Disclaimer: Full author's note at the end of the chapter, where I go into a little bit of detail about the story. I do not own Sherlock (in any form, BBC version or literary classic) and all pregnancy information is from .com and .com. Some of the other medical information I got off of .com. I also do not own the songs from the album Masterpiece Theatre by the band Marianas Trench (see full A/N at end of chapter for more details). And if a line from the tv series 'Friends' has seeped in here and there, I do not own those, either. I am only going to post this disclaimer once, unless something else comes up that I feel I need to state. Otherwise, just assume that these same words go for each chapter.

Notes and warnings: This story contains slash, more than a few swear words, and mpreg! It is set post-Reichenbach, though I do not really state a definite time, or allude to what happened to bring Sherlock and John back together. I will let you fill in that blank space with your favorite post-Reichenbach fic, as you see fit. This story also starts off with an established JohnxSherlock relationship—again, you can fill that hole however you like as well. Take your pick of any number of great fics that pertain to those two things. Thanks to my ultra, uber-amazing betas Haelia and Jenamy! X's and O's to both of you!

X.X.X

The nursing staff that worked behind the front counter were unusually quiet, not speaking to one another. Even though Sherlock didn't know these people, he could see the flicker of their eyes to one another that suggested a certain level of stress that settled all around each one of them, and he knew that the silence in this work environment was not normal. The few people who were desperate enough in their illnesses to risk the visit to this particular doctor's office sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs in frightened silence, and Sherlock's sharp eyes took a quick scan of the few of them.

An older woman, who had a very bad cough. When she leaned forward in her chair, Sherlock saw her wince at a soreness in her diaphragm, and he knew that she had probably waited a few days before venturing out to the clinic, hoping that he protest mobs would dissipate soon.

A younger woman, hair lanky and unkempt. Shaking fingers picked nervously at the threadbare seams of her shirt and she wasn't wearing a jacket, odd for the slight chill that sat in the air this morning. Addict, Sherlock thought, letting his gaze rove over her, uninterested. She was probably homeless and had donned her cleanest clothing for this 'doctor's visit', leaving her coat elsewhere because it was too filthy for her to wear without raising suspicions.

And another woman with a small child, who sat unmoving as he leaned against his mother. She had her arm wrapped around him, hugging him tightly, and her eyes never left the large windows and the crowd that could be seen through it.

All women. No man would risk being caught in one of these clinics today. Or tomorrow, even.

The nervousness in the small waiting room was palpable—even the junkie's eyes darted to the windows every now and then, and Sherlock could imagine that she was trying to talk herself in to staying in her seat, for the pain killers.

He couldn't blame them for being uneasy. If he were a lesser person, he would probably be as well.

Actually, if he were a lesser person, he most likely would not be here.

The mob outside was growing bigger and bigger as the minutes ticked away. A few police officers were patrolling the perimeter—Sherlock could see them through the large glass windows of the office building—but there were far too many people for the handful of cops. If the mob decided to get violent, there would be no stopping them. Sherlock understood the fact that Scotland Yard was dividing all of their agents between the other clinics in London, but still, it made him slightly mad: there were innocent civilians in the doctor's office that had nothing to do with the reason the mob was outside.

"Mr. Holmes?" a nervous voice called out, and Sherlock looked up to see an anxious-looking, mousy nurse standing before him. "The doctor will see you now."

He nodded silently and stood, following her with one last look of trepidation behind him, at the growing crowd that seemed to be pushing itself closer to the windows.

In the back of the office, the low, angry grumble of the mob was silenced by walls and doors, and Sherlock was led down the small corridor towards one of the exam rooms. To his surprise, when the nurse opened the door, the doctor was already waiting for him, and the nurse quietly left them to it, not bothering to stay to do the mundane, necessary tasks of taking his vitals and preparing all the information for the doctor's viewing.

That was interesting. He never knew a doctor to get his hands dirty with those trivial tasks—the preliminary exam was always done by the Physician Assistant or a nurse. Family practitioners were only interested in the root of the problem.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Greenwhich greeted him once the nurse had closed the door behind her, leaving the two men alone in the small exam room.

The doctor was an older gentleman who had a nice disposition and a caring heart, and he smiled congenially when he greeted Sherlock as soon as the tall brunette walked into the room. The physician motioned for Sherlock to take a seat at the exam table in the middle of the room, but the consulting detective declined, continuing to stand. If the aging doctor was put off by Sherlock's apparent rudeness, he did not show it. "I have to say, I was surprised to have received a call from you regarding this situation," he said to the man, amicably enough.

Standing across the room from him, Sherlock could see that Dr. Greenwhich looked extremely tired, so different from the last time the consulting detective had seen him, only a few months ago, embracing his teenage daughter as Sherlock brought them back together after the kidnapping. Now, he had the lines around his eyes, mouth and forehead that he had worn the entire time his daughter had been missing.

Sherlock could understand why.

"Why is the nurse not going to check me over first?" he asked, not bothering with all of the pleasantries of polite conversation that John had tried to instill in him over the past few years. That's not why he was here, after all.

"Ah, well," a small smile played at the corners of Dr. Greenwhich's lips. "As you can see, I'm not near as busy as I would be on a normal day and…I would like to take the lead on these particular visits by clients. No need to drag all my staff down with me if things are to turn sour. I already feel that I've asked too much of them as it is, agreeing to be one of the few clinics that…well, can't back out now, can I?"

Sherlock said nothing, because the simple answer was that, yes, of course Dr. Greenwhich could back out. But Sherlock knew he wouldn't. The doctor was trying to prove a point—for what, Sherlock had not yet deduced—and they both knew that the older gentleman would not turn Sherlock away now.

"I know you're not here for advice or lectures on it," the doctor continued, staring at Sherlock intensely. "I trust you've done all the necessary research for yourself and come to your decision on your own?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Like he would be here to discuss the options and the consequences! But he knew that the doctor was weary and wary, and, despite everything going on in the world outside this building, he was being as accommodating to Sherlock as he could be at the moment.

"Right then. Do we need to discuss anything at all? The side-effects, the procedure, the…results?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood before the physician, because, contrary to what John or Lestrade said, he did get tired of proving to everyone that he knew everything. "I understand that it is a series of pills to be taken for several days and that the…transformation…will not be pleasant," he rambled off, giving the doctor a smirk that slowly faded. "I assume it is nothing that would end up in a trip to the A&E?"

Dr. Greenwhich shook his head and made a back and forth motion with both of his hands. "No, no. It should be uncomfortable—of course—but nothing too serious," he answered reassuringly.

"Good." The less people who knew about this right now, the better. And John would get immediately suspicious. Of course John would. "And after the…change, ovulation will begin as soon as my body has a chance to get used to everything?"

Nodding his head the doctor said, "Yes, I'd give it sometime between 1 and 3 months. There has not been any recordings that it should take more than that." The old physician turned towards the cabinets in the exam room and began shuffling through drawers and cupboards, pulling a few boxes and some small plastic bags out. "Along with the round of Synathida pills, a male-specific ovulation test comes as part and parcel. It works much the same as a female ovulation kit—you will dip the strip into your urine and the result will be shown. It's simple enough to do yourself at home beginning the week after you finish your round of Synathida." He turned back to Sherlock, handing the tall, dark haired man a few of the bags that he had shoved the pills and ovulation kits into.

"You understand that this procedure can only end in a Caesarian section?" Dr. Greenwhich asked, voice stern. "Of sorts," he explained a bit more. "The pill will reform your appendix, making it hospitable for fertilization. You will have to be operated on and your appendix will be removed once you are at the end of your term."

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply grasping the little bags that Dr. Greenwhich gave to him silently.

Dr. Greenwhich kept his dull brown eyes on Sherlock, sharp and shining behind his wire-framed glasses, mouth set in a stern line. "You will not be able to do this again," he continued lowly.

"I understand completely."

The doctor nodded his head once, with finality, and turned to open the door to the exam room for Sherlock to exit, extending his other out to shake the detective's hand.

"Good luck with this, Mr. Holmes," he said as Sherlock reluctantly reached out to grasp his hand and shake it. "You are a brave man, knowing what you want so decisively." Sherlock gave the doctor's hand a quick shake and let it go as soon as he could, staring at the older gentleman before him as he continued to speak to Sherlock.

"The world is changing, and you have to understand that. This will not be easy. On anyone."

Sherlock nodded his head silently, not sure what else to say in the situation, uncommon for him. But he didn't dwell on that at the moment—he wanted nothing more than to get out of the doctor's office and back to Baker Street before John came home from the surgery. He swept past Dr. Greenwhich, giving the older man a quick nod in farewell, but the man reached out and took hold of Sherlock's arm, his grip tight, indicating a fear that the doctor couldn't hide any longer.

"For God's sake, go out the back door," Dr. Greenwhich said, turning Sherlock around and pushing him towards the other end of the corridor. "They will know what you were here for the instant you step outside. They've kept mostly to themselves these past few days, but why push our luck, wouldn't you agree?"

Xxx

Blast the wretched doctor. The pain was almost unbearable. 'Uncomfortable' his arse! His insides were spasming and roiling around each other. It was unsettling. It was painful and scary and gut wrenching. Literally.

He tried to breathe through the pain, and his hands came up of their own accord to cup his belly. He was certain that he felt slight movements beneath the skin of his fingers and abdomen—his stomach and liver being pushed unceremoniously out of the way and his intestines inching their way higher in their cavity.

He knew his organs weren't actually moving enough for him to feel them that vividly, but his mind, as always, was simply trying to comprehend the situation he had put himself in.

He was at the end of his cycle of pills, and for the past 2 days he could do nothing but lie in bed, in too much pain to even jump at the call from Lestrade about a case.

Figure it out yourself, you moron. I'm too busy dying.

John, of course, had worried the instant Sherlock had said that he was too unwell to take the case. Sherlock had to try to convince him that it was only a small flu bug, nothing to get worked up over, but John seemed reluctant to buy his story.

He reached out quickly for the trash bin that had been by his bedside for the past 2 days and pulled it towards him. He was surprised there was anything to throw up at all, excluding organs in his body that were being unceremoniously pushed aside and deemed as unimportant by those damn little pills. In fact, that may have been a kidney he had just thrown up. He was fairly certain it was.

Outside of his bedroom door he heard John knock, and the doctor's soft voice called out to him. "Sherlock? All right in there? I brought some dinner, if you're hungry."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over in the bed, wrapping the sheet around himself as a spasm of shivers took over his body.

"Sherlock?"

He heard the door creak open slightly, and the only thing he wanted more than to keep throwing up at the moment was to deal with John fussing over him.

"Go away, John!" he told his pillow moodily.

"Maybe we should take you to the A& E. See what's wrong…." John's voice was closer now, almost right by the bed. In the dim light that was shining from the lamp on his bedside table he saw the shadow of John reaching out a hand towards him.

"No!" He drew away from the hand that was coming for his forehead, sinking lower into the sheets. If John felt his fever, he would want to rush Sherlock straight to the hospital. That could not be allowed to happen. "Just leave me the bloody hell alone!"

His voice was venomous and from a gap in the sheets he saw John draw back his hand, stung by Sherlock's tone. "All right," the blonde man said softly, at a loss as to what to do with Sherlock. "Just…call me if you need anything."

John walked out of the room as quietly as he had come, shutting the door softly behind him and leaving the brunette man alone in his misery. Sherlock simply rolled over in bed and waited impatiently for the worst to pass.

Xxx

Thankfully, a few days later Sherlock found his reprieve. The pain in his abdomen finally began to subside until it was nothing more than a dull ache, constant and nagging—especially when he over-exerted himself—but nothing that was intolerable. As he began to feel the energy to get out of bed return, he knew his body was gearing up for the next step in the process: ovulation.

The ovulation test was not unlike any number of experiments he had done in the past. And, in some, he had often used his own fluids, so he was not squeamish about handling his urine. When John left for the surgery in the mornings, Sherlock would bring out the strips from the hiding spot he kept them in—wrapped in a plastic bag and put inside the hole on the underside of the skull in the living room—and he dipped the strips methodically, waiting patiently for results he knew would appear in moments and recording his data meticulously. He did not ovulate for the first week after his round of Synathida, nor the week after, even. But he did not worry—every scientist knows that patience always leads to expected results, and this was no different.

When, finally, in the third week, his ovulation strip showed him a positive reading, he recorded the data with a grin on his face. He was finally able to move on to the next step of the experiment—the part he knew he would enjoy greatly.

He was going to make John Watson get him good and pregnant.

Xxx

They had been having a physical relationship now for a few years—the inevitable conclusion to their partnership, he had told John—and he knew that the fertilization process would by far be the easiest step in the experiment.

He was not disappointed.

It was not terribly hard to get John to have sex with him repeatedly over the course of his ovulation cycle. The blonde man had always been a sexual creature, as Sherlock had gathered not long after John had first moved in with him, and although he was a few years older now than when they had first met, John proved to be a voracious man who had a healthy sexual appetite.

Especially when it came to Sherlock.

All the brunette man had to do was make a kiss linger for a second too long, run a hand down the blonde's thigh, press their bodies together just right in a hug, and John was lost. Sherlock knew this, and took advantage of every trick he had up his sleeve over the course of his ovulation cycle.

After a few days of constant, nonstop, almost teenage-like sex, John did seem to get a little suspicious. Whenever Sherlock allowed him up for air, the blonde man seemed to recall that they hadn't shagged so tirelessly in years—since they had first gotten together and had not been able to keep their hands off of one another—but before he could dwell any more on it, Sherlock would pull him back down into their bed, intent on making John forget how to even formulate a sentence.

It seemed to work for the most part, and any time that they were not spending shagging, John was too busy trying to catch his breath or recover the use of his limbs to even think about why Sherlock was fucking him so relentlessly.

On a few occasions, Sherlock was even able to forget that he was supposed to be shagging John in the name of science. During those times, the consulting detective was more than happy to have another go for the second time that day, this time just for himself.

John, for the most part, seemed more than happy—and willing—to give Sherlock everything that he could. But, of course, every man, no matter how horny, eventually comes to a point where they just have no energy left. When John finally reached this point, he could do nothing more than lie on his back in their bed, spread eagle and naked as the day he was born, trying to catch his breath as perspiration dried on his skin. His short, dirty blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, and his pupils were so dilated that they seemed to mesh with the dark blue of his irises, making it almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Sherlock, lying next to him, was already snaking a hand out once again, wrapping long pale fingers around John's flaccid cock.

The man beside him twitched uncomfortably at the over-stimulation and groaned.

"Sherlock, wait!" he complained, trying to curl into himself and push Sherlock's incessant hand away futilely. "I'm not as young as I used to be—give me a minute!"

From the other side of the bed, Sherlock only made a noise of discontent in the back of his throat as John tried to cover himself up with their blanket, trying to put an end to Sherlock's exercises.

"You're sucking the life right out of me. Literally!" John exclaimed, turning his face away as Sherlock moved to kiss him. "I need a drink of water or, better yet, a cup of tea. Anything to get some fluids back into me."

"I can give you some fluids, John," Sherlock said cheekily, an evil smirk growing on his full lips. "If that's what you want."

John could do nothing but groan in frustration and weariness, and wait for Sherlock to attack once more.

Xxx

Exactly a fortnight after the last day of his and John's two week long 'sex marathon'—as the blonde man so lovingly called it—Sherlock was down at Dr. Greenwhich's office yet again, having his blood drawn to test for conception.

Dr. Greenwhich was once again attending him, true to his word about wanting to be the only doctor seeing his few Synathida patients. Sherlock, for his part, sat on the uncomfortable little bed in the bleak exam room, looking much too tall for the standard issue table and holding his arm out tiredly as the doctor continued to draw what seemed like a tremendous amount of blood from him.

"How was the reconstruction?" Dr. Greenwhich asked companionably into the still silence of the small room.

"Uncomfortable. I've only just recovered from the spasms and the pain that came along with it."

"Well, didn't think it was going to be a walk in the park, did you?" the doctor asked with a small smirk on his thin lips.

Sherlock decided that was one of those questions John had told him about in the past—hypothetical and not requiring a response.

"It's completely normal, so I hear," the doctor continued, when it was obvious that Sherlock was not going to respond to him. "The pain you felt after the round of Synathida was your appendix restructuring itself to prepare for ovulation and be able to accommodate a fetus once implantation has occurred."

Sherlock hummed his interest. He knew all of this information, but he guessed that the doctor just didn't like uncomfortable silences, so he let the man continue to speak.

"After we test your blood, we will be able to tell if implantation has occurred. Don't be too upset if it hasn't—you will continue to ovulate monthly, until you become pregnant. So there will be plenty more chances for you."

"And if implantation has already occurred?" Sherlock asked, somewhat haughtily. He had no proof that his or John's sperm was superior to anyone else's but it only made sense to Sherlock that this was as inevitably enhanced as everything else pertaining to the duo.

If Dr. Greenwhich noticed the condescension, he let it pass. "Well, if you've been implanted by your partner's sperm, the ball of cells that is the beginning stages of the fetus—called a blastocyst during these early weeks—will take up residence in your appendix, which will be acting—for all intents and purposes—in place of a uterus."

He seemed to be pleased with the amount of blood that he had taken from Sherlock, and he began to remove the butterfly needle and tubing attached to the man's arm as he continued to speak. "The part of the blastocyst that will develop into the placenta will start producing the pregnancy hormone hCG, human chorionic gonadotropin, which will trigger production of estrogen and progesterone in your body. In the early stages of male pregnancy these hormones, which will contribute to lots of other things throughout your pregnancy, will line your appendix with the necessary tissue that it needs to be sure the blastocyst implants into the walls of the appendix. The hormones will also stimulate placental growth. "

He placed a cotton ball into the crook of Sherlock's arm and gestured for the brunette man to hold it there. Sherlock pressed down hard, trying not to remember the feel of other needles being drawn out of his veins and the rush that always followed afterward. Instead, he focused on what the doctor was saying.

"Amniotic fluid will begin to collect around the blastocyst in the cavity that will become the amniotic sac. This fluid is meant to cushion the baby in the weeks and months ahead. For the first few weeks, the blastocyst will be receiving oxygen and nutrients—and discarding waste products—through a primitive circulation system made up of microscopic tunnels that connect the developing baby to the blood vessels in the wall of your appendix. The placenta won't be developed enough to take over this task until the next few weeks. This early on, the primitive placenta is made up of two layers," he was talking with his hands now, holding phantom organs in between his fingers and moving them up, down and around, as if he could show Sherlock just exactly what was happening in his body at the moment. "Its cells are tunneling into the lining of your appendix, creating spaces for your blood to flow so that the developing placenta will be able to provide nutrients and oxygen to your growing baby when it starts to function at the end of the fourth week of your pregnancy. If you are pregnant now, the amniotic sac should be growing in the next few days. This sac will house your baby. Also to come soon will be the amniotic fluid, which will cushion her as she grows, and the yolk sac, which will produce your baby's red blood cells and help deliver nutrients to her until the placenta has developed and is ready to take over this duty."

Finished with his explanation, Dr. Greenwhich sat back in his seat as Sherlock stared at him silently, being sure he had taken in all of the doctor's information.

HCG will produce estrogen and progesterone. Blastocyst will implant into walls of appendix. Next comes the amniotic fluid and sac, then the placenta. Right.

"Any questions?" the doctor asked, looking as though he were expecting plenty.

"No."

He would never get used to the look of uncertainty that people gave him when he was able to comprehend something that they didn't think he should. But, thankfully, Dr. Greenwhich was already accustomed to the inner workings of Sherlock's mind and he did not comment on the matter any further.

"We will call you as soon as we get the test results back, but, if you are pregnant, you may develop more symptoms before you even hear back from us. Your…breasts…" he said, looking sheepish and slightly uncomfortable for the first time since he had seen Sherlock, "male as they may be, will become tingly, sore, and feel a little swollen, as your male body struggles with the fact that you do not have the necessary mammary glands that the hormones are meant to stimulate, thanks to the progesterone and estrogen coursing through your system. Also, another symptom that may come up is frequent urination. The pregnancy hormone hCG will increase the blood flow to your pelvic area and your kidneys, making them more efficient during pregnancy, since you will be urinating for two." He stood, signaling the end of Sherlock's appointment, and the tall brunette moved to do the same, hitting his head on the overhanging light fixture above the exam bed with a hollow-sounding thunk and a cringe.

"You may also begin to feel some bloating," the doctor continued, walking to the door and holding it open for Sherlock. "Progesterone will also be responsible for that. It will start to slow down your digestion to allow more nutrients to enter the bloodstream and reach your baby. There may also be some, ah…extreme mood swings, which will once again be caused by the hormones that your body will be producing. Other than that, you should feel just peachy," the old man finished with a smile.

Sherlock did not return the sentiment.

"Don't worry about a thing, my boy," Dr. Greenwhich told him, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the brunette man passed him to exit the room and leave. "I'm sure everything will turn out just as intended."

Xxx

The week following his doctor's appointment, Sherlock was, indeed, on edge and rather jumpy, but he couldn't be sure if it was pregnancy related, or if he was just feeling the strain of waiting for the doctor's phone call. Each time his cell phone went off, he would start violently and scramble for the small electronic device, rushing out of the room if John were in it. Not very discreet, he knew, but he couldn't help it: he felt as though he were walking a tight wire, waiting for the one piece of information that could tell him whether or not he could proceed with the next part of the experiment, or if he had to go back to square one.

Waiting for the test results had always been one of his favorite parts of experiments. The thrill of not knowing, the frustration of being so close to the end, the anticipation of what was coming next…he had always imagined that was what children felt on the eve of Christmas or their birthdays, when they knew presents were close at hand.

The call came, finally, at the end of the week, when John was still at the surgery and Sherlock was impatiently digging through their pile of cases, looking for a good one that would take his mind off of the fact that his phone had not rung all damn day—

The sharp, loud tone of his ringer split the still air of the room and Sherlock could do nothing for a few seconds but stare at it, his heart hammering in his chest.

When he reached out to answer it, he heard Dr. Greenwhich's voice on the other line.

"May I please speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"This is he."

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes. It's Dr. Greenwhich at the family planning clinic. I thought you would be interested to know that your results have just come back."

"Yes?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock could hear the doctor's smile even through the crackling of the poor reception. "You are one of the first confirmed successes of the public release of the Synathida pill. Your blood test confirms that you are, indeed, pregnant. We would like to have you come in for a prenatal checkup in a week, to do all the routine tests."

For a second, Sherlock could not speak. There was a tightness in his throat and a queasiness in his stomach that fluttered back and forth. When he finally managed to open his mouth, the only thing that came out was a croaked, "How far along am I?"

"Well, we won't be able to tell for certain until we can do a sonogram and take some measurements, but from the information you gave regarding your sexual activity at your last prenatal exam, it seems…." Sherlock heard the soft rustle of papers on the other end of the line as Dr. Greenwhich went back through his file. "About 5 weeks, judging by the date you gave us for your last day of ovulation."

Xxx

After he hung up with Dr. Greenwhich, he went straight to John's laptop, opening it up and breaking through the new security measures John had put up in a feeble attempt to keep Sherlock out without a second thought.

Straight to the internet and onto the first pregnancy website he could find.

5 weeks, 5 weeks, 5 weeks….

He navigated the website to the correct page and read the information on it, drinking it all in.

And then a new website and a new page.

And another and another.

Well, then.

At 5 weeks, the embryo's heart and brain, along with all its other organs, were developing. That simple fact was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks. For the first time, he began to think of the embryo not just as some radical experiment he was constructing, but as an actual living thing inside of him.

It had a heart. It was alive.

And a part of him—a silly, frivolous part—began to wonder about all those organs developing inside of him. Would the heart growing in the embryo turn out to be a good, brave, caring heart, like John's? And the brain…could it possibly be developing a brain like his own, vast and unquenchable? For the first time since he had decided to go through with this experiment, he began to wonder at the simple fact that there was a very real possibility that the fetus could have the best parts of him and John. John's eyes and his cheekbones. John's feet and his nose.

He put a hand to his stomach, unnerved.

This was unexpected.

He had always been able to severe any emotional ties that cropped up during an experiment. That course of action had always been for the best. How could he calculate the data correctly if things like his feelings got in the way of what he was supposed to be analyzing?

But yet…he knew without a doubt, between one second and the next, that he was not going to be able to do that with this experiment now.

He had become emotionally involved, in the span of a breath.

Interesting. He would have to write down this new development as soon as possible.

Xxx

As the day of his first prenatal checkup drew closer, Sherlock was interested to find that he had a particular bloating feeling in his abdomen, along with some mild to severe cramping. He knew that the hCG was causing an increase of blood flow to his pelvic area, and that his kidneys were becoming more efficient at ridding his body of all of the waste that it didn't want to keep around for any length of time. Added to that the fact that his growing appendix was beginning to push down on the surrounding organs, especially the bladder, to accommodate its growing size and he was running to the bathroom more often than he had ever gone before in his life. He tried to anticipate his bladder's frequent need to relieve itself, and he would use the facilities right before he and John left Baker St to go to a case that Lestrade called them about, but, depending on the length of time they spent at the crime scene or at the morgue following the body, he would inevitably have to go again.

When it happened the first time, John gave the uncharacteristic behavior a frown, but otherwise ignored it. When it happened consecutively at the next three crime scenes they were called into, the blonde doctor couldn't seem to help asking if Sherlock was okay.

The consulting detective tried brushing him off in the beginning, but when John would not let up about it Sherlock had ended up snapping harshly at him, something he had not intended.

Mood swings, indeed. Yet another thing he would have to be sure to document in his notes.

Unfortunately, the symptoms didn't stop at just a frequent need to relieve himself and a few harsh words to John or the other police officers who inevitably annoyed him during a crime scene investigation, no. There was now an un-ignorable swelling in his hands and feet, and an incessant cramping on his right side that was almost as unbearable as the reconstruction process of the Synathida pills.

And 2 weeks after the call that confirmed his conception, there came the morning sickness. And the evening sickness, and the middle-of-the-bloody-night sickness. He could not eat, could not even so much as smell food, without his stomach churning unpleasantly and urging him to the bathroom. It happened so frequently that Sherlock could not even try to hide it from John. A few times when John had been in the bathroom, Sherlock had not been able to make it to a trash can and had ended up using the shower or toilet while John was occupying the washroom, puking into whichever facility the blonde doctor was not using at the moment.

At night, whenever they went to sleep, John had gotten into the habit of moving to the farthest corner of the bed, as far away from Sherlock as he could get, because the brunette man tended to jump out of bed and rush out to the bathroom with no regard for anyone sleeping close to him.

It was enough for Sherlock to wish that he had never gone through with the blasted idea in the first place.

Almost.

Xxx

"We'll start with a general physical, and then move on to the rectal exam to be sure everything is okay in that end."

Dr. Greenwhich chuckled crudely at his own pun, but he was the only one.

For the third time in the span of 6 weeks, Sherlock found himself in the doctor's office yet again. He was beginning to hate the small, dull exam rooms and the even duller nursing staff that he had to put up with during his visits.

"It is difficult to do prenatal examinations on male patients because they do not have a birth canal that we can examine to be sure everything in the embryo's temporary home is okay." The head physician was attending him yet again, and Sherlock found that he was somewhat grateful for that. He didn't think his already-frayed nerves could stand anyone else poking about him. "For now, we can only see what the camera brings up from the rectal exam, and what we can find in the general physical and blood samples we will take again."

"More blood?" He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, but he was too tired to try very hard. And, frankly, he didn't really give a damn at this point, anymore.

Dr. Greenwhich only chuckled softly again. "We have to determine your blood type, Rh factor, and see if you are iron-deficient." He gently pushed Sherlock to lie back on the rickety, still-too-small exam bed and the brunette man went down unwillingly. "We will also test it for sexually transmitted disease—don't worry, its standard procedure—and immunity to Rubella. We will look for other ethnic-specific genetic diseases, as well. And we will need to take a urine sample to test your glucose, protein, red and white blood cells, and bacteria levels."

Sherlock cringed inwardly. He was beginning to feel like some sort of laboratory rat, being poked and prodded and told when to sit, when to stand, when to cough, when to lie down, when to urinate.

This was not going to end well, he could tell already.

True to form, by the end of the tests and the physical, he had made two of the nurses cry, and another handful refused to help the doctor examine him anymore.

As the rectal exam drew to a close, Dr. Greenwhich sighed when his PA ran out of the room, bawling. He brought a hand up to rub at tired eyes and took a moment to contemplate the man sitting before him.

"I think you know what kind of information we would ask you about your medical history, and that of your partner. Why don't you go home and just send an email my way with all the details."

Sherlock was slightly surprised by the doctor's words. "Is that standard procedure?"

"No, but I think that would be for the best. For everyone."

Xxx

God, would he ever stop vomiting? Between all of the fluids he had lost due to the Synathida and now the early stages of pregnancy, he was surprised he had not dehydrated yet and turned to a pile of dust as he lay on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl. The website said that his appendix had doubled in size during the past five weeks. His eating habits, never very good to begin with, were now nonexistent, thanks to the morning sickness, which was in full swing during this 8th week. If his information was correct, he gathered that about half of the women who felt nauseated during their first trimester tended to find complete relief by about 14 weeks, and doctors expected the same for most men. For the rest, all the websites said that it would take about another month or so for the queasiness to ease up.

For now, all he could think of was how good the cool tile felt beneath his heated and heaving body, and he took comfort in the respite of the short period after he had vomited when his stomach settled just a little bit after expelling its contents.

Just then a knock came on the bathroom door, soft and swift.

"Sherlock, I'm going out for dumplings. Want me to bring you back some roast duck?"

So much for the break from vomiting. Even the thought of roast duck was enough to have Sherlock's head back in the toilet bowl, throwing up again.

Xxx

John knew.

He knew that he knew, but his brain was trying to protect itself, denying that the possibility could even exist.

Well, he knew very well that it could exist, thanks to all of the news reports that were on the television 24/7 these days.

But he needed to hear the words, to have his assumption confirmed, to really know.

"Sherlock, we need to have a word," he called out through the door of the bathroom. There was a moment of silence, when even the heaving of Sherlock's stomach went still, and then the sound of the toilet being flushed and running water.

A few minutes later the bathroom door opened and a very pale, very shaky Sherlock stepped out, sea blue eyes pinned on John like a wild animal being stalked.

John knew that look, knew that it meant that Sherlock's guard was up. The brunette was not the easiest man to have a conversation with when it was about nothing of consequence—John cringed to think about how this particular discussion would go.

But there was nothing else for it. He would just have to jump right in and see where it led him.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"I don't—"

"You've been sick, restless and moody for weeks now," John cut him off, because he didn't want to hear Sherlock say that nothing was wrong. He wanted to hear the truth. "You are eating even less than usual and throwing it all up. And you're sleeping more, but you look even more tired than you ever have." He took a deep, steadying breath and looked calculatingly at the man standing across the room from him. "I know, Sherlock. At least, God, I think I know but I pray that I'm wrong. I'm not as blind as you sometimes think I am." He made a gesture to the television set that sat in their living room, off now and quiet. "I've seen the news reports, I've read the articles in the paper. I hear people talking about it all over the place….I'm going to ask once—just once—and I'll believe your answer. Just…just tell me. Are you….?"

He couldn't even say it. Didn't want to believe the feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach that knew the answer to his question even before Sherlock spoke.

And Sherlock didn't need to answer. His silence and that penetrating, silent, stare was confirmation enough.

John felt his legs give out from beneath him, and he was thankful that he was standing in front of the couch. He sank down heavily onto the worn cushions and stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

"You took the pill? You took that Goddamn pill?!" He had a sudden, irrepressible flash back to one of his first days with Sherlock Holmes, the first case that they had worked on together, and another pill—just as reckless, just as hazardous, just as deadly—as the Synathida. John's own words came back to him, in an echo of a past conversation.

"That's how you get your kicks. You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

This was ridiculous, this was absurd. Sherlock—Sherlock of all people—had more sense than to do something like this. That pill was a radical, experimental drug that John—and he had thought everyone else, as well—felt was unsafe and senseless.

Male pregnancy…who would want that?

Well, there was someone right in front of him who would, it seemed.

He felt sick, thinking about people taking that pill without any thought to the side-effects it might bring. Organ failure, cancer, death, so many life threatening things that it could cause…

And Sherlock had taken it without a second thought to his own safety.

"How could you be so fucking stupid?" The words were out of his mouth before he had even realized he had said them, and they shocked him slightly. He had never spoken to Sherlock in such a way, in such a tone, stripped of all the walls John usually kept up to protect himself from Sherlock and to protect Sherlock from everything outside of the brunette's small, perfect world that he had erected around himself.

Still, Sherlock said nothing. Made no attempt to defend himself or his decision. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see that the other man didn't even move, simply stared at John as John stared at the wall.

"How far along are you, then?"

The silence had taken on an eerie quality, sharp and deadly, and when Sherlock still would not answer John could not take it anymore. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, say something, Goddamnit! I deserve some answers!"

"2 months." The reply was short and clipped, Sherlock's deep baritone voice lingering in the dark corners of the quiet room.

2 months….

For a 9 month time frame, 2 months was a large chunk of time. Too much. Too much for anything. Too much to come to terms with the information, too much to get used to the idea, too much, too much, too much.

God, he didn't even know what he was thinking. His mind raced and would not settle on a single thought. He couldn't even grasp onto the words that he wanted to say right now, because they were suddenly pushed to the side as more thoughts and feelings tumbled down upon him.

He was drowning. That much was clear. He couldn't breathe and he was drowning now, trying to gasp for breath as he sank lower and lower and lower…

No, not drowning. He wasn't in water. Suffocating, then. He gasped uselessly, but he wasn't taking in any air. The world was closing in on him too fast, too close, his skin was tingling from the pressure of it all around him.

Ah, panic attack. Even as his brain began to shut down in anxiety his medical training kicked in, ever a comforting presence, especially in times of stress.

Breathe, you just need to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out.

He fought back the anxiety, the all-consuming panic of the situation. Fought it back with every breath that he took and sat, still and silent, until the hyperventilation's had passed and his mind, somewhat calmed by the steady, slow breathing, could finally focus on one thought:

Why?

Why had Sherlock done this? Why had he thought that this would be an idea even worth entertaining? Why had he jumped into it headfirst, without stopping to discuss it, to rationalize it, to think it over?

And, Christ, eventually everyone would know. Would know about the most intimate part of their relationship, what little discretion they had managed to keep from the fans and the blog and the rest of the world. Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft….Strangers. Complete strangers would take one look at them out on the streets, in a restaurant, and know. They would know and there would be nothing John could do to deny it anymore, to say it was untrue, to hide from it.

"Why did you do this to me?" he suddenly asked, unable to keep the words in his mouth any longer. "Why?"

Xxx

John was bordering on becoming hysterical. Sherlock knew this, but he didn't try to comfort the man.

"This isn't about you, John," Sherlock said evenly. Lie, his mind couldn't help but interject. His hands shook from the pain in his side and the unending roiling of his stomach and he was just too fucking tired to care about it anymore. "This is about the penultimate experimentation. Jumping into the unknown and drawing all of the conclusions from first-hand experience. This is about the thrill of the puzzle and the delight of results. How it works, what it feels like, the end product. That's all this will ever be about."

"Right. The puzzle," John repeated, his tone deadpan. "And I guess you could give two bollocks that this doesn't just involve you. This involves me and…and, God, Sherlock, another human being!" John stood then, restless and agitated and unable to stay in one spot any longer. "How can you be so fucking selfish! This isn't just some experiment! This is a child! Your child!"

Sherlock noted that he did not say 'my child' or 'our child'. This was Sherlock's problem, is what John was saying without words. John didn't want anything to do with this.

Expected.

Still, he would be lying if he told himself it didn't hurt.

"We are standing on the brink of the next medical revolution," Sherlock explained to the man in front of him, his voice gone soft and deadly as he spoke. "Scientists are playing God now, don't you understand? This is the perfect experiment, John—a masterpiece—and it is only mine, no one else's," Sherlock watched the blonde doctor carefully as he spoke to John, the other man still striding across their living room, shoulders tense and hands balled into fists at his side. "I will deal with the consequences and I will reap the rewards. I am responsible for everything that comes out of it, entirely guilty of whatever costs it brings."

"Yeah, Sherlock, of course." John wouldn't look at him, only continued to take agitated steps around their couch, to the front door and then back again. "Your experiment and your decision and your problem. No one else's. Not even mine."

And without another word John left, striding back to the door, grabbing up his coat from the rack and slamming to door to their flat shut so hard that dust fell from the ceiling above him. The dirty teacups in the sitting room rattled harshly on their saucers, and there was an uneasiness in the pit of Sherlock's stomach that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the embryo.

Xxx

The car came around for him not even an hour after John had left.

Sherlock had stood in their sitting room, unmoving, as he wondered at John's reaction to the news and the nagging feeling in his chest that felt like guilt or heart-ache or fear.

The light steps treading on the rickety old wooden staircase up to his flat were not John's, and so Sherlock made no movement to meet his unwanted guest as they made their way to his door. His brother's secretary was not put off by his impoliteness or his rude remarks as she led him down the stairs, out onto the street and into the luxury sedan that was parked by the curb. They didn't speak on the trip to his brother's home, and they were both fine with that. They had never had much to say to each other in the first place.

Once the car had pulled up to the front door, Sherlock let himself out and wasted no time entering Mycroft's home, heading straight to the drawing room where he knew his brother would be waiting for him.

So predictable, Mycroft was.

There wasn't even a cordial greeting between the two men. Mycroft took one look at Sherlock—pale and shaky still from his bout of evening sickness and the sallow look of his skin from the days spent vomiting and in pain— and frowned deeply. "Oh, Sherlock," he said softly, the fire crackling comfortingly behind him in the hearth. "What have you done this time?"

Sherlock chose not to answer. He simply took the seat opposite Mycroft's wing-backed chair and sat silently, letting the warmth of the fire settle into his bones and ease away the pains in his body.

"Tea, Anthea," Mycroft said across the room. "Something decaffeinated."

Behind him, Sherlock heard the quiet sounds of his brother's secretary drifting off, leaving the two men alone.

"Would you like to tell me about it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, sounding infuriatingly calm and reasonable.

"What is there to tell?" Sherlock asked, purposefully being difficult.

"Why don't you start at the beginning of this…madness."

"Are you unhappy that you are to be an uncle, then?" he asked casually, and he could see Mycroft beginning to tire of their game.

"No," the older Holmes answered. "In fact, I find that particular piece of information rather…exhilarating. But once I have offered my congratulations, we will talk about the real heart of the issue, though."

"Of course. I didn't expect anything less."

Mycroft looked into the fire, crackling merrily in the hearth, and smiled warmly at no one in particular. "Mother would be excited," he said. "She had always wanted grandchildren. Though I'm sure she had wanted them the old fashioned way."

" 'The old fashioned way'," Sherlock scoffed, staring deeply into the fire in the hearth in front of him. "The world is changing, Mycroft. You know this as well as I do. The ways of the past are soon to become nothing more than stories. We are standing on the edge of a whole new world. And I wanted to be one of the first to step off of the ledge."

"Of course you did, Sherlock." Mycroft let out a sigh, tired and long-suffering. "Ever the explorer, ever the scientist. But I don't believe that is the only thing." He turned his gaze upon his younger brother, sharp and deadly. "Tell me the truth, the whole of it. Why did you do this?"

All the things he could not say to John tumbled out then, because Mycroft would find out one way or the other, Mycroft probably already knew, Mycroft was the only person who could always tell what Sherlock was thinking.

And Sherlock was not sure he could hold them in any longer, truthfully. For over 3 months he had kept this decision a secret from everyone. From Mycroft, from Mrs. Hudson, from John—the one person he could keep nothing from.

He was tired. And the fire felt so good.

"He wants children, Mycroft," Sherlock said, voice low and soft. "And I am too selfish to let him go so that he may one day find a girlfriend, or a wife, or a life that doesn't involve me at all."

Anthea came back with the tea then, two porcelain cups with matching saucers on a silver serving tray, the delicate tea pot sitting between them with a steady stream of steam coming out of the spout. She set it down gently on the table between the two men and then left again just as quietly as she had come.

"I will admit that the thought of leaving a legacy in this world has crossed my mind as well," Sherlock continued. "And there is no one on this earth who I can stomach the thought of doing that with other than John."

Then, finally, the actual reason, so selfish in its truth that Sherlock had locked it away, had barely let himself dwell on it: "And now he can't ever leave me. We will be connected forever. In this. Even if he is so mad that he cannot bear to look at me…he will have to, because he is not the kind of person to walk away from an innocent child because of its parent's actions. He will be here always, now."

Mycroft did nothing but look at him calculatingly for a very long time, as if he were trying desperately to find the right words to say to him. Finally, into the silence, he spoke, and his words cut Sherlock to the bone.

"Did you ever stop to think that you have forced him on you? Chained him to you? Like a dog, Sherlock. That is what you have made him into now. Your perfect little pet."

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to let Mycroft's words sink in. "At least, this way, I can keep him with me forever."

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head, too, slowly, sadly. "Not forever. Even pets have a tendency to run away."

"He will not," Sherlock said with all the conviction he could muster from his tired body, but his voice shook in betrayal.

Mycroft looked at him pointedly. "How do you know that?"

"Because he is John. He is too good a man to run away from something like this." He tried hard to believe his own words, to trust in what he was saying, but the fear had settled inside of him, and would not leave now.

"In all fairness, Sherlock, you don't know what he would do in a situation like this because he has never been in a situation like this," Mycroft argued, his voice rising as his emotions got the best of him. "You are making observations without accurate data. So very unlike you."

"My data is not inaccurate," Sherlock argued, and he tried to force himself to believe his own words. "He will be a part of this. One way or another, sooner or later. He will come back."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, simply stared at Sherlock and let the younger man's voice be his own contradiction. "I hope your right, Sherlock," he said finally. "If only for your own sake."

"We are done here," Sherlock whispered vehemently, rising from his seat. He couldn't stand to be in this house, next to that man for one more second. "I would like to return back to Baker Street."

"Of course," Mycroft said, as if he had been waiting for the moment that Sherlock ran away from this, just like he thought Sherlock ran away from everything else.

Sherlock turned on his heel sharply and strode to the French doors of the drawing room, his shoulders set in tense lines and the pain in his side forgotten as he rolled Mycroft's words back and forth in his mind. He was almost to the door when his brother called out from behind him, saying the only thing that would make the tall brunette man stop in his tracks.

"Don't wreck this like you do everything else, Sherlock."

"Wreck it?" Sherlock repeated, in spite of himself.

"You have the opportunity to do something great here," Mycroft told him, staying seated in his chair and not even bothering to get up to continue his conversation with his brother. "But you always manage to ruin things like this."

Sherlock's hand shook as he grasped the doorknob tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure of his grasp. "I'm already the wreck, Mycroft. You know that better than anyone."

Mycroft only nodded, as if to validate Sherlock's words. "This is a very big thing you are doing, Sherlock," he said, his voice low and deep in the silence of the drawing room. "Bigger than yourself. But you had never been very good at believing such things existed in the world. I suggest you start getting used to the idea."

X.X.X.

A/N: This story is based off of the concept album Masterpiece Theatre by the band Marianas Trench. Although I did take massive liberties with the order of the songs, I managed to incorporate every song in the album into a—hopefully—seamless timeline that tells a specific story. If you would like to (and I hope that you do) follow this story through the band's album, the title of each chapter will tell you what song was used for that chapter. I will admit that, while I have used songs for inspiration many times while writing a story, this was the first time that I ever used a whole album as the basis for my plot development. It was a bigger challenge than I was expecting but also so much more creatively satisfying, as I got to manipulate not just 1 expressive outlets but 2. Just like writing, I think music is all about the context of the song and the hidden meaning buried deep within it, that can be twisted to fit the listener's needs. I was amazed at how some of the pieces of this story just fell into place with specific songs, and I could see where the plot was headed without taking it there myself.

Also, on a smaller note, for those of you geeks who would find this interesting, I took the name for the Synathida pill (which restructures the male body, allowing the appendix to become uterine-like and house a fetus) from the scientific name Syngnathidae—the family of fish in which the males carry their offspring through gestation, instead of the female.

The title of the next chapter, if you would like to preview the song, is 'Beside You'.