sherlockedandnotginger:
“It’s my boyfriend - sorry.”
Sorry, but it had to be done. Warning for mpreg. :)
The phone rang in Sherlock’s pocket, buzzing angrily until Sherlock sighed and drew it out. Fighting a smile, then looking back to Dimmock (Lestrade was on paternity leave, having just had 7 pound 8 ounce Adella last week—Mycroft had chosen the name, of course, after their grandmother on Mum
my’s side), his brows rose. “It’s my husband, sorry. You have the information you need?”
“Maybe, but—”
Sherlock was already turning, pressing the answer button as he raised the phone. “I’m at work, sweetie,” he said in an exaggerated tone.
“Dear god, please tell me that you don’t actually have pet names. I may have to purge my lunch.”
Mycroft’s voice startled Sherlock into taking a second look at his phone. John Holmes-Watson, it said proudly. The shock turned to a scowl as he pressed it back to his ear. “Mycroft,” he ground out, “What are you doing with John’s phone? Did you really kidnap him just to make use of his phone to pester me? That’s a new low, even for you.”
“I tried calling you. Twice, in fact. You didn’t answer.”
“Hmm, perhaps there may have been a reason for that. It still doesn’t answer why you have John’s phone.”
“Your husband is in the hospital.”
“Clinic, Mycroft. Honestly. And I realize this. Which is why it vexes me that you—”
“I meant exactly what I said. John is in the hospital. He collapsed earlier this afternoon just after finishing with his last patient. A co-worker saw it happen and called an ambulance.”
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, breath catching in his throat. His brain shut down for a moment, unwilling to comprehend the information it had just been given. Then it kicked in again and it computed faster for the brief lag. Tables of potential diseases, their effects and how John could have come in contact with them (most often his work, sometimes through Sherlock’s cases when examining the bodies) poured into his inner vision before he forced it to stop. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. His voice held a slight tremor nonetheless. “Have they found anything?”
“If they have, I’m not privy to the results. It seems I did not engender warm sentiments with them during my hours here.”
“Good god, it’s any wonder. You were bloody awful, threatened to sack them and send them off to Newgate.” Lestrade’s voice came through the phone, slightly muffled.
“What’s Lestrade doing there? Shouldn’t he be in bed or something? What about Adella? Is she there, too?”
“No, Mummy has her for the moment. And to answer your first question, I married him. You married John. I occupied the womb before you, meaning in a way that should be easy for you to understand, John is his family, as well.”
Sherlock bit his lip, oddly touched. “Tell him thanks. I’ll be there as quickly as Dimmock can get us there.”
There was a silence for a moment as Mycroft obviously pondered what was the correct thing to say. “Try not to worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”
The overused expression made Sherlock feel equal needs to snarl and tear up. He hung up before he let his emotions overpower his much-needed sense.
At hearing his name mentioned, the DI had turned and started to say something pithy. Something of what the consulting detective felt must have shown on Sherlock’s face, however, and he stopped before he could begin. “What’s happened?” he asked, face serious.
“My husband was taken to the hospital earlier this afternoon.” Sherlock looked up from the phone and forced his mind back into working order, for the moment. “I need a car. I need to get to Bart’s and I can’t get through traffic fast enough without—”
“Done. Let’s go. Westerby, call Guillam and tell him he’s in charge of this one ‘til I get back.” Dimmock was already out the door, keys in hand. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be genuinely surprised or genuinely pleased that the detective hadn’t even hesitated. Regardless, he followed almost literally on the man’s heels, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary as Dimmock did the same.
“Bart’s, you said?”
“Bart’s.”
Dimmock turned the sirens on to full wail as they tore into the street. They made it in record time—given it was rush hour in London the week before a holiday—and Sherlock shot out of the car before it fully stopped. He sprinted into the building and found Mycroft waiting for him.
“John—is he alright? Tell me—” The panic he had kept tightly under control sprang forth at the sight of his brother.
“As I said before, I don’t know. They haven’t given any call for—”
“Holmes-Watson? John Holmes-Watson?” The inappropriately chipper nurse called from a doorway, and Sherlock’s head snapped towards it. He would have barreled in that direction just as he had towards Mycroft if not for the man’s grip on his arm suddenly, keeping him heeled as the infuriating man walked at the speed of smell to the even more infuriating woman.
“That would be us. We’re his brother-in-law and—”
“Husband. I’m his husband. Tell me what’s wrong.” He couldn’t deduce it from her because of the damned emotions threatening to cut his air supply off at the thought of his husband lying a bed, cold-pale-quiet and—
“Follow me. The doctor will see you with the results shortly.”
“I’ll await your return here, Sherlock. Do try not to terrorize anyone in the meantime.”
Sherlock blandly followed her to a nondescript room like every other, except it wasn’t, this room had John. The door opened and Sherlock rushed forward before she could even step aside.
“John.” The taller man reached the side of the bed within moments, eyes darting over his husband’s face in an attempt to find the malady from sight.
“Sherlock. Jesus, you’re bone white. Calm down. I’m fine, I just missed breakfast this morning.” John took one of Sherlock’s hands between his own—even the one with the IV sticking out of it—and rubbed it soothingly, both to warm it and reassure the consulting detective that he was safe and sound. “Relax, would you? It’s starting to look like you should be the one here.”
“When I got the call, I thought…” he couldn’t voice it.
John smiled softly and raised the hand to press a kiss to the knuckles, then the simple band around the fourth finger. “I know. I would have too. Actually, I would have thought something more exotic, most likely, but that’s just semantics.” He reached a hand up to cup Sherlock’s cheek and pulled him down to sit on the bed. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
Sherlock nodded dumbly, pressing his cheek more firmly into John’s hand and cradling it there with his own. They sat there in silence, each taking and giving comfort, until the doctor came a few minutes later.
“Misters Holmes-Watson. I’m Doctor Sachs,” said the kind, rather homely woman garbed in the white coat. “I understand you had a bit of a spell earlier today, John?”
John’s ears turned pink. “Yeah. I hadn’t felt very well earlier that morning. I should have just called in sick, but,” he shrugged. “You know, patients, schedule, work and all that.”
Dr. Sachs smiled understandingly and nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. Good news is, your lab results came back just fine, no elevation of T cells in the bloodstream. Sugar levels came back normal as well. You’re perfectly healthy.”
John nodded and looked at Sherlock with an ‘I told you so’ expression, raised eyebrows and pursed lips fighting a smile. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and stroked his thumb over the back of John’s hand.
The doctor waited until the pair returned from their own world and turned to her before continuing. “Blood results also showed the cause of the brief change in homeostasis.”
“And?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowing and hand tightening around John’s.
“The lab identified HCG in the sample.”
John’s face smoothed blank and his mouth opened, while Sherlock looked in frustration between the two doctors.
“Being as I don’t actually have a degree in the medical field, would someone care to explain what this means?”
“Congratulations, Misters Holmes-Watson. You’re pregnant.”
Sherlock’s face followed John’s lead as his jaw slackened. He looked down at John, first into his husband’s eyes and then at his abdomen, still flat, but undeniably carrying their child.
Their child. Pregnant. Sherlock didn’t know what to think. They hadn’t thought about it, to be honest. They’d always known there was a chance, but after years of unprotected sexual activity, the likelihood of it happening had ceased to occur to them. Not that they had really had time to give it much thought other than acknowledging the possibility.
Sherlock’s gaze traveled back up to John’s, and he looked into the darker blue eyes and realized that this child would be a part of both of them. Sherlock and John. The odds calculated before his eyes of hair color, skin pigment, eye color, build, weight, height, mental capacity, personality traits—a human being comprised of both of them, the best and worst and striking combinations of both parents into one evolving person. Sherlock felt the smile stretch his face until he thought it might crack. He bent to press kisses over John’s face, his forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth, and pressed his own forehead against John’s.
“Hamish.” He said quite happily, and felt John’s laughter reverberate into his body.
“Hamish it is.”
165
