An Unexpected Deduction
Author's Note: I debated a lot on whether to post this story or not, so I hope it's okay. I've written an mpreg before, but I think this one is better than the other one. As always, constructive criticism is welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own Sherlock BBC.
Chapter 1
John was scrolling through his blog as Sherlock strolled into the room.
"Morning, love." John says as Sherlock leaned down to peck him on the lips. "Morning, John."
John fiddled with the silver ring on his finger as he stared at the screen. He traced his engraving, Starving. It made more sense if you put Sherlock's golden ring next to it, symbolising the first day they met. Dinner? Starving.
Sherlock, surprisingly, had picked them out for their wedding bands. For someone who supposedly despises sentiment, he sure has a lot of it.
"Lestrade says there's been a murder, did you want to go and do what you do best?" John asks him, setting his computer down.
Sherlock grinned. "Obviously."
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As they arrived to the crime scene, Sherlock got to work immediately. John, however, upon seeing the dead body, almost threw up right then and there. He covered his mouth to prevent it before regaining his composure. He's seen plenty of dead bodies, so why did this one bother him? He shook off his worries and knelt next to the dead body to help.
"Her name is Athena Wilson. We scanned her cards and saw that she had a brother, and her parents have passed away." Lestrade says as he stood next to the body.
"Dead for approximately a 18 hours, no sign of alcohol. 2 gunshot wounds, both in the back. The entrance wounds are from behind her. Killer had to be close to her, as the hole is large and the bullet went all the way through, 1 or 2 meters away, maybe?" John deduced as he examined the body.
"Yes, John. By the look of her clothes and her smell, a nurse or doctor, working in the ER most likely. Smoked, for there are small burns on her coat from the ends of cigarettes. Approximately 25, maybe 26 years of age. There are welts on her neck, signs of possibly being choked." Sherlock whirled around, pointing to her wrists.
"Handcuffed, you can see the lines made in her skin. Taken hostage, perhaps? She was probably on her way home from her shift. Her ID is not in her pocket, which gives us a lot of information."
"Someone needed her ID to get into the hospital and steal some drugs. Why else would the killer need the ID? You don't need an ID to visit someone. Stealing drugs, statistically, is the most logical assumption. The balance of probability, though a bit far-fetched. Must've been desperate, yes, desperate enough to kill. Couldn't have left it at the hospital, because you need to check out before leaving your shift, and all belongings are in a secured space, where you need an ID to get in."
He pauses after that. "So what?" asks Lestrade.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It was the brother, obviously. Heavy smoker, past arrests for dealing drugs, and has been sent to the hospital multiple times for drug overdose according to your sources. Enough to be an extreme addict, willing to do anything to get his hands on some morphine. Grabbed her neck to pin her down, handcuffed her so she couldn't escape, stole her ID. Realized that she had been knocked out, and knew he couldn't leave her there, as when she woke up she would tell the police. Shot her twice. Once to kill her, twice to make sure she was dead. The bullet wounds are a decent distance apart, not calculated, which is a sign of unsteady hands. Drug addicts tend to have tremors. Went to the hospital and stole drugs. It was reported at the hospital she worked at that several amounts of morphine was stolen around the same time she died."
"Bloody brilliant." John mutters under his breath, still amazed at Sherlock's deduction skills.
"Alright, we'll bring the brother in for questioning." Lestrade says to us, motioning his men to take the body. "Thank you again, Sherlock."
Sherlock just shrugs and raises his eyebrow at me. I follow him to the cab he had held and we make our way back home to Baker Street.
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Sherlock was locked into his Mind Palace as John typed up the case. As he described the dead woman, he felt the urge to throw up. Moving his laptop to the side, he walked fairly quickly to the bathroom before throwing up into the toilet.
Sherlock walked in as John retched, slightly confused and worried. "John? John are you alright?" He asks as John lifted himself from the ground to brush his teeth. "I think I've came down with something, just a stomach flu I think."
"Want some tea?"
"That'd be lovely."
Sherlock kisses John's temple and moves to the kitchen to get the kettle boiled. John smiled as he followed him as far as the living area before sitting back down to finish typing.
"Tea's done!" Sherlock proclaims loudly as he sets it in front of John. "Thanks, love." John replied.
He takes the tea and sips it, letting it soothe his upset stomach.
Sherlock watched the smaller man as he sipped his tea, using his deduction stare as he analyzed his husband.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" John asks when he notices.
"Like what?"
"You've got that stare again."
"What?"
"You know what I'm talking about. The bloody deduction stare," says John. "Why are you analyzing me?"
Sherlock looks up at the ex-soldier's blueish-greenish eyes. "Just thinking."
John sighs. "I'm heading to bed, make sure you get some sleep too."
Sherlock just nods in response as he drifted into his Mind Palace to think.
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It's been 2 months and John seemed to get anything but better. He's been nauseous at crime scenes, slow when chasing a criminal, and throwing up his meals often. Sherlock was a bit oblivious, especially during crimes that rank a 7 or 8.
John had his suspicions to what was going on with him. He was a doctor, after all. It couldn't be food poisoning, stomach flu, or ink poisoning, so he only had one explanation. He thought back to his and Sherlock's night of passion when they were coming home from the pub after celebrating the capture of an important criminal with Lestrade, severely intoxicated.
"Oh, christ." John whispered to himself.
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John sat in his office at work as he contemplated what had been said to him, what had been confirmed.
Congratulations, Dr. Watson. You're pregnant.
He'd never thought he'd hear those words in his life. He didn't even know he had the carrier gene, a very sparse abnormality in the male reproductive system. It was common a long time ago, but over time only a few men had been born with it. He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the next patient come in.
"Oh! Sorry, I was, eh, lost in thought. Shall we get on with it then?"
His day went on like this, patient after patient, diagnosis after diagnosis, and in between he would think about the spark of life growing within him.
He was thinking about it now as he took a cab back to 221b. How would Sherlock feel about this? They hadn't really discussed it, and Sherlock wasn't exactly the fatherly type. He didn't necessarily hate children, but didn't like them either. John sighed. There was no way he would abort it, he couldn't bring himself to do so. He wanted to keep it, but it was Sherlock's decision also.
He arrived at his door, paying the cabbie and walking inside. Sherlock was in the kitchen doing another experiment of his with eyeballs, causing John to feel nauseous.
"Hey John-" Sherlock starts.
"Hold that thought!" John says as he takes off his coat and practically runs to the bathroom. Sherlock, worried, put his eyeballs down and went to the bathroom. "You okay, John?"
John nods. "Fine, I'm fine."
John rinses his mouth out. "I'm gonna freshen up, you can finish...whatever it is you're doing."
"Testing how much water resides in the eye after death."
"Yeah, that."
Sherlock smiles and winks in John's direction as he leaves the room. John smiles to himself as he closes the door.
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It was now a month after John had found out he was pregnant. He'd yet to tell Sherlock, still uncertain of what he might say. A tiny bump was forming in John's midsection, and he'd been careful to hide it. It wasn't very noticeable anyway, as he wasn't that far along. He didn't want to go to an ultrasound without Sherlock, so he would have to tell him soon.
They were were at crime scene, and John was to busy trying not to look sick than focusing on the body.
"It's an, uh, overdose on, um, some anti-depressant pills. I smell alcohol, but he doesn't appear to have, um, been completely intoxicated. Maybe a pint or two. Been dead, uh, 5 hours?" John stutters.
Sherlock eyes him. "15 hours."
John shakes his head slightly. "Right, sorry. Um, I'm gonna be over there, I need some air. I'm not much help at the moment. Can't...think straight."
"Okay, love. You sure you're alright?" Sherlock asks, a bit worried. John seemed very distracted.
"Yeah, yeah. Just, need air." John stammers. As he left the room, he mentally kicked himself for doing the opposite of what he was trying to do.
Lestrade makes his way over to Sherlock. "Is he okay? Seems...distant."
Sherlock shrugs, turning to Lestrade. "I don't know."
"By the way, it wasn't suicide. His fiancee did it."
"How did you-"
"Hands."
Lestrade shakes his head, amused as Sherlock makes his way towards John.
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"John?" Sherlock asks in the taxi they took home.
"Hmm?"
"You seemed distracted today. Are you sure you're okay?"
John shakes his head. "Nothing. I'll-I'll tell you later."
Sherlock nods, and the rest of the ride is in silence.
Sherlock pays the cabbie and escorts John inside their flat. John takes off his coat and sits in his chair as Sherlock went to finish his recent fingernail experiment, causing John to silently gag.
"So, uh, Sherlock?" asks John, willing his stomach to settle and standing to face the taller man.
"Hmm?" Sherlock responds, turning away from his work to look at John.
"How would you feel if...well I mean, um…." John was nervous. He had no idea what Sherlock would say.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Go on, John."
"Okay, well. I don't know how you're going to take this, but I'm-"
"Pregnant?" Sherlock finishes for him.
Now it was John who raises an eyebrow. "How the bloody hell did you-"
Sherlock chuckles as he sets his experiment down. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice the signs? Throwing up, tiredness, nausea. You've hidden your prenatal vitamins underneath our bed-which isn't a good hiding spot by the way-and I can see the bump, John. You can't hide much from me, you know that. I deduced it fairly quickly, possibly before you even knew."
John was surprised, placing a hand on his slightly swollen stomach. "Well?"
Sherlock came up to the shorter man, and pressed his lips to John's. John, caught off guard, stumbled a bit before kissing the consulting detective back. Sherlock finally broke away, grinning. "What do you think?"
John hugged the taller man tightly, careful not to squish his bump.
"I didn't know you were a carrier."
John chuckled. "Me neither, quite frankly."
Sherlock smiles a bit before it faded.
"Why wouldn't you tell me?" asks Sherlock.
"I thought...well, I thought you wouldn't want me to keep it." John replied sheepishly. Sherlock smiled. "Of course I'd want you to keep it. I know how fond you are of kids. I may not be...the most affectionate towards children, but this is definitely an exception."
John beamed, kissing Sherlock passionately. As he broke away, John laid his head on the taller man's chest. "It's been 3 months, in case you were wondering. Or did you already know?"
Sherlock smiled that mischievous smile John had fell in love with. "I knew."
"Ultrasound next week."
Sherlock nods.
He lets go of John, clearing the kitchen of his experiment, then puts on his trench coat and hands John his. With a grin, he asks, "Dinner?"
John smiles. "Starving."