First person Watson POV, canon/Granada-verse.
Written for with two shkinkmeme prompts in mind:
First: More pregnant!Watson please.
With Holmes doing such things as measuring the circumference of Watson's pregnant stomach and concluding that it is far to small and fluffing Watson's pillows...and long suffering Watson finally getting to relax. idk..
Second: Mpreg, preferably Watson as pregnant one, but not too picky. Maybe fluff or comfort because pregnancy isn't great on Watson (or Holmes, if you prefer) ie he has bad morning sickness, swollen ankles, or perhaps always tired or even bad mood swings and how the other deals with them and tries to help cheer them up or soothe them
_Recollections_
Being in a relationship of any sort with Sherlock Holmes is an unusual experience, owing to his many eccentricities and disinclination to observe the so-called normal modes of human interaction. This was especially true in our intimate relationship.
For one thing, we still slept apart, having discovered early on that neither of us was well-rested when sharing his bed-even when all we did in that bed was sleep-and Holmes' erratic hours didn't lend themselves to allowing me adequate rest. The nighttime distance was no indication of the tenor of our relationship, however; Holmes' expressions, his small gestures, his larger actions, and occasionally even his words daily made it clear to me that he cared for me as he did for no other.
As may be guessed by our sleeping arrangements, we only occasionally indulged in sexual congress, and there were periods when those occasions were quite rare. These droughts were often the result of Holmes' workload, but I also bore the blame in some instances. When a case was at fault, Holmes was careful to attend to me as soon as he was able. For my part, my regard was reflected in being ever ready and willing to assist when necessary, staying out of the way when assistance wasn't needed, chronicling our adventures, assuring him of my esteem when he was low, and gently kissing or caressing him when he would accept such attentions.
I relate all this by way of explanation for my failure to recognize the meaning of my initial symptoms, particularly since, though I am one of those males with the necessary anatomy for childbearing, I never experienced regular menstruation and was thus thought to be infertile. In hindsight, the symptoms make perfect sense, but most things are much clearer when looking back.
It began with a bone-deep weariness that leveled me just as effectively as being run over by a cab. At that time, Holmes was engaged with several minor matters that required no leg-work, only brain-work, which was just as well since I found it a monumental effort to venture from bedroom to sitting room. I would have been utterly useless if Holmes had needed me and my revolver, but at least I could still provide a receptive ear.
Despite resting as much as I could, I couldn't seem to shake the lethargy and part of me feared it heralded a relapse of the enteric fever. Even in the midst of his work, Holmes noticed the change and commented upon it one morning at breakfast. "My dear Watson, are you all right?" he asked, his face the very picture of worry.
"Just tired, Holmes," I assured him with a wan smile.
"You have been unusually tired for the last five days," he said, frowning. "Perhaps you ought to consult one of your colleagues."
I sighed heavily. "That's not necessary at this point, I assure you."
He raised his eyebrows and waited.
"Exhaustion is, at present, the only symptom, so no diagnosis can be made as yet."
"Poor Watson," he said, taking my hand and squeezing it gently. "I shall leave the settee at your disposal, then. And you must tell me if there is anything you would have me do for you."
"Of course," I assented, touched by his insistence.
I felt his eyes upon me while I read the paper and poked at my breakfast; when I finally pushed my mostly-untouched plate away, he commented, "Perhaps a lack of appetite should be added to your list of symptoms."
"Only if it persists," I replied as I made my way to the settee and settled upon it. "Tell me what you're working on."
Holmes obligingly described the problem that had arrived in an eloquent letter the day before and the information that should be arriving via telegram shortly, but I fear I lost the thread rather early on, though I continued to bask in the sound of his voice until it was stopped by a knock at the door. The rustle of paper that followed told me he'd received his telegram without having to open my eyes to look-when had my eyes closed?-and then I felt the air stirring nearby and a brief brush of his lips on my forehead.
"I'm not feverish," I mumbled, and he chuckled.
"You cannot fault me for checking."
"No," I said, and his lips pressed themselves to my skin more firmly.
"Sleep, dear Watson. I am going out to conclude this business, but I will return shortly."
I murmured something in response and he left, but not before a blanket settled itself over my lap.
The fatigue lasted the better part of a fortnight, as did my wildly varying appetite-some meals I ate quite like my old self, much to Holmes' relief, while at others the merest nibble was more than enough to satisfy me. Somewhere around the tenth or eleventh day Holmes ran out of cases to occupy him and turned his full attention to fretting about me. When I made it clear that there was nothing I needed save quiet and rest, he serenaded me on the violin. We ended that evening in his bed, his arms wrapped around me and my head on his shoulder.
I woke the next morning feeling more awake than I had in some time. Holmes, of course, teased me that I had simply been pining for his attentions, and I laughingly agreed that may have been part of it. Even so, I sometimes found him watching me anxiously, and I was hard-pressed to convince him that I was, truly, feeling better. It wasn't until I accompanied him to an afternoon concert and an early dinner out that he seemed to accept I was on the mend. This was soon followed by him leaving the rooms for his rounds of the city, checking in with those various individuals that served as his eyes and ears in each area of London. This activity often kept him out for a full day or more.
The nausea began the evening he was away. I'd had a fairly substantial dinner-Mrs. Hudson seemed determined to induce me to make up for my irregular intake over the previous weeks-and was placidly smoking my pipe and perusing the evening papers when I became aware of a vague uneasiness in my stomach. It felt nearly like my meal had settled in one large lump and my stomach was churning in an attempt to budge it.
I endeavored to continue reading, but the discomfort grew and the tobacco in my pipe began to taste foul, adding to the nausea. I extinguished my pipe and finished the paper; by then the discomfort was overwhelming and I looked to my medical bag for rescue.
Nothing I took was equal to the task. I languished in the unsettled balance between feeling ill enough that vomiting would be welcome-as it might rid me of the source of the vexation-but not feeling ill enough to actually do so without taking something to produce that effect, which I was unwilling to do. I spent several miserable hours on Holmes' bed-being closer at hand than my own-before the nausea faded enough for me to sleep.
Morning came all too soon but provided the consolation of a quiescent stomach. I took no chances and had Mrs. Hudson bring me only the blandest foods; my stomach did not complain for the duration of the day, so I thought my approach was the right one.
Holmes returned around teatime with a cheerful air and his pipe clenched between his teeth. He greeted me pleasantly, but his words to me were lost in a sudden wave of illness brought on by the smell of his tobacco. I rushed past him to the bathroom, reaching it just in time to be sick. Holmes hovered anxiously over me at first, awkwardly patting my back while I heaved, then retreated and bellowed for Mrs. Hudson.
I didn't try to catch their murmured conversation, knowing full well that Holmes was interrogating her about my condition while he was away. By the time Holmes returned to my side, I'd flushed away the evidence, had a drink of water, and was feeling wrung out but mostly back to normal. Or at least, I was until I caught another whiff of Holmes' pipe smoke and the nausea began anew.
He was quite perplexed by me snatching his pipe and knocking the embers into the toilet and flushing them away, staring at me as if I had lost my reason. "The smell," I said once I was certain that opening my mouth would not lead to any unseemly events.
Holmes took his pipe from me, bewildered. "It is the same tobacco I have used throughout our acquaintance," he said.
I could not explain it, only insist that I had been just fine before his return-which Mrs. Hudson could corroborate-and he settled into his armchair to consider the matter. Fortunately his cigarettes did not produce a stomach-offending odor, so he could ponder with the aid of some form of tobacco without forcing me to vacate the premises. If he drew any conclusions, he did not share them; instead, after dinner he proposed a leisurely stroll, to which I heartily agreed.
The nausea lingered, but only periodically-and unpredictably-reared its head. Most of the time it was not severe enough to cause the voiding of my stomach contents, which enabled me to hide its continuance from Holmes for a while. He worried about me too much already, I could see it in the furrows in his brow, and I did not want to be a distraction. Distractions could be deadly in his work.
Despite my best efforts, though, he found out one morning when he surprised me in the bathroom. It was a bad morning, the worst episode I'd had since the nonsense had begun more than a month prior, and he walked in to find me hunched over the toilet where I had already spent several miserable hours. He helped me stand and hobble to his bed; his gentle ministrations to my stiff back and legs afterward included him coaxing me to speak of the trouble until I confessed all.
His answer was firm and unwavering. "We must take you to a doctor, Watson." He pressed a kiss to my temple as he said it, as if to assure me that his concern was heartfelt.
I knew that full well already, but I am not one to shun any demonstrative actions from him. And I had to concede he was correct; I may have disagreed were it not for that morning, but now there was no doubt that something had to be done. "I will send a telegram to Dr. Sands." I'd had a brief acquaintance with Sands during our school years-a friend-of-a-friend sort of situation-and went to see him as a patient on one prior occasion.
In the end, it was Holmes who wrote the telegram that I dictated, and Holmes who took it to be dispatched. A reply arrived at the lunch hour, setting the appointment at ten o'clock the following morning.
I spent the intervening hours with my nerves tied in knots. Realistically I knew that there were a number of possible innocuous explanations for my recent experiences-though the complete absence of fever was a bit of a puzzle-but I was not in an emotional state to be reasonable, which was, in itself, another indication that I was not myself. Holmes, bless him, tried to distract me from my anxiety several ways, culminating in physical advances that I rebuffed. I did, however, accept his invitation to share his bed for the night, and he wound himself around me as if to protect me from the worries that beset me. I don't think either of us slept much.
The less said about that morning the better, sufficing only to say that I shut myself in the bathroom for the period immediately prior to departing, too short-tempered to put up with Holmes' well-meaning hovering. Holmes insisted upon accompanying me, and I am convinced I would not have had the courage to approach the building if not for his presence at my side. I in turn insisted that he wait for me in the doctor's sitting room; he was not pleased but conceded without argument.
Dr. Sands was ever the professional and listened attentively as I explained what had brought me to him. His examination was thorough and he chatted kindly with me as he worked. He fell silent at one point, looking off to one side as he concentrated on what he could feel in my abdomen. Then he smiled.
I left the room in a daze, overwhelmed. Holmes bolted to his feet as soon as he caught sight of me, his gaze studying me for a moment before he paled a shade; whatever he'd seen in my face had led him to a negative conclusion. "Not here," I said, and led the way to the door.
I spent the cab ride in a whirl of inner debate. We had not discussed this, hadn't realized there was even the remotest possibility, so what was Holmes going to think when I told him? Should I tell him? Well, of course, I must tell him. But would he be pleased or furious? I couldn't even begin to guess.
No words were spoken between us until we had ascended to our rooms. As soon as the sitting room door was shut behind us, Holmes demanded, "Well?"
I looked up at him and could find no words sufficient to tell him our lives were about to change entirely.
"If you cannot tell me, I shall ask you questions," Holmes said finally. "Will you recover?"
Trust Holmes to figure out a way to worm it out of me! "In time, yes."
Relief was etched on his face at my words. He took a deep breath. "Is it serious?"
I floundered. There were many possible answers. "Yes and no," I said slowly.
"Watson!" Holmes cried out in anguish and exasperation at the ambiguity. "Out with it, man!"
"I'm pregnant," I blurted before I could think better of it.
His eyes widened and he took a slight step back in shock. "But I thought- you said-"
"Evidently the doctors of my youth were mistaken," I said wearily, and started to turn away.
Holmes grabbed my shoulders and held me in place. His keen eyes searched my face, then dropped to my midsection, then returned to my face. "Are you certain?"
"Sands is thorough and exacting, and he was quite certain."
His hands rubbed up and down my upper arms for a moment, then slid over my shoulders up to my face while he leaned in and kissed me softly. "My Watson is going to have a little Watson," he said, sounding as dazed as I felt.
"A little Holmes," I corrected with a small smile.
"But this is wonderful! By the look of your face earlier, I would have thought it was something terrible."
"You truly don't mind? We never talked about having a child," I said uncertainly.
"Mind? Why should I mind? I am the cause of it; to object afterward would be cruel to you."
I felt, in truth, a little faint as I tried to comprehend the joy in Holmes' countenance and his unhesitating, even eager, acceptance of the news.
As ever, he sensed my train of thought without a single word spoken. "Ah, Watson," he said, folding me into an embrace that I returned with something akin to desperation. "You need not fret on my account. I am quite pleased by this wonderful news. I will insist that you tell me all you know about what we can anticipate in the coming months, but not just now."
He kissed me insistently, his hands stroking along my back and pulling me even closer to him. I returned his kiss, my body responding to his caress in a way it couldn't the night before.
We had time only to inflame our passions before Mrs. Hudson knocked and brought in our luncheon. Holmes quickly stepped away from me before the door opened-Mrs. Hudson could not help but be aware of our relationship, but we tried to keep it discreet-and we both surreptitiously straightened our clothing as she entered.
It was for naught for, after one glance at us, her lips pressed together in a suppressed smile. "It is good to see you feeling better, Doctor," she said mildly. "I hope to see an improvement in your appetite, as well."
"I'll see that he eats enough," Holmes said quickly.
"I'm afraid that doesn't mean much coming from you, Mr. Holmes," she said as she left.
I chuckled. "You do have a questionable reputation concerning food, Holmes."
"For myself, yes. You are another matter. You must recover the weight you have lost of late."
"I know," I said, seating myself. "But not all at once. And you yourself must eat sufficiently if you wish to have any influence."
"Very well," Holmes said, rising to the challenge as I knew he would.
I was quite famished, and between us we made quick work of the meal. As soon as we were finished, Holmes took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom, where we closeted ourselves for much of the afternoon. Not all of the time was devoted to carnal pleasures, though that was certainly part of our activities. The rest was spent considering all the things we needed to do or discuss before the arrival of our child some six months hence. Holmes even produced pen and paper and started a list-names, clothing, a cradle-so we would not forget.
Then Holmes surprised me by pulling out a tape measure and insisting that he measure my circumference. "We must have a method to track your progress, since we do not own a scale," he said.
I could not help but laugh at his serious air and attempt at being scientific while perched naked on the bed next to me. He pouted until I agreed to let him measure me. He pulled out a new sheet of paper and demanded to know my current weight as measured by Dr. Sands, which I provided and he recorded, then he had me stand with the tape measure around my middle. We debated for a few moments about where was best to measure, so Holmes settled the question by recording the measurements at three different points.
The numbers stood out starkly on the paper and we both sat in silent thought for a while. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "How often will you insist upon this?"
"Weekly should be sufficient for adequate monitoring."
And that is precisely what we did. Once a week I bared my midsection for measurement; when cases permitted, Holmes even insisted that it be in the afternoon so the data points were collected under comparable conditions. I thought it absurd to belabor the point, but Holmes was nothing if not exacting. I quickly came to enjoy the ritual as much as Holmes did; seeing the numbers inch slowly but steadily up was thrilling and provided objective proof that I wasn't just imagining that my trousers were growing snug.
The first few weeks required some adjustment for both of us. I still looked the same outwardly, and felt better than I had, so I wished to continue assisting Holmes in his work, but seemingly overnight he had become overly solicitous toward me, hovering protectively over my every move, watching every bite I ate, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Accompanying him was absolutely forbidden despite my arguments that there was absolutely no danger in visiting our clients and that regular moderate exercise was recommended at this stage. Even when I reminded him that I possess a gun and know how to use it, he remained unmoved.
Inspector Lestrade unwittingly aided my cause. He paid us a visit two weeks after we found out about my pregnancy and invited Holmes to view a crime scene. When they rose from their seats and I did not, Lestrade inquired, "Are you coming, Doctor?"
"Yes, of course," I answered before Holmes could speak, and I ignored the peeved look Holmes sent my way behind the Inspector's back.
It was just as well that I tagged along, for I was able to make some suggestions that put a gleam into Holmes' eye as he fitted the pieces together in his mind. By the time we returned home, Holmes seemed to accept that I was still just as useful despite my altered state, so our discussion centered not around whether I should go with him but when I should cease. It was decided that I should no longer accompany him when my condition was visibly evident to an extent that my jacket or overcoat could not conceal it, but I could cease at any point prior to that as well, like if the side effects of the pregnancy hindered my activities.
Blessedly free of side effects at that point, I did not think it likely that I would need to withdraw on account of them. The only pressing issue was how long my wardrobe could accommodate my expanding middle, for I had recovered the weight I'd lost and my girth was beginning to increase. Dr. Sands was pleased with my progress when I went to see him a month after that first visit, and encouraged me to continue in the same manner.
It was about this time that the child made its presence known in the form of a distinctive swelling. Until then, the changes to my abdomen were slight enough that they could be attributed merely to overindulgence, but the location and character of this definite lump were quite unmistakable. Once it appeared, it seemed to grow almost daily; that is an exaggeration, of course, but the way my clothes fit seemed to change every day and my top trouser buttons soon became superfluous. Even so, when I was fully clothed it was only discernable if a person knew what to look for, and only Holmes ever looked at me with such intensity.
Holmes displayed a consuming fascination with my body and the child within it; he often curled himself around me and stroked my stomach. In turn, my body thirsted for his touch, his embrace. I spent more time in his bed than in my own during those idyllic weeks when I felt well and strong and craved him.
We often went out-to eat, to concerts, to shop for clothes and other items for the child, for long walks in the park-in those days. When Holmes had a case that did not require my assistance, it was not uncommon for him to make up for his absence by taking me to Simpson's, which often ended with us hurrying home and shedding our clothing as soon as the door was closed and locked. We spent a good deal of time in the nude, and while Holmes enjoyed my altered shape, I relished his softened angles, for he had put on a bit of weight as I did.
Holmes accompanied me on my third visit to Dr. Sands, and this time I invited him into the consultation room with me. Having resigned himself to wait outside again, he was gratified by my trust in him and regarded me with that soft look that he used to convey his love when words of affection were unwise.
Sands greeted him courteously, shaking his hand as he congratulated him. The brief examination followed; Holmes paid keen attention to the doctor's hands as they palpated my abdomen.
"You're halfway there, John, and everything seems to be developing as it should," Sands said with evident satisfaction. "I would suggest that you find a midwife or doctor specializing in childbirth for the remainder of your term. I can recommend several if you wish."
"Halfway? How do you determine that?" Holmes questioned.
"The top edge of the womb has reached his navel," Sands said. "Would you like to feel? Put your hand here; yes, like that."
Holmes' fine fingers pressed my skin searchingly though his eyes were on my face; I flushed and desperately tried to think of something else so my body would not respond to his touch. Holmes turned away to ask Sands a question about size and the fact that I was only barely beginning to show.
"Everyone is different," Sands replied. "From this point forward it is more likely that the growth of the child will result in visible growth of the abdomen, but thus far John's weight gain has been acceptable."
Holmes took his hands away and inquired about recommendations for a specialist. I rose and began refastening my clothing while Sands handed Holmes several practitioners' cards. "Here are three midwives and two doctors; I will confess the top one is my niece. She has a number of commendation letters from prominent individuals, both male and female. Oh, and John, I see you are still able to wear your usual clothing, but when the time comes that you cannot, I suggest you try Smithson's."
"I have an appointment there this afternoon," I confirmed. Though it was true my usual clothing was still functional, it simply was not comfortable, especially my trousers.
"Splendid. They do excellent work, and have some very innovative methods."
We took our leave and stopped at a nearby cafe for a light lunch. Partway through the meal, Holmes directed my attention to a pair of men at a nearby table. I did not understand why they should be of interest until they rose and I saw that one of them was obviously with child, and likely near the end of his term. While it is true that a man can sometimes be thought fat rather than pregnant, the way he moved as if unaccustomed to his bulk and the way his companion helped him with a gentle hand to the elbow made his condition evident.
Holmes and I watched them leave, then Holmes murmured in my ear, "That will be you before long." My face heated and one hand strayed to my stomach as I considered this. I found the idea did not repulse me despite the occasional difficulty I had with accepting the changes to my body. Knowing that the day would soon come when I could not hide the fact that I bore Holmes' child was a source of pride.
Smithson's shop had only one other customer when we entered. I needed to use the facilities as soon as we arrived, but was able to rejoin Holmes before the time of my appointment arrived. The tailor ushered us into a curtained alcove for privacy, then quickly and efficiently took my measurements and disappeared to retrieve a few items he thought would be of particular interest.
Dr. Sands' comment about the innovative methods was explained when the tailor held up an example pair of the trousers the shop recommended: the front was cut lower than the back to allow room for the abdomen without any undue constricting when seated. "It is, of course, most useful for those such as yourself, but some of our clientele are simply overweight and carry much of the excess in front," the tailor cheerfully explained.
"Perhaps Mycroft would be interested in a pair," Holmes muttered, and I tried unsuccessfully not to laugh.
They also had developed waistcoats with an extra panel at the side seam so merely unbuttoning a button would add several inches of fabric on each side. "This method is less noticeable than suddenly having a completely new wardrobe if you wish to conceal the pregnancy, though of course the button on the side is visible if you aren't wearing a jacket."
Holmes was fascinated by their unique items, though I confess my temper quickly grew short as I became tired. The tailor noticed my discomfort and apologized profusely as he retrieved a stool for me to sit on. Holmes reassured me with a squeeze of my shoulder and rapidly drew our visit to a close, checking over the tailor's notes about the things I wanted-primarily trousers, though we also included a jacket, waistcoat, and two shirts, all with added inches in the abdomen-and negotiating on one or two points.
When we finally left, Holmes hailed a cab. Once we were inside, he said, "I apologize, Watson. I did not realize you were growing weary."
"It's all right. It took me a bit by surprise as well."
"Are you feeling up to an outing this evening, or shall I reschedule?"
"An outing? What outing? You haven't mentioned it before."
"Dinner with Mycroft. I did not think you would mind."
"Ah. No, I don't mind, and I think I can manage sitting at a table and eating," I said with a smile as the cab pulled up to our door.
Holmes laughed. "Yes, it will be taxing only for your stomach."
I ended up dozing off in my chair briefly before we left for dinner at the Diogenes. My lingering drowsiness was banished by the air whipped against our faces as we rode in the hansom cab. Mycroft met us in the Strangers Room; he took one look at us, particularly at me, then beamed as he held out his hand first to me, then his brother. "Congratulations."
I turned to Holmes. "Do I correctly infer that you hadn't told your brother?"
"Yes, you are correct," Holmes confirmed with a smile.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you could tell with a look," I said, now addressing Holmes' brother.
"Yes, quite," Mycroft said vaguely, leading us to the dining room.
Our conversation included more than the coming arrival of the child, though it was frequently revisited whenever the topic strayed elsewhere. The dinner was a good one and I ate altogether too much, as I often did when we dined with Mycroft. By the time Holmes and I returned home, I was quite ready to turn in and Holmes did not try to dissuade me.
.
I continued assisting Holmes for a month after the third visit to Dr. Sands, though it was beginning to become more difficult for me to do so. I am certain that none of the Yarders had an inkling about my condition, but the physical aspects of carrying a child were becoming intrusive, as I tired more quickly than was my wont-especially if we did any amount of walking-and a persistent ache developed in my hips and lower back. I had to eat every few hours, for I could not manage the amount of a normal meal in one sitting without a terrible stomachache afterward, which did not adapt well to being out and about. Neither did needing to use the toilet almost as frequently, thanks to the extra weight pressing down on my bladder.
In addition, I was periodically startled by a strange sensation in my abdomen that I eventually determined were the first flutters of movement by the child. They always distracted me when they occurred, which reflected poorly on me and Holmes when I lost the thread of the conversation while a client was present. On a few occasions, I was almost certain that one or two of our clients looked at me with understanding in their eyes; I always pulled my jacket more closely about me, but my abdomen was certainly growing and it was possible that they perceived what Lestrade did not.
Halfway through the month I paid a visit to Dr. Sands' niece, just to get acquainted and determine if she would be an acceptable midwife. Mrs. Louise Holloway was a formidable woman, knowledgable in her field and firm in her handling of her patients. We got on quite well though she disapproved of me continuing to assist Holmes at this stage. "Your attention needs to be on caring for yourself and preparing for the arrival of your baby," she said bluntly. "You need to be eating more, staying off your feet when possible, and avoiding any undue stress. I do not doubt that you are useful to him, but you need to consider the needs of his child."
Her words weighed on my mind for days afterward, though I resisted the notion of staying home while Holmes went out on cases. Those cases were frequently as much my work as they were Holmes'; they were certainly the only really useful thing I could do to earn my keep. Being cooped up in the rooms by myself was not a pleasant prospect.
I took Holmes to meet Mrs. Holloway two weeks after my initial consultation with her. She treated him with some disdain until he produced the document we had been using to track my progress. This attention to my welfare appeased her, especially when he repeated his concern-previously expressed to Dr. Sands-that I was not showing as much as he might have expected.
She thought quite highly of him after that. The rest of the appointment consisted of her instructing me on the things I ought to be doing and scolding me for perceived faults in my care of myself and Holmes silently agreeing with her. Foremost amongst her concerns was my activities-"strenuous exertions" in her words-with Holmes, though to be quite frank I had not been involved in so much as a footchase for the duration of the time that I knew I was pregnant. I did not try to argue.
When we returned home, I sank onto the settee with a deep sigh and Holmes perched sideways next to me, his hand reaching out to stroke my back. I turned to give him better access and he rubbed my back with both hands as he said gently, "What troubles you, Watson?"
"I - It's just - I don't know," I said stutteringly. "She seems to think I am being reckless, and you agree with her. I wish you would trust me to know when assisting you becomes more than I can handle."
Holmes did not respond at first, though his fine hands continued their soothing motions. "I worry about you, Watson," he said finally. "To have something happen to you - " he broke off and did not finish the thought.
"I understand, but I don't want to be stuck here alone any longer than I have to be. Your cases are my work, too, and I don't know what I will do with myself when I don't have that anymore."
I heard Holmes shift behind me, inching closer until he could wrap his arms around me and lean into me. "My dear Watson, I apologize. I never meant for you to think I would have you remain here while I carry on as usual."
I didn't understand, but he didn't explain himself. "What are you saying?" I demanded.
"Whenever you can no longer accompany me, I will cease to accept cases that require any amount of legwork."
I could not believe he was promising to coop himself up in our rooms for months on end. "I can't ask that of you," I protested.
"You aren't asking. I'm stating a fact." He pressed a light kiss just behind my ear.
"But you'll be bored."
He chuckled. "Let me worry about that."
"Let me rephrase it, then: you will drive me to distraction when you have no work."
"I will do my best not to disturb you excessively," he promised.
I snorted. "By whose definition, yours or mine?" I felt a fluttering in my stomach, so I laid my hands on Holmes' and moved them to the lump in my abdomen. "Can you feel that?" I murmured.
He leaned closer, then went absolutely still, hardly even breathing. Then his right hand twitched and he slowly exhaled. "I think I felt it," he said softly, then added, "Things like this are why I wish to be here with you."
"I understand," I said. "But I will not be hurt if you leave on occasion. I may even encourage it."
His thumb was rubbing circles on my stomach. "If you insist."
"For both our sakes, I do."