Prompt from Seven-lbs: Sherlock's starting to get a little belly. He tries his best to hide it but John is obsessed. John can't resist touching Sherlock, being more affectionate in general... much to Sherlock's surprise. When Sherlock's belly reaches the point where he can't quite hide it anymore, Sherlock gets even more self-conscious, thinking John will find it a turn-off... until John admits his feelings for Sherlock (and Sherlock's new tum).

It happened one winter when the cases had grown sparse and Sherlock and John spent more time huddled up on 221 B than chasing criminals through the streets of London. Perhaps it was for the best, snow and ice had been given generously, blanketing everything from the roads to cars to streetlamps. The result was a soft muffled feeling, a quietness that meant clients and criminals alike were shut up indoors, too warm, cozy, and lazy to get into any sort of trouble that might require Sherlock's expertise.

John had expected Sherlock to complain and become downright insufferable about the lack of interesting pursuits of the mind, but the detective too seemed infected by the mood inflicted by the crisp white outdoors. Whenever John came home from his shifts at the surgery, stamping snow from his shoes and shivering, Sherlock was perched by his microscope, a blanket around his thin shoulders and a cup of steaming tea within reach. John hardly noticed the small plate that always seemed to be littered with crumbs. It was that time of year. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be bringing them a new type of treat every day. It was only polite to taste. And they were very good. So John would grab a couple of sweets from a tray and bring over his own cup and sitting down to chat before getting dinner started.

John was of the mind that warm comfort food was a must in the winter. It seemed to cheer them both, warming them from the inside, and so John prepared hearty stews, dishes thick with starchy mashed potatoes and gravies, warm pasta in delicate sauces, and other carbohydrates. Coupled with Mrs. Hudson's baking, this unsurprisingly lead to the good doctor needing to do up his belt a hole looser. He didn't mind, however, a bit of winter pudge wasn't unusual for him. And at least it provided a bit of extra insulation whenever he had to dash to work. He did wonder if Sherlock wasn't the anomaly in this case. Ordinarily, Sherlock only seemed to grow slimmer, though he had improved with John's nagging. Still, a few pounds in the winter was normal for most people he thought.

As it turned out, Sherlock was not in fact immune to the effects of indulgence and lack of activity. He was just very good at hiding the evidence. Had John been more observant, the doctor might have noticed that Sherlock was only ever seen on the sofa when wrapped up in a blanket. His dressing gown was loosely done up more often than not, his figure blurred as a result. Were it not for those precautions, a pert little belly would have made itself known, poking out against the man's t-shirt where it was normally empty and baggy.

But even the best precautions can't always prevent the inevitable. One day John came home rather later than usual. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen, though the light was on. He was about to call out when he heard a soft snore. The doctor grinned and quietly removed his coat and shoes before wandering over to the sofa.

Sure enough, Sherlock was sprawled atop it, his mouth slightly open. There was another plate of crumbs and an empty tea cup on the coffee table. The detective's blanket however had slipped off while he slept. John smiled and bent to retrieve it and toss it back over his flatmate. But then he paused. John blinked. Where normally there was a dip beneath the man's rib cage, instead was a subtle rounding. John stared, his tongue wetting his lips as he watched the little bit of tum slowly expand and stretch, then contract. It looked so soft. It was all he could do not to prod it experimentally. Sherlock snuffled in his sleep and John remembered himself. He smiled and tossed the blanket back over Sherlock, patting his shoulder, then went to bed himself. He felt oddly triumphant in the knowledge that even the great Sherlock Holmes put on a bit of winter chub.

Sherlock noticed that his flatmate was spending 20% more of his time looking at him over the next few days. Granted, they lived together, but John seemed even more cheerful, more likely to brush past Sherlock in the kitchen, 15% more likely to slap his back or shoulder when laughing, and a marked 60% increase in choosing to sit on the sofa with him rather than in his own chair. Sherlock was puzzled certainly. He assumed a factor had to be the approaching holidays. That always made people happy, didn't it?

And while Sherlock normally would have enjoyed the increase in time with John... the touching was making it rather hard to hide his little... problem. A problem that only seemed to be growing rounder and softer as the days went on. It had to be John's cooking. It had grown almost excessively savory. And far too delicious for its own good. He'd cut back tomorrow, he told himself as he muffled a burp and reached for seconds. John seemed overjoyed that Sherlock liked what he had cooked however. And really, that warm smile made Sherlock feel a lot less shy when he reached for another portion.

Still that only seemed to compound his problems. His t-shirts were developing the highly annoying habit of riding up when he sat down. His dressing gowns seemed more willing to betray his secrets as well, the belt slipping on top of his stomach and making him look like a pregnant woman. He supposed it was only a matter of time. Why the hell his transport kept insisting that the answer was more gingerbread and tarts was beyond him.

And John. What would John think of him when he could no longer fit into his tight suits? Would his smiles and gentle touches stop too? Surely, he'd be revolted. He was in the army, he would expect chiseled abdominals, not a blob of bloated pale fat to flub out when Sherlock took off his shirt. He stepped up his precautions and began trying to suck it in whenever John was near, holding his breath until he felt lightheaded and then letting out a loud gasp when John left the room, his gut sagging out underneath his dressing gown, round and proud as you please. He prodded it furiously as it gurgled, hungry for whatever meal was nearest.

Today, it happened to be lunch. John was in the shower, so Sherlock set about boiling a large pot of pasta. He kept one ear out for the sound of the water turning off. Until then, he was allowing his belly all the room it desired. It really was being quite a hog. In more ways than one. Sherlock sniffed and then strained the noodles before fetching salt, Parmesan cheese, and butter. He huffed in annoyance as he bent into the fridge and felt his shirt ride up again. He undid his dressing gown and tugged the shirt down insistently. Then he prepared himself a good sized portion and sat down to eat it moodily. John still seemed to be in the bath, so he risked having another. He'd had a rather light breakfast and was feeling both grumpy and deprived. The diet could wait.

Sherlock tugged his dressing gown around himself further and resumed eating moodily until his bowl was cleared of pasta. He sighed, feeling oddly content despite what this meant for his waistline and his prospects with John. He slid his finger lazily around the inside, collecting the left over melted butter and cheese before sucking it clean. The water turned off. Sherlock supposed he ought to get to the sofa and find a blanket. He stood, burped lightly and stretched, his shirt riding up over his full round belly.

"Have a good lunch?"

Sherlock jumped and tried his best to suck it in, but it was clearly too late.

"John," he said tersely, turning to face his flatmate and tugging his clothes back into place. "I wasn't expecting you for another five minutes. Did you forgo shaving?"

"Shaved in the shower," said John, tugging his own robe around himself. He cleared his throat lightly. "Sherlock, there was something I wanted to talk to you about-"

"Oh for God's sake, John! Just say it! I've gained weight! What a brilliant observation!" Sherlock spat venomously, doing his best to hide his gut with his arms while still looking defiant.

"Er, yeah, I... I had noticed," said John, his cheeks flushing pink, "That... wasn't exactly what-"

"What then? That you find me repulsive? That you demand I clothe myself more completely around you so you don't have to-"

"No! No, Sherlock, not like that! Just bloody LISTEN, will you?"

Sherlock tucked in his head and snapped his jaw shut tightly. It was all he could do to keep himself in control.

"Sherlock.."

The detective flinched despite the tone being gentle.

"Hey, it's okay. It's fine. So you got a bit podgy over the holidays, so what?"

"I'd call this a bit beyond 'podgy'," grumbled Sherlock, squeezing at the flesh of his middle. He looked up to see John watching him. The doctor wet his lips. Oh.
Sherlock swallowed and asked, "You mean... you don't mind me... like this?"

John chuckled and shook his head. "I don't mind at all, believe me. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

The doctor took a few steps nearer and Sherlock felt his breathing go a bit funny. Then John's hands were on his, pulling them gently away from Sherlock's belly.

"I like it. And... I rather like you too."

"Oh."

"I'm going to kiss you know."

"Oh."

"Is that okay?"

"I... yes."

John stretched up on tiptoe and Sherlock tipped his head down to meet his blogger's lips. The kiss was slow, careful, John's lips guiding Sherlock's wonderfully. He felt John, warm still slightly damp through the bath robes John, press up against his belly. He felt John sigh against his lips and lean into it, his hands beginning to rub it gently. Sherlock decided that he didn't mind at all either.