A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt : Watson dreams that he is pregnant with Holmes' child(ren). Write the dream and/or his reaction to it. Can be established or non-established relationship, any verse.
Watson found himself stretched out on the settee, his shirt unbuttoned and parted to display his torso. Holmes was kneeling on the floor beside him, Watson's stethoscope firmly planted in his ears while he carefully placed the chestpiece against the slight swell of Watson's abdomen. His look was one of utter concentration on his task until he froze, closing his eyes as he listened.
When he opened his eyes, he met Watson's gaze with joy. "I hear it," he whispered, his free hand grasping Watson's and squeezing it firmly. Watson met his smile with one of his own before he let his head rest on the pillow again. He was carrying Holmes' child -their child- and Holmes was listening to its heartbeat. Life was utterly perfect.
They were going out for the evening, and Watson was dressing in his best suit. It barely fit; the buttons of the waistcoat strained over the distinct bulge that had developed nearly overnight, and Watson frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Holmes embraced him from behind, kissing him behind the ear and stroking his stomach. "No one will notice when you have your coat on," he murmured.
Holmes, already impeccably dressed, helped Watson don said coat, then took it upon himself to straighten Watson's collar and cuffs and arrange his cravat just so. "There, see? You look splendid." Watson surveyed himself, but was yet unconvinced. "Ten pounds says no one will say anything," Holmes assured him, kissing him gently and tugging him out the door.
Holmes was right, of course. Their fellow diners were absorbed in their own meals and conversations; none even glanced up as Holmes and Watson passed. The press of people in the lobby of the concert hall did not allow anyone the opportunity for careful study. Still, Watson wasn't entirely comfortable until the house lights dimmed and the concert began. As he finally began to relax, he was surprised to find that he was somewhat aroused; evidently the thrill of having a secret that hid in plain sight excited him.
And he wasn't the only one. Not long after the orchestra began the first movement, Holmes slipped his hand beneath the armrest and rested it on Watson's thigh. Watson covered it with his own hand, as much out of concern over being noticed as a desire to touch Holmes. As the orchestra continued through the next movements, Holmes' hand progressed up Watson's thigh. His fingers were just about to brush against Watson's aching cock when the concerto ended and Holmes applauded with the rest of the audience as if his attention had been upon the music the entire time.
The second half of the concert was just as torturous as the first. This time Holmes took Watson's hand and drew it under the armrest. He simply held it for a while, then began stroking his long fingers over Watson's palm, fingers, and wrist. Watson shuddered and bit his lip, trying to focus on the musicians rather than the musician's fingers teasing him.
As they rose to leave, Watson found himself not caring if anyone asked about his fuller waistline so long as they didn't notice the arousal lurking underneath. Riding in the cab was a trial, feeling Holmes next to him, seeing Holmes' smirk and the twinkle in his eyes, but unable to do anything about any of it save shift uncomfortably and pray that the cab was quick.
Holmes had barely made it into the sitting room when Watson was pushing him against the door and kissing him like his life depended on it. He returned the kiss with equal fervor, wrapping his arms around Watson and pulling him close, closer, so close that the child was lost between them. Their clothing was quickly deemed to be in the way.
The waistcoat with the straining buttons did not survive the night.
Flashes, glimpses of other moments followed. Standing in front of the mirror, tugging at his waistcoat in a vain attempt to bring the buttons and their holes within an inch or two of each other, and realizing that it was only a matter of time before his shirts ceased to button, too. (But at least those were considerably looser to begin with, so he had some time yet before he'd have to buy something larger.)
Sitting in his armchair by the fire, comfortably talking with Holmes, except his brandy and cigar were notably absent, as he'd lost the taste for them around the time he lost the ability to button the top of his trousers.
Watching Holmes with the stethoscope, studiously listening to their child's heartbeat while Watson laid in bed or on the settee. Once he even fell asleep that way, the earpieces still in his ears.
Feeling the child within him begin to move. Though he was a doctor and should know better, at first he dismissed the sensation as gas. When Holmes found out, he tried to feel it, too, spending quite a bit of time curled up behind Watson, his hands on Watson's growing abdomen. Then the child finally kicked him, and Holmes could hardly contain his joy.
Having to hide in the bedroom when visitors called upon Holmes so they would not have the opportunity to notice how his stomach protruded. They often argued afterward. "I know you want to stay in London as long as possible," Watson said softly, stroking the short hairs at Holmes' nape, "but I can't hide away forever. Lestrade is going to start rumors that I'm on my deathbed if you don't stop telling him I'm just feeling unwell." Holmes pressed a kiss to Watson's forehead but said nothing.
An early-morning train out of the city; Mrs. Hudson would follow later in the day. The weather cooperated nicely, being windy and rainy, so everyone looked bulky in their cloaks and waterproof coats. They had a private compartment; Watson spent most of the journey dozing against Holmes.
Watson was grumpy and sore. A walk after lunch had sounded like a good idea, but Holmes couldn't seem to remember that Watson didn't move nearly as quickly as he used to, and Watson had tried to keep up anyway. By the time they wandered back to their secluded cottage, Watson's feet and lower back were in agony. He practically collapsed onto his side on the settee in the front room, but Holmes didn't even seem to notice him as he breezed into the kitchen and began rattling around.
It wasn't until Watson snapped at him in response to a question that Holmes realized something was the matter. "What can I do for you?" he asked as he approached the settee.
Watson took a careful breath -he was perilously close to bursting into tears or yelling at Holmes, and neither would serve any real purpose- and pointed at his feet. "Rub, please," he said.
Holmes kissed his cheek and brushed a hand over his belly as he moved to comply. He exclaimed in surprise as he worked the first shoe off Watson's badly swollen foot. "Watson! Why didn't you say anything? We should not have walked so long with your feet in this condition."
Watson only shrugged, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he tried not to cry out; it took several minutes for the massage to be anything but extraordinarily painful. Holmes didn't seem to expect a response and started humming as his marvelous fingers worked their magic. Watson gradually began to relax as the tension in his feet eased, though his lower back seemed to cry out the louder as a result.
Holmes' hands worked their way up his calves, as well, before Holmes stopped and crouched by Watson's head again. "Shall I run a bath?" he asked solicitously, resting a hand on Watson's shoulder.
Watson hesitated for a moment, weighing the comfort of the warm water against the trouble of getting to the tub. Finally he nodded, and began pushing himself up with a groan. Holmes wasn't gone long, and when he reappeared, he brought Watson's dressing gown and was wearing his own. "Holmes?" Watson asked confusedly as Holmes efficiently undressed him and settled the dressing gown over Watson's shoulders. Holmes only kissed him, then bent and lifted Watson, who yelped in surprise.
Holmes somehow managed to carry him into the bathroom and help him into the tub without dropping him or letting the dressing gown touch the deepening water. He then let his own dressing gown fall to the floor and slid in the tub behind Watson after turning off the taps. Watson made a noise of pleasure when Holmes began kneading his lower back; he held on to the sides of the tub and let his head hang forward.
Watson was half-asleep when he was shifted so he was lying back against Holmes; his heavily pregnant belly bobbed in the water, the swell of it large enough that a portion lingered above the water like an island. Holmes' hands moved from back to front and rubbed over his hips and pelvis before sweeping up to stroke the swollen stomach that fascinated him so. "How much longer will it be?" he asked quietly, reaching to the nearby table and pouring a handful of oil to rub into the stretched skin.
"It depends. A month or so, most likely," Watson replied. The cool oil made him shudder, and he turned his head to press a kiss to Holmes' jaw. Holmes turned his head to meet Watson's lips with his own, and they kissed languidly. Watson slid one hand behind Holmes' neck and tugged him closer; his other hand he placed over Holmes' as it caressed him.
At some point the lazy kisses became more earnest and Holmes' strokes over Watson's skin seemed intended to arouse rather than soothe. When Holmes held Watson more closely, Watson pressed back against Holmes and felt Holmes' cock jutting against his buttocks; he grinned and shifted his hips slightly, relishing the choked gasp it elicited from Holmes.
Permission was asked and granted without the use of words, and the oil was put to a new purpose. Holmes' fingers inside him felt heavenly; then Watson felt Holmes' cock nudging into him, stretching him, filling him . . .
.
Watson woke with a start, covered in sweat and panting. He sat up abruptly and was disappointed when he realized all of that had just been a dream. But what a dream!
He'd dreamt of Holmes before, more often than he cared to admit, but this was the first time he'd been pregnant -and how on earth did his mind come up with that, anyway? However he'd gotten the idea, the dream was unexpectedly erotic; he couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up this achingly hard.
Watson flopped back onto his pillow with a sigh and considered his options as he toyed with his bottle of oil. He could hear Holmes puttering downstairs in spite of the early hour, and smiled when the sound of Holmes tuning his violin drifted up to him. Holmes interrupting him was not a concern.
Closing his eyes, Watson turned his thoughts back to the dream. Running a hand down his stomach, he remembered how it felt to be round with child, his belly heavy and full. Slicked with oil, his other hand slipped between his legs and pressed inside him. It was all too easy to imagine it was Holmes teasing him, stretching him; as soon as he gripped his cock he was overcome, spilling over his hand and making a mess of his nightshirt.
As he caught his breath, Watson wondered how much longer he could continue dreaming of Holmes without Holmes realizing that he featured in Watson's fantasies.