Chapter: 3/14
Chapter Warnings: Light drug use
Additional Notes: Bit of a short one, today. Might have unintentionally lied about the pace picking up (it does, just not drastically, yet), and I considered adding bits of the next chapter to this one as an apology, but you're going to have to take my word for it in that things just work better spaced out as they are. And your update will come on Thursday, so never fear! :)
Thanks To: KT, for herding this into submission, and in the hopes that your own fic starts behaving the way you want as well, love!


(Thursday, October 20th; Week 5 continued)

The following morning, they don't have time to get down to any of the other business John had mentioned. Lestrade phones Sherlock, that light takes to his eyes, and they're immediately whisking off to the scene.

It was an American photographer, early twenties, art-school project trip that had left her bludgeoned to death on a forest floor. Seemed your typical murder on first glance, but the note left by her assailant added a whole new element to the case.

"What do you mean, 'note?' Lestrade asks, and though his eyes rake over the scene - scattered and crumbling leaves of late fall surrounding the trunks of gnarled trees, muddy grounds from the light and melted snow - he finds nothing.

Sherlock smirks. "Come now, Lestrade. This is an obvious one." It had been the first thing to jump out at him, from the moment he stepped into the clearing. All of it, seamlessly arranged, a perfect execution that would lead them straight to their killer. And so evident, so clear. But the collective Yard continues to fix him with blank stares, and he sighs. His finger point to the body, stiff and cold in the center of the circle of trees.

"Look, use your eyes and your minds. She's the note." He marches over to the body, crouches by the pale hand thrown above her head. "The positioning is deliberate," he announces, feather-light fingertips brushing over her skin. "If I'm not mistaken -" which I'm not, almost never am, "- that's the ASL for 'him.' Granted, she's not in motion, but considering she's deaf, it seems like a deliberate move on the murderer's part."

For his part, Lestrade only blinks a few times before heaving a defeated sigh, asking, "So, who's the 'him?' And wait, deaf?"

"Hearing aid; really, do keep up. Footprints suggest a party of three entered this clearing. Her foot size is, what?"

"Seven," John supplies from where he's examining the victim.

Sherlock nods, pleased but unsurprised his deduction was correct. "Those are evident here, and here," he says, getting up and moving about the edges of the trees. "But further out we have size ten, male, I'd say a hiking booth of some sort, but the treads are different. Two males, same size feet, different shoes. One of them is your murderer, while the other…" His brow furrows, and his eyes unfocus slightly as the possibilities whir away before his eyes. Pair? No; signs of struggle. Betrayed accomp - no, there was something else, something… ah yes, the hearing device. "…while the other has been abducted by him."

He rounds on the inspector, holds the aid before his face. "She was deaf. Required an interpreter, especially as a foreigner. The man who accompanied her is the one you're going to be looking for, though, who the murderer is, well…difficult to tell…"

Lestrade's voice snaps him back from where he's already drifting off, the mad realms of possibility stretching before him. So wonderfully empty, even in their yearning to be filled. "But you do have ideas?"

A wild grin stretches across his face. "Hundreds."


(Thursday, October 27th; Week 6)

It's been a week, idea-less and sleepless, when John finds him with the nicotine patch up the side of his arm.

The clearing had been analyzed time and again in Sherlock's brain. He'd run it through until it was dry, but there was nothing, and suddenly that empty space was all just a great white room; too bright, blinding and burning its way through his mind till he was consumed in his desire to fill it. Millions of questions, all jumping out at him, the biggest and brightest being who who WHO? But answers were few and far between.

Meanwhile John paced, and fretted, wondering at the back of his mind at all times - no matter how hard he tried to stop himself; no matter what Sherlock said - where the young man was. Another innocent, still alive, still without rescue.

And at all times, but especially when he hears him prowling the kitchen at night, muttering and sighing to himself as his steps grow more rushed and frustrated, he worries for what it is doing for Sherlock.

There is no worry now, though. Only a rage that grows white-hot when he sees the outline pressed against the silk shirt.

"Goddammit, Sherlock," he absolutely hisses, and he latches onto the arm and shoves the sleeve upwards. A square stares back at him, while Sherlock's guilty eyes meet his own. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He bites his tongue in attempting to stop the sarcasm he knows is not right. Wrong, very wrong, stop. New defense. Don't be dense, John, this is for the greater good. "But John, I need -" Sherlock begins to plead, but the way John viciously rips it from his arm cuts him off. It stings, little pinpricks of sensation bursting behind his eyes. It stings.

"No! You don't need any of this." His other hand latches onto the back of Sherlock's head and pulls it to rest against his own. He stares fiercely into the detective's eyes, and for a moment, he feels a shiver of fear run up his spine. "You, your own brain, I've seen what it can do. But more than that - god, Sherlock, use it to think about this. It may be one patch, but I know the drugs that thing is working into your body. I know the drugs that are heading into your bloodstream and… and straight into our kid, Sherlock. Is there anything more important to you than keeping it safe? Because as a parent now, you need to tell me if you're going to be able to put everything else behind that. Because nothing - absolutely nothing, do you hear me, not the drugs or the cases or any of it - comes before that kid. And if you don't get that, then maybe… maybe this isn't the right thing to do right now."

Everything in him throws itself against his skin in revolt, and he can feel his insides clawing at his edges in screaming desperation. No, never, John, I'd never -

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and the sound is broken. It all is crashing over his head, and he sinks to his knees in front of John, burying his face in his jumper to block it all out - every last thought and sound and sight, everything except this. John hesitates, then threads his fingers through Sherlock's messy curls with a sigh.

"Don't be sorry, just don't do it again," he says tiredly. "I just… a few days ago, I didn't even know. And now, this? You can't jeopardize it, Sherlock. I know you care; god, you frightened me that first day with how much you care. But you need to be able to show it in the ways that matter."

The words are thick in his throat, like molasses, but bitter. "I can't - I'm not sure I know how," he admits, and for a moment he allows himself to feel how it's been so frustrating - all these thoughts and feelings, and he knows most of it is hormones, chemicals; but at the same time there's this sense that he's wrong, somehow, for being unable to speak what must be said, and reveal it. He fumbles over his tongue and when he trips over it, it hurts, and this is an issue in nothing else. Just this one thing, and why, why this one thing?

"It's important to me," he tries, and it helps that the words are muffled and quiet in the thick wool. "It's… it's all I think about. It's always there, I can't delete it; not that I want to," he hurries. "But John, is this always how it feels? To - to l…to - "

"Yes."

"I forgot."

"I know."

"It won't happen again."

"No, it won't. And that, Sherlock. That's what matters." He leans down, presses a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "We're going to be okay," he whispers to the tangled threads.

Sherlock isn't sure about that much, anymore, but he's always been sure of John.

"Christ, when's the last time you washed your hair?" John asks, tugging him gently upwards. As he's pulled back to his feet, Sherlock notes the circles under his eyes with a pang, and their tired, red-tinged edges. No, he could not let things get this far again. A renewed vigor surges in his gut, a quiet spark of certainty. He is so determined to do this right. Determined not to fail, because he is Sherlock Holmes, and he does not fail, and he will not fail John in this especially. He will not.

"John, I." He swallows, and this should not be difficult. Tries again. "I understand that before I did not seem like the sort who would. Who would want a child. But now - I do want it, John. I will do whatever it takes for it."

John regards him silently, takes in the wide and earnest eyes and the trembling in his hands, before he pulls Sherlock forwards. "C'mon," he whispers into his ear, tilting his head alongside Sherlock's. "Let's get you a bath, then we'll come down and look the case files over again, together. Alright?"

Sherlock nods, but it is a long time before they move.


(Friday, October 28th; Week 6 continued)

The following morning, the murderer is arrested, and his terrified and grateful hostage rescued.

Student - murderer - denied access to the photography contest their victim had won. Bitter after finding her involved in a cheating scandal, both on him, her then-partner, and in winning. Combined psychological issues escalated their enmity. Devised elaborate scheme luring her to Europe, but had not planned for the witness. Took him in an effort to earn a ransom that would allow him to continue his artistic work, and as punishment for the relationship he had mistakenly imagined to be going on between the victim and her interpreter. So human, the whole case stank of it. Humans and their follies, as it always is.

Surprisingly simple, really. All things were, in the end.

And until then, it will continue to trouble him, in why it was so difficult.


(Sunday, October 30th; Week 7)

"Okay," John says at last, as they sit together on the couch one Sunday afternoon. Turning off the telly, he focuses his attention on the man next to him. "We should do some groundwork."

Sherlock sighs. Boring. Unpleasantly necessary. "You've been thinking about how to approach this subject for the past half hour at least. You're all… tense."

"Yeah, well. There are some important things to talk about, and we need to start taking them seriously." The patch incident hangs in the air between them, as well as the unspoken agreement to ensure it does not happen again.

"Okay. Ready, set, you start," Sherlock says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

There's a pause. "We're taking turns on this now?" His voice is amused, and Sherlock cracks an eye open to see what's so funny.

"What? I imagine ground work requires laying all the rules out."

"You're making it into a game."

"More efficient, and more entertaining. Problem?"

"I just, I thought we were going to discuss… oh, I need to stop thinking this is going to be normal at all."

"Please, John. Normal is so -"

"Boring, yeah, yeah, I know. But let's just pretend to talk like regular adults for a while, please?"

Sherlock waves a non-committal hand, and though John huffs in exasperation, he settles back to think. "Alright, well, first I have to ask - how long were you planning this?"

Sherlock looks innocent, but John spies the tension in his shoulders. "Planning what?"

"Please, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't just get pregnant. And I might have found your pregnancy websites booked on my computer. At the time I guessed it was for a case, but, well." He smiles just a touch too widely. "I was wrong."

"Obviously."

"So?" John prods, ignoring the jab. He shifts on the couch so that Sherlock's head falls against his shoulder, and he can get an arm around his frame.

If he's honest, 97 days. It'd been a case involving the negotiation of two hostages. Estranged father, abducts his two children from their hardworking mother and legal guardian. Classic case, not counting the father's legal status as insane, and his later attempts to threaten the children's lives for no apparent reason. Neither John nor Sherlock saw any sense in it, but it was John who stayed up the extra hours, John who pushed and pushed and pushed him to make it count. And finally, John who'd pulled the children from the smoke and flames and hadn't left their side, even in the long ambulance rides back to London.

He remembers rounding the corner of the hospital to see John crouched in front of the battered, tired, but ultimately healthy and safe, children. He was explaining something with his hands, and they were laughing, all three of them. And for once, Sherlock had felt a pang, the lack of knowledge. What secrets did they share, that made their faces so alight? John, especially, radiant… my, how he came alive in those instances, and how strangely… smaller, he had seemed, when their mother had come to take them away.

He'd puzzled over it for days, mulled it over in his mind for weeks afterwards. Decided he liked that look on John's face. Decided he wanted it to stay. And for millions more reasons, innumerable decisions that simply pointed and said yes, this is the way, follow it with everything, he did, and they wound up here.

He says none of this, only gives him a cryptic smile and says, "Roughly three months."

"Jesus," John breathes, and the hand rubbing circles along his collar pauses in its ministrations. "So, had we been…ah…trying then, for a while?"

"There was no 'we,'" Sherlock huffs. "At that point it was largely me seducing you at every ample opportunity."

"I - Oh, god, I remember that," the man beside him groans, helpless giggles leaving his throat. "I wondered what had gotten into you. So I guess that isn't going to continue, then?" he asks, and more there's a bit of hope shading his tone. Sherlock throws him his best don't be daft look, but John's ignoring it to ask another question.

"So, how far along are you, anyway?"

Sherlock laces his fingers across his lap, flipping through calendars in his mind. "This will be the start of the seventh week."

He clears his throat at the sudden look of… well, awe is really the only word. Something inside him twists. He understands; how marvelous this creation is - the division and growth and life going on just under the surface; how remarkable it is even in these early days - especially now. Knows the miracle of it, just as he does, and if there were any lingering doubts they are all gone now. Evaporated. Deleted entirely from the system until they had ceased to exist at all.

He blinks against a sudden tightness in his chest. "At any rate, how is this planning? We seem to be looking backwards rather than forwards."

"Right, right," John sighs, settling down, though the corner of his lips still twitches upwards. "A lot of things we can take as they come, but we need to start talking clinics. I know, I'm a doctor," John says, anticipating Sherlock's protests, "but we need someone who's really focused on this sort of area. Knows what they're doing, and such."

Sherlock grimaces - they'll take away from valuable case time - but agrees on the basis of his earlier promises, allowing John to carry on to the next subject. "Then there's work, of course."

Sherlock almost immediately balks. The thought of abandoning his mental pursuits is almost staggering, and the thought of being trapped and irritable with nothing to do; no exercises to keep out the vast swathes of useless information, is terrifying. "I'm not going to give it up," he says firmly, sinking resolutely into the cushions.

"I suspected as much. But you should know, from a medical perspective, that you'll likely be more disturbed by crime scene smells. Chemicals will make you woozier than you're used to."

Sherlock's face could curdle milk. "Unless I am dead myself, I will not stop working."

"Please. Death couldn't stop you." John straightens a bit. "There's to be no chasing after criminals, though. At least in the later stages."

The hand he's fluttering over Sherlock's shoulder is becoming very distracting, and he murmurs a half-hearted response. The sensation of those fingers is unexpectedly intense and, as he's becoming more certain, deliberate.

"John," he says after a while, when the hand has taken to ghosting down over his arms. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"Paltry attempt at best."

"What? The pregnancy talk doesn't work for you?" he jokes, turning his head so that his nose just faintly brushes along Sherlock's cheek. "Just trying to make it more… interesting, for you."

"Hmm, you can do better," Sherlock responds, and John answers his grin with one of his own.

"Thought you'd never ask."

He slots his lips against Sherlock's, who breathes out faintly in pleasant surprise. His long fingers come up to slide into John's hair, pulling at the short strands in an attempt to bring him closer. John shifts, his other hand coming up to push Sherlock gently backwards. They sink back into the cushions, Sherlock humming at the pleasing weight of John over his body, even as John swallows it with a sigh. His tongue probes past his teeth, sensually combing the edges of his mouth. The soft sounds Sherlock is making turn into quiet moans, and his hands come up to rest more insistently on John's hips, sliding up his shirt to whisper across the heated skin.

John, supporting himself with a hand braced against the armrest, leans away. He's smiling, and Sherlock's brow furrows.

"What?" he questions, irked that John has stopped and that he seems happy about that annoying fact.

"Just… you. Us. God, we're going to be parents." He leans in and kisses Sherlock again, but this time deep and hard as his tongue licks an absolutely dirty line along his own, his lower body grinding down and twisting.

"Ah," Sherlock manages when they part for breath. "Typical reaction for the father of offspring. Meant to increase survival of the species, what with protec -"

"Maybe you're just bloody irresistible as it is," John interrupts. One hand comes up to curl alongside Sherlock's face, knuckles brushing along the prominent bones of his cheek. His face turns thoughtful. "And yeah, maybe biology does have something for it. Maybe the thought of you having my kid is just…fantastic. Beyond compare."

Yes, John, he understands, good John, so much more than everyone else, so much better.

They're his last thoughts before John is sinking them down again, in the moments where he forgets to think, or it's just easier not to.


Thanks for reading, and you know the drill - if it strikes your fancy, I would be ever so grateful if you told me what you think of it :3