A/N: Written for a shkinkmeme prompt; the prompt is listed at the bottom of the story to avoid spoiling the story. This story follows SH1 and ignores SH2 for timeline reasons. Warnings: post-mpreg, breastfeeding.

_Unexpected_

"You should not be here, Doctor."

Watson's foot and cane prevented the heavy front door from closing. "I know he's here, Mycroft. I need to see him."

"He does not wish to see you." Mycroft's tone made it sound like that should be the end of it, and he tried again to close the door.

"If you won't let me in, I will try every window and door on this house until I find a way in," Watson threatened, and finally Mycroft budged.

"Very well, if you insist. If you would remain in the front room, I will attempt to persuade him to make an appearance."

Watson had no intention of remaining behind, but he stood near a chair until Mycroft disappeared down a hall. He followed as quietly as he could, thankful for the plush carpeting that muffled his footfalls. He lost sight of Mycroft, but soon the sound of familiar voices told him precisely where he needed to go.

Lurking outside the slightly ajar door, he listened in hopes of finding out why Holmes had disappeared from London the way he did. All he heard was Mycroft telling Holmes to be reasonable and Holmes retorting that it was perfectly reasonable to deny Watson an audience.

Then the voices abruptly stopped. "Come in, Doctor," Mycroft called, and Watson wondered what gave him away.

He strode in as if he had not just been eavesdropping in the hallway. It was a small sitting room for a suite of rooms that Holmes had evidently made his home, for various items that had gone missing from his Baker Street flat were strewn about. But he did not really notice the room; his eyes were only on Holmes.

Holmes looked fairly well-for him-though he was not sleeping well, judging by the circles beneath his eyes. His clothes were rumpled, his shirt only half buttoned and bearing a damp-looking spot on one side. Holmes' hair hadn't been cut recently and it stuck up and out in numerous directions, aided by the hand Holmes dragged through it before he crossed his arms over his chest, covering the damp area on his shirt.

"Holmes," Watson said lamely, suddenly not certain what to say now that they were finally face-to-face.

"Watson," Holmes said begrudgingly, standing stiffly, almost protectively, in front of a closed door that Watson guessed led to a bedroom. Mycroft quietly took himself out of the room and left them to their long-delayed argument.

Watson had so many questions, so he started with the simplest to say. "Why?"

Holmes' impassive expression did not change. "You need to be more specific."

"Why did you leave?"

"You are the one that left, not I."

Watson huffed an impatient sigh. "That's not what I meant. What made you leave London? You still had your cases, and we could have continued to see each other even though I married."

"My affairs are none of your concern. You removed yourself from my life, so I have returned the favor."

"Getting married didn't remove me from your life!" Watson cried in exasperation. "I can have a wife and a friend at the same time."

"You have made your choice, Watson. Go home to your wife and leave me be." He sounded almost defeated, and appeared ready to bolt behind the door at his back.

Watson would do anything to keep Holmes from retreating again. He strode forward and gripped Holmes' arms, shaking him slightly. "Holmes, why are you doing this? I have been trying to find you or at least contact you ever since I moved out. Perhaps you've lost track of the time, but it's been almost a year. Mrs. Hudson had no idea where you went, only that a boy retrieved your correspondence every few days. I checked all of your little bolt-holes, even pestered your brother at his London residence and his club, though it took me until last week to remember he had a house here in Chichester. I worried about you, Holmes! I kept expecting to hear news of your death in the paper. If you truly want nothing to do with me, the least you can do is tell me why."

Holmes shrank away but did not try to remove himself from Watson's grip. When Watson ended his tirade, Holmes had one of his own ready. "What did you expect me to do?" he hissed. "Cater to your every whim when you deigned to see me, and keep myself happy and out of your way with my work the rest of the time? I am not your fucktoy, Watson. You have chosen to pursue your comfortable life with your comfortable wife and your comfortable practice, and I will have no part of it."

Watson backed away in utter shock. "Is that what you thought I wanted? A tumble now and then and to ignore you the rest of the time? Holmes, I thought we discussed this-that part of our relationship ended when I proposed to Mary, but we can still be friends if you'll just be reasonable about it."

"It is not a discussion if I have no say in the matter. You ended it, and you expected me to go along with continuing as friends instead. Not only that, you expected me to be friendly with the woman you chose over me. There is nothing reasonable about any of it," Holmes spat. "And despite that, I tried, for your sake. But what you are asking of me is absurd."

"Holmes-" Watson started, then lost his train of thought as the high, thin sound of an infant's wail filtered from behind the door Holmes was guarding.

Holmes stiffened then sighed heavily, his eyes closing wearily for a moment before he straightened, saying evasively, "Excuse me. You can show yourself out." He quietly opened the door and the crying grew in volume before being cut off as he closed the door behind himself.

Watson was frozen to the spot as he tried to understand where a baby fit into the mess that currently lay between them. He couldn't make sense of it. Was there a woman involved?

Before he could think better of it, he opened the door and stepped into the dim bedroom. Holmes was sitting in a rocking chair-a rocking chair!-in front of the window, his back to the door. Watson crept up to the chair and peered down at the infant eagerly suckling at Holmes' breast.

"And you have complained that I gave you no privacy," Holmes protested bitterly. His unencumbered hand moved as if to cover himself with a blanket but stopped mid-motion. "I suppose it's nothing you haven't already seen," he said wearily.

Watson thought he must have the slowest mind in the British Empire, because he still didn't understand. "How old?" he asked for lack of anything else to say.

"Almost three months," Holmes said, looking down at the child with a soft expression on his face that Watson had never seen before.

It made him jealous. His mind very helpfully combined the three months with the average length of a pregnancy, plus the fact that Holmes was feeding the child-which strongly implied he had borne it-and felt his knees buckle as he realized the implications. "Oh my God," he said, then repeated it for good measure, "Oh my God." He sank to his knees beside Holmes' chair, dizzy.

Holmes snorted. "Indeed."

"When did you find out? Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded when he'd recovered his wits somewhat.

"You were to be married the next day" was Holmes' answer.

"And you didn't think I'd want to know?" Watson asked incredulously.

"I was not about to use it to manipulate you into leaving Miss Morstan. I have principles," he said haughtily. He lifted the child to his shoulder and rubbed its back.

Watson caught his first full glimpse of the infant's face; their child had his eyes and Holmes' dark hair. "I know you didn't attend as yourself, but were you at the wedding?"

"I was the grey-haired and bearded gentleman that stood in the back."

"I didn't see you."

"That was the idea."

"Oh, Holmes," Watson sighed unhappily. "What are you going to do? You can't take cases with a baby around."

"I have sufficient funds to keep us comfortable for some time, at least until she is in school."

"But what will you do? You need something to keep yourself busy, you know."

Holmes stared down at him, eyebrows raised. "How long has it been since you have been around small children? Caring for one is quite enough to keep even me busy."

"It has been some time," Watson admitted, pushing himself up off the floor before his leg could cramp up any further.

"You and Mrs. Watson ought to do something about that, then," Holmes said off-handedly as he moved the infant to his other nipple.

"We can't," Watson murmured. "Mary is barren."

"Ah." Silence fell, broken only by the infant's contented noises as she nursed.

"Come live with us," Watson said suddenly. "Mary and I can watch her if you want to accept some work-we'll be like her aunt and uncle. Then you won't have to raise her alone, and I'll be able to see her grow up. It would work, I promise you. We would make it work."

"You cannot make such an offer," Holmes said firmly. "I know you are sincere, but what of your wife?"

"She would agree with me."

"Doubtful, but even if she does, she has to know the situation before she can agree."

"So I will tell her and then we'll both come here and assure you that we mean it."

Holmes smiled sadly, shifting the child back up onto his shoulder. "We shall see."

Watson watched the infant-their daughter-as she hiccuped and spit up a bit of milk. Holmes wiped it away with a corner of the cloth draped over his shoulder for that purpose. "May I hold her?" Watson asked timidly.

"I suppose," Holmes said, appearing reluctant as he carefully placed her into Watson's arms.

The slight, warm weight in his arms seemed like a miracle, and he could not stop staring at her. "What's her name?"

"I haven't decided yet," Holmes admitted with obvious embarrassment. "I am inclined to choose Sophie, but Mycroft thinks she should be Olivia."

"Why should your brother have any influence over your choice?" Watson asked, rubbing the back of one small hand with a finger; his finger was promptly grabbed in a tiny fist.

"He doesn't, but he always airs his opinion to complicate matters." Holmes watched Watson holding the baby with an inscrutable expression, then he said, "You're going to miss your train."

Watson glanced up at him, surprised, then looked around for a clock. "What time is it?"

"Ten after four. The last London-bound train leaves at a quarter 'til five, and it takes at least half an hour to reach the station by coach," Holmes said as took the infant from Watson.

Watson pulled out his pocket-watch. "So it is. I suppose I must leave, then. But I meant what I said about Mary and all the rest. We'll be back to see you within the week, I promise."

"We shall see," Holmes replied again, sounding doubtful. He accompanied Watson to the front door of the house where a carriage was already waiting, courtesy of Mycroft.

When the carriage whisked Watson away, Holmes closed the front door and stared at it unseeingly, absentmindedly rocking the sleeping infant in his arms.

"Well?"

Holmes turned to face his brother. "He says he'll be back with Mary within a week to persuade me to live with them."

"Would you?"

"I don't know," he whispered.

Three days later, Mary Watson appeared alone on the doorstep of Mycroft Holmes' country home. She came to find out the truth for herself and was immediately fond of little Sophie.

Neither Holmes nor Mary ever revealed what passed between them.

Watson's promised return with Mary did not occur that week, but they visited periodically in the weeks that followed.

Holmes returned to London when Sophie was weaned.

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Written for the prompt:

Ritchie-verse please!

Watson leaves to go live with Mary. He doesn't realize that when he leaves, Holmes is pregnant with his child.

Thinking this is all he will ever have of Watson, he goes to his brother's country home to raise the baby. A year later, Watson decides to surprise him with a visit.