A/N: Non-specific universe, so can be read with any Victorian 'verse in mind.

Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Holmes finds himself pregnant.

Watson performs the abortion.

_Give and Take_

"Holmes, where have you been?" Watson demanded as the door clicked shut. He lit the lamp beside his chair and banished the darkness; Holmes stood still, facing the door.

Holmes sighed and slowly turned around so Watson could see his bruised and bleeding face. He leaned back against the door and silently submitted to Watson's probing fingers on the cuts and abrasions.

"Where else? No, on second thought, just take off your shirt."

When Holmes' fingers fumbled on his buttons and his knees began to buckle, Watson led him to the settee and took over the undressing. "You mope around for days, hardly even moving, then you sneak out after I've gone to bed and get yourself beaten. What's gotten into you, Holmes?"

"I required diversion."

"Diversion. I've tried to offer you diversion and you weren't interested." Watson tried not to sound hurt, but it was difficult. Holmes had been putting him off for weeks and Watson was afraid Holmes had thought better of their intimate relationship, never mind that it had been going on for nearly a year.

"Not that kind. Unless you fancy getting into a fistfight with me first, but I don't take you for that sort."

His comment was lost as Watson pushed back Holmes' shirt and ran his fingers lightly over old bruises and new marks that were sure to darken. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? You could rupture something and bleed to death before you even made it home. I know you can defend yourself better than this."

"I was . . . not entirely sober," Holmes admitted.

"You still aren't," Watson said evenly. "Was it just alcohol or did you take something as well?"

Holmes didn't answer.

Watson tugged his shirtsleeves down around his wrists and examined the skin of his arms. There were two recent punctures. "Holmes," he said helplessly. "Why are you doing this? I don't understand . . . this isn't like you."

Holmes let his head fall back against the cushions. His hands found one of Watson's hands and held it gently.

"Is it something I did? Is that why-"

"No," Holmes said fiercely, sitting up abruptly. He reached for Watson but was halted by the shirt bunched around his wrists. "This isn't about you. At least, not just about you. I-confound it, would you get this thing off me?" He had tried to extricate his arms from his shirt but had only succeeded in getting himself more tangled.

Watson obligingly straightened it out and set the shirt aside. Holmes cupped Watson's face in his hands and rested his forehead against Watson's.

"I don't know how to say this," he murmured.

"Then let's wait to discuss it until morning."

"No, if I think about it any longer I won't be able to say it." Holmes took a deep breath. "I think I'm pregnant," he said in such a rush that the words slurred together, so it took Watson a few moments to decipher what he said.

"What? But we took every precaution. We haven't even done that in a while. I don't-Holmes!" he cried, suddenly catching on. "You mean you've been going out and doing this to yourself and all the while you've suspected . . . "

"Yes," Holmes admitted in a low tone. "We talked about this; you know we agreed we could not have a child. So I endeavored to . . . discourage development."

"Holmes, you are an utter fool!" Watson scolded, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. "You've spent all this time abusing yourself and you didn't once think you ought to tell your live-in doctor about what was going on? There are ways to remedy this that don't involve you getting drunk and drugged and letting brutes use you as a punching bag."

"I didn't want you to know. You seemed to like the thought of a child and I thought it would be easier if you had no idea."

"Oh, Holmes," Watson said miserably. The insufferable man was absolutely right. He already felt a soft spot toward the tiny being Holmes carried, especially in light of how much it had already survived. Assuming it even existed in the first place. "Are you going to tell me why you think you're pregnant?"

"In the morning," Holmes said after a bit of delay.

"All right," Watson conceded. Holmes did look exhausted. "But I expect you to be in bed and sleeping between now and then."

Holmes very compliantly went to bed with Watson and wrapped himself around Watson like a child cuddling a toy. Watson laid awake for hours thinking about children and Holmes and wondered if he could actually help Holmes rid himself of their child. He wasn't so sure anymore.

.

When morning dawned neither of them had much appetite for breakfast. Instead they remained in the bedroom and Watson gave Holmes a thorough physical, assessing the likelihood that Holmes' suspicions were correct.

Unfortunately, all the signs pointed to pregnancy, as implausible as it seemed. With Holmes watching him expectantly, Watson's resolve wavered and he had to take a deep breath to steel himself. "The methods are not guaranteed and can be dangerous, though not as dangerous as what you've been doing," he said. "We cannot do it now; the necessary components are not supplies I have on hand, you understand."

"Yes, of course." He quirked a smile. "I suppose a few more hours won't hurt."

"One more day won't hurt," Watson corrected. "I need some time to look up what will be involved. I've never had to do this before."

"Is it possible to remove the offending organ entirely? That might be best if we wish to avoid this problem recurring."

"We can avoid this problem recurring by being more careful," Watson countered. "And no, I'm not going to perform surgery on you here, alone, unless absolutely necessary. And by absolutely necessary I mean you would die otherwise."

Holmes grumpily agreed. Watson left soon after, bound for the apothecary and the library.

He spent most of the day away from their rooms, coming to terms with the fact that they had made a child and now they were going to get rid of it. Not that it would look like a child yet, but if allowed to develop it would, and Watson was grieved that they had been so careless. If they had not, none of this would have happened.

But over all considerations of this particular child loomed the fact Holmes' family did not have a good record when it came to pregnancy. Many of his mother's relatives had literally lost their wits in the process of having a child and committed suicide or had to be shut away. That Holmes' mother had managed to have two children before drowning herself was a rare achievement. The capacity of some males in the family to bear children seemed to be a natural compensation for this unfortunate tendency, though they too were plagued with irregularities of the mind after parturition. This was what Holmes had emphasized when explaining his unusual anatomy to Watson, and was the primary reason they mutually agreed not to make an attempt at having children-the risk to Holmes' mind was simply too great.

When Watson returned to their rooms, Holmes greeted him by raising an inquiring eyebrow. Watson nodded once in response: yes, we will proceed.

They did not speak of it that evening. In bed that night, Holmes again wrapped himself around Watson. Watson barely slept.

.

Watson rose well before Holmes and went down inform Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was unwell and they needed only toast and a pot of hot water rather than breakfast. She was concerned but he assured her it was merely a stomach ailment and would pass quickly.

By the time he returned upstairs, Holmes was awake but still in the bedroom; he'd retrieved a few towels and was now collecting the cloths he usually used for his monthly flow. Mrs. Hudson brought up the toast and water as requested a short while later and they nibbled at the toast while the tea steeped.

When everything was ready, Watson handed Holmes a pill and a cup of the tea. Holmes swallowed the pill with a large gulp of tea, gagging on it and coming very close to bringing it up again. He shuddered when he'd swallowed, then took a deep breath and another gulp. When the cup was empty Watson refilled it and Holmes drank that down too. Then he shuddered, twisting his face in disgust, and handed the cup back. "Horrible stuff."

"It's not consumed for its taste," Watson said dryly, setting a towel down for Holmes to lie upon.

"When should it take effect?"

"Let's wait an hour. If nothing has happened by then, I'll give you another pill."

Holmes nodded and closed his eyes. Watson crawled onto the bed and laid down facing him, intending to watch Holmes for signs of discomfort or pain.

Instead, he fell asleep. When he woke again the morning was well advanced and Holmes had rolled onto his side with his back toward Watson. There was a spot of blood on his nightshirt. "Holmes? How are you doing?" he asked as he hurriedly sat up and leaned over to see his face.

"I'm quite all right, Watson," Holmes said, his voice sounding strained. "It merely feels like I am enduring several months' worth of cramping at once."

"I suppose you are, in a way. And the bleeding?"

"Began two hours ago and-" he paused, most likely to wait out a bad cramp, "-is growing heavier by the hour."

"Heavier than your usual?"

"No, not yet."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No." His answer was accompanied by a sigh.

Watson patted his shoulder and rose from the bed. He went downstairs for a while and returned with a hot water bottle. He crawled back into bed behind Holmes, set the water bottle against Holmes' abdomen, and arranged himself so he was pressed up against Holmes' back with his arms around him. Holmes adjusted the water bottle, then patted Watson's hands in thanks.

They remained thus for some time, until the hot water bottle was no longer even warm. Watson went to refill it while Holmes changed out of his blood-stained clothing.

Watson returned to find Holmes half dressed and hunched over, clutching the bedpost for dear life. "Holmes? What's the matter?" he asked worriedly as he hurried to Holmes' side, noting with alarm how pale and clammy Holmes' skin had become. "Do you need something for the pain?"

"No," Holmes said slowly, carefully standing up straight. "A bad spasm merely took me by surprise."

"If you insist, but you need only say the word and I will do all I can to ease you."

When he was again clothed in a nightshirt, Holmes settled onto the bed with a groan. Watson handed him the hot water bottle and sat in a chair beside the bed to watch over him.

.

The hot water bottle was nearly always clutched against Holmes' stomach in the three worst days of bleeding and pain. Watson did whatever he could for him, including helping change his bloody undergarments and soaking the worst of the blood out of them. Holmes refused the offer of painkillers even when the pain was so intense he retched up bile; Watson did not understand the reluctance and may have, once or twice, slipped him something anyway.

All the while that Holmes writhed in pain on the bed and grew paler every hour, Watson worried that he'd made a grievous error in administering two remedies at once. He was horrified by the sheer amount of blood involved and began to consider when he ought to take Holmes to a hospital.

They were both greatly relieved when the bleeding abruptly lessened in volume and brought a corresponding decrease in pain. For a while Watson feared it was merely a lull, but hours turned into a day and the bleeding remained mild. The worst was over.

When he was convinced Holmes was recovering, Watson crawled into bed with Holmes, something he hadn't allowed himself to do since that first day. He lay facing Holmes and pressed their foreheads together, then brushed a kiss across Holmes' lips. "I never want to do this again," Watson said softly.

Holmes nodded. "We will be careful."

"That's what we said before. We can only guarantee success if we stop having intercourse in that manner."

"That seems rather harsh," Holmes said mildly. "Perhaps we can develop some conditions instead."

"If you can convince me they'll be successful, I'll consider it."

"I'll have to come up with them first."

Watson smiled a bit and kissed Holmes again. Holmes kept him from pulling away and Watson let himself enjoy the return of Holmes' affections. He'd missed this when Holmes had been keeping his distance.

A small part of him would always wonder what might have happened had they allowed the pregnancy to progress, but as things stood he still had Holmes, in one piece and in sound mind, and Holmes still loved him. That was not a bad ending in the slightest.