Author Notes: Please be aware of the Trigger warnings for this story. Also, I love constructive criticism and it's always welcome, but I won't accept flames. Information about medical procedures are directly taken from the site of the NHS.
Trigger Warnings: Body Dysphoria, Unplanned pregnancy, pro-choice, abortion.
Murphy's Law
"Sherlock, I'm home," John called as he entered the flat and then huffed out an amused breath. Christ, he sounded like a husband from one of this soap operas, who greeted his housewife, after he came back from a long day at work. And nothing could be farther from reality than this. Okay, alright, he had suffered through a long day at the surgery, but this was all his life and this of the imaginary husband had in common.
John grinned to himself as he sidestepped the mess of case notes on the floor in the living-room. No one would ever confuse Sherlock with a devoted housewife. Hell, no one would ever confuse the mad genius with a devoted husband. Although, they would be wrong. Not about the husband part - John doubted that Sherlock would ever want to do something as pedestrian as marry him - but he was certainly devoted... to John. And since John felt the same way, there really wasn't any problem with this.
Smiling at his silly thoughts - the day at the surgery had truly exhausted him - John entered the kitchen, in search of his brilliant boyfriend and a cup of tea. Said boyfriend wasn't in the room and John was halfway through preparing himself a cup of tea, when he finally noticed them. The objects on the kitchen table. At least three dozens of them. John furrowed his brow as he took a step closer to verify that he had identified the objects correctly, because certainly not even Sherlock could think of an experiment to do with them. After all, what would he want with... No, this was impossible!
John squeezed his eyes shut, then grabbed one of the damn things and inspected it more closely. The picture stayed the same. Two blue lines. On a pregnancy test. Positive. All of them.
Automatically, John took a step back as his mind whirled with the possible implications of this discovery. So, either Sherlock had found a way to manipulate all these pregnancy tests to prove something for a case - which wasn't completely out of the question - or - and here, John felt cold sweat form on his forehead - his boyfriend had taken them himself. No, please just... No!
"Sherlock!"
His voice carried the panic John felt, as his mind provided him with every scenario that had taken place, after his mad boyfriend had found out that he was pregnant. They varied from finding Sherlock in a puddle of his own blood, after trying various methods of ending the pregnancy to... not finding him at all. It wouldn't surprise John if this discovery had driven Sherlock away from the flat, on the streets and back to the drugs. No, it wouldn't surprise him at all, but he hoped... he wished...
"John? I'm in here."
John's legs nearly collapsed, when the well-known voice sounded from their bedroom. Sherlock hadn't run away. He was in their flat and he sounded fine, although... he probably wasn't fine at all. No, from what John knew about his boyfriend, he wasn't fine at all.
"Sherlock!"
John followed on the heels of his boyfriend as he stormed into their flat and marched straight to the bathroom, without taking off his coat first.
"Talk with me, you giant prick!"
Usually, John knew what had gotten Sherlock in a strop. He had been good at guessing, since they first moved in together and he had gotten even better, after Sherlock and he had gotten together. But today, John didn't have the first clue as to what had gotten his boyfriend in such a terrible mood. It had started after they had left Scotland Yard.
John frowned quietly as he hung up his coat and hurried through the flat to the bathroom. Neither Sally nor Anderson were able to rile Sherlock up to such an extent and John hadn't witnessed anything out of the ordinary. Then again, he had gone to the toilet after they had given their testimony to Lestrade, but certainly nothing could have happened in these five minutes. But obviously, it had. There was no other explanation for the sight in front of John, when he stepped into the bathroom. Well, there still wasn't an explanation as to why Sherlock was abusing his curls with a pair of scissors, but something must have triggered this act of self-mutilation.
For previous seconds, John could only stare as Sherlock cut of strand after strand of hair until he got his limbs to move once more.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock met his gaze in the mirror and cut of yet another curl. "Isn't it self-explaining? I'm cutting my hair."
"No," John shook his head and placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist, halting the destructive process for the moment. "You are hurting yourself."
An exasperated huff left Sherlock's lips at this. "Don't exaggerate, John. Cutting my hair isn't going to hurt me. Not unless you distract me to the extent that I cut myself with the scissors."
It was an attempt at humor, but John ignored it. He wouldn't allow Sherlock to distract him, until he had figured out what was wrong with his boyfriend.
"You love your hair," John tried and this time he got an honest reaction. Blue eyes narrowed dangerously and then, without warning, Sherlock turned to John and all but snarled at him. "Yes, I love my hair and so what? I have sacrificed more than a few strands of my hair to be seen as the man, I am. It won't..."
"Woah, stop right there!" John placed a calming hand on Sherlock's shoulder and secured the scissors with the other one. He believed, he started to understand what was going on, although he still wasn't sure what had started it. "A lot of men wear their hair long. Hell, a lot of really tough men would kill you if you tried to cut their hair."
Sherlock snorted, but he didn't reach for the scissors, so John counted it a success. "I don't know how you got into your head that you have to sacrifice your hair to be seen as a man, but let me set you straight. You don't need to run around with a military cut to be a man. You could wear your hair at waist length and no one would doubt that you are a man... because you are. And whoever told you differently..."
"The former suspect of our murder case. After she thanked me, she told me... she complimented my hair and said that a lot of women would kill for it and that it's rare that she sees men, which wear it the way I do."
John suppressed a sigh at Sherlock's words. It wouldn't help his boyfriend, if he pointed out to him that the woman hadn't been transphobic at all. No, Sherlock knew this, but her words must have triggered something. A hurtful memory. Body dysphoria. John didn't know. Sherlock hadn't told him much about his transition - just that his family had supported him - and therefore John could only guess what experiences his boyfriend had made. Probably not very good ones, if he reacted so badly, when someone only remotely hinted at a trait or feature that could - or could not - be considered female in any way.
"Well," John stood on his tiptoes and ran a hand through the soft curls. "I would say, men and women alike would kill for your hair. So, it would be very ill advised if you cut it off."
Seconds ticked by and John prayed to a deity, he didn't think existed that Sherlock would believe him and not insist on disfiguring his beautiful curls farther. Finally, Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he nodded as he threw a glance at himself in the mirror. "You are right, I overreacted. It's just..."
Sherlock never finished this sentence and John didn't push as he spent the whole evening to show his boyfriend just how perfect he thought Sherlock was.
John waved his left hand through the air to push the memory away, but the worry remained. If Sherlock had suffered from such a bad episode of body dysphoria after a seemingly harmless comment, then John couldn't even start to imagine how bad his boyfriend felt now.
"John?!"
Fuck, how long had he stood in the kitchen, lost in his memories, while Sherlock needed him?!
"Coming," he called back and hurried to their bedroom.
It was dark in there. Sherlock had drawn all the curtains and John moved carefully through the room as he made his way to their bed, where he hoped to find his boyfriend. Of course, he could have turned on the light, but he didn't. No, if Sherlock needed darkness, then John wouldn't force him out into bright light. Somehow, he made it to the edge of the bed, without any major injuries - his throbbing toe didn't completely agree with this - and sat down on the mattress.
"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively as he edged closer to the headboard. He breathed a sigh of relief, when a lump of covers moved and John's fingers encountered soft curls as Sherlock emerged from his nest.
"John."
His name was barely a whisper on Sherlock's lips and John's heart constricted painfully at how many emotions this one word carried. There was so much despair in Sherlock's voice and John just wanted to hug him close and tell him that everything would be fine, but he didn't. Not yet. Only when he was certain that Sherlock would accept the contact and comfort. For now, John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's curls and waited. Waited for Sherlock to make the next move..
OOO
John was here.
Sherlock felt his body relaxing and tensing at the same time as his boyfriend stroked his curls tenderly. For one thing, he was glad - relieved even - that John was home and that he knew. Sherlock had left the tests out in the open on then again, Sherlock was afraid as well. No, not just afraid. Terrified. Absolutely terrified about John's reaction to this situation. There were so many possible ways in which his boyfriend could react to the news of Sherlock's pregnancy and most of them didn't sound promising. Hell, it wasn't even promising that John was stroking his hair right now. If he had screamed at Sherlock and demanded an answer as to how this could have happened, the prognoses for the outcome in the long run would have been better.
"John isn't the kind of man, who screams at his significant other, when they get pregnant," Mycroft's voice reminded him and Sherlock sneered at this. "No, he is a man, who adores children and who has always dreamed about having, at least, one of his own. He won't get mad... not just yet."
Sherlock inhaled shakily and felt the air burn down all the way to his lungs as his chest clenched painfully at the thought of losing John. And he would lose John. Sherlock was sure of it. Not now, maybe not in a week, but in the long run... there was no chance that John would stay with him, not after...
"Sherlock?" John's finger traced the lines on his forehead. "Talk with me. What happened?"
The question almost made Sherlock laugh, until he realised that John was inquiring about the 47 pregnancy tests on the kitchen table and not about the biological process, which had taken place beforehand. Although, the last part was noteworthy as well, Sherlock thought grimly and then forced himself to relive the events of the afternoon for John's sake.
Positive.
Sherlock stared at the two blue lines in shock. This wasn't... this couldn't be... But no, he had to stay calm. Just because one test wanted him to believe that he was pregnant didn't mean that it was right. After all, Sherlock recalled the information he had gathered from his former research, the tests weren't always correct. In fact, in three percent of the cases, they showed a positive result, when there was no pregnancy to speak of. So, it was likely - more than likely - that he had just gotten a test that didn't work right, since the chances that he was pregnant were close to nil.
Yet, it wasn't completely out of the question, because... Sherlock's hand hovered over his midsection and clenched into a fist. He should have gotten rid of this foreign part in his body, years ago. Mycroft had even offered to get him a private surgeon. No fights with the NHS and endless questions that he had already answered a thousand times. It had sounded fantastic and then... Sherlock had gotten his first cases and he hadn't had the time to undergo a surgery anymore. His mind had been on fire and it had been as simple as with the help of cocaine to ignore his body. Add to this the fact that the dosage of T was high enough to stop his monthly bleedings and it had been child's play to forget he even had an uterus. But now...
"Stop it! You are overreacting," Sherlock told the mirror. "Everything will be fine, you will see."
Holding onto his own words, Sherlock ventured outside the flat once more to buy another pregnancy test. Just to prove that he wasn't... carrying a child.
OOO
"You know, young man," The pharmacist started, when Sherlock walked into the chemist's for the fourth time this afternoon. "Your girlfriend should better see a gynecologist instead of taking one test after the other. She would know without a doubt then and you could decide your next steps together."
Sherlock's lips curled into a bitter imitation of a smile at this, but he didn't bother to come up with a scathing reply. It was hard enough to school his features into an impassive mask, when he felt like falling apart inside, without getting into a pointless argument.
"How many pregnancy tests do you have in stock?"
The pharmacist frowned at him, but still checked her computer. "We have 44 tests in stock, from various brands and..."
"I will take them all," Sherlock reached for his wallet and met the shocked gaze of the pharmacist. "With all due respect, I would really advice against taking so many tests in a row. Certainly, it would be safer to get an appointment with a doctor. I understand that many women are in denial, if the pregnancy isn't planned or wanted, but a visit with a doctor..."
"I didn't ask for an opinion. Just give me the bloody tests, so that I can be out of here," Sherlock snapped, as he felt himself getting closer to losing his nerves completely. He just wanted to get the damn tests back to the flat and finally get one, that wasn't broken. One, that would tell him that he wasn't pregnant. Well, more than one, as it was unlikely that 44 tests were broken, but one would be a good start.
"Fine, but at least make sure that she drinks enough and takes a break between taking the tests every now and then." The pharmacist glared at him and then went into the back to get the tests. "One could think that he is the one pregnant with such a temper," Sherlock overheard the pharmacist tell one of her colleagues and it took all of his willpower not to break down right then and there as he waited for the requested goods. He wasn't pregnant! He couldn't be, it was a mistake and the tests would prove it. He just couldn't be pregnant!
OOO
"No, no, no!"
Sherlock threw the test against the wall and collapsed on the closed toilet lid. Part of him still wanted to deny what 47 tests and three hours of testing - even he needed to drink and refill his bladder between so many tests - had proven to him, but he knew better than this. Statistically speaking, the chances that he had gotten so many broken tests were almost nil and although he wanted to hang on the almost, he didn't. No, Sherlock had to face the grim facts: He was pregnant.
A wave of nausea hit him at the realisation and what it implied and he leaned forward just in time to vomit into the bathtub. Tears stung his eyes, as he continued dry heaving, even after everything had left his stomach. Almost as if his body tried to get rid of the... the thing that was growing inside of him, this way. And wouldn't it have been fantastic if it was this simple?!
Sherlock's hollow laughter echoed from the walls, before they turned into sobs. Desperate, gut wrenching sobs, which were accompanying by acid tears. Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn't someone else, who wanted a child, get pregnant instead? Of course, Sherlock was aware that this train of questions were useless, far from scientific, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't want to be pregnant. He couldn't bear the thought of a fetus growing inside him, when... when he wasn't a woman.
And that was the whole problem, wasn't it? Sherlock wasn't a woman, he had never been one, but his body... it had betrayed him, was betraying him this very minute by nurturing a small lump of cells. It was an act, which was solely associated with women. Yes, there had been a few transgender men, who had carried a child and there were also cis men out there that would happily carry a child themselves - about two percent could imagine it - but this wasn't something Sherlock wanted to do. Hell, he couldn't do it. If he only thought about how his body would change, how his body would become more feminine, how people would perceive him...
Sherlock heaved into the bathtub once more as a disgusted shudder ran down his spine. No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't carry a child and give birth to it. Not even if his life depended on it, not even for... John. Oh God!
Sherlock sat up abruptly and had to hold onto the edge of the bathtub as the world spun around him as yet another realisation hit him: He needed to tell John! His loving, caring and absolutely beautiful John, who adored children and who would be thrilled at the prospect of being a father.
"No, please," Sherlock whimpered as he staggered to his feet, while possible scenarios swirled through his head. There was only one, which didn't end with John leaving him, in the end and this one presupposed that John didn't want a child and would be relieved, when Sherlock aborted it.
Unrealistic, Sherlock realised as he staggered through the hallway to their bedroom. John
wouldn't tell him that he was a murderer for wanting an aborting - at least, Sherlock hoped, he didn't harbor such believes - but he would hold it against Sherlock that they couldn't have a child together. And then - after days, weeks or months - he would leave him and Sherlock would be alone once more.
A tiny part of Sherlock pointed out that he didn't need to tell John about his pregnancy. He just needed to make the necessary arrangements and then vanish for a few days - a case for Mycroft would be the perfect cover - and afterwards, they could live together as if nothing had happened. Maybe, this was even true, but Sherlock doubted it. He doubted that he could live with such a big secret and if it came to light any other way, John would undoubtedly leave Sherlock. No chance, that his honest boyfriend would ever forgive him such a lie. Even if it was only a lie by omission. A couple of years ago - when their relationship had only just evolved into the romantic sort - Sherlock might have still chosen this way. The simple way, but not anymore. If there was even the smallest chance that John would stay with him forever, then Sherlock would grab this chance, until it melted away in his hands.
Sherlock gulped in some air and forced his body to remain calm as he searched through the drawers of his nightstand, until he found what he was looking for: The prescription for his last batch of hormones. It was as he had thought - with the part of his brain that wasn't panicking - the dosage was too low. Lower than his usual dosage by a factor of 100. Probably a typo, which had gone unnoticed by everyone, including Sherlock, who had been busy with a case at the time. A fatal mistake, since the dosage of T had obviously been low enough for his body to start producing hormones on its own. Female hormones. Still, nothing would have come of it - except for an unwelcome menstruation - if Sherlock hadn't wanted John to sleep with him... this way. The urge had never overcome Sherlock before and he should have ignored it - his hormones must have run wild at the time - but he hadn't and now... he was about to lose everything. And by everything, Sherlock meant John, because without his boyfriend, he would be reduced to a clever machine once more.
Sherlock crumpled the damned prescription in his hand and forced himself to remain sitting on the bed. No matter how bad the urge to scrape the fetus out of his uterus was, he couldn't give in to it. John would never forgive him, if he had to clean up such a mess.
"And you didn't do anything else, either?"
Sherlock lifted his head at the unexpected question and looked at John's profile in the dark. He had expected his boyfriend to demand to know how Sherlock hadn't noticed that his dosage was too low. Or maybe try to convince him to keep the child - in vain, as Sherlock could tell him - but he hadn't expected this question. An inquire after his health, after everything he had told John. Then again, he was a doctor and John had taken it upon himself to look after Sherlock, therefore it might not be as farfetched a question as Sherlock believed at first.
"Sherlock?!" The urgent tone brought Sherlock back to the conversation. "You didn't take anything - a poison, drugs or other medicaments - to initiate an abortion, did you?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, I didn't, but..."
"Thank God!"
Sherlock felt how John's body sagged with relief on the bed and he wanted nothing more than to hug his boyfriend close and forget what had brought them here in the first place, but he kept his distance. If John was going to reject him, Sherlock didn't want to get pushed away physically. He wouldn't survive it. Therefore, Sherlock stayed where he was, as he delivered the final blow to their relationship.
"I want to get an abortion, John." Sherlock needed to be sure that his boyfriend had gotten this part right, so that he was sure that his reaction was real.
Silence.
Slow breaths.
And Sherlock wished to see, to know how bad it was, if it was over this very minute, but he couldn't. So, he remained silent in the dark and waited with bated breath for John's reply.
OOO
Of course, he wanted an abortion.
John wondered why Sherlock even felt the need to clarify this part. It had been clear to him the second he had understood the significance of the pregnancy tests. Sherlock would never carry a child. It would kill him, mentally if not physically through suicide. No need to be a therapist to see this truth. After two years as Sherlock's lover, John knew where the limits of his boyfriend lay. He had watched him measuring the width of his hips and glaring at the silvery scars on his chest to understand that Sherlock fought against massive waves of body dysphoria on some days. And if such small things - small in John's eyes, he understood that it was different for Sherlock - brought his boyfriend down and pushed him in an abyss of depression, then carrying a child would kill him.
So, no, there was no question about whether Sherlock would get an abortion or not and there was also no doubt about where John stood on the issues... or was there? Not for John himself, because he would chose Sherlock and his wellbeing over an unborn child anytime, but for Sherlock...
"Oh, you stupid prick!"
Sherlock jerked away at the angry shout and John was just fast enough to grab his wrist, before he could bolt from the room. "Of course, I support your decision. I won't bully you into carrying a child - not that I ever could, but just for the record. I will make the appointments for you and... I'll be there with you, all the way through."
A gasped breath sounded next to him and John realised that, yes Sherlock had doubted that he would support him. "You are truly stupid, sometimes." John leaned forward and brushed his lips over a furrowed brow.
"But... you love children and I thought you would be... angry?" The sentence ended with a question mark and John sighed quietly.
"Budge over." John laid down next to Sherlock and turned on his side to face his boyfriend, although he couldn't make out more than the outline of his features in the dark. "If I was angry, I would be angry at the person who wrote your prescription - and I am to some extent - or at myself for not using a condom. I'm not though, angry at you for making a completely understandable decision."
Silence greeted his words and John took the chance to blew more kisses to every part of Sherlock's face that he could reach. If his boyfriend didn't believe his words, he would hopefully recognize his actions as honest.
"I'm with your child." Sherlock's voice sounded rough. "You should try to stop me from aborting it. Biology would dictate that you..."
"Screw biology!" John slung one arm around Sherlock's waist and held him close. "We are more than a sum of instincts, hormones and whatever else. I want you to be happy, with me, that's all."
"But you like children and... you wanted to have children at one point in your life."
John snorted at this. "Yes, I like children and I might have thought of having a daughter or a son of my own, in the past, but... that was hypothetical. It was even before I went to Afghanistan and now... I have you and I won't give you up for an old - long since faded - fantasy."
More silence and after a few minutes, John believed that Sherlock had fallen asleep and he was ready to close his eyes as well, until: "You won't leave me, then?"
And this was, when the penny finally dropped and John realised why his boyfriend had been so tense all the time. He had waited... waited for John to declare that they were over and to walk out of his life.
"Oh Sherlock!" John pressed himself as close to his boyfriend as was physically possible in this position. "I won't leave you. I don't want to and I... can't. I love you too much to ever walk away from you."
They both ignored the suppressed sob and the wetness that dripped on John's neck, when Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his shoulder and just breathed for several minutes.
"I love you, too, John," Sherlock whispered, when John was about to doze off and he placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheek in reply. They still had a few obstacles ahead of them, until the situation was resolved, but John was positive that they would come out on top. Because that was what they did... always.
OOO
"How do you feel?"
Sherlock focused heavy eyes on John as he took stock of himself. How did he feel? Light, was the first word that sprang to his mind. Not in the sense that he had lost several pounds - John would force feed him, if he managed this feat - but in a relieved kind of way. There was nothing inside of him anymore that wasn't supposed to be there. The ordeal of five days was over and - the greatest miracle of all - John still was with him. So, although Sherlock felt completely drained, tired and exhausted, he managed to smile at his boyfriend. "Good."
"Right!" John frowned down at him and then sat down on the bed, next to Sherlock. "You had cramps only a couple of hours ago. You were sick twice and hooked the bathroom for about an hour, afterwards. Somehow, I don't believe your assessment of your physical state."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the reminder of how the last few hours had gone and leaned back against the headboard. "I'm fine, now."
Really, did John always have to act like a Doctor? Alright, he was a Doctor and a good one at that and he had made sure that Sherlock got to see two of his colleagues, which hadn't given him the feeling that it was unusual for a man to get an abortion. It was also thanks to John's medical degree that Sherlock had been allowed to go home after taking the final tablet, which had terminated his pregnancy. And Sherlock didn't even want to list how John had been there for him with hot-water bottles, tea, paracetamol and comforting words, while the parts in his abdomen had cramped and blood had run down his legs. So, yes, in some ways - in a lot of ways - it was wonderful that John was a Doctor, but not right now. Right now, Sherlock didn't want to be questioned about his physical wellbeing by Doctor John Watson, he wanted his John. The one, who cuddled up to him at night and blew kisses all over his face, until Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear.
Usually, Sherlock would have voiced his wishes, but today he didn't dare asking John to join him in bed. Not because of something his boyfriend had done - no, John had been perfect - but because... Sherlock was afraid. No matter how often John had told him that everything was fine and that he understood why Sherlock needed to terminate the pregnancy and that he supported him wholeheartedly, Sherlock still feared that John would change his mind. It was too easy to imagine that John would realise what he had lost and start blaming Sherlock for it and then...
A warm hand on his forehead interrupted his thoughts and Sherlock glanced at John, who wore a faint smile. "Your temperature seems to be normal. Any major pains?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Good. You are still going to the appointment with the doctor, tomorrow, so that we can be sure that everything is fine. And no," John added, just as Sherlock was about to open his mouth. "I won't do the examination. She is a specialist in this area, I'm not. I'm there to stitch you back together, when you have a run-in with a knife wielding murderer again."
"Not just for this," Sherlock murmured quietly and blushed, when blue eyes softened at his words.
"Of course not." John's reply was just as quiet as Sherlock's earlier words had been, but this was alright. Sherlock didn't need loud declarations, not when John kicked off his shoes and snuggled up to him on the bed.
"I'm so glad that you are fine." John's breath tickled Sherlock's ear as his boyfriend bedded his head on his shoulder and threw an arm across Sherlock's chest. "It was terrible to see you suffer. I don't want to repeat this experience."
Blue eyes widened in sudden insight at the confession. It was as clear as daylight that John wasn't only talking about the cramps and the vomiting, but the bouts of depression - and body dysphoria - Sherlock had suffered from for the last few days, as well. It meant... John understood. He truly and completely understood Sherlock's reasons for his decision and this was... unbelievable. Almost. Because, if someone could relate to someone else's pain, it was John.
Sherlock swallowed against the happy tears that prickled in the corner of his eyes and pressed a reverent kiss on John's head. He didn't know what he would do without this wonderful man, but finally Sherlock believed that he would never have to find out.