Title: Males can get pregnant.
Pairing/s: John Watson and Sherlock Homes.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, that belongs to BBC, the writers and the producers. I am doing this for my own fun and not for profit in any way, shape or form.
Warning/s: M-preg; Sherlock a really bad father; crack!fic; characters might be slightly OOC.
Chapter/s: One.
Summary: 1 in every 40 000 000 000 000 males can get pregnant, and John is that one.
Author's Note: This idea came from reading way too many crack!fics one night. This contains M-preg, which I am never writing again, and also how bad a father Sherlock can be. This is meant to be funny so please don't take it too seriously, that is not what it was intended for. If none of the warnings are your cup of tea, please click that back button, it's there for a reason. Grammar and spelling mistake would most likely be found, this is un-beted, so please forgive me if you find any. Enjoy!
- Jade.
John took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting at the table, staring intently into his microscope.
John licked his lips nervously, gathered all the courage he was able to, and said the words that have been dancing the tango, waltz and cha-cha in his head for the past three days.
"Sherlock, I'm pregnant."
Sherlock's head couldn't have whipped fast enough in John's direction, and if it did his neck probably would have cracked.
"What!"
"I said I'm-"
"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time, but how the hell is that even possible?"
John scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm showing all the signs; nausea, mood swings, strange cravings, growing of the breasts, absent periods-"
"Periods? But you're a male." Sherlock put as much emphasis into the word as he could, eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"A guy can dream you know! Also, I'm getting fat." At this John looked down towards his stomach, glaring at it.
Sherlock eyes looked John up a down before nodding and humming in agreement. "You have seemed to gain 7 pounds in the last few weeks."
"What!" shouted John, eyes of furry glaring at Sherlock, trying to burn a hole there. "That is the most hurtful thing you have ever said to me! I hate you!"
"I was just agreeing with you and stating the facts."
"You could have lied!"
"Never mind, that's not what's important." Sherlock ignored John's annoyed huff, putting his fingers together instead and looking into the far distant in a dramatic way that only he can pull off. "What is, is how it's possible for you to have gotten pregnant."
"Males can get pregnant, Sherlock," John said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which it was. "Male pregnancies are very, very rare, only 1 in every 40 000 000 000 000 males can get pregnant."
"But you don't have the right anatomy," argued Sherlock.
"Just because I don't have a vagina doesn't mean I can't have babies."
"Yes, it does!" said Sherlock, clearly frustrated.
"Well, I am," replied John, in a very mature way, eyes narrowing at Sherlock as if daring him to say something back. A big grin suddenly appeared onto his face. "You know Sherlock; we're soon going to be daddies!"
"That child is not mine."
John sighed, thinking Sherlock is just being childish in his remark. "Of course it is, I haven't had sex with anyone else in the past year, now have I?"
Sherlock lips thinned. "I refuse to be a parent."
"Well, you should have thought of that before getting me pregnant," said a very annoyed John.
"That's because males getting pregnant is physically and logically impossible!"
"1 in 40 000 000 000 000, Sherlock, and I'm that 1."
"Lucky me," said Sherlock, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"God, can't you just be happy for once that we're having a baby?"
"No, because we're not."
"Denial isn't going to make me less pregnant," said John, voice almost sing-song.
"Then you'll just have to get rid of it," Sherlock said dismissively.
"I do not believe in abortion, Sherlock! This baby is staying!"
"Or what?" dared Sherlock.
"I'll... I'll." John looked around, trying to get some inspiration as to what to say. Suddenly his eyes landed on something and an idea struck. He looked back at Sherlock and said triumphantly, "I'll throw a toaster at you."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more. "You wouldn't dare."
John smirked, unplugging the toaster almost carelessly, picking up the heavy kitchen appliance, aimed in Sherlock's direction, and threw it. Sherlock had just enough time to duck the speeding machine, ignoring the mighty crashing sound it made when it hit the wall behind him, glaring at John who was still smirking, dusting his hands off.
"Fine, the baby will stay, but it'll be your responsibility."
John sighed. "The baby isn't a pet, Sherlock."
"Of course not, pets you can legally kill."
One month later.
"Sherlock," whined John, opening and closing the kitchen cupboards. "We're out of mayonnaise."
"Obviously, you ate it all yesterday, along with those pickles," answer Sherlock, peering down his microscope, wrinkling his nose at his partner's choice of eating.
"Then you'll just have to get some more," reasoned John, banging the last cupboard shut.
"No, you have two legs, you can get it yourself."
"Sherlock," said John, turning around and glaring at him. "You might have no noticed but I've currently have a baby growing inside of me, so I can't go and get food, it hurts my back and people will stare."
"No," Sherlock said simply. John's glare turned up a notch.
"If you don't get me my mayonnaise right now, I'll throw the toaster at you again."
"Fine," came the indifferent response. "I don't eat a lot of food so I don't need the toaster."
"Sherlock!" shouted John, as if it'll make a difference.
"John," said Sherlock, mocking him.
John huffed. "Fine, I'll get it myself, but just so you know, you're sleepy on the couch tonight."
"Why? There's a perfectly good bed upstairs," said Sherlock to John's retreating back, not saying a word as to how he hardly ever sleeps anyways.
"That's the baby's room, and you don't deserve a comfortable bed. I hope you rot in hell for this." And with that, the front door slammed shut, the noise echoing within the suddenly silent flat.
Said flat was silent for about three minutes before the door open again and a very irritated, slightly over-weight John stalked in, saying shortly, "I forgot my wallet." Grabbed the wallet and stomped out again, banging the door once more for good measures.
The flat was embraced by silence once again.
The stares and whispers were starting to get on John's nerves very quickly, but trying to be the better man, he ignored them as best as he could and walked, he likes to think calming and not stomping, into the aisle that held his precious mayonnaise. He grabbed the one he liked the most, and thinking on it, grabbed another one, then went to the tea section and got his favourite brand, and knowing they were out of it again, got a carton of milk.
He went to the counter and waited impatiently for the lady to scan his items. The whispers didn't stop, and finally he just couldn't deal with them anymore. Turning around, he glared at everyone within the shop and said very loudly, "STOP IT!"
The little outburst seemed to have stopped everyone in their tracks and look at him, their expressions ranging from shock to curiosity.
But John wasn't done. "I want you to stop it right now! The whispers, the stares, stop it! Yes, I'm pregnant! Yes, I'm a male! No, I didn't have a sex change! Yes, I love mayonnaise! And yes, I am happy with my weight even though I've gained 5 more pounds in the last two months! Okay, so stop it!" And with as much dignity as he could, he paid for his items, snatched his shopping bag and stormed out, grumbling to himself and leaving silence in his wake.
"Did you get your mayonnaise?" asked Sherlock when he heard the door slam for the third time that day.
"Yes," came the short reply.
"Shouted in the supermarket again?"
"Yes."
"Make me some tea?"
"Of course."
One month later.
"How far are you along?" asked Greg Lestrade, standing next to John as they both watch Sherlock examining the gruesomely killed body in front of them.
"Seven months."
Greg nodded, and silence lapped between them once again. For a short while.
"How is Sherlock taking it?"
"Rather while, considering."
He nodded once again, stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket as the cold wind whipped around them.
"Shouldn't you be staying indoors and not out solving crimes with Sherlock?"
"Most likely, but I've been indoors for too long now, I needed to get out. And Sherlock didn't seem to mind too much taking his very pregnant boyfriend with him to the crime scene. Of course I can't do the chase scenes, I'm a too easy target and I'll slow Sherlock down, but it's better than watching crap telly all day."
"I can't imagine how you two are dealing with it."
"With lots of shouting, moody silence, hate sex, make-up sex and tea."
"I really didn't need to know about your love-life."
"You asked."
Silence once again invaded, the wind whistling the only sound. That is, until Sherlock straightened up and gently placed his magnified glass back in his coat pocket.
"What you've got?" The Inspector asked, nodding towards the bloody body.
"Not worth my time," answer Sherlock walking away from them.
"But who did it?" asked Lestrade, frowning at the body while John turned around and waddled after Sherlock.
"The son!"
"But how did you figure that out?"
"Fingernails!"
Greg shrugged and bent down to inspect the fingernails himself, not finding anything note worthy. He shook his head and took Sherlock's word for it, phoning Sally and telling her to interview the son.
One month later.
John took a sip from his just made tea and winced slightly at the bitterness of it. It wasn't as bad as the first time Sherlock made tea for him but it could use a little more sugar.
"Sherlock, what do you think we should call our baby?" John asked, looking at the detective who was lounging on the couch, paging through the newspaper.
"Mmmm?"
"Baby names. We have to call it something." John sighed.
"We can just call it It," Sherlock said simply, not even looking up from the paper.
"We can't call our baby It. That's cruel."
"Okay, then Baby."
"No, Sherlock, that's not a proper name," snapped John. "How about... Geoff?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the suggestion. "Oh! We can call it Mycroft; it'll certainly be as unwelcomed as its name says."
"We are not calling it after your brother."
"You're right; he'll probably be flattered if we do. Bastard," Sherlock muttered, flicking the page with more force than was necessarily.
"What about Mikey?"
"No, that's almost worse than Mycroft. Anderson?" Sherlock suggested innocently.
"Sherlock..." said John warningly.
"Fine, fine, if you insist on giving it a name, why not just Hamish?"
John blinked. "That's my middle name."
"Obviously, it's yours, so just call it after you," Sherlock said dismissively, still looking through the newspaper.
"Hamish," John said to himself, testing the name. "Hamish."
"There, done, it now has a name."
"I like Hamish," said John with a smile. "Now girl's names."
"Oh God no, how many names does thing need?" asked Sherlock, looking towards John with a disgusted face.
"Sherlock, it could be a girl for all we know, so we need to be prepared for both."
"We would know if you went for tests," grumbled Sherlock into the paper.
"That not what's important. So what about Lily?"
"No."
"Emily?"
"No."
"Debra?"
"God no."
"Fine, what about Mary?"
"Oh for the love of, if you have to give it another name, than fine, Mary then," huffed Sherlock, snapping the newspaper close and getting up, walking on top of the coffee table and towards his violin. He carefully took it out of its case and began to play. John sat back and took another sip of his tea, thinking that it wasn't as bitter as he first thought, smiling.
One month later.
"Just breath, in, out, in, out, calming breaths," instructed the nurse hovering beside John.
"Where the bloody hell is he?" John muttered in between breaths, dreading his next contraction.
He was having tea with Mrs Hudson when suddenly his water broke. Mrs Hudson quickly tagged down a cab and instructed the cabbie to the nearest hospital, giving John all the comfort she could give. That's how John found himself in a ward, cursing the baby for being two weeks early and for Sherlock being on a case.
"Did Mrs Hudson call him?"
"The lady in purple?" asked the nurse, and carried on at John's desperate nod. "Yes, she mentioned that she has called him eleven times now, using the hospitals pay phones. I'm sure he'll come."
"He better, I am not having this baby alone."
Sherlock ignored the vibration that was his phone ringing, instead kneeling beside the body and inspecting it through his magnify glass, ignoring his phone again when this time it only vibrated for a short time, indicating a text. Whatever this person deems to be important mustn't know that he's on a case that's starting to look a little interesting...
After it had gone for the sixth time, Sherlock sighed irritably and pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar number that showed up repeatedly. He put it back inside his coat pocket after turning it onto silence and continued to study the rest of the room in search for more clues.
It was a little over a minute when Lestrade burst through the door, eyes wide, ignoring Sherlock's glare for being irrupted, saying quickly, "John's giving birth right now, come on," and without waiting a response, grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve and promptly dragged him out the house.
"So?" asked Sherlock, breaking Lestrade's grip on his sleeve once they were out the house, a blank look on his face.
"So? It's your child Sherlock, you need to be there," Lestrade quickly flagged a cab, wrenched the passenger door open and all but pushed Sherlock inside, telling the driver the direction to the hospital John was at.
"But I don't want to see John giving birth!" protested Sherlock, looking rather put out.
"You have to, so just go." Lestrade gave Sherlock a stern look before shutting the door, watching the cab drive off.
Sherlock briefly thought about telling the cabbie to stop but decided it'll be too much effort for what it was worth. He sighed and gazed out the window, wrinkling his nose at the thought of John giving birth.
John was just dreading the next contraction when the door burst open, Mrs Hudson practically shoving Sherlock into the room.
"But why do I want to see John giving birth? It'll most likely be disturbing and not relevant to that case at all," complained Sherlock, straightening his coat after Mrs Hudson stopped pushing him.
"Because it's your baby as well," answered Mrs Hudson, giving Sherlock a glare.
"But-" Sherlock didn't get another word out before John interrupted him.
"Sherlock, you get your arse right here this instant or God help me I'll-" John groaned as the pain started up again, huffing when it stopped for awhile. "Oh God, that's painful."
"I can see the head," said the nurse, giving John and Sherlock a quick smile.
"That's highly disturbing," commented Sherlock. "And where the hell is that thing coming out from?"
"I think my arse, I don't know; just make the pain go away," groaned John, still breathing heavily.
"You wouldn't be in pain if you had an abortion."
"Shut the bloody hell up. This is all your fault, you know, you got me pregnant."
"How was I supposed to know you're one of the males that can get pregnant?"
"You're a detective; you could have figured it out."
"A consulting detective, John, and I don't 'figure' things out, I observe."
"As you can observe, there's a baby coming out of my arse. Oh God, there's a baby coming out of my arse!" This is when full realisation of those words hit John and he began to panic.
"Sir, you need to relax, just breath," said the nurse, trying to sooth John. She turned to Sherlock. "You, calm him down."
Sherlock sighed, knowing he wouldn't get out of this, and took John's hand, making his voice soft. "John, it'll be okay."
"No, it won't, Sherlock. I have a freakin' baby coming out of my arse."
"You're repeating," Sherlock couldn't help but point out.
"This bears repeating!"
"Tell him to push," instructed the nurse to Sherlock.
"Um, John," said Sherlock, feeling out of his element at the moment. "You need to push."
"What?" asked John, seeming to come out of a trance of sort.
"You have to push," repeated Sherlock, adding since John sill looked confused. "In order for it to come out."
"Push?" asked John, finally breaking through the fog of panic. Licking his lips, he said, "Yeah, okay, I can do that."
John squeezed Sherlock's hand as he began to push the baby out from wherever it was coming from, and not before long the room was filled with a cry of a healthy baby boy.
Both parents peered down at the baby that was tucked safely in John's arm, Sherlock being the first one to break the silence by asking, "Are all of them this ugly when they are born?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the now silent baby while John furrowed his brows at the question. "I don't know but I hope to God he doesn't stay like that." Both parents shuddered at the thought of their son being wrinkling while he was a teen, both not wanting that mental image ever again, and dreading as to what was to come. A thought hit them hard:
They were now both parents.
One month later.
"Make that bloody thing shut up!" shouted Sherlock over the noise of a baby crying, hands placed firmly over his ears in a futile way of trying to block out the awful sound.
"I'm trying!" shouted John back, before returning his attention to the baby he was rocking in his arms and began to sing softly. "Hush little Hamish, don't you cry, daddy's going to buy you... a big plum pie."
"John," said Sherlock in a low voice when Hamish continued to wail. "I swear to God if that thing doesn't shut up right now I'll-"
"What do you think I'm doing, Sherlock?" interrupted John, looking down at Hamish and began to beg. "Come on Hamish, please keep quite."
He kept on crying.
"Oh for the love of-" Sherlock suddenly burst out, finally having enough. He grabbed one of Hamish's dummies, grabbed his full glass of wine that he was enjoying before that thing ruined everything, roughly dunking the dummy in it and stuck it in Hamish open mouth, who began to suck on it.
"Did you just give our son wine?" asked a shock John.
"Yes," said Sherlock curtly, taking a sip from his glass.
"Sherlock, do you know how dangerous that could be for an infant?" John hissed.
"He's asleep, is he not?" Sherlock gestured towards the sleeping Hamish in John's arms, raising an eyebrow at John.
"I guess," John reluctantly agreed. "But-"
"There, problem solved," cutting John from whatever he was about to say, Sherlock took another sip of his wine, and elegantly sat down on the couch.
Eight months later.
"Sherlock, I'm going to the shops quickly," said John, beginning to put on his jacket, glancing at Sherlock who was sitting on the couch, typing wildly on his laptop. "Hamish is asleep right now so he shouldn't be a bother, but if he does wake up just let him crawl around the flat. I shouldn't be too long and please, don't try to kill him again," added John throwing a pleading look towards Sherlock before closing the door behind him.
"I would have succeeded if Lestrade hadn't had a new case," muttered Sherlock, listening to John walking down the stairs.
About half an hour later a cry could be heard, breaking Sherlock's concentration on what he was reading. He blinked and listened, waiting to see if it would cry again. It did and this time louder.
With a long suffering sign, he left his warm spot on the couch and laptop and walked slowly up stairs, taking his time. He grabbed Hamish from out his cot and dumped him in the lounge area, like John instructed, before gracefully sitting on the couch again, reading where he left off from.
For most part, he ignored Hamish who was crawling around the TV, under the table, through chairs and just doing things that normal toddlers do. That is, until Hamish bumped into the kitchen table, not looking to where he was going, Sherlock sneered to himself thinking that this thing couldn't possibly be his child, causing the table to wobble and then a resounding crash could be heard echoing inside the flat.
Tense silence soon followed before Sherlock stalked into the kitchen and Hamish started to cry from the bump, a petri dish that once held blue chemicals was now spreading rapidly on the floor between them.
"Look what you did!" shouted Sherlock, his precious experiment ruined. This just made Hamish cry even harder, thick tears rolling down his chubby cheeks and snot dribbling from his nose. Sherlock sneered at what a pathetic picture he made.
He cast a longing look at the mess on the floor, briefly mourning the loss. Hamish continued to wail, but not as loud as before. Sherlock heaved a sigh.
"Since you just destroyed one of my experiments, you'll just have to be its substitute," he told the baby, grinning at the thought. He always wanted to do an experiment on a live infant, and now he had the perfect one. Oh, so many ideas, but which one to do first?
"I wasn't too sure if to do pasta tonight or maybe get takeaway, God knows Hamish and I are the only ones that eat, but still, anything you would like or..." John trailed off, taking in the scene in front of him before exploding. "What the bloody hell are you doing?!"
Sherlock was holding Hamish up-side-down from his legs, Hamish swinging slightly and making baby noises, spit dribbling from his open mouth.
"John! So glad you're here, I wanted you to-"
"Drop him," John interrupted, and if look could kill Sherlock would be nothing but a pile of ash.
"But John, I-"
"Drop. Him."
Sherlock sighed, preparing to let the chubby legs go, just before John stopped him. Again.
"Sherlock, use some common sense! Just... Just place him on the floor. Gently!"
Sherlock rolled his eye heavily, exaggeratedly put Hamish on the floor on his stomach, before backing away from the baby, hands held out in a show of surrender, with a glare to show that Sherlock is not in agreement with the letting go of the infant.
John crouched down by Hamish, checking to see if he was okay and not in any danger of any sort. He gave a sigh in relief and picked him up, saddling him onto his waist.
"Now tell me, what in God's name were you doing?" John demanded, attention now fully on Sherlock.
"Obviously, it destroyed one of my experiments, so I did one of it. It's only fair," Sherlock answered, a glare directed at Hamish.
"Sherlock, you do not experiment on our son. It's just not done."
"But it destroyed one of mine," he hissed.
"Yes, and I'm sure it was an accident. Just, please don't," John pleaded, feeling all of the sudden tired.
"Fine," grinded out Sherlock, stomping towards their room and slamming the door shut behind him, making John wince and the baby get a fright, causing him to cry and forcing John to try and calm him down, which just made Sherlock even more annoyed because of all the noise.
And just maybe, deep down, Sherlock might be just a little bit jealous of the baby. John was his first, you know.
One month later.
"Remember, we have to stop by Molly's to drop Hamish off," reminded John, grabbing his coat quickly.
"Yes, yes, because 'it's not very good parenting to bring a child to a crime scene'," Sherlock made his voice go high, sneering at the memory of what Lestrade said to them when they were force to bring Hamish with them.
John nodded, absent mindedly. He picked up Hamish from where he was crawling, and all three of them rushed down the stairs. Well, Sherlock leaped over steps, John followed at a much slower pace, arms filled with a baby and a bag filled with essentials for said baby.
Sherlock got a taxi for them and John told the driver the way to Molly's house, relieved that she had agreed to look after Hamish for an hour or two.
They passed the ride in silence, Hamish sitting on John's lap, banging his small hands against the back of the seat in front of him, Sherlock texting furiously, while John stared out the window, watching London go by.
They got to Molly's house fast enough, Sherlock staying in the car while John got out quickly, knowing Sherlock would be a nightmare if John took more than ten minutes to get Hamish to Molly.
"Thanks once again, Molly," John smiled gratefully, transferring Hamish from his arms to Molly's, the child going to her willingly.
"It's no trouble John, you know how I love having to look after Hamish," Molly smiled, pulling funny faces at the toddler who giggled at them.
"I'm glad to hear that," John said, heading towards the door but not before saying. "If you need any help, you have my number." With a wave at Molly before going he got back into the cab, Sherlock muttering about how John took his time.
John fell into bed, eyes heavy and burning, not daring to look at the time to see how late in the morning it was, Sherlock keeping him up all night with talk of the new case and tossing theories to each other. Sherlock paced around the room, his footfalls almost as rhythmic as a heartbeat, lulling John further into sleep.
But there was this nagging feeling that was keeping John away from bliss, and it was irritating him because he can't figure it out why.
And then it hit him: Hamish.
John sat up in bed; his sudden wakefulness causing Sherlock to glance at him with a raised eyebrow, but the man's pace didn't faulted.
"Hamish," John breathed, groaning and flinging the duvet away, cold air quickly chilling him. "We forgot about Hamish. God, we are such bad parents."
"Go back to bed John," Sherlock said calmly, finally stopping making a rut in the floor.
"What?" John was too busy putting his shoes back on, cursing the damn shoelaces and why do they have to be so tricky to do right now.
"You heard me. He'll be fine with Molly," reasoned Sherlock.
John frowned, thinking that sentence over and nodded, toeing out of his shoes again and getting back into bed, slightly relieved that it was still warm.
Tomorrow they will get Hamish. And John really shouldn't be getting a feeling of dread that followed that thought.
John and Sherlock entered Molly's flat, Sherlock looking mildly irritated for having been brought along here and John looking guilty.
"I'm so sorry we didn't get here earlier," John apologised.
"No, it's fine. I enjoyed sending time with Hamish. I can imagine him being what Sherlock looked like at this age." Molly swung Hamish around, him giggling with glee, while John watched with amusement.
No one saw Sherlock's eyes lighting up.
"Molly," Sherlock cut through whatever small talk her and John were having, a charming smile firmly in place, causing John to feel a sense in impending doom.
"Yes?" she asked, shifting Hamish to her other hip, giving her one arm a break.
"You've always wanted children, haven't you?"
"Sherlock, where are you taking this?" John asked sharply.
Sherlock ignored him. "And you clearly know how to take care of one, you being so good with Hamish and all." Molly blushed at this, smiling shyly at the compliment.
"Sherlock..." John tried again.
"Would you like to have him then?" Sherlock got bored with trying to be tactful and got straight to the point.
"Sherlock!" John shouted while Molly blinked in surprise.
"You can't just give our son away like that?" John continued.
"Why not? You said so yourself, we're bad parents, so why not give him to someone that wants him. Isn't that being nice?"
"No, it's not."
"And why not? I clearly don't want him, and neither do you, so let's just give him to Molly. He'll be a hell lot happier growing up."
"I guess but still-"
"And a child growing up around crime scenes can't be good at all," pitched in Molly, now looking hopeful.
"Yes, that's true, but-"
"And I can be awake at any time in the night without having to be mindful of him."
"And there would be less risk of criminals trying to use him as a hostage."
"And you won't have to be angry all the time when I try and experiment on him."
"And he will be growing up in a safe, normal environment."
"It won't cost so much to look after him because we won't have to."
"And it'll be less hassle to come here to drop him off every second day."
"And there will be more sex," Sherlock concluded, him and Molly both smiling at each other.
John sighed; too shock to come up with a counter argument. He ran a hand over his face before saying "We'll think over it and decided then."
In the end there wasn't a choice at all. The Barker Street trio returned back into a duo.
The end.
Author's Note: Sigh, I suck at endings. Oh well, that's it. Hoped you enjoyed and please comment and tell me what you think, but please no flames.