Sherlock barks to John’s nipple.
Rolling his eyes, Mycroft makes his way to the door. “Which raises the question, why didn’t your mate show any concern when he entered the flat and smelt another Alpha in here, hmm?”
“I suppose it shows how little I find you threatening then doesn’t it?” John retorts, only adding a smile once Sherlock sniggers to himself. Even then, the smile isn’t particularly welcoming.
John’s good at those kind of smiles. Sherlock allows himself a peek, and feels a stirring between his legs. It’s very basal, having John ‘protect’ him, but if it gets John to pet his hair and look after him Sherlock’s willing to play up to the role a little more in the future.
“There’s the door. Do feel free to use it.” John says with a sort of sickly politeness, before lowering his head and pecking Sherlock on the lips.
With a snort of disgust, Mycroft lets himself out, leaving the two of them to snog on the sofa.
“Oh, everything’s gone all skew-whiff again.”
This tended to happen when they had other Alpha’s in the flat. Their presence was intimidating, especially as it was in their home. It makes Sherlock feel all squirmy, which makes the girls actually squirmy, which then makes Sherlock grumpy.
John was good at handling the situation, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t simmering underneath.
The pair had to be thankful that the only two Alphas’ that might possibly enter their flat, Mycroft and Sally, were not exactly regular visitors. And Sherlock was likely to just tell them to piss off in some more eloquent matter anyway.
With a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, John jumps up and offers Sherlock a hand. He can do that, now Mycroft’s gone.
“Let me run you a bath, yeah?” John offers, resting his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as he waddles – walks, walks! - towards the bathroom. “I’ll air the flat out a bit while you’re in there.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“The bath’s free!” Sherlock hollers through the flat, “Well, actually, it’s not. I’m still in it, but it will be free if you come and heft me out of it.”
Knowing Sherlock will likely winge about the chill in the flat from letting the air through, John shuts a couple of windows and puts the heating on before going to help him.
“This is really rather humiliating.” Sherlock mumbles, arms wrapped around John’s neck as he finds his feet on the tile.
Shushing his mate with a kiss on his collarbone, John kneels and gestures with Sherlock’s jogging bottoms, “Feet in.”
Sherlock tightens his grip as he lifts a foot. “I’ll give it a try.”
The moment the joggers are on, John cradles Sherlock’s stomach in his hands and plants a kiss on the protruding belly button before reaching for his t-shirt.
“Bit of an odd mix.”
Sherlock puts an arm through one of the sleeves. “Lestrade is coming over tonight with some cold cases. Don’t want him thinking I’m one of those baby brained breeders who just sits around all day-”
“You do sit around all day.”
“-Doing nothing. I do things! They may be things that nobody else cares about, but they are still things!”
John rubs his hands all up and down Sherlock’s arms to comfort him. “Yes, yes alright love. I understand.” He buttons up the last two for him, smoothing down the shirt over Sherlock’s belly. “Now budge that gorgeous arse of yours so I can get in before the water’s cold.”
Even with Sherlock looming in the doorway, John strips without any sign of embarrassment. It all gets a bit heated when he runs a hand over his shoulder, muscles shifting when he rolls it to test the ache and catches Sherlock biting down on his fingertip, watching him with the same kind of fascination that he gives to mutilated corpse, minus the nipples which are clearly peaked through his shirt.
John gets into the bath quickly to attempt to hide the semi that Sherlock’s appreciative study is giving him.
“Don’t let that go to waste now.” Sherlock warns heatedly, openly staring in between John’s legs where he can just see the ashen curls through the water.
Running a tongue over his bottom lip, John dares to spread his thighs a little more in invitation. Sherlock huffs under his breath and leaves John to tend to himself. But John’s knows he hasn't been left hanging. Nor – contrary to what Sherlock wants John to think – is Sherlock being a tease. It would hardly be fair of John to expect Sherlock to get on his knees by the tub and wank him off. No, he’ll wait. He toes the cold tap on, and endures.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
John opens the door, takes a few steps out into the hall clad only in t-shirt and pants, and curses aloud.
He hops on one foot, removing the offending item stuck to his heel, and holds it up to the light.
“What the...” John frowns to himself. “Sherlock?”
In his hand is a pearlescent button.
“Sherlock? You there?”
There’s the distinct clang of cutlery hitting the floorboards. John has a thought, putting ‘two and two together’ as it were. The image that pops into his head is ridiculous, but as John turns to enter the kitchen, it turns out he isn’t far from the truth.
As soon as their eyes latch onto each other, a trickle of what looks like chocolate ice cream falls from the spoon hovering in front of Sherlock’s eager mouth and pools on the crest of his bare stomach.
Sherlock licks the spoon clean, and then his fingers. He looks like a guilty child. “Don’t tell Mycroft.”
John tosses the button into the bin as he walks past, “Why ever would I tell that tosser anything?”
“I don’t want him to know. We’d never hear the end of it.” Sherlock tilts his head back and rests it against the fridge. John moves to sit in between his spread legs.
Wasting no time, John leans forward, and laps at the pool of melted ice cream, his hands moving to cup Sherlock’s belly at his little “Oh” of surprise.
With a hand buried in his hair, John’s lips are dragged towards Sherlock’s, kissing as if his appetite was no where near sated.
“Is daddy still hungry?” John pants in the space between their lips, humming in pleasure as Sherlock wriggles forward to kiss him again, hand slipping under his t-shirt.
John takes the hint, laughing at how little time he’s actually been wearing the clothing that is now being thrown haphazard into the living room. Sherlock awkwardly sets about pulling off his own shirt too.
“I’m always hungry John.” Sherlock pushes the tub of ice cream by his side towards John. “Feed me.”
As the first spoon enters his mouth, John reaches a hand down and presses Sherlock half hard cock against his belly. The result is as he’d hoped: Sherlock gets his first taste of the decadent sweet, groans and arches his back a little into John’s touch.
Sherlock is barely able to swallow the mouthful before John leans over and thrusts his tongue into his mouth, hand moving in time with his exploration. A sticky hand on John’s arse brings him closer, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth when his cock presses against on the swollen belly between them.
“Feels so good...”
Sherlock turns his head and pants into his mate’s ear: “John, give me more.”
Whilst Sherlock is kept quiet with another spoonful of the ice cream, John lets the pool at the bottom of the tub ooze all over the Sherlock’s belly.
He can only watch it trickle down Sherlock’s immense girth for so long before he has to taste. His hands only smear the traces of the dessert into Sherlock’s skin, causing it to glisten, almost as if he were covered in massage oil or even –
John grunts in eagerness, pulling down his pants and then doing the same to Sherlock, who’s tweaking at his nipples and whimpering like a pup.
Just as he’d imagined, John’s cock glides along the skin effortlessly.
“Joooooooohhhnnnn.” Sherlock begs, hand grabbing for the dessert, “We’re so hungry John.”
“How do you always know what to say to make hot? Jesus.”
“Babies want more-” Sherlock is silenced by a tart raspberry that John slips between his lips, “Got to get bigger...”
John pulls away, pours the remainder of the melted ice cream over Sherlock’s stomach – now looking even more swollen as it digests the sugary foods – before wrapping his arms around Sherlock as best he can and rolling his hips.
“Keep talking, love.” John pants into Sherlock’s neck, angling his hips downwards so their cocks are able to press together. “You’re gonna’ make me come if you keep talking like that.”
“I look full term with one baby now,” Sherlock runs soothing circles on his belly, his activity causing them to fidget. “Going to get so - fuck!- big.”
“Yeah, who did that love?”
“You did that John, with your thick alpha cock. I miss it...”
“Next time, ‘promise, next time...”
Sherlock hisses and looks down. The gooey mess has trickled right down his belly and is now cool and teasing against his already leaking cock.
His new-found sensitivity is almost too much. He throws his arms around John’s neck, sobbing against his chest, “Love you, love you”.
“Let me come on you, please Sherlock please,”
Sherlock reaches down between them, squeezes their flushed cock heads together and looks at John through his damp fringe, “Come all over daddy.” He orders softly.
Letting out something not unlike a sob, John clenches his teeth and watches as his comes all over Sherlock’s cock and belly.
“That’s it, make a mess of me. Such a good boy.”
After that, John wraps his hand around Sherlock cock, and watches as their come mingles together on his mate’s skin.
Sherlock practically falls against the fridge, body limp and sticky. John rests his head on Sherlock’s chest, his hand joining Sherlock’s that was resting on his navel.
A few seconds later, a gurgle is heard, and Sherlock grimaces.
“Not good?” John asks with concern, feeling a prod against his palm.
Sherlock winces, and rubs back and forth over his undercarriage, “Stomach ache.”
“Oh love, you poor thing. It’s just one thing after another with you, hmm?”
“Not to mention I’m being kicked from all sides.”
John giggles and pulls back on his pants. “How about a belly rub in bed?” He offers, kissing Sherlock’s clammy forehead.
“I think you might enjoy that more than I.”
John raises his hands in surrender and is finally able to stand up on his wobbly legs. “Fine-”
“No, maybe we can woo the girls to sleep.”
Sherlock is helped onto his feet, and makes a sound of disgust at the state of his stomach and thighs.
“Shit sorry, got a little carried away.”
“You’re telling me. It didn't seem so bad at the time.”
John hums and kissing Sherlock shoulder. “I thought it was pretty bad, actually.” He adds with a cheeky wink.
“You were particularly scandalous tonight John. Can’t say I didn't enjoy it.” Sherlock begins to walk towards the bedroom, a hand rubbing his lower back, “I’m paying for it now, mind you.”
“Yeah, may have to spend a couple of days in bed to recuperate.”
Sherlock huffs out a laugh. “And will you, by any chance, be joining me in bed?”
“Well, of course. I’ll feed you up, rub your back-”
“Please, no more. I’m beyond exhausted.”
John pulls back the duvet and goes to the bathroom to fetch a flannel to clean them up. By the time he’s back, Sherlock’s dozing, still naked as a newborn babe. John leans against the door frame, and counts himself a very lucky alpha.
To Annabagnell, who gave me a well deserved kick up the bum, and to watson wench, both of whom made me feel warm and fuzzy and inspired and horny.
Twenty Three Weeks
Dear God he’d missed this, he’d missed this so very much.
And when he meant ‘this’, he meant having John’s magnificent alpha cock buried in his arse. Right to the hilt, hips aligned, John’s balls hot against the back of his thighs.
Truly, it had started innocently enough.
At least John thinks it did.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It’s gotten to the point where, when John leaves for the surgery, Sherlock can’t even waste the hours moping on the sofa. His back spasms, his ankles begin to swell and it can be hard to spend hours thinking of deliciously morbid things when there’s now a constantly prodding from inside his womb.
It feels wrong somehow. Sherlock feels his morals are being tested and he doesn’t like it in the slightest.
So, after filling the two hour slot of his timetable to feeling sorry for himself, Sherlock gets his laptop, rests it on his belly, and does some much needed research...
Which is how Sherlock endsup on his hands and knees on the bed, just as John returns from work. Sly man, is our Sherlock.
There are the typical sounds of John carrying out his post shift wind-down; the running of the tap and hissing of the kettle. Sherlock could shout out and get his attention, but John being so mundane and blissfully unaware of what was waiting for him in the bedroom was a rather tantalising thought.
Besides, Sherlock is in a rather awkward position and couldn’t find the motivation to move.
John usually returns to Sherlock moping on the sofa, and so finding the living entirely void of his mate left John somewhat at a loss.
There is a pause, after which John hears the sound of Sherlock taking a heaving breath.
John throws open the bedroom door, curses at the sight, spills tea over his fingers, and curses again. He places his mug on top of the nearby chest of drawers, uncaring about the ring that’ll stain the wood.
Sherlock waits until John is on the bed next to him, then takes a deep breath, arches his back, holds it for five seconds, and relaxes, letting out a little whine as he does so.
“Fuck,” John hisses, rubbing circles on Sherlock’s lower back, “Your belly practically reaches the bed, Sherlock.”
Sherlock hums in response, and performs the exercise again before replying.
“Yes, well, it’s been a while since I’ve been on my hands and knees, isn’t t?”
John drags his eyes from the tightly stretched skin of Sherlock’s belly, to find Sherlock looking at him through his fringe, face flustered from the exercise, with a rather suggestive quirk of his mouth.
Biting his bottom lip, Sherlock slides his arms further in front of him, and rocks himself backwards, the curve of his lovely bottom grazing John’s hip, and his sleep shirt catching on the duvet to offer John a full view of his gravidity.
“John, you promised.”
Sensing Sherlock’s desperation, John shifts behind him, and presses his half hard cock against Sherlock’s arse.
“God you’ve still got your pyjamas on and I can feel how wet you are...”
“I’ve been desperate for you all day”
John grunts as his cock slides between Sherlock’s still clothed cheeks, the material damp and warm around him. “Yeah, I can see that love.”
“And the girls have been unbearably restless; they must have noticed my agitation.”
As if on cue, Sherlock feels the kicking of the babies in his womb and calls John’s name to get his attention. “John. John, look”
Managing to drag his eyes away from his cock nestled in Sherlock’s arse, John forces a quick glance at Sherlock’s belly and then doubles back.
“Jesus, was that a foot?”
Sherlock grunts as he gets another prodding from the inside. “Elbow.” He replies with a wince. “I figured I might as well turn my irritence at their activity into something productive.”
If Sherlock wasn’t so willing and pliant, sleep shirt hitched up under his arms and alluring John with the slow undulation of his pale back, John would inquire as to why Sherlock doesn’t do that the rest of the time he’s irritated.
To stop Sherlock’s whining, John hooks his fingers into his pyjama bottoms and awkwardly sets about pulling them off Sherlock’s legs.
John hasn’t Sherlock like this in some time. He stops and just looks for a little while.
“John! What are you doing?”
Ignoring Sherlock’s typical petulance, John languidly pulls down his own pants and throws them to some corner of the room.
John whistles in wonder at the sight in front of him. “Just look at you,” he sighs in bliss, letting the head of his cock slip over Sherlock’s glistening hole. “Ready for a good fucking, hmm?”
“Yes John,” Sherlock pants, wiggling his arse, “put it in me. Fill me up. Please.”
John huffs and pats Sherlock’s belly. “What, like you aren’t full enough?”
Sherlock tries to laugh, but he can’t. He’s too far gone, and instead it comes out more as a whine.
John’s as desperate as Sherlock is, and so has no desire to tease. With one hand resting on the small of Sherlock’s back and another holding onto his cock, he breeches Sherlock’s hole and moves until their hips are flush against each other.
With a sigh of relief, Sherlock drops his head onto the bed and give a little roll of the hips.
John praises Sherlock’s enthusiasm and grips his hips. “Oh yeah, back that arse into me.”
He lets Sherlock set the pace, which, due to heaving belly hanging from him, is rather lethargic. It hasn’t been this lazy in a long time. With Sherlock’s hormones sky rocketing as they got closer to the birth – and in turn John eagerly responding – they hadn’t been able to enjoy the intense, slow burn came from taking your time.
John made up for this lack of force by reaching under Sherlock to rub his nipples, before bringing them to his mouth to taste the milk that had spilled forth. Although Sherlock couldn’t see, just the sound of John sucking on the fingers stuffed in his mouth was enough for him whimper intelligibly and push back into the cradle of John’s hips.
God it was a beautiful sight, Sherlock’s arse pressed against him, thighs spread wide to make room for the belly that swayed a little with each of John’s thrusts.
Yet it was only when he heard Sherlock mumble something that he realised that Sherlock had, in his frustration, taken the bed sheet between his teeth, cheeks flushed red with the effort.
Sherlock clenches himself around John’s cock, and lets the sheet slip from his mouth. His lips are flushed pink, only further accentuating their shape, and some drool is pooled in the corner of his mouth.
Even without the make shift gag, Sherlock isn’t coherent.
“Harder?” John pants, reaching a hand up to wipe some sweet from his brow, “You want it harder love?”
Sherlock tries to nod, except a well timed thrust to his prostate causes him to drop his forehead back onto the mattress and just give a moan that sounds something like affirmation.
A limp, rather clammy hand reaches back and pats John’s thigh to get his attention, followed by Sherlock pleading, “Hold me”
Sherlock’s hand now flails at John’s side. “Hold us, John.”
John puts his hand in Sherlock’s, who brings them forward to cradle his stomach, their fingers linked where the twins fidget and prod against their hands.
“God I love you.” John pants, pausing to kiss a trail down the warmth of Sherlock’s back, “Sure you’re ok?”
Sherlock reaches with his spare hand for the headboard, “Not if you don’t start moving”
Placing his free hand against the mattress for leverage, John moves inside Sherlock once again. The recoil of his hips more forceful and desperate, as Sherlock moans with the bliss of no longer being deprived
“Oh, oh God” Sherlock whimpers, turning his head to the side to get some goddamn oxygen into his lungs and cool his flushed face. “Touch me, ple-”
John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and reaches under Sherlock’s belly to find his cock, practically pulsing in his palm.
“S’alright love, I’ve got you”
Sherlock bares his teeth and growls, eyelids fluttering closed. It’s only the prospect of his own orgasm that John doesn’t stop thrusting just to focus on the sight.
“John! John, i’m-!”
And he does. His thighs shaking with the effort of having to hold himself up as he clenches around John’s cock and comes.
Knowing his own release is fast approaching, and that Sherlock isn’t one to complain if he continues, John finds purchase on Sherlock’s hips, pulls himself back and-
Sherlock takes in a sharp breath. “John! Stop!”
John stills immediately, and moves to sit at Sherlock’s side, “Shit, you alright? Is it the babies?”
Sherlock tuts lazily, eyes fixed on something to John’s side. “No. I just had a positively wicked idea.”
“God,” John rubs a hand down his face to calm himself, “Don’t bloody do that again.”
Sherlock glances at the rather flushed cock just a little distance from his face and reaches his spindly arms out towards John again. “Help me up.”
Grunting in-between at the newfound aches, Sherlock gradually rights himself onto his knees. “I want you to sit on the edge of the bed. Feet on the floor.”
John’s too desperate to come to care when Sherlock’s hums with amusement at his eagerness.
“Not there John.” Sherlock taunts, tilting his head to the other side of the bed. “There”
John follows Sherlock’s line of sight, and takes in a sharp breath. “Fuck.”
“Yes, if you hurry up.” Sherlock replies, looking fond even if he does roll his eyes a little.
The hold each other’s sight, before John scrambles over to the other side of the mattress.
Directly in front of the full length mirror propped up against the wall.
Said mirror was supposed to be put up on the wall some many months ago, but of course Sherlock couldn’t be bothered and John refused to give in and do it himself.
After this, Sherlock will no doubt say that this was his plan all along. He’ll get away with it too.
John dares to take a look at his reflection, so fascinated that he gasps when he hears Sherlock’s voice from the other side of the bed.
“Touch your cock for me, John.”
The mattress dips, and John turns to look.
“No” The insistence in Sherlock’s voice is enough to persuade. “Watch yourself.”
John visibly swallows, tries to ignore the movement of Sherlock getting closer – most likely crawling on his hands and knees, belly dragging along the duvet - and squeezes his fist around the head of his cock.
God, it won’t take him long.
He slowly drags his fist up and down his flushed shaft, only pausing to shuffle himself forward so he can reach a hand under and cup his sac. John looks back at his reflection and feels a tingle of anticipation spread through his pelvis. John might have discovered a good kind of shame.
Warm breath tickles his ear, and his hand stills. “John, don’t stop. You look positively filthy”
“Fuck,” John hisses through his teeth, turning his head and capturing Sherlock’s lips before has chance to pull away. He reels Sherlock in, until he feels Sherlock’s belly pressed against his side, and a hand cupping the back of his head.
“Look at yourself,” Sherlock pants between their lips, “Just look.”
John turns his head, eyes roaming hungrily over their reflection.
“No, not at me John.” Sherlock orders, pausing to take the lobe of John’s ear into his mouth. “You.”
“I’m not – ah! – looking at you. Or at me.” John insists, releasing a stuttering breath and squeezing the base of his cock to hold himself back. “I’m looking at us.”
John lifts his legs up, and sits facing Sherlock. “All four of us.” He adds, reaching to hold Sherlock’s belly preciously in his hands.
They sit for a few seconds in silence, until Sherlock lets out a low grunt and moves John’s hands under his belly to feel the stirring of the babies inside.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that.”
Sherlock sniffs and rubs slow circles over his girth to sooth the kicking. “That makes two of us.”
John leans forward and kisses Sherlock softly on the lips, pulling away to catch his breath.
“Face the mirror again.” Sherlock asks, rather than orders.
John doesn’t seem particularly keen on the idea, but then Sherlock shuffles off the bed and comes to stand to the side of him.
“What are you doing?”
“Help me down.”
“What, why?” John asks with a raised brow, but does it subconsciously anyway, his hands coming to steady Sherlock.
“I want to sit on you.”
John wants to ask if Sherlock is sure, but he watches the mirror as Sherlock squats, reaches down between them and oh dear God if that isn’t just the hottest thing.
“You better be close,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, pressing his back flush against John’s front for support, “I’m perhaps a little too far gone for this, don’t you think?”
Their hands find each other on Sherlock’s belly once again, holding him steady whilst he raises himself up and impales himself on John’s cock.
“Fuck, so close.” John pants against Sherlock’s neck, straining to keep his eyes on their reflection. “God look at you, so fucking beautiful.”
His hands roam the huge swell of Sherlock’s belly, fingers trailing the linea nigra that has started to show before latching onto Sherlock’s waist to help hoist him up with each of his thrusts.
Sherlock moans appreciatively, rubbing large circles on his belly and fixing his gaze on John through the mirror. John feels the tell tale jolt through his balls.
He pulls Sherlock down onto him, and holds him there, teeth digging into the bond bite on his Omega’s neck. Blackness washes over him as he comes.
Never has he been more grateful of Sherlock’s laziness.