A/N: Many thanks to Phish Tacko for helping me to beta this story!
Ch. 14
Sherlock was now eight months pregnant. Though he had received repeated invites from John and Molly to join them at the lab, he chose to stay at the flat as often as possible.
Ever since that article had been published, Sherlock felt wary of going out. He didn't want to be photographed or talked about, or have cruel articles written about him. He acted like the whole incident had been forgotten, but really, it hadn't been.
The result was John working long days with Molly and the rest of the team while Sherlock stayed at home and did absolutely nothing. With no cases to take, he felt bored. Coupled with his tendency toward depression and the fatigue he felt due to the pregnancy, he ended up spending most of his time either in his room or curled up on the couch.
For a while, John was okay with this. Recently, however, it had become annoying. Sherlock made no effort to help out with chores or cooking or anything, nor had he begun preparing for the baby. He had yet to buy a crib, a changing table, or the various other items that Marie would need.
Then one day, it all came to a head.
John had worked thirteen hours, non-stop, with only short breaks to go to the toilet. The team was extremely close to coming up with a vaccine, so they were all working long days.
The doctor had returned home to find Sherlock once again curled up on the couch, staring at the television. There was some nature documentary on. John doubted that Sherlock was even watching it.
After noticing Sherlock, John surveyed the flat.
The place was still a mess. Dishes were piled up in the sink and clothes were thrown all over, no doubt because Sherlock had been rummaging through his wardrobe trying to find something that fit. In the end it hadn't even mattered - Sherlock was still wearing his dressing gown and pajamas, so the clothes had been taken out in vain.
"Sherlock," John said, trying to get his flatmate's attention.
Sherlock sighed loudly and sat up on the couch.
"What is it, John?" He asked, annoyed that his sulking had been interrupted.
"Just thought I'd let you know I'm home."
"Great." Sherlock moved to lie back down, but John spoke again.
"So I take it you've been here since this morning, then? On the couch? Same as when I left?"
"What's it matter?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, you know. I just figured that maybe you'd have liked to get up and move around. Maybe do some chores and help out, since I've been working twelve to thirteen hour days for two weeks now. You know, be a decent flatmate."
Sherlock said nothing. How could he respond to that? John was right - he should've been doing more, but he just hadn't felt like it.
When Sherlock didn't reply, John continued.
"Not to mention that you've done nothing to prepare for Marie. There's no high chair, no crib. Where's she going to sleep? In your dresser drawer? No diapers, but I suppose she'll just shit on herself, right? Because you, her father, can't be bothered to prepare. No, no. Lying around, watching television and..." John looked on the floor, noting several cartons of Chinese takeaway. "...eating Chinese food are more important than her well being. Oh, oh. And complaining about how fat and miserable you are, after eating an entire day's worth of food in one meal - that's more important, too. Fuck, Sherlock, you do absolutely nothing and expect everyone to pity you and cater to your whims and feel bad for you!"
Sherlock's jaw dropped. He was stunned by John's outburst. Stunned and hurt, even if John's statements were technically correct.
"And now… Now I get to clean up after you. Make you dinner and be nice to you and all that. It's not like I just worked thirteen hours, or anything!"
"I… I'm sorry, John," Sherlock mumbled, not daring to meet John's gaze.
"Whatever. I'm going to go rest. You just continue on with what you're doing. Or not doing, rather."
Before Sherlock could even open his mouth, John had turned and begun to walk away towards his room.
00
Two hours later, John felt better. He had taken a short nap and relaxed, and now felt much more calm. He had even started to feel bad about what he had said to Sherlock, though he'd meant most of it. He was getting tired of putting up with Sherlock's laziness after working so long and hard each day. The whole 'woe is me' bit was getting annoying.
Still, he figured he may as well go make them both dinner. He was hungry, and making a second portion wouldn't be too hard.
With this in mind, John returned to the living room. As he entered, he heard muffled crying.
At first he thought that Sherlock was being whiny again and crying because he'd been yelled at. John sighed loudly and approached the couch, where Sherlock still was.
"What is it now, Sherlock? My God, there's so many people who've got it worse off than you and -" It was then that it hit him that Sherlock's cries were not emotional. Rather, it sounded like he was in pain. Any anger that the doctor felt instantly fell away.
"Sherlock?" John asked, coming around to get closer. "Sherlock, I'm sorry! I'm sorry for yelling - tell me what's wrong."
"Hurts," Sherlock moaned between sobs. "Hurts so much…"
"Alright, okay." John forced himself to remain calm. Times like these were when his military training came in handy. He took a deep breath then returned his attention to Sherlock. "Sherlock, tell me where it hurts."
Sherlock laid a hand on his lower stomach. Tears were streaming down his face, and John couldn't help but feel bad for him.
"Okay. What does it feel like on a scale of one to ten?"
"Ten… like my stomach muscles are tight, too tight. Pressure… It really hurts!"
The first thing that came to John's mind was contractions. Maybe Sherlock was having contractions. Maybe the baby was coming early.
"Are they on and off?" John asked, forcing his voice to remain even.
"Yes. When they're on it's so- Ahhhhh, fuck...!" Sherlock cringed as a stronger wave of pain hit.
"Okay, okay. You're going to be okay, Sherlock. I'm going to call for an ambulance and-"
"No. Don't want attention. Call a cab," Sherlock gasped.
John wanted to protest, but he knew that Sherlock could be incredibly stubborn.
"...Fine," He agreed.
John reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone, and dialed for a cab. Once he was done with that, he knelt down near his friend.
"Here, Sherlock. Take my hand."
Sherlock did as he was told. John could feel him shaking.
"Alright. While we're waiting, we're going to do some breathing, okay? I need you to take a deep breath and count to five while you're inhaling. Hold it for five counts, then count to five when you exhale. I'll do it with you. Ready?"
Sherlock nodded. Tears were still pouring down his face.
"Okay. Inhale," John instructed. He counted to five mentally and watched as Sherlock did his best to do the same. John continued to lead him through the exercise and held his hand the entire time.
After several times doing this, John noticed that Sherlock was starting to relax.
"You're doing great, Sherlock. Fantastic. If the pain gets bad, you can squeeze my hand, okay? As hard as you need to."
Sherlock nodded again and took another deep breath.
Right then, John's phone went off. The cab was outside. John told the cabbie that they were coming and began the process of helping Sherlock up.
"Count of three… One, two, three." He pulled Sherlock up off the couch with surprising ease, then wrapped an arm around his waist.
Sherlock groaned as he took his first steps but managed to maintain his composure for the rest of the walk. Thankfully, it was short. As they walked outside, John opened the back door of the cab and helped Sherlock get in. The doctor followed and sat next to him.
"Bart's," He told the cabbie. "And there's a hundred pounds in it for you if you keep this to yourself."
Better to just nip any rumors in the bud, John figured. The cabbie smiled and nodded.
"Yes, sir!"
00
It didn't take long to get to St. Bart's. The cabbie apparently knew a few short cuts and had used them for his more generous clients. He dropped them off at the emergency room exit. There, John helped Sherlock out. The pain had subsided for the time being, but John wanted to get him into an exam room as soon as possible.
Someone must've been looking out for them that evening, because the nurses on staff at the front desk were ones that John had worked with before.
"Doctor Watson," One nurse - a red-headed woman in her mid-forties greeted him.
"My friend here needs help. Can you page Doctor Conroy? He's usually on duty on Thursday evenings, right?"
"He's in tonight. Let's get your friend into a room and then I'll page him. I'm sure he'll come in shortly."
"Thanks Barbara," John said.
To Sherlock, the whole interaction was odd. He usually associated with just a small amount of people - those at work, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and John. Seeing John talk to someone else, a past colleague, seemed strange. Or maybe the pain he'd been in was just getting to him.
Sherlock didn't bother to put up a fight as Barbara helped him into a wheelchair. She walked alongside as John pushed Sherlock down a hallway and into an exam room. While they walked, John described his symptoms.
"Does he need help getting undressed or on the bed?" The nurse asked.
"I'll take care of it. Please call Dr. Conroy now."
"I will."
"Thanks again."
The nurse left and John and Sherlock were now alone. John left Sherlock in the wheelchair and walked towards one of the cabinets where he knew that hospital gowns were stored. He picked out an extra large one.
"Can you get into this on your own?"
"I think so," Sherlock answered.
"Okay. That's not good enough, unfortunately. I'm going to help you."
"Alright," Sherlock whispered.
At this point, he was past feeling embarrassed. He just wanted to make sure that Marie was alright. He didn't care about himself - now that there might be an actual problem with his pregnancy, his thoughts were focused on his daughter.
John was quite good at working with patients and he managed to get Sherlock out of his robe and PJs and into the gown rather quickly before helping Sherlock onto the bed.
Just as the pain began to reappear, Dr. Conroy entered.
"Evening, John." The taller doctor greeted him. "Mr. Holmes."
"I think something's wrong. Is she going to be okay?"
John frowned.
"Sherlock, before we start, I just want to tell you that I've worked with Dr. Conroy for several years - he's the best in the OB-GYN field and I consulted with him about your case. Please try to relax, Dr. Conroy will examine you and explain it all."
"Alright," Sherlock agreed. "But please, act quickly! She may be in danger!"
The doctor - a tall man in his late sixties with gray hair, glasses, and a kind face, smiled at him.
"It's alright, Mr. Holmes. The nurse who helped bring you in described your symptoms - I'll do an exam, but from the looks of it, it's Braxton Hicks contractions, which are quite common."
"Oh." Sherlock felt stupid. How had he not thought of that? He had researched pregnancy early on and recalled learning about false contractions, yet he'd freaked out instead of thinking logically.
As if reading his mind, John spoke up.
"It's alright, Sherlock. It's okay that you feel afraid. Everything will be fine."
Personally, John agreed with Doctor Conroy's assessment, he just wanted the older man to do the exam to help calm Sherlock down.
"He's right," Dr. Conroy added. "It's okay that you're afraid. Perfectly natural. Now, I'm going to give the exam, and we'll figure out what's going on for sure soon enough."
00
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Conroy confirmed his diagnosis of Braxton Hicks contractions. He advised Sherlock to rest. He suggested that the detective go home, take a warm bath, and have a hot cup of herbal tea. He also advised Sherlock to eat smaller, more frequent meals instead of eating large amounts in one sitting as Sherlock had recently been doing.
As Sherlock and John left the hospital, John couldn't help but apologize. His rant had probably stressed Sherlock enough to put him in this state.
"Sherlock," John said as they got into the cab back home. "I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
Sherlock was clearly tired, but he managed to smile.
"Thank you, John, but you were right. I've got to start preparing for Marie's arrival, and I should start helping out more. Sitting in one spot all day isn't good."
John nodded.
"I'm just glad everything was alright," Sherlock whispered. "I can't imagine having lost her."