A/N: Warnings: physical/emotional abuse, non-con, bondage, labor/childbirth, stillbirth
Written for the shkinkmeme prompt : Dark!Watson/pregnant!Holmes. male Holmes.
This fic is based upon arileo's artfill for that prompt.
His nipples had always been sensitive. Watson had often delighted in teasing them with his mustache until Holmes shuddered with the desire to wail and writhe but unable to do either without Watson's permission. For Watson was a strict master of his pet.
But now, now . . . when Watson discovered that the implausible pregnancy had engorged his nipples and made them so very sensitive that the mere brush of a shirt had Holmes hissing with pain and arousal, he set forth to capitalize on Holmes' increased vulnerability.
The rings pinched terribly, and the swing of the chain between them sent shivers of sensation down his spine every time he shifted position. Which was often, as the child grew and pressed most uncomfortably on his insides, particularly his bladder. Watson only allowed him to trundle to the bathroom a few times a day, despite his condition.
Forcing him to drink and not permitting him to urinate had long been one of Watson's favorite tricks, and accidents had occurred even before. It had been a relief to grow out of his clothes, for it meant Watson could not force him to wear his urine-soaked clothing for hours until it dried. Skin dried much more quickly.
Holmes shifted carefully to the side, propping himself up on one arm as he tried to adjust the weight of the child so it was not sitting squarely on his bladder, which grew fuller by the minute. He froze when the chain attached to his collar clinked, glancing out of the corner of his eye for any movement from Watson, lying on the chaise behind him. Such an infraction would have earned him a beating before.
The discovery of the pregnancy had led to the worst beating of his life, in fact. Watson called him an abomination, deformed, monstrous, queer, unnatural, despicable, grotesque... Holmes suspected Watson of experimenting on him to produce such a result, for he knew full well that pregnancy was not the typical result of intercourse between two males. And Watson had forced himself upon Holmes many times without such a drastic result.
Perhaps miraculously, Holmes didn't miscarry, though he was nearly bedridden for a fortnight. Watson showed remarkable consideration for him as he became large with Watson's child, limiting his abuse primarily to words and threats rather than blows.
This time was no different. Rather than the slap he had come to expect, Watson caressed his shoulder with the backs of his fingers. Holmes shivered and found himself placing his hand protectively on his swollen abdomen as Watson's breath ghosted over the back of his neck and the sweat that gathered underneath the collar.
"Does my pet need to relieve himself?" Watson asked, dragging his thumb across Holmes' bottom lip.
There was no anger in his voice, only idle curiosity, so Holmes judged it safe to reply. "Yes, please," he murmured.
Holmes felt Watson shifting behind him, then Watson was taking his arm to help him to his feet. He couldn't keep the surprise from his face as he glanced at Watson, whose expression was almost kind. "And when you return, perhaps I'll help you with this," Watson said with a salacious grin, his hand straying to caress Holmes' erect cock.
His knees nearly dumped him onto the carpet again despite Watson's continued hold on his elbow. The increased sensitivity was not limited to his nipples; Holmes found himself achingly aroused far more frequently than he would have thought possible, but Watson did not often allow him to seek release. That Watson would offer without first requiring Holmes to perform some act on his person was unprecedented.
Holmes could almost enjoy being pregnant, just for how it had moderated Watson's treatment of him.
But then he remembered it could not last forever, and he could not even begin to guess how Watson would behave to him, to their child, after the birth.
In those moments, he was truly afraid.
.
.
.
Holmes laboriously climbed to his feet from his spot on the floor. It would have been easier to get up if he could use Watson's chair for leverage, but Watson was in Watson's chair, and disturbing Watson was not recommended. Particularly since he was already being more than magnanimous in allowing Holmes to leave to relieve himself whenever necessary.
It was kindness, of a sort. It was more that Watson was angry with him for soiling the rug three different times within the space of a week because he couldn't hold it like he used to -the babe was simply too heavy and large. So it was understood that Holmes was permitted to take care of his business, so long as he did not disturb Watson. And he must not appear to take advantage of this liberty, or it might be taken away.
"I could just put a catheter in, you know," Watson observed dryly, turning the newspaper page.
"No, thank you," Holmes said meekly, keeping his head down and his shoulders hunched even as he tried to hurry from the room. His bulk did not lend itself to hurrying, just waddling. Fortunately he made it to the bathroom before he felt warmth begin to trickle down his leg; at least the tile was easy to clean.
He had not minded being pregnant at first, but his patience with the condition had reached its end. He was constantly uncomfortable, even more so than when he'd just endured a beating, he did not sleep well because he was uncomfortable, and he was off-balance and clumsy, which usually led to angering Watson.
And then there were the pains. One chose that moment to grip him, and he was grateful for the privacy of the bathroom as he doubled over, clutching his abdomen. Watson told him they were normal, just part of being so close to giving birth, then ridiculed and slapped him for allowing himself to feel the pain. Watson claimed they should not hurt, that he was feigning the agony in hopes of forcing Watson to give him yet more freedoms out of sympathy.
But they did hurt, and Holmes knew the actual birth would hurt more. He only wished it were already over, despite his fears for himself and the child afterward.
He consoled himself with the thought that it would be soon. The child had been less active of late; Watson said it had moved into the birthing position, so it would no longer be turning circles in his belly. Holmes rather liked that idea, even as he entertained a concern that Watson was wrong about this, too. What if the child were unwell within him?
But then, that might be better for it, all things considered.
Holmes sighed as he finished mopping up the trail he'd left and set about hauling himself to his feet. Again. It would almost be easier to crawl back into the sitting room, but even he still had some dignity left.
"Be quiet!" Watson snarled, kicking the huddled form at the end of his bed. "If you don't cease that racket, I'll beat you bloody and not feed you for a month."
Holmes bit his lip against the whimper that rose unbidden in his throat when Watson's foot connected with the small of his back. He did not fear Watson's threats -Watson likely would not remember them once he was fully awake and sober- but he did not wish to provoke him any further while he was in this state of mind. He thought he'd kept his misery well enough to himself, but apparently he was mistaken, and mistakes could be costly.
"Oh, go sleep in the sitting room," Watson said, slurring his words somewhat as he gestured sloppily in that direction. "You may take your blanket."
Holmes carefully climbed off the bed, the blanket wrapped around him, and padded out of the bedroom with no small amount of relief. He thought longingly of the settee and its cushions, but settled himself before the banked fire instead; the consequences of the pet sitting on the settee were dire, and Holmes was in enough pain already.
Watson spent the evening at his club, gambling and drinking, and returned home in a sour mood -his gambling losses were no doubt severe- and Holmes was perfect for venting some frustration. Holmes acquired a few bruises, nothing serious, before Watson decided he looked rather too fetching for his own good and lavished attention of a different sort upon him.
All of this was normal and expected, and Holmes would have thought he got off lightly if he weren't also enduring dreadful cramps. The anxiety of seeing Watson come home, drunk and angry, had apparently set them off, and now they wouldn't stop. It was these that kept him up most of the night, curling around his distended stomach as pain like fire encircled him a few times an hour.
And now he evidently couldn't keep all his sounds of distress quiet. It was no surprise, given they had increased in frequency as the long predawn hours slowly passed. At least being banished to the sitting room gave him the freedom to shift positions more frequently, vainly trying to find something close to comfortable.
Watson slept long past dawn and well into the morning; by ten o'clock Holmes was sufficiently frustrated with his discomfort to disregard the rules and he settled on the settee, sighing in relief as he sank into the cushions. He was even able to doze for a time, rising periodically to see to his bladder and drifting off again afterward.
When Watson finally emerged from the bedroom in the early afternoon -Holmes heard him moving and abandoned the settee well in advance of Watson's appearance- he didn't even look at Holmes as he crossed the room and donned his coat and hat. "I will return later," he said brusquely and shut the door with some force.
Holmes spent the rest of the afternoon and evening alone, the recurring pains his only company. He ran himself a warm bath after Watson had been gone for two hours, and for a while the water helped, though he thought longingly of morphine.
It was late in the evening, possibly even close to midnight, when Watson finally returned. Holmes only vaguely heard the door that heralded his arrival; he was on hands and knees between the toilet and the tub, well beyond pain and into the realm of agony as he gasped for air and wondered if he was dying. He shivered and shook even when the bout was over, and shuffled on his knees to the tub so he could lean against it.
The bathroom door banged open. "Where have you been?" he demanded, "And what is this mess? I didn't give you permission for a bath."
Holmes was saved from answering by agony gripping his middle and forcing out a groan. Watson frowned forbiddingly at this apparent insolence, then seemed to realize the wetness on the floor was blood as well as bathwater.
For all his faults, Watson was still a doctor, and a reasonably attentive one at that (Holmes had a theory that Watson was so willing to injure him because he took pleasure in patching him up again). He hurried to Holmes, one hand feeling for his pulse while laying the other on Holmes' belly.
"How long have you been having contractions?" he asked, the anger in his voice replaced by urgency.
"S-since last night," Holmes panted.
Now the anger was back, and Watson backhanded him hard enough that Holmes tasted blood. "And you didn't think to inform me? You're even more useless than I suspected. Lie down."
His mind spinning from the blow and weariness, Holmes didn't quite grasp that Watson's words included an order. Impatient, Watson grabbed his shoulder and forced him onto his back on the floor. "Now remain still" was the only warning Holmes had before Watson was forcing a hand roughly inside him.
"You're taking an awfully long time. Perhaps I ought to reconsider using you as a breeder," Watson said as he withdrew his hand and looked at it with distaste. He washed his hands and turned to leave. "Call for me when you're ready to push."
The door closed with almost as much force as it had opened.
Holmes' entire existence narrowed to enduring the pain and fortifying himself for more. Climbing in and out of the tub required too much effort -and took too much time- so he experimented with positions on the floor; kneeling and being on all fours seemed the most acceptable. He drank small sips from the cold tap when he became thirsty, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
For what seemed like hours he endured what felt like his insides trying to rip themselves out, but without any apparent results.
When Watson finally decided to check on him, he asked impatiently, "Aren't you done yet?"
Holmes could only shrug helplessly and grit his teeth against yet more pain. Pain, pain, and more pain. Such was his existence.
Watson cuffed him and felt within him again. Almost immediately Watson was drawing out. "You can push now," he said, his tone adding a you idiot to the statement.
Holmes resisted the urge to argue that he had no reason to know how this was supposed to work, instead focusing his energy on forcing the child out. This, too, took quite some time; Watson took to pacing the room and heaving put-upon sighs while Holmes gasped and grunted on his knees on the floor.
Finally, finally, Holmes felt a strange sort of pressure; his surprised exclamation brought Watson, who directed him in gently pushing the head out. The rest of the body quickly followed, and Holmes was overcome with relief. He'd done it.
But Watson looked displeased. The child in his hands was limp and blue and did not breathe.
Holmes started to ask what was wrong, but couldn't get out the words before Watson slapped him. "I did not say you could talk," he snapped. Then he held the child up for Holmes to see, shaking it slightly. "It's dead. You have failed me. Again."
He couldn't help but notice the child was a tiny girl, and he felt his heart clench. He had tried so hard not to become attached, fully aware of Watson's unpredictability, but seeing her motionless and cold was nearly more than he could take.
Watson appeared unaffected, and ordered him through expelling the afterbirth, then wrapped it and the body in a towel. "I will dispose of these. Clean up this mess and come to the sitting room when you are finished."
.
Watson looked altogether too pleased with himself when Holmes finally dragged himself into the sitting room, exhausted and aching in heart and body, his belly feeling oddly empty despite its continued distention. He soon understood quite well that Watson was very, very displeased that he had caused the death of the child, but Watson intended to give him an opportunity to redeem himself.
Then the words ended and the punishment began. Watson was just as rough entering him this time as he was with his hand earlier, and when he was satisfied, the blows commenced. He even pulled out the riding crop from wherever he'd hidden it and liberally applied it to Holmes' back and buttocks.
Watson stopped only when he needed to dress for a lunch appointment. He looked quite dapper; in another time, Holmes might even have thought him attractive, but now he could only lie where he fell and shiver. Given the care Watson had used in dressing, Holmes guessed the appointment was with a romantic interest. He only hoped the individual had the sense to escape Watson before it was too late.
Details grew fuzzy after that. Holmes remembered feeling quite ill as he waited for Watson to return, shivering and shaking but hurting too badly to get up and find his blanket.
When his awareness returned, he was in Watson's bed feeling extremely weak and vaguely feverish. He didn't have time to notice anything else before Watson approached the bed, escorting a woman who looked him over with an appraising eye.
"Oh, John," she said, sounding dismayed. "You let your pet in the bed?"
"He has been very ill, my dear Mary," he assured her, patting her hand. "He slept at the foot, before. We can make him a bed on the floor instead."
"Good. It will not do to have the pet on the bed."
Holmes felt almost afraid as he watched the woman and listened to Watson detail his care for his pet. She occasionally frowned or exclaimed when Watson's treatment struck her as too liberal, too kind, and Holmes suspected with growing dread that she wasn't going to go away.
This was confirmed a moment later when Watson addressed him. "Pet, meet your new mistress. She'll be joining us after the wedding next week." They smiled at each other and Holmes felt something akin to terror.
"You said you were trying to use him to breed?" she asked as she threw back the covers and looked Holmes over.
"Yes. He made it to full term the first try, but the child was stillborn. I expect better results next time."
Holmes closed his eyes and turned his head away. Watson had said such before, but he had hoped not to endure that again. And why force him to, when a woman was now in the picture?
Then the woman was touching him, feeling his pelvis and his much-reduced abdomen. "If he made it that far once, there is no reason not to try again. I am sure I will have a few suggestions along the way." The smile she turned upon Holmes was truly frightening.
"I only wish we could have had your suggestions sooner," Watson said smoothly, beaming at her when she grinned at him. "Though I will ask for one now: how long is advisable before making another attempt?"
She rose from the bed, though she left Holmes uncovered. "He needs to recover from the fever and regain his strength completely. It is up to you whether you want him to return to his former shape first."
"Oh, there's no need for that. I envision using him often enough that there will not be time."
She laughed, and it sent chills of foreboding down Holmes' spine. "I knew you were an ambitious fellow, but this truly is a delight. Oh, we shall have fun together."
"I rather hope so. Now come, my dear, we will be late for dinner."
She blew a kiss at Holmes as they left.
Something broke in him as he realized just what was in store for him for the rest of his life.
It did occur to him that he could try to drastically shorten his life, but he didn't even have the will to try.