By no means was it an odd morning, however no such thing truly existed in a home that held Sherlock Holmes' existence. The tea pot was hissing lightly, and the telly gave off garbled words of reporters.
Perhaps the only odd thing was that John was still asleep, but Sherlock understood. The man had been working tirelessly with a large outbreak of toxoplasmosis, and the hospital had been begging workers to stay after shift to help out with the heavy load. It was good pay, but John had crashed as soon as the bed came into view.
To wake him would be cruel and foolish, so Sherlock let him sleep.
From the upstairs bedroom, John slept away peacefully, and hugged Sherlock's pillow closer to his body. The bed was far from warm, and Sherlock's body had long since left it to cool, but still the comfort of his lover's scent calmed him back into peaceful reprise.
Sherlock and John were curled up in each other's arms, watching re-runs of random shows, and Sherlock felt John slowly dropping off.
"You've been really tried lately, are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asked quietly, gently shaking John into awareness.
"Wha?" John yawned, and nestled further into Sherlock's hold. "I'm just still recovering from the overtime shifts…"
Sherlock nodded, and pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over them. There was a dusting of snow outside; it was a little colder than usual for London. The windows were frosting over from the difference in temperature, and they had no desire to go outside. They'd rather cuddle up together in the warmth of each other's embrace and watch from behind the glass barrier.
"Then sleep, John." Sherlock told him softly, and chuckled when he looked down to see John sound asleep against his chest. The man snored softly and had his hands curled up in Sherlock's shirt.
After a few hours, Sherlock felt his eyes get heavy, and pulled John closer so they could both lie down. Their limbs intertwined in the small space, and John's breath dusted Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock wished they could stay like this forever.
John woke up with a tickle in his throat, and a warm body beneath him. It was rare for Sherlock to sleep in this late and, afraid the man was simply stuck beneath him, lightly stood up and walked with weak legs to the kitchen.
The thickness in the back of his throat grew into burning sensation just below his Adam's apple, and John leaned against the counter until the nausea passed. It had been like this for a few mornings, and John pushed away any thoughts that it was something out of the ordinary.
Mary had lightly nudged him when he told her that he'd been feeling sick, and she'd replied that he was still of breeding age, and he should look into the possibility of him being with child.
It wasn't uncommon for male omegas, or as the population usual put it- males with the ability to bear children, to be fertile into their late forties or even fifties. It was not something John had ever wanted, to be feminized when he'd always been as masculine as any other man.
However, when a week of waking up sick passed, John accepted that he'd have to accept the possibility.
He stared at the test in his hand, and let his head fall back against the bathroom's wall.
Fuck.
John smiled as Sherlock ran his hand over his belly, swollen now to nearly seven months. The man's ankles were engorged and sore, and his back was killing him. It was worth it, however, to see Sherlock smile.
"I hope he'll have your eyes." John slurred sleepily, and curled into Sherlock's embrace.
"Why?" Sherlock asked him, kissing the top of his head and continuing to rub softly where his child was.
"So he'll see everything the way you do…. Be as brilliant as you…"
John drifted off with words on his tongue, and warm arms around his shoulders.
The night was shattered by a cry of pain, and the sirens of an ambulance in the street.
John had his arms wrapped around his torso, and bit down on his lip. There was sweat on his brow, and lines drawn tense into his face.
They rushed him to the hospital, and were sure it was just an early birth.
John and Sherlock's entire world shattered when they were told the child had no heartbeat.
The doctors told them that they needed to trick John's body into labor, or else there was a high risk of infection. Sherlock's eyes were blank, and John's arms were shaking. When the child crowned, no one spoke, and no child cried. The doctors were silent until they handed John the child and a nurse softly mutter, "I'm so sorry". John cried as they let him hold the baby for the first and last time, and Sherlock kneeled next to him. They told John it wasn't his fault, but John only sobbed silently, and damned his own body.
The sky rained for three days, drenching the fresh grave until the roses on the tombstone were sopping wet. The tombstone held no dates, only a name and a few words. They named the child that never had the chance to live Hamish, and watched the rain as lifelessly as their son.
Things were never the same again.