A/N: Written for a shkinkmeme prompt; prompt is spoilery for the story, so it's included at the bottom.
He hesitated in the doorway, carefully observing the figure on the bed. Holmes had his back to the door, but judging by the slow, measured breathing and his utter stillness, he slept soundly. It was a relief, for Holmes had not slept well of late and, though he would not admit it, he was exhausted. The strain of carrying the babe wore on him more every day, but soon that would be over; the babe could be born at any time.
He crept slowly, silently, toward the bed, smiling fondly at Holmes' shirtlessness and grinning when he saw the light sheen of sweat on Holmes' bared torso. He longed to lick a stripe down that long, slender arm, to mouth along the curves of those sharp shoulderblades, to nuzzle that sinewy neck, sucking until Holmes bore his mark on that perfect skin.
Holmes did not even twitch when he leaned against the edge of the bed, so he cautiously crawled onto the mattress, kneeling behind him to fully take in the loveliness that was Holmes. He'd always thought Holmes was beyond lovely, but like this . . . he was magnificent. Utterly magnificent. He could pass hours just looking at him.
But then, looking was not enough, was never enough.
Ever so carefully, ever so patiently, he shifted Holmes slightly and settled behind him, curling around him and placing one arm possessively over him. He breathed deeply, pressing his nose against Holmes' nape, relishing the scent of his sweat, and pressed a kiss there, then licked his lips to taste the salt. He let his hand roam freely over Holmes' body, stroking the round, firm belly, feeling the babe push back against his touch, feeling the muscles clench in what he assumed to be one of those early contractions.
His hand wandered up to cup the subtle fullness of the breast tissue around Holmes' nipples, swelled with fluid as Holmes' body prepared to feed the child. A bit of liquid seeped from the nipple onto his palm at his caress; he looked at it wonderingly for a moment before he tentatively licked his palm clean. The milk was thin and sweet, and for a moment he wished he dared to taste it directly from Holmes. But that would wake Holmes, and Holmes oughtn't wake until he was ready. The desire was replaced by a flash of jealousy toward the unborn child, who would be allowed to suckle at those rosy nipples.
Pressing himself more snugly against Holmes' back, he returned to stroking that marvel of a stomach, paying particular attention to the underside, where the slope swept steeply down and into the waistband of Holmes' loose trousers. He toyed with the edge of them, considering whether to dip his hand beneath, and was amused that they were slung low enough that a few wiry hairs were peeking out. A little more prodding at the edge of the trousers confirmed that Holmes wore nothing beneath them; it was a tantalizing thought that opened up several possibilities.
He was pondering whether Holmes would wake if he tried to nudge the trousers down far enough to allow access to Holmes' groin when Holmes groaned and shifted. Holmes' breathing quickened and he tried to roll onto his back. "Watson?" he murmured sleepily.
"Good afternoon," he murmured into Holmes' ear, then licked and nipped at his earlobe. Holmes shivered. "I trust you slept well. It certainly looked like it." He rose onto his knees and allowed Holmes to reposition himself, though he didn't seem quite comfortable no matter how he tried to lay. He straddled Holmes' hips when Holmes finally settled onto his back.
"I don't think I tell you often enough that you're beautiful," he mused aloud as both of his hands caressed Holmes' stomach.
Holmes' only response was a grunt, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his fists clenched, and his eyes closed as another spasm swept through him. It could almost be seen as it rippled beneath the skin under his fingers, and he watched, entranced. When it had passed, he leaned over to kiss Holmes' abused lip, gently stroking it with lips and tongue.
"You are incredible," he said against Holmes' mouth, a hand buried in the tangle of thick hair at Holmes' nape. He trailed kisses down Holmes' neck, across his collarbone and chest -stopping to lick each nipple, which made Holmes squirm- and over his belly, dipping his tongue in Holmes' navel before his lips followed the downward slope of Holmes' stomach to the waistband he'd been toying with earlier. "I will show you just how you make me feel," he promised gruffly as he began to undo the trousers.
He stopped when there was a noise, a rustling or a creaking, from outside the door.
Watson tried to hurry through his errands, but of course that meant they took longer than usual. He knew he had plenty of time even if Holmes really were in the beginning stages of labor, but if he was, it made some of Watson's errands absolutely essential, so he'd had to go but was eager to return as quickly as possible.
He was finally on his way back to the cottage when his bicycle tire went flat. He had to walk the rest of the way, impatiently pushing the bicycle along, muttering darkly that if his day was going to go this badly, he would rather the child waited to make its appearance until later, regardless of how uncomfortable and irritable Holmes was becoming.
The cottage finally came into view. Watson noticed the bedroom window was still open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze; Holmes was still resting. Good. He rounded the cottage to find the kitchen door standing open. It was unlike Mrs. Hudson to leave it so, but she did say she had cooking to do, so perhaps it had gotten too warm for the window to provide sufficient ventilation.
But he didn't hear her moving around inside, which was unusual. He parked his bicycle against the fence and rounded up his purchases, venturing cautiously toward the cottage. It felt absurd to be so uncertain about nearing his current home, but there was something about the situation that felt wrong.
His strange feeling was confirmed when he peered into the kitchen's dim interior and saw Mrs. Hudson bound to a chair and gagged. She was struggling against the ropes that confined her but made no headway, and she had been set far from the knives.
Watson hurriedly deposited the packages on the counter and rushed to her aid, removing the gag then using a bread knife on her restraints. "Oh, Doctor Watson, it's that man! That horrid man! How did he find us?" she said with some hysteria, though he noted that she kept her voice down. "And now the roast is ruined, too. I think he's still here."
"Samuels did this?" Watson asked.
"Yes, I would know him anywhere."
"Does Holmes know he's here?"
"I wasn't able to warn him, no. He was sleeping, bless him, and that man snuck up on me while I wasn't looking. What are we going to do?"
Watson scrambled to come up with a plan. "Stay here," he warned her, then tiptoed from the kitchen into the main room. He could fetch his gun without being seen by anyone in the front bedroom, but at the same time there was no way for him to tell if Holmes was alone or not.
He would have to assume that Samuels was in the room with Holmes. He returned to the kitchen and whispered instructions to Mrs. Hudson, who was pale but determined, and they parted ways, she with the gun and he with a large meat cleaver.
As Watson approached the bedroom door, he could hear the rustling of movement and occasional snatches of murmured speech. The voice was not Holmes'. Watson tightened his grip on the knife and crept closer, his view of the bed blocked by the door, which stood slightly ajar.
He must have made some noise, for That Voice spoke again. "Doctor Watson! How good of you to join us. Do come in, don't be shy."
Steeling himself, he pushed the door open fully and stepped into the room. Holmes was lying on the bed, his wrists tied to the headboard with two of Watson's silk cravats; he looked dazed, slightly confused even, and Watson wondered if he had been a little too generous with the sedative he'd provided earlier. Thaddeus Samuels was kneeling beside Holmes, looking altogether too satisfied with himself.
"Tsk, tsk, Doctor, there's no need for that here. Just put it on the table there, if you would, and back away slowly."
Watson drew closer to the bed, but made no move to discard his weapon. With Samuels cowering behind Holmes, he couldn't reach him, though he dearly wished he could. He'd show him a thing or two.
"I don't think you understand me. Put the knife down on the table," Samuels repeated, speaking slowly as if Watson were mentally impaired. Then he grinned and lifted the hand that had been blocked from view by Holmes' body.
He held the small revolver up as if examining it, then pointed it toward Holmes' head. His grin widened as he took in Watson's reaction, then said speculatively, "No, that won't do. Even if I shoot him, the child might survive." He shifted his arm and pointed the gun at Holmes' abdomen. "This should do nicely. Now put the knife on the table, Doctor."
Watson hurriedly complied, trying not to think of the damage a shot like that could cause, and set the knife on the bedside table, making sure when he backed away that he was in a position to see out the window. "What do you want, Samuels?" he asked coldly, hoping to keep him occupied until Mrs. Hudson was ready.
"Just what I've always wanted. Failing that, I want no one to have him. And I'll do it, too, don't think I won't," he said wildly, roughly pressing the muzzle of the gun into Holmes' skin.
"We know you will. You've already tried once, that's why you ended up in prison. Are you really so eager to go back again? You just got out."
"I won't go back there, I'll kill myself first," he snarled, gesturing with the gun.
"We'd be much obliged if you would."
Samuels sputtered for a moment, scowling, then pointed the gun at Holmes again with renewed determination. "He's mine or he's dead."
"How do you plan on keeping him, I wonder? You must realize he'll leave you as soon as he gets the chance," Watson said, keeping his expression neutral as he saw Mrs. Hudson peering over the windowsill. He caught her eye and shook his head slightly; she nodded.
"Watson," Holmes said sharply, finally breaking into the conversation. Watson met his gaze and was surprised to see genuine fear in his face. Holmes shifted his eyes downward, unwilling -or unable- to give voice to his concern, and Watson tried to understand what Holmes was telling him.
"Then he's dead," Samuels said resolutely, drawing back the hammer and preparing to pull the trigger.
As time ground to a halt, Watson realized that Holmes' light-colored trousers were wet, and he was immediately certain of the cause. Their child was on its way.
And a madman was about to kill both the child and Holmes.
Watson frantically signaled Mrs. Hudson and she didn't hesitate. A shot rang out, followed closely by another as Samuels slumped forward over Holmes, who cried out. Watson rushed to the bed even before Samuels finished falling. "Did I get him?" called Mrs. Hudson worriedly.
It really wasn't necessary for Watson to check Samuels for a pulse, not with the clean shot to his head that was bleeding profusely all over the bed, but he did anyway. "Yes, you got him. It was an excellent shot, Mrs. Hudson."
"Shall I go for the police?"
"Please."
She disappeared from the window and Watson turned his attention to Holmes, who was pale and struggling ineffectually to free his wrists. "Watson," he gasped, then clenched his eyes shut.
Watson quickly untied Holmes and shifted Samuels' body off of him. "How frequent are the contractions?" he asked as he used a corner of the sheet to mop the blood from Holmes' skin. As he did so, he realized that the second bullet hadn't come from Mrs. Hudson. "Holmes, you've been hit."
"It's only a flesh wound," Holmes said dismissively. "And I don't know, I haven't been able to keep track."
Watson handed Holmes his pocketwatch. "Start keeping track," Watson ordered, probing the gash along Holmes' side. He even found the hole in the mattress where the bullet passed through. The wound, while not serious, was deep enough that stitches were advisable under normal circumstances; in this situation, Holmes was likely to tear them during labor if they were placed immediately. "I'll have to stitch this later," he said finally. "In the meantime, I'll clean and wrap it."
Holmes nodded and started shifting toward the side of the bed.
"I'll fetch my bag. Don't move."
When Watson returned with his bag, a basin of water, and a towel, Holmes was seated on the edge of the bed, his stomach dipping between his legs, one hand holding a wad of sheet to his side while the other rested beside him on the mattress, loosely holding the pocketwatch. He looked up as Watson entered, a brief smile flickering across his face. Watson set his burdens on the bedside table then stood before Holmes, his hands resting first on Holmes' shoulders, then on his back as Holmes leaned his head into Watson's chest.
"So much for your 'secluded cottage in the country' idea," Holmes said, his words muffled in Watson's shirt. "We could have stayed at Baker Street."
"He would've tried something there, too, and you know it," Watson countered half-heartedly, not in the mood for verbal repartee. He stood there for several minutes, stroking Holmes' hair and back and appreciating that they were alive and mostly unscathed. Samuels threatening Holmes and their child had shaken him deeply and the panic was only beginning to dissipate. He bent to kiss Holmes before stepping back and returning his attention to the wound.
Then Holmes stiffened, his brow furrowed in concentration -or pain- and he gasped, "Watson, how long is this going to take?"
"Hours, most likely," Watson said ruefully, squeezing Holmes' shoulder.
.
Their son was born with no more than the usual trouble (and some extra bleeding from the gunshot wound) just before midnight. Wan but triumphant, Holmes impishly suggested they name him Samuel. Watson wouldn't hear of it, not even as a middle name.
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: I want Holmes to be pregnant. Make it m-preg, make him into a girl, do any combination of the two...your choice in the details so long as he's heavily and obviously pregnant. (and preferably au enough that no one finds it THAT weird that it happened)
And I want a person fondling him, feeling his belly, like a proud and besotted and doting father of the baby/lover might do. Feeling the baby move, whispering in Holmes's ear, perhaps even hands travelling south like he wants a re-enactment of what led to Holmes's condition in the first place. Tasting his milk. The sort of scene that should be fluffy and beautiful and possibly sexy.
Except he isn't the baby's father or Holmes's lover. He's Holmes's kidnapper/stalker.
So what happens when the real daddy arrives? Bonus points if the baby starts coming at an inopportune moment and Holmes's and the baby's lives are in real danger.