Prompt: Sherlock needs Molly to look genuinely pregnant in a couple of weeks, in order to pass her off as his expecting wife for a case. His target is a murdering doctor, so padding won't do. Molly reluctantly agrees to let Sherlock feed her; with a couple of days to go, times running out and her belly isn't big or round enough. So Sherlock resorts to funnel & tube. They both end up enjoying it a little too much...
Wow, so this kind of grew up into a decently sized fic with possibly a sequel on the way! haha It was my first time writing Sherlolly and funnel feeding so any feedback is much appreciated. Peace and belly love, to all.
To be fair, it wasn't exactly the oddest request she'd ever heard. Molly had handed over a bag of severed thumbs more than once. She'd even promised to keep a freshly stabbed spleen on ice and then text him exactly how many drips were possible before the blood froze.
Oh, the things she did for Sherlock Holmes.
This time though, she was sure she had heard something wrong.
"Wait... what?" asked Molly, blinking in confusion. She did sometimes zone out when he was talking. It wasn't her fault, he just always spoke so fast and his voice was so soothing and deep and oh hang on he was talking again.
Sherlock had rolled his eyes and looked distinctly put upon.
"I need you to convincingly impersonate my pregnant wife."
"You... you don't have a pregnant wife."
"No. Which means you can clearly see why I require your assistance," drawled Sherlock, flopping down in a chair and putting his feet on the work top. He raised an eyebrow that seems scientifically calculated to melt her will to butter. "Will you help me, Molly?"
Molly swallowed, considering it a bit. "Umm... yeah. Okay. What do I have to do?"
"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet again so suddenly that he startled her, "Merely accompany me at the first of next month. We have an appointment with Dr. Simpson. You'll be five months along and very concerned with the state of the child."
"Oh okay, so I'll need some-some padding then?" asked Molly, "What exactly did this doctor do then? Is he the client."
"Oh no, not at all. He's a highly cunning and dangerous murderer," answered Sherlock, looking positively gleeful at the prospect.
"Great," said Molly, dryly.
"But he is a licensed doctor," continued Sherlock, his eyes snapping back to Molly and making her feel as though she were glued to the spot or maybe more likely caught in some sort of retraction beam. "He will be able to tell padding from human flesh in a single glance. Pre-natal medicine is his speciality."
"Not the one you usually see in dangerous murderers."
"No," rumbled Sherlock, and a small genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips, "It does however mean, as I said, that your disguise needs to be incredibly convincing. We can't just walk in with one of those false bellies and hope Simpson won't notice."
"So what's that mean?" asked Molly, feeling an odd thrill rush through her at the look in Sherlock's eyes.
"Hope you've got an appetite," said Sherlock, hauling a bag of takeaway boxes up from the floor and setting them on the table.
Molly stared at them, eyes wide. There was no way she'd even be able to-but she didn't want-
"Is this some sort of joke?" she demanded, suddenly furious, glaring up at Sherlock.
The detective took a step back, his eyes darting around her face as if to deduce if he were in danger of being slapped.
"No, it's for a case, as I was telling you," he said, rummaging in his pocket for evidence. "Here, the email. I wouldn't lie to you, Molly Hooper."
Molly pursed her lips but took Sherlock's phone, eyes scanning the correspondence. Her eyes flicked back up to Sherlock's, their icy blue blinking back innocently, just waiting.
"He's killed three patients..."
"Yes. He's good. Only one was put down as malpractice. The other two are labeled as natural causes. It's going to be dangerous, Molly. I wouldn't ask it of you , but you're the only one I can trust in this," said Sherlock, and for once he sounds genuine, not just trying to get into her drawers. Er, the mortuary drawers. He hasn't shown any interesting getting into her actual drawars. Molly shakes her head. Focus. She bites her lip.
"Okay. Let's get him locked up before he hurts someone else."
Sherlock smiled. "My thoughts exactly. Chicken or pork?"
It turned out to be a question of which first as Molly was given the second option immediately after finishing the first. She muffled a small burp daintily behind her fingers, then gazed in horror at the container of sweet and sour pork that Sherlock slid her way.
"Sherlock, I don't think I can..."
"Yes you can. The average adult human stomach can expand to hold up to four liters of food," said Sherlock, popping the lid off neatly and handing her a fork and a napkin.
"Well, yes, I know that," said Molly, accepting the fork that was pressed back into her hand, "But..."
"We only have two weeks, Molly, we can't afford to do this slowly," the detective rumbled, nudging the food towards her.
"Oh, right. Okay then."
She took a deep breath, already feeling really very full and then set to work on the next portion. She just hoped her skirt would hold up or things would get even more awkward than they always seemed to be around Sherlock. Then somehow that portion vanished as well, along with a pint of white rice and two spring rolls. Molly felt sure she would have to lay down for the rest of the day. Sherlock was kind enough to help her to a more comfortable chair before he left.
"Thank you for your help, Molly. I can't do this without you. Be sure to eat a good breakfast and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" exclaimed Molly, clutching her aching belly in panic at the thought of eating even more.
Sherlock's eyes flicked back to her. "Oh yes. As I said, time is not on our side for this one. Same hour?"
"Er yeah. Okay."
Then he was gone and Molly flopped back. She popped the button on her skirt open and sighed as the zipper slid down a bit. She could breath again.
Tomorrow came, and then the day after and so on for the rest of the week. Each day Sherlock would turn up with a new stack of takeaway containers for her and then watch intently as she ate every last bite. He'd reward her with a smile or some other sort of compliment and always and honest thank you. More often than not they seemed sincere. He also chatted with her about the case while she ate. He still refused to take a single bite, insisting it was all for her. When the weekend came, Sherlock turned up at her door and demonstrated cooking skills she never would have expected him to have. It was lucky she was still in her jimjams to be honest. She felt so bloated she could hardly move after a full English, several Bakewell tarts, fresh chips and butties for lunch, biscuits and tea and a pasta dish for dinner. She wasn't sure if she had imagined it but she felt sure he had kissed her... her cheek or was it her forehead? before he left her to lapse into a food coma.
The effects weren't long in arriving of course. Her stomach felt constantly swollen and bloated as if she really was pregnant. She took to wearing some of her looser blouses and work trousers but they still bit into her growing belly. Thankfully Sherlock had noticed. He brought maternity clothing with her double order of fish and chips on Tuesday. She blushed crimson, but she was undeniably more comfortable.
Their appointment with Dr. Simpson loomed ever nearer and Molly found herself eating more and more. Perhaps it was nerves, perhaps it was wanting to do well for Sherlock. She couldn't be sure. He was giving her rather soft warm looks now whenever he saw her. He even seemed to be touching her more, placing a hand on her hip or waist, brushing her shoulders. He was likely just getting in character but... some small part of her, and it made her blush even more to think it, was enjoying this. Very much.
And then quite suddenly, it was May the 31st. Sherlock was coming by for dinner, but Molly was fretting. She was worried that she wasn't anywhere near big enough to pass for five months pregnant. Maybe when stuffed completely, but... She looked down at her belly, frowning at it where it ballooned out beneath her breasts, tugging the soft material of her dress with it. She heard a faint rumbled and rubbed it absently. Not to worry. Sherlock would be here soon. She flopped down on her small sofa, hearing the springs creak a bit and flipping on the telly. She continued to absently trail her fingers around the soft, bulging shape.
Finally, there was a knock at the door and Molly got to her feet with a soft grunt, bustling to answer it. She couldn't help but smile.
"Sherlock! Thank God, I'm star-what is that?" Her eyes had fallen on something that sent a jolt of panic through her. Was that panic or something else? That weird swoopy thing that made her cheeks burn. Oh wait Sherlock was talking.
"You brought... a funnel?" said Molly, still not sure how she felt. Well, scared, impressed, and... intrigued.
"Yes, as I said, it seems to be the most effective way to deliver the maximum amount of calories over a short period of time, " said Sherlock, with a grin that was just bordering on unsettling. Molly stepped aside to let him in anyway. She followed him, hand on her belly again as she watched him unpack food items from the bags he'd brought. It looked to be loads of ice cream, full fat cream, chocolate and strawberry syrups, some odd shakes. Molly took one of them and felt her heart jump to her throat as she read the label. It was advertised as helping to increase weight gain.
"Worried about tomorrow then," said Molly, her voice rather small.
Sherlock ceased his rustling and looked over at her. His features melted into kindness. "Yes," he admitted, "For both our sakes, it's vital." There was that hand again, big and warm, rubbing at her back. She smiled softly, then looked back over at him and cracked open the seal on the shake. "Best get started then. Who knows! Might-might even be sort of fun!"
Molly didn't know if she'd ever seen Sherlock look flabbergasted, or flushed. But here he was. The look didn't go away as she through her head back and chugged the stuff down. She heard a bit of a groan but didn't know who it had come from. She hoped it wasn't Sherlock's mobile again.
Somehow they ended up in Molly's bedroom to try out the funnel, something about being able to obtain the correct angle. He directs her methodically to lay back. She knows all of this of course. She's taken more courses in human anatomy than she cares to recall, but she's nervous, and Sherlock's soft voice and big hands are soothing. The tube bit is a bit unpleasant, but they work out that together as well. Then they're in place and Sherlock reaches for the first pitcher of cream and whatever other things he's mixed in to make her grow, swell... fatten. She pants around the tube in her mouth, her legs rubbing together, plump thighs squirming. Her bleary gaze meets Sherlock's for a moment. He looks... lost almost. His breath is faster than usual. There's a flush on his cheeks and a quiver to his otherwise steady hands as he lifts the pitcher to the funnel. His lips part and his fingers slip to touch them as Molly whimpers and squirms at the first entry of whatever substance he's feeding her.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice deep and husky. Molly closes her eyes and finds her rhythm, hardly having to swallow even as she feels her stomach fill. Her toes curl. She gives him the thumbs up. Sherlock smiles and pours the rest of the pitcher down slowly.
"1.5 liters at approximately 3000 calories a liter," he rumbles, picking up the second pitcher. Molly feels panic rise again in her chest, but she doesn't dare move in case she dislodges their apparatus. She merely whimpers in acknowledgement and squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a bolt of pleasure rush through her. She hears something like Sherlock swallowing, feels the mattress depress, and then more of that fatty concoction is being poured down her throat, into her belly which already feels tight and round. pushing and pulling at her dress.
"That's... that's roughly 9000 calories," comes Sherlock's voice, sounding strained, "Oh, God... Molly."
She whimpers and whines, eyes squeezed shut, full round belly rising as she arches up. Suddenly there are fingers tracing the arch of her belly through her dress and that makes her eyes roll back as all her tightly stretched nerves sing. "MMmrrrph, Sherlock," She manages around the tubing. The fingers freeze, then spread and turn into a definite caress. She tilts her head as far as she dares and feels her breath catch as he looks at her with half-lidded eyes. She flicks her gaze to the last pitcher, carefully measured to a single final liter. Sherlock swallows visibly, pupils blown wide.
Molly makes a small encouraging noise, her feet now rubbing together. Then there is a slow stream of Sherlock's fattening mixtures flowing into her. She whimpers as she feels herself expand, grow, the material of her dress stretching tighter and tighter around the rounding ball that is her stomach. She grows and grows, fills, and fills until she feels like she could burst. She cries out between swallows, trying to arch, but too full to move. Then the last drops are gone and gentle long fingered hands are carefully removing the tubing, wiping her mouth clean. Then there are lips on hers and they are perfectly soft. She sighs, her hands wandering down to rub at her swollen belly. A larger one joins them, rubbing slowly and gently.
She burps, and is too full and sated to bother muffling it. Sherlock merely gives a rumbling chuckle.
"I'm glad we're having this baby together," Molly mutters, her breath hitching as Sherlock's big hand slipped a bit lower, dipped a thumb into her navel through the dress.
Sherlock freezes for a moment.
"You do recall... you're not actually pregnant, Molly."
She snorts and chuckles until her full stomach forces her to stop.
"I know that you big idiot."
Then Sherlock's lips are back, first at her mouth with utmost gentleness, then all down her swollen body.
Oh, the things she did for Sherlock Holmes.