Chapter Text
It hadn’t seemed like an idiotic thing to do at the time. In fact, it hadn’t occurred to John at all, not at the time.
He had skipped two heats, for God’s sake. He still had the quarterly ones, the little ones that he barely noticed, but not the full blown ones which had plagued him since he was thirteen years old. He simply hadn’t thought that they would ever come back, convincing himself with the bond-break. John Watson was a damn good doctor and he had seen it so many times before; the Omega’s Alpha dies, the Omega is stricken with grief, stops having heats and is left infertile. The Bond was so strong that it happened quite regularly; it was one of John’s least favourite jobs to tell someone that the breaking of their bond had resulted in their infertility.
Granted, he shouldn’t have been so naïve. It wasn’t like him and Sherlock had been bonded; they had kissed once, for Christ’s sake. John shouldn’t have just assumed it was a bond-break.
John leant forwards over the sink, resting his head on the cold mirror and letting out a shaky breath.
He had moped around at home for ten months, the occasional visit from Greg or Mike or Sarah. He had hated these visits, particularly since Greg had got together with that lawyer; he didn’t want to hear about Greg’s swollen ankles, then Polly’s first smile, then Michael’s first word.
John could still remember when it had happened, when he had realised he was wasting his life waiting for the return of a ghost. He had been sitting in his chair, staring at Billy, thinking about Sherlock, dead in that grave, how it might as well have been Sherlock’s skull on that mantelpiece.
Then he had started to wonder how long it would take for Sherlock’s skull to reach the stage that Billy’s was.
He should have been able to remember, really, but all his medical training had just slipped out of his brain in the ten months of inactivity. So he had googled it, looking in dismay at the Wikipedia guess.
8-12 years.
And suddenly the years were just stretching in front of him, endless and meaningless. He saw himself sitting in the chair, grey, wider, same expression on his face, a decade later, when Sherlock’s beautiful pale skin would have faded, his flesh decomposed. He saw himself a decade after that, and after that, until he was an old, withered man and Sherlock was dust.
John had left the flat the next morning.
It was strange, being outside, doing the same things he had done regularly less than a year ago but doing them so differently. The scent of the Alpha’s did nothing for him; he felt neither annoyance nor flattery at their eager looks. He was an unbonded Omega, but he didn’t seem to care.
They stopped looking at him soon after he met their gaze, blinked once, and looked away, expression unchanged.
All around him, his friends and his family were getting married, having babies, living in the typical, encouraged Alpha/Omega relationships. First Greg and Mycroft, then Mike and his Lily; her Mike, he should say. Mike Stamford was unswervingly loyal to his Alpha.
Molly was unbonded; John thought she was still pining after that one Alpha who would never be available, whose flesh was rotting in the graveyard at St. Sebastian.
John still got jealous, thinking of Molly and Sherlock, though he had been sure nothing had been going on between them. Originally, he had just assumed Sherlock liked men, though in the eyes of most the typical genders of male and female were nothing compared to the Omega/Alpha/Beta declaration. Then, of course, Irene Adler had entered their lives.
Unconsciously, John’s hands gripped the sink, his knuckles turning white as he thought about the Woman. He remembered walking into her house, surprised at the scent; it was very strong Alpha, though there wasn’t an Alpha in the room, just the secretive Beta who answered the door.
He had gone to get some water, wrist still tingling from those punches he had given Sherlock. But when he had returned…
Irene Adler was possibly the most Alpha Alpha John had ever encountered. She was stunningly attractive, stunningly intelligent, stunningly dominant and so confident in herself and her abilities she had made John want to curl up in a ball and offer himself to her until the end of time.
This had soon ended.
Sherlock had originally seen Irene Adler as a puzzle to be solved, to be tested, to be poked and prodded until it revealed what it truly was. But that had changed, right before John’s eyes.
Even John, who had been completely and utterly in love with Sherlock, had been able to see that Irene and Sherlock had belonged together. He had tried to convince himself that they weren’t two sides of one coin with the fact they were both Alphas, that it was against their biological code. Not that being completely different and disregarding the rules was something Sherlock seemed to care about.
John could remember looking at Irene Adler and Sherlock as they stood together, completely caught up in each other, and cursing, not for the first time, that he was an Omega. He had been wound with tension all through his thirteenth year, waiting for his body to declare.
It had happened late; he had woken in the middle of the night, shaking, whimpering, two months before his birthday. His parents had shaken their heads sadly; it hadn’t been unexpected, they had known John was an Omega since the moment he was born, but they had always hoped that his scent was wrong, that it would change to reveal him an Alpha.
Alphas had it easiest; Omegas, particularly Omega men, had always had it harder.
John had asked Sherlock if he had been nervous while he was waiting, once. Sherlock had just looked at him blankly. ‘Of course I wasn’t nervous,’ he had said, looking at John as if he were mad. ‘It was clear I would be an Alpha. The Holmes’ are an Alpha family. They had known I was an Alpha from the moment I was born.’
John had felt a little disgruntled at that and frowned at his flatmate. ‘Your father was an Omega,’ he had argued. ‘You might have taken after him. The doctors get it wrong, sometimes-‘
Sherlock had laughed, shaking his head. ‘The Holmes’ are not Omegas.’ He had repeated flatly. ‘And the doctors only get it wrong when the child isn’t born with a particular scent. Mycroft and I stank of Alpha, even as infants.’
John had been stuck, then. Of course he wouldn’t; he hadn’t, when he had first seen Sherlock. Or Mycroft, for that matter. The idea of either brother being in heat, being pregnant, was ridiculous at best and embarrassing at worse.
John looked at the clock. Ten more seconds.
His palms were sweating, he was shaking, he was almost hyperventilating. He had been scared before; with Moriarty at the pool, in the lab at Baskerville, when he had seen Sherlock standing on the top of that bloody hospital.
He had been scared before, but this time really took the biscuit.
The ten seconds were up. John looked down.
Two straight lines, blue, bold, staring John right in the face.
John buried his head in his hands.
*
‘Yeah,’ John had said politely, picking at the noodles on his plate. ‘I do want kids.’
Liberty smiled, tossing her hair. ‘Of course you do! How else would you be remembered?’
John bit back his retort and nodded. ‘You’re right!’ He said sarcastically. ‘When has an Omega ever been good for anything but squirting out babies?’
Liberty nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s so nice to meet an Omega who knows where they stand,’ she said confidently. ‘You’re property. You always will be.’
John groaned inwardly as Liberty continued talking, resisting the urge to throw his pasta at his date. He had heard the same speech over and over; it happened, if not weekly, fortnightly. Times were changing but most Alphas were still absolute dickheads who assumed Omegas were weak and should be housebound, barely more than pets, nothing more than property. The good ones were all bonded by now; the bad ones were all that was left.
John let out his breath and wondered if he should tell Liberty he hadn’t had a full heat for two years. It would be amusing to see the look on her face, he thought, but it would probably result in her storming off and leaving him with the bill.
John plastered a false smile across his face and opened his mouth, ready to say something else about the inferiority of Omegas sarcastically. He breathed in as Liberty stopped talking, looking at him expectantly-
It hit him like a truck.
That scent, the smell of smoke and ink and blood and something else entirely, that scent he hadn’t smelled in two years, entering his nostrils and transporting him to the past, to a cold January morning and blood on the pavement.
John stood up, knocking his chair over and looking around, inhaling the scent as Liberty cringed in her chair. His eyes rushed past all the people at the tables, past the waiters, past the chefs and to the door.
John’s breath stilled.
Polished black shoes. Smart, black slacks. Dinner jacket, purple shirt. Pale skin, curly hair the colour of night, blue/green eyes, a grey coat that was a little too small.
‘Control your Omega!’ Someone shouted from one of the other tables. Liberty was tugging at his arm, trying to order him to sit, but John couldn’t. He was hyperventilating, mind collapsing, as the man he had loved, the man he had lost, the man he had thought dead started walking towards him.
He stopped two feet away. The restaurant was completely still. John felt dizzy.
‘Hello, John.’ He said in that gravelly voice that made John want to fall to his knees and cry. ‘Short version- not dead.’
This was when John had launched himself at Sherlock Holmes.
*
John told nobody that he was pregnant. He couldn’t risk Mycroft finding out, knowing he would tell Sherlock immediately, and John couldn’t have that happening. He couldn’t let Sherlock know.
Why? Because, although Sherlock Holmes was a complete knob, an infuriating bastard, a posh git, a sneaky, deceiving shit-hole, he was also kind, loyal and completely self-sacrificing. If he found out John was having a baby, he would insist on staying with John, bonding with him even, to allow their childhood a normal childhood. And John couldn’t do that. He couldn’t force Sherlock to live with him, be with him, when he so obviously didn’t love him.
Sherlock didn’t love anyone. John was no exception to that rule. And if he did, it wouldn’t be an ordinary Omega like John. It would be someone spectacular, someone intelligent and brilliant (John’s lip curled as he thought of Irene bloody Adler).
John’s love for Sherlock couldn’t sustain their relationship. They would end up hating each other, and John could never let that happen.
John didn’t know what he would do, when the baby was born. He hoped that a solution would come to him after the child was born; until then, he would just keep it secret.
John monitored his pregnancy carefully. The morning sickness wasn’t that bad compared to some he had seen, though between the fourth and eighth week he threw up at least once a day, often more. He ate healthy, exercised well, and went about his business as he had before he found out, trying to act natural. He even went on dates, just in case Mycroft had people watching him. He was as ordinary as possible, passing off the vomiting as a bug, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s inquiring glances and kind words.
Date nights were the worst. He would always come home and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Sherlock. His cheekbones, his eyes, his sharp wit. His deductions, his smile, his laughter. God, Sherlock laughing, Sherlock smiling, it was beautiful.
John would fall asleep with an ache in his heart and a throb in his head.
*
After the manager threw them out, John and Sherlock stood outside the restaurant in awkward silence.
Sherlock was dabbing at the cut on his lip with a tissue, frowning as he looked at the blood. John was standing next to him, tapping his foot on the pavement, refusing to look at or acknowledge his ex-flatmate. His stomach had started aching; John tried to remember if his professors had ever mentioned a stomach ache as a side-effect of shock.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sherlock said, sounding so miserable, so melancholy, that John just wanted to wrap his arms around him and kiss him as hard as he could.
‘I-‘ John had begun, glaring at Sherlock, ready to scream, to shout, to cry, when suddenly-
It hit him like a brick wall. First, a weakness in his legs. Then, a trembling in his hands.
And finally the sweet scent of slick.
*
John nicknamed the baby Jess. Originally it had been J.S, as in John and Sherlock, but Jess was a lot easier to say. John didn’t know if the baby was a boy or a girl, he didn’t care, but it made it seem real, if his child had a name.
When he was alone in the flat, John would talk to his baby, hands resting lightly on his stomach as he wondered out loud what his offspring would be like. Would it be a girl, or a boy? Would it be blond or dark? Would it be clever, athletic, kind, and compassionate?
Would it be left handed, like him, or right handed, like Sherlock?
John didn’t go for a scan until he was seven months pregnant, and only went then because Jess had been still for a couple of days and he had made himself paranoid thinking there was something wrong with him. He had made the appointment over the phone, just twelve hours previously, trying as hard as he could to avoid detection from Mycroft. The next day he had left work at lunchtime, walking the ten minute journey to the maternity clinic quickly, and breathing a sigh of relief when he was off the street. Every time he thought about Mycroft finding out, his heart rate accelerated and he almost started hyperventilating, because if Mycroft knew, he was sure to tell Sherlock, and if Sherlock knew…
The doctor, a young, bonded Omega, welcomed John into his office with a warm smile and offered him a seat. ‘Mr Watson?’ He asked, noting something down on a clipboard.
John nodded, looking anxiously out of the window before reprimanding himself for being over-cautious.
‘I’m Doctor Jamie White and I’ll be your doctor.’ Jamie smiled and John, against his will, grinned back. ‘Date of birth, oh-six oh-nine nineteen eighty one? Aged thirty-four?’
John nodded again.
‘Ok, how far along are you?’ The doctor looked at him expectantly and John sighed. ‘Seven months, three days.’
The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why haven’t you come here sooner?’
John looked at the ground, feeling strangely ashamed. ‘I didn’t- I couldn’t let the Alpha’s family find out. His brother’s in the secret service.’
Jamie shook his head, looking at John in disappointment. ‘Alpha’s name?’
John winced. ‘Do I have to tell you?’
The doctor’s eyes searched John’s face for a moment, before a look of sympathy crossed his features. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, but we need to know if there is a history of mental or physical illness in the Alpha’s family.’
John sighed. ‘His name is Sherlock Holmes.’ The doctor looked up, blinked and opened his mouth. John realised with a sinking feeling Jamie had heard of him and looked at him with his most pleading eyes.
Jamie blinked and looked down at his clipboard. ‘Do you want Mr Holmes informed of your appointments, in the future?’
John jumped to his feet, knocking back his chair and shaking his head. ‘God, no. I haven’t seen Sher- the Alpha since the night Jess was conceived.’
The doctor nodded, scribbling away on the clipboard before looking up and smiling. ‘Jess? Do you think it’s a girl?’
John blushed and shook his head. ‘I have no idea. Don’t care either way, really, but I- I nicknamed it Jess. It’s a long story.’
Jamie smiled and stood up, going over to the hospital bed and placing tissue lengthwise over it. ‘When I was pregnant with mine, I called them rack and ruin so it wouldn’t affect their genders.’
John laughed, surprising himself; he hadn’t laughed in years. ‘Did it work?’
Jamie bit his lip. ‘Sort of. They were born, a girl and a boy, and we christened them Gemma Charlotte and Isaac James. Unfortunately, because my mate, Elias, refused to call them anything but Rack and Ruin, no one else does. Gemma is Rack, Isaac is Ruin, and they won’t answer to anything but that.’
John heaved himself onto the bed and laughed. ‘If it’s a lad, I doubt we’ll call him Jess.’
‘You could call him Jesse,’ Jamie suggested. ‘The nicknames stick.’
John sighed. ‘I suppose.’
Jamie spread the gel across John’s stomach and stared intently at the ultrasound machine. John looked at it, squinting; he may be a doctor but the maternity side of things had never been his forte. He could tell if someone was pregnant but he only had a vague idea of what was happening on screen.
‘Do you want to know the gender?’ Jamie asked, pausing and turning to look at John, who hesitated before shaking his head. ‘No. Thank you.’
Jamie nodded. ‘Do you want to know its sub-gender?’ John looked blankly at him for a moment before remembering sub-gender was a technical term for Alpha, Beta or Omega. ‘You can tell that from the machine?’
Jamie shook his head. ‘I can smell it. Your scent is interfering with it, but I can still tell.’ Seeing John looking concerned, he hastily added, ‘don’t worry. Us maternity doctors get used to the different smells of a parent and their foetus.’
John shook his head; he didn’t want to spend the next two months depressed if his baby was an Omega.
Jamie spent the rest of their session talking to John about his plans for after the baby; when John confessed he didn’t have any, Jamie mock-gasped and promptly gave John his number; apparently he was going to give him all the stuff his twins had grown out of. John left the clinic, having made an appointment for the following week, happy and content that his baby was healthy.
He had just stepped out of the doors of the maternity clinic when he saw him across the street.
Sharp eyes unblinking. Thinning auburn hair. Leaning casually on an umbrella.
John froze in his tracks, eyes caught in the intense, never-ending gaze of Mycroft Holmes.
*
John didn't remember the walk to Baker Street. He didn't remember Sherlock supporting him up the stairs, picking the lock, slamming the door. All he remembered was the smell of Sherlock, the feel of Sherlock and the thought that he would never, ever be able to let Sherlock go again.
‘John- John-John-‘ Sherlock gasped, trying to back away, but John’s hands held him to him, vice-like. All precautions, all angst, all worry was gone; all John could think of was the burning heat, the incredible desire to have Sherlock’s Alpha cock stuffed inside him, the scent of Sherlock, so close it was burning John’s nostrils.
‘Fuck me.’ John growled, lifting himself up so his mouth was next to Sherlock’s neck. ‘Fuck me.’
Sherlock tried to pull himself away. ‘John, you don’t know what you’re doing, if you weren’t in heat you wouldn’t want me to do this, John, please-‘
John barely heard the words; Sherlock’s deep, baritone voice was just turning him on more, his cupid-bow lips tormenting him as they moved. ‘I know exactly what I want, Sherlock, and that is you.’
Sherlock’s bottom lip was trembling and he looked at John anxiously. ‘John, I can feel myself going into rut, if you don’t stop this now-‘
‘You left me.’ John said, still gripping Sherlock’s shirt tightly. ‘I’ll forgive you if you fuck me. I’ll forget it all, if you fuck me. Please, Sherlock, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
This was when Sherlock gave in.
With a tortured groan, he lurched forwards and caught John’s mouth in his, kissing him hard as he fumbled with John’s trousers. The Omega keened, leaning backwards as Sherlock hurriedly pulled out his cock, tugging it quickly as John gasped, groaning, the scent of slick and Sherlock’s lust almost choking him.
‘God, John.’ Sherlock murmured as John came all over his hand. His cock was still standing upright, torturously hard, and Sherlock looked at him in amazement. ‘When did you last have a heat-‘
‘Not important.’ John said, kissing Sherlock harder as he traced the outline of Sherlock’s dick through his trousers. Christ, he looked big.
Sherlock panted, pushing John’s hand out of the way as he undid his trousers and pulled down his pants, revealing an impressively hard cock bigger than any John had ever seen.
If he had been thinking rationally, he would have at least attempted to prepare himself before trying to fit Sherlock inside of him, but the time for hesitation was long gone, and John practically shoved Sherlock backwards before hovering over him and sinking slowly onto Sherlock’s dick.
Sherlock moaned, John moaned. He had taken a few Alpha cocks and none had felt like this, so tight, so hot and throbbing, inside of him. Sherlock’s eyes were glassy, a sign he was going into rut, and John started moving his hips as quickly as possible, desperate to find relief-
Sherlock growled, actually growled, and flipped John over so his back was against the hard wooden floor and drove into him over and over, hitting his prostate over and over, as John mewled underneath him.
‘John, god, John, you’re so tight.’ Sherlock gasped. John shivered, desperate to touch his painfully ignored cock, but there was something in Sherlock’s eyes that stopped him. ‘Sherlock-‘
‘I should have done this years ago,’ Sherlock said. One of his hands moved from John’s hips and over his cock; as he humped into him, he flicked the top, actually flicked over John’s slit-
With a scream, John came again.
‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long.’ Sherlock panted, driving into him again. John spread his legs wider, though his back ached, and nodded, mind driven mad by lust. He could feel Sherlock’s knot starting, just catching at the edge of his rim.
‘You’re not meant- you’re asexual,’ John breathed, looking into Sherlock’s eyes, the ache forgotten for just a second. Sherlock was still pounding into him, though his eyes never left John. ‘There are exceptions to every rule-‘
Sherlock groaned and stilled for a moment, and John realised he could feel Sherlock’s knot pressing inside him, ready to release inside him, and he forgot about Sherlock, and he said, ‘now, Sherlock, fill me. Please, Sherlock, I need-‘
Sherlock pulled all the way out of John so only the tip of his penis remained inside the older man before pushing in with an explosive grunt. John moaned as the rim forced its way past his tight rim and into his hole-
And Sherlock was coming, and coming, and coming.
John had never been more filled; he had never felt more full. He could hear himself moaning, continuously, and Sherlock panting as he rocked his hips gently, his cock trapped inside John.
John came again, and when he had finished, the white fluid pooled onto his stomach, he could think clearly.
Sherlock had his head bent, inky curls touching John’s forehead, and the older man almost collapsed as he was hit by a wave of fatigue. He could feel his eyes closing but now he could think straight again it hit him again, properly;
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had come back. He had never been dead.
As John drifted off to sleep, he grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and said groggily, ‘I love you.’
The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was Sherlock, looking up, blue/green eyes filled with an emotion John had never seen before.
*
‘I don’t care.’ John pushed angrily though the crowd, ignoring the looks he got as the Alphas caught his scent. A pregnant, unbonded Omega being chased by a bonded, powerful Alpha was generally a cause for worry.
Mycroft kept up with him easily (damn those Holmes boys with their long limbs), matching his pace without effort. ‘He would never let you go through this alone.’
John rounded the corner and winced as a sharp pain went through him, starting in his womb. John held it protectively, silently telling his baby everything was ok. ‘That’s the point. I can’t do that, Mycroft. I can't trap him like that.’
An anxious looking Omega woman stepped in front of John, glancing at Mycroft before saying, ‘everything alright, sir?’
John bit his lip. ‘Fine. Thanks.’
Mycroft refused to move from his side. ‘John, I have to tell him-‘
‘No you don’t.’ John spat. They were turning into Baker Street and John almost groaned with relief when he saw the familiar green door.
‘I must do what is best for the baby, John-‘
‘Don’t pretend you care for this child,’ John snapped, stopping and glaring at Mycroft. ‘You never gave two fucks about Sherlock-‘
Mycroft took a step forwards, a temporary loss of control as he said in the double-timbre of an Alpha, ‘I care about Sherlock more than anybody else in the world, John, and I always will.’
John swallowed, repressing the urge to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. ‘I don’t need Sherlock-‘
‘You need Sherlock just as much as Sherlock needs you,’ Mycroft said, massaging his temples. ‘It’s so clear to see it’s painful, John. This child is my nephew or niece and I will not have it growing up without a father-‘
John turned away from Mycroft, walking the last few metres to Baker Street quickly and opening the door. ‘It has a father,’ John hissed as he stomped up the stairs, Mycroft still following him. ‘It has me.’
John fumbled with the lock, pushing the door open and glancing back at Mycroft as he stepped inside. ‘Leave me alone-‘
‘John?’
John froze, still looking at Mycroft.
That voice, that voice that had come from inside the flat, that voice he had dreamt about, longed for and tried to supress from his memory, delved right into John’s brain, putting him temporarily out of action.
Mycroft, for the first time ever, looked scared. He turned and walked away. John heard the door slam.
John slowly turned his head.
Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, Billy the skull forgotten in his hand, mouth open and eyes fixed directly on John’s stomach.
John was frozen, staring at Sherlock, hands hovering awkwardly by his sides, stance half-defensive and half-pleading. It was incredible, seeing Sherlock like this, so alive, so normal, almost exactly the same as he had been nearly three years ago, albeit slightly more muscular, with slightly longer hair. In the wake of Sherlock’s return, John had barely been able to think of Sherlock’s death; he had been occupied by his pregnancy, but now, seeing Sherlock standing there, so real, so breathing, so living, John felt slightly weak at the knees.
Sherlock was still staring at John’s stomach.
John very slowly unfroze and took a step towards Sherlock. ‘Sherlock?’ He whispered, taking another step so they were just a few feet apart. If John reached out, he could touch Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock remained silent.
‘D’you want to sit down?’ John tried. When Sherlock didn’t reply, he took another step forwards and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He could feel the muscle beneath the silky shirt and hated himself for the flicker of arousal sparking through him.
Sherlock’s eyes closed. When they opened…
They were furious.
John jerked backwards as Sherlock took a small, perfectly controlled step forwards, so like Mycroft’s just a few minutes earlier it was scary. ‘Hello, John.’ Sherlock said sarcastically. ‘How are you?’
John shivered. ‘Sherlock, I-‘
‘You’re looking well. A lot more pregnant than the last time I saw you, but well. Congratulations. I hadn’t-‘ he stuttered, took a deep breath, and forged on, twice as sarcastic as before. ‘I hadn’t heard you were expecting. Seven months, healthy, Alpha- you have a perfect child there.’
‘Sherlock-‘ John started, before stopping. ‘Alpha?’
Sherlock blinked. ‘Yes. Don’t tell me no one’s told you that yet? I can smell it so clearly, mixed in with your scent- that’s not important.’
John bit his lip. ‘Sherlock-‘
‘I have one question, John.’ Sherlock said, taking another controlled step forwards. John’s hands instinctively travelled to his belly, though Sherlock ignored this. ‘Is it mine?’
John hesitated, briefly, before his shoulders slumped. He couldn’t. Not to anyone, least of all Sherlock. ‘Yes.’ Another pang shot through his stomach and John took another step backwards so he was leaning on the doorframe.
Sherlock staggered like he’d been hit by a bullet and slumped into his chair (why hadn’t John moved that?), burying his head in his hands. ‘Christ.’
John felt a flicker of anger in his chest. ‘This was part of the reason I wasn’t going to tell you.’
Sherlock looked up, amazed. ‘I just found out I was going to be a father-‘
‘Exactly!’ John shouted. ‘I’ve just ruined your life, Sherlock. Ruined it completely. And now you know, you’re going to feel like you have to stay with us, while secretly resenting and hating me-‘
‘No, John,’ Sherlock tried. ‘That isn’t-‘
‘Stop it, Sherlock.’ John said. His stomach was properly hurting now, a continuous ache, and he wondered if he was going into heat again, was that possible when he was pregnant? All his medical training had seemingly gone straight out of his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Go-‘
And suddenly the most excruciating pain John had ever felt in his life burst through him. He couldn’t hear what Sherlock was saying, all he was aware of was that twisting feeling, like he was going to die, and John was acutely aware that something was very wrong. He could feel Sherlock’s hand on his back, a frantic repetition of his name, and then-
‘John, I can smell blood. John, I think you’re bleeding. John, I think it’s the baby.’ Sherlock was saying, over and over, and John pointed at the phone as he sank to the ground, holding his belly and praying hopelessly that everything was fine, that this was a false alarm and Jess was fine, of course he was fine.
The last thing John saw was Sherlock’s face as he was being loaded into the ambulance, the tears streaking down the younger man’s face as the mask was placed over John’s mouth.
*
When John woke up, everything was very quiet. There was a steady, constant beeping sound and when he opened his eyes he saw, to his left, a machine showing his heart rate, and to his right, a drip.
John tried to sit up and winced as something pulled in his lower torso. He put his hands on his stomach, trying to find whatever it was-
And suddenly it all came back, the blood, the pain, the shouts of the doctors and Sherlock, tears running down his face, and John realised numbly that his stomach was flat again.
And he had no idea what had happened to his baby.
John was startled by a soft noise to his right. ‘Hello, John.’
‘Jamie.’ John exhaled, looking at the doctor. He was almost disappointed that it wasn’t…
No, John.
‘How are you feeling, John?’ Jamie asked. John noticed he was left handed, like him, as Jamie noted something on his clipboard.
John didn’t answer the question. ‘What’s happened, Jamie?’
Jamie smiled slightly. ‘You’ve been unconscious for almost twenty-two hours. From what we can tell, you were suffering from pre-eclampsia and began miscarrying your baby. Your, um,’ Jamie coughed delicately. ‘The man who was with you, who gave his name as Mr Scott,’ Jamie looked meaningfully at John, who pretended not to see, ‘called an ambulance and then managed to stop the bleeding, I have no idea how. You had an emergency caesarean as soon as you got here, and your child was born perfectly healthy-‘
‘Healthy?’ John breathed. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders; suddenly, everything was alright.
Jamie nodded. ‘He was just under average weight, which is amazing, especially considering he was two months early. I’m not meant to say this, just in case, but it you’ve got a perfect little Alpha there, John.’
‘He?’ John repeated, dazed. ‘It’s- he’s a boy?’
‘Definitely.’ Jamie confirmed. ‘And, according to his scans, perfectly healthy.’
John struggled to sit up, hissing where the stitches from his C-section pulled at his skin. ‘Can I see him?’
‘You’re really not meant to get up,’ Jamie said, looking anxiously at the door.
‘Please?’ John asked, his voice cracking. ‘Please, let me see my son?’
Jamie sighed. ‘I’m going to get fired for this.’
Jamie found a wheelchair and pushed John down a corridor. The older man was feeling incredibly emotional, incredibly happy, and incredibly sad.
Jamie stopped him outside a closed door. ‘We’ve been keeping him in here without any other babies,’ he said. ‘He’s got a cracking pair of lungs on him and he was waking the other babies. Don’t worry,’ he added hastily, seeing John’s face. ‘He’s never been alone. I’ll leave you alone with him, John. There’s a nurse just down the corridor, shout if you need her.’
And Jamie walked away, leaving John outside a closed door in a wheelchair. John carefully stood up, ignoring the pain shooting down his side, and opened the door.
He wasn’t expecting the sight inside.
Sherlock, sitting on a chair next to a hospital crib, gazing down at something, someone, inside. John couldn’t hear anything but he could see Sherlock’s lips moving, as if-
As if he was singing to his son.
John moved away from the door and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. He couldn’t go in there unprepared, because he knew that however much Sherlock hated him, felt indifferent to him, didn’t love him, he would not leave. He would stay with his son, despite John, and they would live in misery.
John couldn’t live with Sherlock like that, knowing he didn’t love him when every single time John looked at Sherlock, it felt like his heart was going to rip in half.
John took a deep breath and walked in.
Sherlock looked up and jerked away from the crib. ‘John-‘ he started, half standing up.
‘Hello, Sherlock.’ John said primly, taking a step forwards.
‘You’re awake, I didn’t know you were awake.’ Sherlock babbled. John’s heart ached; his once-best friend didn’t know how to talk to him anymore. It just convinced him further that even their friendship had disintegrated completely.
John ignored Sherlock and took another step forwards, and another, until he was directly over the cot and staring into the face of his son.
And everything else on the planet didn’t matter to John, not anymore.
Nothing mattered but the little boy, not even a day old, sleeping in the cot.
John had never fallen in love at first sight. Not even with Sherlock. But now…
The moment John laid eyes on his son, he was so deeply in love he knew he would move anything, kill anyone, do anything, just to keep his son safe and well and happy.
‘He’s beautiful.’ Sherlock said. John glanced upwards briefly, expecting to see Sherlock staring at the baby in the same way he was, but the Alpha wasn’t looking at his son.
He was looking at John.
John looked away. ‘Thank you for-‘
‘It was nothing.’ Sherlock said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. ‘Thank you for creating him.’
John blushed despite himself. ‘I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry for not telling you about him.’
Sherlock laughed, that deep baritone chuckle that made John shiver, even as he reached down and touched his son’s cheek, marvelled at the soft skin. ‘It doesn’t matter. I know about him now, and I will never, ever let him go.’
John’s hand stilled. ‘Don’t.’
‘What?’ Sherlock said, sounding confused. ‘What do you-‘
‘Don’t, Sherlock. I can’t- we can’t-‘
‘John.’ Sherlock sounded deadly serious. ‘John, we can be a family. You, me, our son.’
John shook his head, even as his heart pounded yes, yes, yes over and over. ‘No, Sherlock. I can’t live like that. I can’t live with you when I know how you feel about me.’ He finally looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him, eyes so sad John almost burst into tears there and then. ‘But John, I could never leave him. I could never leave y-‘
‘No.’ John repeated. ‘We’ll hate each other. I can’t have you hating me, not anymore than you already do.’
Sherlock blinked rapidly. ‘No, John. I love y-‘
‘Don’t.’ John whispered. ‘Don’t try and convince me. I know. Sherlock, I need you to go. You can see our son, of course. Whenever you want.’
‘I don’t want to see him, John.’ Sherlock said, sounding more lost than John had ever heard him sound before. ‘I want to live with him. I want to live with you.’
‘No you don’t!’ John cried, looking away. ‘I know you don’t, Sherlock. I lived with you for two years, before- before you fell, and if you didn’t- if you couldn’t stay-‘
‘John-‘ Sherlock started to say, but John just turned around. ‘Get out, Sherlock.’
‘Please, John, you don’t understand.’ Sherlock pleaded. It was breaking John’s heart, it was breaking his head, it was making him want to curl up in a ball and cry-
John closed his eyes. A single tear fell down his face.
Then he opened his eyes, his back to Sherlock. ‘Please, Sherlock.’
He didn’t hear Sherlock leave. He just waited, waited for several minutes, and when he turned around, Sherlock was gone.
All that was left of him was his scarf, folded neatly and placed on the chair next to the baby’s cot.
John calmly walked around to the chair. He picked up the scarf and he sat down. He pressed it to his face and he could smell Sherlock, mint and smoke and something else entirely.
And then John put his head on the cot and sobbed.
He cried as his heart split in two.
*
‘Mycroft.’ John nodded, opening the door to let the older Holmes brother inside. As usual, Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the state of the flat before his face broke into a totally uncharacteristic smile as he caught sight of his nephew.
‘My!’ Will crowed, running across the messy sitting room and hurling himself into Mycroft’s arms. The Alpha hugged him tight, smiling at his little face. ‘Hello, nephew mine.’
‘Look, My.’ Will said, as Mycroft placed him carefully on the ground. ‘I drawed a picture.’
‘Drew, William.’ Mycroft corrected, one hand placed on the toddler’s head. ‘Will you show me?’
Will nodded excitedly, sprinting out of the door and upstairs to John’s old bedroom. John had moved him there just after Will’s first birthday; the little boy adored having his own bedroom, though he often had ‘sleepovers’ in Sherlock’s old room, with John. He had slept there since Sherlock had fallen, almost four years previously, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
‘How are you, John?’ Mycroft asked once they were alone. John shrugged, leading the way into the kitchen and gesturing at the tea he had had Mrs Hudson bring up, when he remembered it was the day of Mycroft’s fortnightly visit.
John poured a cup for Mycroft, who sat down on the chair and sniffed as he caught sight of last night’s dirty dishes in the sink. ‘Fine. How are you?’
Mycroft laughed. ‘John, John, John. We both know who you want to know about.’
John gritted his teeth. Since Will was born, he and Mycroft had grown closer, mostly because Mycroft and Will had been best friends since the moment they first met, but the older man was still an arrogant prick most of the time. Still, he was John’s only connection to Sherlock, so John had to put up with it.
John nodded tightly. Mycroft sighed. ‘I don’t know where he is, at the moment. He was in America, solving a case, but he…he left sometime last month, and I lost him. He emailed Mummy last week to let her know he was alright, but when I tracked the computer he sent it from I found it smashed in a ditch in Birmingham.’
‘So he’s here?’ John said, surprised. Sherlock hadn’t come back to England since the night John told him to get out, preferring to tour the road, solving cases, ignoring his family, ignoring John.
He hadn’t even seen Will since the night he was born.
‘It seems so.’ Mycroft sipped his tea delicately. ‘I doubt he’ll make contact with you, though. He took what you told him to heart, it seems.’
‘I couldn’t have him living here when he didn’t love me.’ John said stubbornly for what must have been the hundredth time. Everytime he missed Sherlock like this, so acutely it felt like his brain might explode, he would repeat that to himself, trying to convince himself he had made the right decision, telling Sherlock to get out.
It hadn’t worked, so far.
‘No one expected him to just leave,’ Mycroft conceded. ‘I assumed he would stay here, to see his son, at least. He refuses to even look at pictures, John. He won’t even let me tell him William’s name. He says he won’t be able to stay away, if he sees him, if he knows him.’
John nodded, looking at the floor. ‘I can’t, Mycroft.’
Mycroft didn’t reply, staring out of the window and sipping his tea. John glanced at the door and saw Will, holding his picture and looking at John anxiously. ‘Hey, baby.’ John smiled. ‘Are you ok?’
Will’s smile reappeared; reassured that everything was ok, he trotted over to John and hauled himself on his knee, waving his picture at Mycroft. ‘Look, My.’
Mycroft took the picture, smiling. ‘This is awfully good, William.’
Will beamed with pride. ‘There’s me, there’s Papa, there’s you, there’s Mrs Hudson, there’s Granny and Grandpa, and Auntie Harry, and ‘strade, and Daddy!’
Mycroft’s smile slipped, just as John’s had when he had first seen the picture. It was a good drawing for a child who wasn’t even two, but the figure on the end, ‘Daddy,’ was simply a stick figure with no face and a blue scarf.
John didn’t talk about Sherlock, much; he didn’t mention him around Will. Will hadn’t reached the age where he asked questions about his other parent; all he knew was that his favourite blue scarf, which the boy wore everytime he went outside, rain or shine, had originally belonged to his Daddy.
‘You should sign it, baby.’ John said, trying to lighten the mood. Will smiled and grabbed the paper, taking the pen out of John’s hand and scribbling Will at the bottom. ‘Is it that good, My?’
‘Of course, William. It is the best piece of art I have ever seen.’ Mycroft said, completely honest. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Mycroft folded it carefully; for all his sneering looks and emotionless exterior, Mycroft was a real softie; he had an entire wall covered with Will’s pictures at the Diogenes club.
Will seized another piece of paper and began scribbling on it. ‘This is a kangaroo,’ he informed John and Mycroft. ‘It’s in ‘stralia.’
Mycroft watched him in interest. ‘He’s left-handed?’
John nodded, absent-mindedly running his hands through his son’s thick, black, curly hair. ‘Yeah. Why?’
‘He gets that from your side.’ Mycroft muttered. ‘None of us Holmes’ use the sinister hand.’
John chuckled. ‘No. You’re all angels.’
Mycroft sniffed. ‘My parents love you.’
John nodded. ‘In all seriousness, your father is an angel. Siger is…’
‘Ordinary.’ Mycroft supplied. ‘Whereas Sherlock and I-‘
‘Take after Violet.’ John finished.
Will raised his head and Mycroft abruptly stopped the conversation. ‘Excellent kangaroo, William.’ He congratulated. Will grinned again. ‘My,’ he said suddenly, ‘are you free tomorrow?’
Mycroft looked at John in surprise. ‘I’m sure I am,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘It’s my birthday.’ Will whispered. John gasped theatrically. ‘Really?’
Will stared at him in shock. ‘You forgot, Papa!’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ John smiled, kissing the top of his son’s head.
Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Ah, yes. The twenty-first of December. Two years old. I am free, William, and I’d be delighted to attend.’
‘We’re going to go to the zoo!’ Will shouted, jumping up and down excitedly. ‘And we’re gonna get ice cream, and go to dinner, and I’m going to go to sleep at midnight!’
John smiled. ‘First I’m hearing about this, but why not.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Mycroft said, standing up and winking at John. ‘I should go, then. I need to clear my calendar, reschedule the meeting between the US, UK and Russia about North Korea…I’ll call you, John.’
‘Bye, Mycroft.’ John said. Will ran after his uncle, following him to the front door and waving him off. John smiled as he watched his son stomp back up the stairs and burst into the room. ‘Papa, can we go to Angelo’s?’ He asked.
John bit his lip. ‘Darling…’
‘Please, Papa?’ Will pouted, batting those long eyelashes at his father, knowing that John would cave, as he always did.
John sighed. ‘Go and get your coat. It’s far too late for you, young man.’
‘Don’t need sleep!’ Will shouted as he ran up to his bedroom. ‘Too busy!’
John smiled, even as his heart ached with sorrow. The resemblance between Sherlock and Will was uncanny, both physically and mentally.
Angelo received them just as warmly as always, bowing to Will, who stood up primly in his best Mycroft impression and smiled. ‘Table for two, please.’ He said, and Angelo laughed delightedly. ‘Anything for you, master Will.’
Will grinned and skipped after the ex-con. ‘Thanks,’ John said as he sat down. Angelo smiled, looking outside. It was already seven and had been dark for several hours, the very dead of winter. ‘Anything for Sherlock’s family, John. You know that.’
Will clearly wasn’t listening, scanning the menu and sounding out the harder words. ‘What’s Aldente?’ He demanded. ‘When will I be able to read everything, Papa?’
‘When you’re older.’ John smiled.
Dinner passed quickly, Angelo bringing out their food as soon as it was ready. Two people congratulated John on the behaviour of his son and John beamed with pride; it was true that few two year olds could be taken out for dinner and not just scream.
By the time they were done and Angelo had refused to let them pay, it was raining. Hard. John wanted nothing more than to get a cab, go home, have a bath and go to sleep. He had wrapped all of Will’s presents and ordered the cake; everything was ready.
Of course, Will had other plans. ‘Can we walk home, Papa?’
‘It’s raining, darling.’ John said, looking at the black cab sitting so conveniently outside.
Will’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Please, Papa? It’s my birthday tomorrow.’
John sighed. ‘Fine. But we’re having a hot shower as soon as we get back.’
It wasn’t a long walk, ten minutes at most, but the rain was coming down harder and harder. Will was having a great time, splashing in puddles, pulling his anorak over his head and waving at the passing cabs.
They had almost reached the turn-off for Baker Street when Will gasped. ‘Look, Papa!’ He pointed in the middle of the road, where a small kitten was sitting, trembling as the cars dashed past. ‘She needs help!’
‘No, Will!’ John shouted, but it was too late; Will had already run onto the road, narrowly missing a car. John took a step backwards, ready to sprint onto the road, his heart racing, adrenalin pumping through his body as he saw a lorry heading straight for the little boy crouched in the road. Will screeched as the kitten jumped away, raising his arms to protect himself-
Someone pushed John out of the way. A tall figure, dark in the light of the street lamp, seized the little boy and slid around the front of the lorry before running back to John.
John hauled his son out of the figure’s arms and kissed the top of his head as Will sobbed. ‘What were you thinking, what were you thinking?’ He said over and over. ‘You could’ve been killed-‘
‘Sorry, Papa.’ Will sobbed, rubbing his head against John’s cheek. ‘I didn’t mean too.’
John looked at the figure, standing just out of the light of the street lamp, and smiled. ‘Thank you-‘
The figure stepped into the light.
Pale skin, curly hair. Purple shirt, grey coat. Blue eyes and carved cheekbones.
John almost dropped his son.
‘Hello, John.’ Sherlock said. Will, sniffing in his father’s arms, looked at Sherlock in interest. ‘Who’s that, Papa?’ He asked curiously.
John blinked and stepped back. ‘Sher-‘
‘Did you miss me?’ Sherlock whispered, stepping forwards.
John’s mouth fell open. ‘Sherlock-‘
And Sherlock darted forwards, gloved hands coasting the sides of John’s face, and kissed him on the lips.
John forgot about his son. He forgot about the rain. He forgot that he hadn’t seen Sherlock in years. He forgot that Sherlock didn’t love him.
John kissed Sherlock back, as hard as he could, as water trickled down his face.
Sherlock pulled away abruptly. ‘John-‘
‘I-‘ John started, but Sherlock shook his head. ‘Listen. John, I love you. I’ve loved you for six years, John, and I will loved you for a million more. I jumped off Bart’s to save your life, I came back because I couldn’t live without you, I came to see you on the night our son was born to try and resolve everything. I left because I know you don’t love me, but I can’t do it anymore, John. I don’t- I can’t live without you, John, because I love you more than anything and everything. I can’t keep running. I won’t live at Baker Street, I won’t pressure you, I just need to be near-‘
‘I love you.’ John said simply, staring in wonder at the man opposite him as his brain struggled to comprehend what, exactly, was happening, what, exactly, Sherlock was saying. ‘I always have. I didn’t want you to live with me, us, if you didn’t, so I sent you away, God, Sherlock, this is insane, we haven’t seen each other in two years-‘
‘Papa?’ Will said, staring in concern at his father. ‘Papa?’
Sherlock’s eyes darted to his son, but with a supreme effort he looked back at John. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you.’ John said, brain still incapacitated at the insanity of the situation.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sherlock murmured, hair dripping water onto John’s head. ‘So, so sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ John whispered. ‘You’re here, now, and we can be together. Right?’
‘Right.’ Sherlock breathed, and he leant down and kissed John on the lips as hard as he could as Will stared in awe from John’s arms and the rain crashed down around them.