A/N:Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Watson and Holmes end up having sex that night at the gypsy camp. A month or so after Holmes's death, Watson realizes that he's pregnant.
Holmes who is still concealing himself as furniture in Watson's home from time to time (maybe he needs to hide out from the bad guys from a bit..idk) begins to realize that Watson is pregnant and decides to visit more frequently just to make sure Watson and the baby are okay.
As the months pass, it gets harder and harder for Holmes to control himself when he's disguised. He just wants to reach out and comfort Watson when his back hurts or he has a cramp. Touch his stomach and kiss him and do wicked things with him because Watson pregnant is so very wonderful. He knows he can't risk Watson and he makes the decision to not visit anymore.
When Holmes returns from the "dead", he is determed to get Watson pregnant again no matter how long it takes so that he can do all things he wanted to do when he was watching Watson during his first pregnancy.
TL;DR - After AGOS, Holmes finds it harder and harder to not blow his cover when he's hiding out from Watson who is pregnant. After Holmes returns from the "dead" he's determined to get Watson pregnant again.

_Second Chances_

The small house on Cavendish Place drew him like a moth to a flame.

His first visit under the cover of darkness consisted only of peering through the window of Watson's study; despite the late hour Watson was typing away, and Holmes couldn't help but notice the armchair that faced Watson's desk.

That very armchair had first given him the idea of urban camouflage, and it had been his first experimental subject. The pattern down the middle had been difficult to replicate-of course he would choose something challenging for the inaugural attempt-but he had ultimately been successful and spied on the goings-on of the house for a full day without anyone being the wiser (that Watson had been away much of that day had nothing to do with his success). The chair had faced the study's fireplace then; this new position was ideal for watching Watson.

It was a matter of only a few minutes' work to sneak into his old rooms, retrieve the chair-suit, and slip back out again. It was more than a week before he could execute his intention to observe Watson; his efforts were required elsewhere to begin drawing a net around Moriarty's organization, which was more active than had been expected following the death of its erstwhile leader. Mycroft worked with him, calling in favors and capitalizing on his international ties to guarantee the cooperation of numerous continental governments when the trap was ready to be sprung.

When Holmes had been shut in his little corner of Mycroft's rooms for five days straight, he decided an outing was needed. He went, of course, to Watson's house, slipping into the study in the dim pre-dawn and taking his position in the chair (the outer clothing he'd worn outside was concealed in the shrubbery below the window).

He listened carefully to the sounds of the waking household, tracking the footsteps of Watson and Mary and the part-time maid. After breakfast, Watson came to the study, setting his cup of tea on his desk before building and lighting a sizable fire; he intended to remain in the room for some time.

Watching Watson work on the typewriter was most instructive. His writing process remained unchanged; he wrote, muttered to himself and read aloud under his breath before dedicating himself to churning out more words, but now his curses and imprecations were directed at mistyped letters or jammed typewriter keys rather than a blotchy pen or a spilled inkwell.

Mary appeared with a pot of tea partway through the morning. She kissed his forehead and he patted her hand briefly then returned to his furious typing. She seemed amused when she turned away and she added a few more logs to the fire as she left.

Watson worked steadily on, absent-mindedly drinking his tea and appearing increasingly frustrated with his story. It was no wonder-he was attempting to set down the pursuit of Moriarty but dared not tell the whole truth, so he was mired in a morass of half-truths concocted for the public and unable to slog his way to the solid ground of the ending.

Holmes listened, cringed at some of the transparent attempts at falsification, hoped Watson's editor was equal to the task of producing something less nonsensical for publication, and felt something akin to guilt that Watson had to tell this tale at all. Having Watson write it so soon was Mycroft's idea, in hopes Moriarty's underlings would behave with less care in the absence of their leader's great opponent and thus be easier to expose, but, in watching Watson, Holmes thought it was perhaps premature.

Mary interrupted Watson for lunch, insisting that he leave his desk for a few minutes at least. In Watson's absence, Holmes quickly stood and carefully shook out his arms and legs, stretching stiff muscles and taking deep breaths to prepare himself for an afternoon of watchfulness. As soon as he heard footsteps in the hall he resumed his pose.

Watson returned with a sandwich on a plate and yet another cup of tea in his hand. He added more wood to the fire and settled into his chair with a groan, slumping against the back and glaring at the paper in the typewriter. He ate his sandwich in this position, lost in thought while crumbs bedecked his waistcoat.

Holmes could tell when inspiration struck: Watson abruptly sat up, pulled the half-finished page from the machine, balled it up, tossed it into the fire, and inserted a new sheet, looking quite satisfied with himself as the clack of keys resumed.

There was less frustrated muttering now, and he was so absorbed he did not acknowledge Mary taking away his half-eaten sandwich or Gladstone flopping onto the floor in front of the fire.

The words flowed at a steady pace for some hours. Periodically Watson would review a newly completed page with his earlier draft, then crumple and toss the draft page at the fire. He began to slow after a while, taking more care with his word choices, and Holmes inferred he was near the end.

Mary brought in the post, including a familiar brown-paper package and Holmes was pleased he would witness Watson's reaction first-hand. Mary gently reminded Watson he needed to pack for Brighton and Holmes found it rather strange to be party to a conversation about himself; while he didn't entirely believe that Mary missed him, she had him pegged quite accurately.

Then she left, and Watson was opening the parcel. He was confused at first, then he recognized the item stowed within the box and drew it out carefully. His expression was difficult to read, especially with the visual limitations of the hood, but Watson looked almost hopeful as he stared at the oxygen supply. His eyes strayed to the door as if expecting someone to have appeared there when he wasn't looking. Finding nothing, he stood, still holding the device, and left the room to pepper Mary with questions about the deliverer of the parcel.

Holmes took the opportunity to rise and stride to the typewriter, motioning for Gladstone to remain still when the dog seemed ready to either bark or approach him, and skimmed the stark words on the paper. He carefully inserted a question mark after Watson's (misguided) "THE END".

While it would have been amusing to remain to see if Watson noticed the alteration, he really did have other work to attend to, work which must be done before he could officially show Watson it wasn't the end at all.

Holmes slipped out the window and contemplated making a side trip to Brighton. It could be worthwhile, particularly if Moran or any of his associates decided to keep Watson within their sights.

.

Mycroft forbade him from going to Brighton, but he did have the Watsons followed to ensure their safety.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happened to them. It was almost a disappointment.

Holmes' presence in London during that week was fortunate in the end, for there were several important developments that greatly assisted his efforts to tease out the connections between the levels of Moriarty's organization and Colonel Moran.

The preliminary work had been done when he was focusing on Moriarty, of course, but some shifts had occurred in the few months since the professor's demise and the structure of the organization was more stable than it had seemed earlier. By rights, the organization he had traced out in pursuing Moriarty should not have remained cohesive without the mastermind, but it was and that made it all the more dangerous now that he could not perform his work as himself. Always he wore disguises when out, sometimes more than one with rapid switches between them in alleys and dark doorways, and always he was on guard against being followed.

As soon as Moran figured out he wasn't dead, Watson would be in danger once more.

The developments during Watson's belated honeymoon necessitated his presence on the continent to gather additional information, so he was unable to drop in again for a full fortnight after Watson's return from Brighton.

As before, he arrived before dawn, dressed as the chair, and was settled in place before the house's inhabitants woke. This morning it was only Watson and Mary-the maid must have the day off-and from the way their steps never remained in the same room for long it seemed they were at odds about something. Most interesting.

When Watson entered the study, it was with a tray-the discord extended to his dear wife not bringing him his tea-which he set on the desk, then went back to close the door before tending the fire.

Holmes was barraged with several observations at once: he'd never seen Watson close the study door before; Watson's appetite was lagging, for he had not yet eaten breakfast and the only food on the tray was toast; and Watson had put on more weight, enough to strain the buttons of his waistcoat near his waist. The last two seemed contradictory, but the first two combined pointed to distress on Watson's part that involved Mary and possibly had something to do with the third. Nothing more could be inferred without additional information.

Watson sat at his desk with a sigh and pulled a stack of files over. These he read and jotted in and separated into three piles of approximately equal height. This he did while sipping tea and ignoring the toast completely.

Watson had been sorting for several hours when there was a tentative knock at the door. He sighed and called wearily, "Come in."

Mary entered and went to his side but did not touch him. "How are you doing?" she asked gently.

"Nearly done, I think."

"Are you certain this is what you should do?"

"Yes," Watson answered flatly.

Ah, here was the disagreement.

"I don't understand why. This is not something to be ashamed of."

"Anyone with half a brain and a calendar will know that I was unfaithful," Watson said with the impatient air of one who has said the same thing numerous times before.

"It was an indiscretion, as you said. I might be of a different opinion if he were still here to tempt you, but he's not, and for your sake I am glad you will have something of him to hold on to."

"Not everyone is so generous," he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it. "I need to be able to face my patients afterward, and I don't want you to suffer for my lapse. So yes, I must withdraw from practice until the child is born."

"What will you tell your colleagues?"

"With your permission, I will tell them you are suffering in the early stages of pregnancy and I must tend you."

"Which will explain the appearance of an infant in a few months," she said thoughtfully, nodding slowly.

"I know it is asking much of you to maintain the pretense, since you also cannot go out until after the birth. And we must fire the maid."

"We will need someone to bring us what we need," Mary said reasonably.

"I know. I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Mrs. Hudson," Mary suggested. "Or we could ask Mr. Holmes to find someone trustworthy."

"We're not bringing Mycroft into this," Watson objected.

"Why not? He's the uncle, and you know he is well-connected. He could even find someone discreet to tend you."

Watson heaved another sigh, resting his face in his hands and his elbows on the desk.

Mary rubbed his shoulders and let him remain in silence for some moments. "I will go speak to Mrs. Hudson this afternoon. Would you like me to see Mr. Holmes as well? You can straighten things out with the other doctors."

"I ought to see Mycroft," Watson said reluctantly.

"Then I will go with you," Mary said decisively, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. "You do not have to do this alone."

"You are being far too kind," Watson said, sounding resigned.

"We'll go tomorrow. And maybe he'll know who sent you this thing," she continued, picking up the oxygen device from Watson's desk beside the typewriter.

"Maybe," Watson agreed absently, his eyes flicking toward the open door.

Holmes realized with a start that Watson was watching for him, as if expecting him to turn up at any moment. He had meant the anonymous dispatch of the device to give Watson a hint to what happened, but he did not anticipate that Watson would place such faith in it as to actually look for him.

But it paled in comparison to the revelation that Watson was expecting their child. His earlier observations made perfect sense in this light, though he never would have anticipated this explanation.

By this point his shock was such that he didn't notice when Watson and Mary left the room. Watson had taken his files and the fire was nearly dead, so it was reasonable to think they would not return. He slipped out, dressed, and returned to Mycroft's rooms in a daze.

He shut himself in his secluded room and smoked his pipe all night, pondering the situation and whether he could alter his plans in any way in order to present himself to Watson sooner.

He concluded he could not.

Watson-and their child-would only be safe if he remained dead until Moran was disposed of and the organization abolished once and for all.

.

Holmes was in the midst of rearranging his clippings and their corresponding threads-his latest spider's web-when Carruthers arrived to summon him to dinner. He tried to persuade the implacable man he was very busy and would eat later, but Carruthers was insistent that Mycroft demanded his presence for the meal. Holmes finally threw down his work with a huff and stalked to the dining room.

Mycroft was serving up a plate of food when he entered, and placed it in front of the empty chair meant for Holmes. "Sit," Mycroft commanded, and Holmes sat.

The elder Holmes had the look of a man with something on his mind. "I would have expected you to take more care, given the potential for unintended consequences," Mycroft said reprovingly, then took a bite of steak and hummed appreciatively.

Holmes picked up his fork and idly pushed at his food. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, training his eyes on the peas he was shoving into his mashed potatoes.

"On the contrary, I think it quite evident that you do," Mycroft countered after a sip of wine.

Holmes ignored him and began shredding his meat with his fork.

"But if you're going to insist upon behaving like a child, I will start at the beginning." He cleared his throat dramatically. "I had a most interesting visit with Dr. and Mrs. Watson this afternoon at the Diogenes. It would seem you have left the good Doctor in something of a situation following an ill-advised tryst during your travels. He is due to birth your child some four months hence. So as I said, I would have expected you to take care to prevent such an occurrence."

"We usually did," Holmes retorted. "But we were not prepared - we had not been involved in that way since his engagement . . . we'd been drinking . . ." he trailed off.

"Yes, your Doctor said you were both impaired at the time," Mycroft confirmed. "In any case, they have asked-well, Mrs. Watson requested-that I find someone discreet to assist him with the pregnancy and birth."

"Will you?" Holmes asked, suddenly quite apprehensive.

"Don't be daft, of course I will. The child will, after all, be my only niece or nephew." He sounded quite pleased by the prospect.

Holmes flushed and felt himself relax slightly, and he even ventured a bite or two.

"You must not allow yourself to be distracted by this, Shirley. I strongly suggest that you discontinue your visits to his house," Mycroft said urgently.

"I most certainly will not," Holmes shot back. "Now more than ever I must keep an eye on him."

"The work must be done, and done properly. The sooner you conclude this business, the sooner you can return to being yourself."

"Thank you, Mycroft, I am well aware of that," Holmes snapped as he stood, pushing back his chair with some force. "Now if you'll excuse me, you pulled me away from that all-important work to have this inane conversation, so I'm going to go back to it."

He stormed from the room, chased by Mycroft calling, "Remember to rest once in a while."

.

Holmes worked tirelessly to piece together all he could discover about the organization he intended to destroy, sending out innumerable telegrams in his brother's name and receiving telegrams, letters, and even packets of papers in response. These he read carefully, taking notes and requesting more detail where necessary, then fitted these new facts into the old to gradually reveal new dimensions and additional players. It was painstaking work of the kind that could benefit from occasional time away so his mind could meditate while his consciousness was otherwise occupied.

He faithfully visited Watson once a week.

The first week Watson wore his waistcoat unbuttoned, so when he moved the fabric swung with his movements and obscured the shape of his stomach. When he sat, it was at his desk, so Holmes was quite frustrated in his hopes of seeing how Watson looked. Watson worked on correspondence during the morning, then left for lunch and never returned. Holmes remained until nightfall in hopes of seeing him again.

The second week Watson dispensed with the waistcoat and wandered about the house in shirtsleeves and braces. He did not find his way into his study until after lunch, but Holmes thought it well worth the wait. Not only was Watson's form quite evident in his shirt and trousers-and his abdomen already protruded in a most pleasing fashion-but Watson settled in his armchair by the window rather than behind his desk, so Holmes could stare openly as long as Watson's head was bent over the book he read. And oh, did he stare, especially when Watson's hand moved to his stomach and rubbed idly. His hands itched to touch, to stroke, to hold Watson close with their child between them.

The third week Watson worked at his typewriter most of the day, a returned manuscript at his elbow as he made changes and corrections in compliance with his editor's recommendations. It was the story of the goose and the carbuncle; a fairly straightforward story, but evidently the editor thought Watson's version was lacking by the dirty looks he was shooting at the notes scrawled in the margins of his draft. Watson stood and stretched periodically and provided Holmes a tantalizing glimpse of shirt buttons straining ever so slightly and an unfastened top trouser button. Holmes found it exceedingly difficult not to rise or at least reach out, and had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled to keep himself composed and still.

The fourth week Watson only entered the study for brief periods to retrieve things from his desk. He was beginning to walk differently, the added weight in front altering his posture and balance, and his shirt was quite decidedly strained across his abdomen. Holmes rather hoped this meant he would no longer be wearing one by the next week, and in the following days he frequently found his thoughts straying to conjectures about how Watson would presently look without clothing.

The fifth week Watson was, alas, wearing a shirt that was rather too loose on him-it could even have been Mycroft's from the size-but the silly man still insisted upon tucking it in even though he couldn't fully button his trousers, so that magnificent stomach was on display with every move. His movements were more careful than before, and his hands strayed from time to time to his lower back or to cup his belly as if pushing it up to lessen the strain. Holmes longed to press himself against Watson's back and reach around him to gently cradle the child in his hands.

The sixth week Watson was reading in his armchair by the window again. His abdomen was now so swollen that it seemed to rest on his thighs when he sat down, and he used it as a ledge on which to stand the book as he read. He absently stroked his stomach, occasionally pressing the heel of his hand in and then soothing his fingers over the area afterward. He seemed to fall asleep, the book sliding down with his limp hand, his other hand resting lightly on his abdomen. Mary found him thus, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Watson stirred and smiled sleepily at her, reaching for her hand and placing it where his hand had been. "He's kicking." Holmes felt an intense jealousy and rage that she should be the one to feel the child move and not him.

It was much harder to concentrate on schemes and plots to entrap criminals when he knew that his child was growing and moving in Watson and he could not touch him. Not one kiss, not one caress; he could not even see him gloriously naked in his gravid state. All his being longed for Watson, thought of Watson, obsessed over Watson and how he was faring during those six days of the week while he forced himself to think of other, supposedly greater, things when all he really wanted to do was shut himself in a room with Watson and do things to him. Rub his back. Stroke his belly. Kiss him senseless. Feel the child kick while he buried himself deep within Watson.

Mycroft frowned and scolded him often for his lapses in concentration. He couldn't help it; thinking of Watson was much more agreeable than trying to work out a way to spring a trap on as many parts of Moriarty's-now Moran's-organization as was possible, and all at the same time so they couldn't warn one another. Which isn't to say he didn't make progress in those weeks, just that the progress perhaps wasn't as substantial as it might have been.

The seventh week Watson was using his cane, the added weight evidently proving too much of a strain on his bad leg. He walked carefully, holding himself as if he were in pain, and when he sat in his desk chair he grimaced, clawing futilely at the pain in his lower back. Holmes could help, if only he could touch, but that was impossible. When Mary came in a short time later, Watson's face quickly smoothed into a placid expression, and Holmes wondered if she had any idea that he was in pain and hiding it from her. He liked to think he would have been able to see through Watson's attempt to disguise it.

The eighth week Watson seemed melancholy. He had an edited manuscript before him, but showed no enthusiasm in producing a new copy; when he set his fingers to the keys, he touched them too lightly to make an impression or he simply typed one word and stopped again. His eyes often strayed between the door and an item on his desk instead of alighting on the manuscript. Finally he sat back and sighed heavily, picking up the oxygen device and staring at it mournfully before tossing it down again and rubbing his face with his hands. "I don't know what to believe anymore," he said despairingly. He pushed himself to his feet and, with his cane, slowly left the room. He didn't return again that day. When Holmes slipped past the desk on his way out the window, he saw that the manuscript was about his pursuit of Moriarty, what Watson called "The Final Problem".

The ninth week Watson was still working on his final problem. He was much more dedicated in applying himself to the task than he'd been the week before, but his attention still wandered periodically. When he finished, he looked profoundly unhappy and once more took the oxygen device into his hand. He cradled it in his palm as if weighing it, then with a sudden burst of motion he flung it through the door and into the hall, where it slid into the wall with a thump. Gladstone's head rose up from his paws and he trotted out after it.

Watson pushed himself away from the desk with a grunt and took himself to the armchair beside the window. He sat motionless for quite some time, staring sightlessly at the panes. Mary quietly entered and went to him; Watson acknowledged her with a brittle smile before turning back to the window. When he didn't respond to her stroking his cheek, she knelt on the chair cushion astride his lap. She cradled his head against her chest and his breath hitched; he clutched her waist as if he were drowning and she murmured soothingly, her hands stroking up and down his back.

When Holmes could see Watson's face again, his expression was less strained than before. Mary cupped Watson's face in her hands and said, "I can guess some of the things that will ease you, but you must tell me the others. I'm here to help you. Please let me. For my sake, and for his." Watson sighed gustily and nodded slightly, then Mary withdrew from his lap and stood, offering her hands to help him up. When he was on his feet she slipped her arm around his back and walked with him to the door, asking if he'd like her to run a bath.

Holmes was glad to see them leave only because he would have been unable to keep his peace much longer. The strain of remaining utterly still even as he witnessed Watson's misery was more than he could bear, particularly since Watson's distress was caused by his own absence. Coming here was merely taunting himself with what he could not have-what he might have had, had things turned out differently-and he could not stand it any longer. He could no longer visit; he would leave London entirely to remove himself from temptation.

He packed his meager belongings that very night. Mycroft watched him with something like bemusement, but he did not say a word. "I will conclude this business myself to be sure it is done properly," Holmes said unnecessarily.

"Keep me apprised of your whereabouts," Mycroft said mildly.

"And you will send word of any developments," Holmes demanded.

"Of course, dear brother. Now get some rest, there is no need to depart this instant."

Holmes remained, but he did not sleep. He spent the night ensuring he had committed to memory all pertinent facts from his web of papers and threads and contemplating what remained to be done.

He had approximately two months before the child's birth.

.

Telegrams frequently passed between Holmes and his brother in those weeks as Holmes traveled the continent, gathering the last bits of information he needed and, in his guise as Mycroft's associate, discussing the plans with the official police forces. In his wake, certain portions of the organization were captured-an all-at-once strategy having been deemed too unwieldy to execute-and slowly his work came to fruition.

Nine weeks after he left England, Holmes was in a seedy hotel in Paris, awaiting word about the final two operations: one there in Paris, the other in London. The telegram he received was on a different subject entirely.

CHILD LATE BUT HEALTHY STOP ALL ARE WELL STOP NAMED HER SHIRLEY FINAL STOP

He was on his way to Calais and a boat to England within a quarter hour, Moriarty's organization be damned.

He arrived in time to watch an approaching boat dock and the passengers disembark. His gaze idly swept over the people making their way off the boat when he was startled to see a familiar bearded figure amongst the crowd. He froze in place, hoping his disguise was sufficient to hide him as he stared at the man striding through the throngs.

It couldn't be. He was supposed to be in London.

But it was. Moran had slipped the net.

The chase was on.

After following Moran long enough to determine his intended route, Holmes ducked into the telegraph office to send word to his brother. A note from Mycroft already awaited him; he was thankful he took the extra few moments to have any notices forwarded here from his former location. Mycroft's brief message confirmed that Moran had fled and was bound for France, so Holmes sent a terse reply that he was on Moran's tail.

Moran's train had left by the time the telegraph operator was finished slowly counting out his change. So he pursued Moran, trailing his every footstep and always just a little too far behind. It was nearly a month before he finally caught up. And when he did, Moran quickly realized he was being followed. So Holmes allowed Moran to catch a glimpse of him undisguised to give his prey something to think about.

What resulted was terribly predictable. Moran tried to set a trap for him, to turn the tables so he was the hunter and Holmes the hunted. Holmes walked into said trap, knowing precisely what it was and dodging at the last minute so the bullet intended for his heart passed between his torso and arm instead. He was wounded, as he could not fail to be, but not so severely that he could not prevail in the hand-to-hand struggle that came after.

He made it onto the boat to Dover before he collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss.