Chapter Two: A Decision

"Sherlock," John breathed, tearing his eyes away from the screen and managing a small smile for his friend. "You're pregnant."

Sherlock's whole body seemed to stop mid-breath. Suddenly, there was a constricting weight deep in his chest and he couldn't breath; his mind was not allowing him to think straight, instantly flooding with the statistics of how impossible this was, how slim of a chance there was for something like this to even occur!

"What?" he finally managed, voice straining from the lack of air. "I—that's impossible, John—I—I can't—can't possibly be—"

"Look," John urged quietly, gesturing to the screen with his free hand. "I guess you're a carrier. It's rare, but... Not impossible."

Chest heaving with terrified, unbelieving breaths, Sherlock turned, eyes frantically scanning back and forth over the screen. A strangled sob escaped his lips as the detective saw the image—the image coming from inside of him. Sure enough, in a sea of fuzzy grey, there was a little blob of black, and nestled safely inside... Was an incredibly tiny, barely distinguishable human being.

"See?" John murmured quietly, carefully studying Sherlock's features for signs of anything; anger, sadness, joy, fear...

Stricken by what he was seeing, the detective merely stared at the image of the tiny human being inside of him, unable to process the proper information. "So the sickness..." he started, voice just a whisper as his eyes remained glued to the screen.

"Morning sickness," John inputted, smiling sadly at his friend. "Right on time, too. Judging by the size, I'd guess your baby's about 6 to 7 weeks old."

Sherlock froze at John's words, his eyes falling just below the screen as he came to a sudden, blinding realization... The child's DNA was a mix of his and... "Moran," came the detective's strangled whisper. Eyes filled with fear and contempt, Sherlock turned his attention to John, not even noticing how he was gripping the papery sheet beneath him. "John," he choked out.

"Sherlock," John started slowly, taking one of his friend's shaking hands in his own. "I'm so sorry... But—"

"I want it terminated. Immediately," the detective suddenly inputted quietly, face now completely blank as he stared at the wall, though John could see the storm raging behind those grey-green irises.

"Sherlock," John started carefully, watching his friend with hesitant eyes. "Come on, I think you really need to think about this. I mean, you have a human life inside of you, and just because Moran... Well, it doesn't mean the baby deserves—"

"I want. It. Terminated," Sherlock practically spat, pressing his mouth into a tight line as he sat up in the bed.

"Sherlock!" John called, anger burning in the pit of his stomach as he watched his flat mate hop off the cot, and snatch a towel from the dispenser, wiping off the shiny gel covering his stomach. "Why? Just because you're upset that Moran put it inside you? Is that why?" he shouted, glaring at the detective.

"Men don't have babies!" Sherlock countered, turning on his heel to stare at John. "It's abnormal, John! I couldn't care less about the DNA of the child! But I don't need one more reason to be called a freak!"

John froze in his position, any words he was going to say caught in his throat as he saw tears in Sherlock's eyes; noticed how a few had slipped down the detective's cheeks and left a wet trail where they had traveled.

Unfazed by John's clearly shocked expression, Sherlock continued, suddenly unable to stop the stream of emotion flooding through him. "Of course. I would be the one man in who knows how many who have the ability to carry a child! Just what I need. Furthermore, you and I both know I am most definitely not father material, John! Bringing this child into the world would be far more cruel than taking it out right now! Can't you see that? This is—It's not—John, I can't!" Chest heaving, Sherlock ran a thin hand through his raven curls, a few more tears sliding free as he did so.

"Do whatever the hell you want," John fumed, pulling on his coat and stomping towards the door. "But I cannot condone you taking that baby's life just because you think it's unfair!" Face flushed red with anger, the doctor quickly turned on his heel, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Sherlock alone in an empty hospital room.

Wiping away at his tear-stained cheeks, the detective quickly pulled his mobile out of his pocket, punched in the numbers a little more forcefully than usual and held the mobile up to his ear.

"Mycroft? Yes. It's me. I need a favor."

Several hours later, Sherlock was resting on the white sheets of a hospital-style cot, similar to the one he had been lying on earlier with John. The detective waited silently as a nurse came in, flipping nonchalantly through some pages on a clipboard.

"Hello Mr. Holm," she sighed, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed and turning on the ultrasound machine.

"Holmes," Sherlock corrected half-heartedly.

"Yes. Shirt up, please? Going to be cold," she said quietly, sounding incredibly bored as she squirted some of the clear liquid onto his stomach.

"Just have to find the baby to check and make sure everything..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman trailed off, allowing her to massage the gel around his exposed abdomen.

"Okay. Here we go," she sighed dramatically, placing the wand to the detective's stomach. "Where is the little guy... There it is. It's young. Good. Makes our job that much easier."

Sherlock couldn't help but shiver at her words as a trail of goosebumps traveled up and down his body.

Though he silently scolded himself for doing so, the detective dared a glance back towards the monitor. His eyes saddened as he stared at the tiny image of the child... His child...

And then, with a tiny movement of the wand across his middle, there came a gentle thrumming, almost like the distant galloping of horses.

"Wait, wait! Go back," Sherlock said hurriedly to the nurse. "What was that?" he asked, as the sound once again reappeared.

"Heartbeat," she answered nonchalantly, giving the detective a puzzled look and a quirked eyebrow.

"Heartbeat," Sherlock repeated softly, voice just a whisper as he stared at the image. "It has a heartbeat."

"Well of course it does, it's alive, after all," the nurse almost chuckled, giving Sherlock a dithering look as she pulled the wand away, and with it the image of his child and the sound of its heartbeat.

"Heartbeat..."

John had instantly regretted everything he'd said as soon as he left the hospital. Knowing Sherlock had probably already returned to the flat, but wanting to give his friend some time to think over everything, the doctor drove around in a cab for several hours, and then eventually ended up at his sister's.

Groaning as he woke up just as morning was starting to break, John figured now would be good a time as any to go and face his flat mate. Quickly tugging on his coat and leaving a note for Harry, the doctor slipped outside and into the brisk dawn air.

Running his fingers through his sandy hair, John took a deep breath as he entered the flat, thinking of how to best phrase what he wanted to say.

"Sherlock?" he started quietly as he rounded the corner of the stairs, hurrying up into the flat. He stopped in the doorway upon seeing Sherlock, curled into a ball in his chair, whole body shaking as sobs coursed through him.

"Oh, Sherlock," the doctor sighed sadly, hurrying over towards his friend, taking the chair opposite. "What happened?"

Hastily trying to wipe away the tears that were still streaming down his face, the detective only curled further inward, embarrassed at having been seen like this. "I went," he said quietly, pressing the heel of his palm underneath his eye.

"Oh," John sighed quietly, gaze falling to the ground as he linked his fingers together, propping his elbows up on his knees. "And uhh... How did that go?"

"I couldn't do it, John," Sherlock sobbed suddenly, tugging angrily at his raven curls.

"What? What do you mean you couldn't do it?"

"I—The woman, s—she used the ultrasound and, and... Just over this one spot... There was a heartbeat, John... A heartbeat," the detective sniffled, trying to calm himself. "And I... I just couldn't... Because, for some reason, with that tiny beating... I realized that it was coming from a little person, John. Inside of me. An incredibly small... Defenseless... Human being. And I just... I couldn't bear to go through with it..."

John listened carefully and watched with soft eyes, not used to seeing his friend so unwound. Taking at it as encouragement, Sherlock continued, breathing slowly returning to normal as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"It was so small, John," he whispered, a thin hand absentmindedly moving to rest across his stomach. "Its heart sounded so tiny and light. And I couldn't help but feel... Protective of it, somehow. Almost as if I was the only one who could shield it; I felt like I should protect it. I just couldn't do it... I am many things, John. But a murderer is not one of them..." Realizing that he had been cradling his still-flat stomach, Sherlock quickly let his hand fall, face flushing light pink.

"I'm glad," John said simply, reaching forward to place a gentle hand to his friend's arm. "I am... And there's no need to feel embarrassed. A little emotion now and then isn't a bad thing."

Sherlock managed a small chuckle at this, giving the doctor a thankful smile.

"So," John sighed, pulling his hand away, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Do you have any questions?"

Quickly collecting himself and sitting up straight in his chair as he cleared away the rest of his tears, Sherlock thought for a moment. "It... I saw it move. On the screen, I mean. But I couldn't feel anything."

"No," John chuckled, leaning back in his own chair. "You won't be able to until about week 17 or so. Though, typically thinner wom... People tend to feel the kicks sooner.

"John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving the doctor an eye roll. "You can say women. I'm not going to break. In fact, I'd prefer you use the term women, so as to be more statistically accurate. Go on. Tell me everything that's going to happen. I want to know. I... Ahem. Must admit that I am not quite as knowledgable in this area as I am in most."

"Oh. Well..." Heaving a sigh, John crossed his legs, linking his fingers atop the arm of the chair. "I suppose the most obvious thing is the growth around the stomach. You have a rather long torso, so the bump shouldn't be quite as noticeable as it would on an average woman. Oh! And from now on, you must start to eat more. You have another person to feed now. God knows the poor thing is probably already starving. Next, I suppose—"

"Wait, wait. How does the child get sustenance, and what does that have to do with me?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"Oh," John sighed, momentarily taken aback as it occurred to him that the detective obviously didn't know much, if anything about a child in the womb. "There's something called an umbilical cord. That feeds into the baby, providing it with the nutrition it needs so it can grow. However, it takes what it needs from your diet, hence the need for you to actually eat." The doctor gave his friend a knowing smile, which was returned by quick quirk of the detective's lips.

"Noted. Will we be able to continue our work?"

"Well we certainly won't be able to go chasing criminals around the streets of London, no. And to be honest, as the pregnancy progresses, you might not want to continue working."

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously, face clearly expressing his shock that John could even suggest such a thing. "Why would I not want to continue my work?"

"Well, it's possible you may want to, I was merely making a suggestion. Don't worry, don't worry. It's just that working that much might become a little tiresome after awhile. And I think you might find that you'll prefer to take a few a few breaks every now and again, that's all. Don't freak out," he chuckled.

"Fine. And the sickness?"

"Just differs. It should end in the next couple of weeks."

"I see," Sherlock murmured, gaze falling to the floor as he steepled his hands, pressing them to his lips.

"Hey. It'll be all right. I promise," John reassured gently, giving his friend a warm smile. "Would you like a few moments to yourself?"

"Please."

"Right. I'll go out and get food. Anything sound good?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, already slipping away into his thoughts.

"Right," John chuckled, turning around and hurrying out of the flat.

8 weeks

Several days later, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin as he attempted to undo the mystery of a case. With a loud huff at have been stumped once again by the case, Sherlock shoved himself away from the couch, frowning as he ruffled his fingers through his raven curls.

"John?" he called, agitated, standing up and throwing his robe behind him as he paced. "John!" When no response came, the detective assumed his flat mate had left, but would probably be back shortly.

Deciding he needed to clear his head, and far too busy (lazy) to bother with getting dressed to go outside, Sherlock decided he would merely have to resort to taking a shower in an attempt to help his thoughts. Stomping as he went, the detective hurried into the bathroom and switched the water on, enjoying the constant sound of the droplets hitting the surface of the shower.

Putting a momentary pause on the case, Sherlock quickly tugged off his shirt and made to pull of his trousers, but stopped suddenly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Breath halting to a painful stop in his throat, the detective moved closer, eyes staring intently at his stomach; at the slight bulge of skin around his middle.

Trying to catch his breath as he stared at his abdomen, Sherlock felt a faint fluttering in his chest, as he absentmindedly cradled the tiny bulge... The evidence of his child.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in amazement as he flattened his palm over the skin. Tearing his eyes away from the reflection, Sherlock turned his gaze to his stomach, watching in sheer wonder as he brushed his thumb across the pale flesh. "So you're really in there, hmm?" he murmured quietly, staring down at his middle as he continued to stroke his thumb over the bump. "Amazing."

Keeping his palm flattened across his abdomen, Sherlock quickly shed his pants and trousers and slipped into the shower, enjoying the soothing feel of the warm droplets on his skin.

The detective kept finding himself touching his stomach, cradling it, caressing the skin.

With an almost embarrassed huff of breath, Sherlock quickly exited the shower, not wanting to admit to himself that he may be becoming attached to the unwanted child forming in his middle. Lips quirking up as he glanced at the swell of his stomach in the mirror, the detective quickly dried himself off and threw on his robe, not even bothering to get properly dressed.

Ignoring how strangely noticeable his stomach was feeling, Sherlock padded into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, remembering what John had told him about needing to eat more to help the baby. With a soft groan and an eyeroll, the detective hurried towards one of the cabinets and pulled out a loaf of unopened bread, knowing that even though he was not hungry (he never really was nowadays), he should eat something.

Trying to ignore the way he had absentmindedly brushed his fingertips across his stomach, Sherlock opened the plastic and pulled out two loaves and bread. "Forcing me to eat," he mumbled unhappily as he shoved the bread into the toaster.

Drumming his fingers against the countertop, Sherlock waited impatiently until the bread finished, then quickly snatched it from the toaster and threw it on a plate.

Scowling, the detective made his way into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, taking a quick bite of the plain toast as he went. "You know, I have a feeling you're going to cause a lot more problems than you are going to solve," he murmured down to his stomach as he tore off another piece of the bread.

Trying to ignore the compulsive urge to touch his middle, Sherlock quickly finished his toast and then placed the empty plate on the floor, not wanting to waste the energy to get up and put it in the sink.

With a small sigh, the detective slowly rolled onto his back, pulling his legs onto the couch.

Remembering that he'd left his laptop nearby, Sherlock stretched back and quickly grabbed the slender computer. "Let's see," he murmured absentmindedly, quickly starting it up and typing into the search box: step-by-step guide for pregnancy. Embarassed at his lack of knowledge on the subject, he quickly clicked on the first site and clicked on the section for weeks 7-10.

Eager for information, Sherlock scanned the information, barely noticing as one of his hands slid down to splay over his stomach.

"What?" he murmured out loud as he reached a section on women's breasts have a tendency to expand during this time of pregnancy. Quickly shoving the laptop away, Sherlock practically tore open the front of his robe and stared down at his chest with wide eyes.

"Thank God," he sighed in relief upon seeing that he was still perfectly flat, toned and normal. Taking a deep breath of relief, Sherlock pulled the computer back up and scrolled down. He paused, almost smiling as he read that the baby's hands can now bend at the wrists and was about the size of gum ball.

Somehow, knowing that something as simple as bending a wrist was considered an accomplishment only solidified in the detective's mind how fragile the little being inside of him was; how much the tiny human relied entirely on him.

Sliding the computer onto the ground, Sherlock carefully pulled open his robe and stared down at the slight bulge of his stomach, which as he laid on his back was much less noticeable.

Watching as his stomach moved up and down with each steady breath, the detective felt a strange flutter of paternal love flash across his chest and down to his stomach. "Amazing," he whispered, shocked that such an incredibly tiny person—barely even that yet—could bring out such feelings in him. "How do you do that?" he asked, still staring down at his abdomen in awe. "You barely even exist... And yet I feel... How do you do that?"

Eyes crinkling at the corners as a rare smile graced his lips, Sherlock laced his fingers across his stomach and leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the arm. Staring at the ceiling, the detective quickly pulled his robe over his abdomen, almost as if he was worried the baby would become cold, and then wrapped his arms protectively around his middle before closing his eyes, pressing his fingers protectively against his stomach.

John returned home from surgery sooner than usual. Quickly dropping his keys into his pocket, the doctor hurried up the stairs, calling, "Sherlock, have you seen Lestrade today? He's been..." John paused in the doorway, frozen by the sight of Sherlock curled up on the couch, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as his slender body pressed against the back of the lounge.

In the many years John had been Sherlock's flatmate, he had never once seen the detective willing take a nap. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had slept at all!

Smiling at his friend, the doctor quickly turned, found a blanket and moved back towards the couch, taking a moment to pause and see if Sherlock would wake. When the detective merely continued to rest, body rising and falling with each gentle breath, John hurried forward and carefully draped the fabric of his friend's robed body.

Chuckling softly at how out of place Sherlock seemed, but smiling at how the pregnancy already seemed to be changing him, John quickly glanced at the detective's slender fingers, curled against his stomach and then turned, heading into the kitchen to make dinner, still smiling to himself.