Author's note: OK... my first Mpreg. Just... let me know if you liked it. Not an English speaker. Apologies in advance for my mistakes.


Sherlock envied John so much.

John Hamish Watson was a typical, common, mortal, every-day man. Everyone could know it by just looking at him; knitted jumpers, well ironed shirts, blue jeans, brown shoes, neat haircut, tea lover, jam addicted watching a crap telly show about a mad man in a blue box calling himself 'The Doctor'.

Sherlock would never understand how a man can travel in a police booth, call himself 'The Doctor' and regenerate.

But there was John, sitting on his armchair, with his legs stretched, a relaxed expression on his face, a big cup of earl grey in one hand and a toast painted with a generous amount of strawberry jam in the other. There was he, watching a childish TV show with a generous amount of strawberry jam in both corners of his lips. There was he, so relaxed.

There was John, clueless of what Sherlock, his partner for a couple of months now, had to tell him.

And there was Sherlock sitting in front of him, with both hands glued together under his chin. He wasn't even toying with the words. He knew what he had to say. He had calculated the answer to his word —and somehow— Sherlock had planned what was to be of them for the next months—or at least for the following thirty six weeks.

The man in front of him looked so placid, so relaxed, so happy with himself. The cup of tea was still hot, the toast were just as he liked them. For God's sake, even the jam was his favourite one. John liked to have his tea sweet. John liked sweet things. John was sweet.

John will understand.

Sherlock turned the telly off and he earned a very angry, yet confused look. There was a deep frown between John's eyebrows and he was still chewing when he tried to speak. Apparently it was the 50th anniversary of that Doctor Who show.

But Sherlock wanted to get over it.

"I'm pregnant," he said, not hesitating any more.

He heard John swallowing hard.

And his own heart pounding as hard as it has ever done so since he could recall.


Loving John Watson was something that had to be taken out of his brain and out of his heart —somehow— to be checked and proven —somehow— over a table, under a microscope, within test tubes, scientifically. Sherlock could no longer find a proper explanation as to why there were moments in which he needed so badly to be caressed, kissed, loved and looked after by John Watson.

What did John Watson have to make him feel useless when he was not around?

This never happened before. Sherlock Holmes was completely fine wandering around the world by himself. He could sleep, eat, clean himself, breathe, just be himself without him and yet, once John Watson appeared in his life, everything he had known had no sense anymore. His entire world had been turned upside down and there was no turning back to the old days in which Sherlock Holmes was just one man.

Now if you pronounce the name 'Sherlock Holmes', you immediately think of him. You immediately think of 'John Watson'.

But that is just the visible part of the iceberg—not the main problem here.

When John Watson showed Sherlock Holmes what was a kiss — a real kiss, certain detective wanted to kiss not only lips but also the skin everywhere the ex Army doctor will let him; forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, chest, hands, arms, and then he moved downwards and John Watson had to teach Sherlock what love was.

The night Sherlock Holmes discovered sex, he realised there was a new world he had never considered before. There was a new world filled with new feelings, new sensations, new touches, new movements, new sounds and orgasms. Sherlock Holmes also learnt his heart could pound harder within his chest every time John Watson was around.

The night John Watson took Sherlock Holmes' body, he realised certain detective was new in this thing people call sex, and not only that, but he was as much inexperienced as a teenager in their first time. Though Sherlock Homes was thirty six years old, John Watson realised his lover had never touched any other body but his.

Sherlock Holmes knew the basics because hell, we all know babies don't come from Paris. Yet he was as scared as the most virginal girl you could ever find. But John Watson was such a patient man. Something you have to know about this man, about John Watson, is that the man lives to give people the pleasure they need, the pleasure they want. He won't never, ever, rush you. He will, always — and most of the times, teach you what is to love.

The first time someone took Sherlock Holmes' breath away, was on his own bed. Who did this? John Watson. How did he do it? He was between Sherlock's long, trembling legs, caressing his cheek with one hand and whispering to his ear to take deep breaths because the pain was going to pass soon. Because after the pain of a first time, waves of pleasure are to come.

Always.

The first time Sherlock begged for mercy he was in all fours biting his lower lip so hard that there were little blood stains on the sheets, and John Watson was holding his hips still so he was able to fuck him in the correct angle—so he could hit that soft spot inside Sherlock.

'Have mercy.'

Twice.

'Have mercy.'

John thrust deeper. He had a hand stroking the hardness between Sherlock's legs as his other hand was on the detective's throat.

The transition from being friends to being partners—boyfriends, if I must, started just after that moment when, after teaching Sherlock Holmes what was love, John kissed his lips and said: 'I want you'.

'Are you sure I am what you want?'

'I want all of you. Everything.'

If you imagined they slept together every night, shared baths and quick showers, quick pecks while queuing to get a coffee at the shop downstairs or if they even held hands, your are very wrong my friend. Since the first moment, Sherlock stated he didn't want kisses, sometimes affectionate nicknames and sex out of the four walls of his room—or their flat more likely.

And that's how it worked; they slept in their rooms respectively. They carried on with their lives. There were nights in which Sherlock would sit next to John, and with a deep kiss or sometimes pressing a hand on the most intimate place of the ex soldier's body, he would let him know what he wanted. They would lock inside Sherlock's room and long sighs, moans, deep kisses and an awful lot more could be heard. And as soon as it was done, a 'Goodnight' would be enough for John to understand he had to take his clothes and go to his own room.

It was them.

That's how their loved worked.

And John Watson knew it was not what he had dreamt of when he was a boy and imagined having a sweet wife with whom he will sleep next to every night. He didn't have that sweet wife cooking his favourite dishes once he got home after work. He didn't have that sweet wife smiling every time he was tired, in an attempt to make him feel better. John Watson realised he was reaching his forties and he was not married to a sweet woman. He was in a relationship with a dark haired man who couldn't cook, nor smile.

But he was fine with it.

John Watson was fine with the life he had.


Five months, three weeks, and five days later after sharing the bed for the first time with John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was alone in the kitchen and he was staring at the blood sample he had. It was his own blood. He had to get that experiment done as soon as possible because he had to know —as soon as possible— if what he was thinking was right. Knowing before the third month was always the best.

It was for the best if he wanted to get rid of it.

Sherlock stared at the test tube filled with his blood. The reactive showed him what his theories had been suggesting for a couple of days.

The test was positive.

As the three pregnancy tests he had bought from the chemist's.

Finding himself pregnant was not a surprise. It was a very common thing now.

Sherlock started to think he might be pregnant when he started feeling something different about himself. For a week he couldn't stand the tea John religiously made for him every morning. He had terrible headaches and his mood swings were, if they had been terrible to anyone, they were insufferable now. Fainting in a crime scene and feeling dizzy after walking up the stairs was not common.

And that night, that night in which they were very much lazy to go and buy condoms, Sherlock knew was the night they had conceived it.

It was still printed in his memory.

John was behind him, he was taking him hard, just as much hard as Sherlock had asked him to. Both were randy. It always happened after a good case. It always happened when Sherlock was injured, when he had fallen or when he had been beat or punched on. No sooner had they got home than John was cleaning his wounds when Sherlock suggested he didn't need to be taken care of —at least not in that way.

He moved his hips backwards and felt John filling him completely. He could feel every inch of his John inside him.

John's seed was warm, as his kisses, as his touches, as his words.

As his love.


John took a deep breath and put his cup back to its respective saucer. For the first time, Sherlock feared him. The consulting detective felt his lip twitch as he looked at John's eyes, his lips, the wrinkles on his face.

And the words to come.

Because Sherlock Holmes couldn't read minds —yet.

He could see facts. And deduce.

"I don't want children."

There was a huge miscalculation of the facts. John Watson liked sweet tea, sweet jam and therefore he was sweet. He was tender. Every child loved John. He took for granted John loved children.

John Watson was reaching his forty and for what Sherlock could always tell, John was broody. He had always been. That's why everyone gave him pitiful looks when they realised John was dating a man and not a woman. The society was still used women were the only ones who could conceive children and bear them. Sherlock thought so too.

Until the day he realised he was pregnant.

But John didn't want it.

"I don't want it either," said Sherlock, nonchalantly.

John looked down and then he met Sherlock's grey eyes. "Why are you telling me?"

Because I miscalculated you, John. I thought you would want it. I thought you would want it as much as I do. That's what Sherlock thought. And that's what he didn't say.

Sherlock picked up his violin and turned to face the windows. "I'm getting rid of it."

John turned the TV on again.