It does not take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Sherlock is unbelievably nervous right now, which is fortunate, because I'm not him, and he is.
I lean forward to whisper to him, "We could still leave."
"Why would we do that?" he asks.
"Because you look terrified Sherlock. Having a baby is not something you should do unless both people involved are 100% sure that it's the right thing for them."
"I'm sure, John. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I'm just not excited about the actual process," he says blushing deeply.
"Oh, I see." I suppose masturbating in a place that isn't home would be a huge deal for a demisexual.
"You've got a lot more experience with this than I do, besides I haven't actually done that since we got together, but you still do a few times a week."
"I thought we agreed that you were going to stop measuring how often I did that."
"We did agree," he says grinning, "But then you forgot to put it on the relationship agreement."
"Well, that's something I'll fix when we get home," I say.
"Sherlock Holmes," the nurse says looking over her clipboard.
He goes pale, I mean paler than he normally does. He looks at me desperately. I am about to get some funny looks, but I can already tell that this is the only way that I'm going to get a baby. "I'm sorry. I know it's unconventional, but can my husband and I share a room?" I whisper.
She looks startled, but nods. She goes over and gets another cup which she holds in her hand before leading us to the room. Sherlock grabs onto my hand desperately. I squeeze his hand by way of comfort.
The nurse, whose entire job is talking to people who are about to toss one off in these rooms, seams to have trouble looking us in the eye, but it will be worth it if I can make Sherlock feel more comfortable.
The door shuts.
He draws out a long giant dildo out of his pocket, and looks at me bashfully.
I raise my eyebrows by way of question.
"My studying of your masturbatory habits have shown me that I do not do it in a typical way."
That implies he was watching me toss off. Fabulous.
I put my hand on the back of his neck, and we rest our foreheads together for a little bit. Our breath unites in rhythm, and it is only then that I begin to kiss him. He starts fiddling with his pants long before he would if this session didn't have a special purpose.
He's not even hard.
I lean forward and whisper in his ear, "Close your eyes. Pretend that you're at home. Just the two of us, in our own bed."
Then I touch him. My hand, not his, and he relaxes into the feeling. It's still awkward, and he still remains soft for so much longer than he would if we had no goal in this apart from pleasure, but at least now we are making progress.
"Superb, amazing," I whisper to him.
"No, not today," he says, "Something else today."
I am turned on despite the location, so it takes me a while to be able to think of something logical. "We're making a baby, right now," I remind him, whispering gently in his ear.
"Oh God, we are," he says bucking my hand.
"The two of us, two men! The first in the world," I remind him.
"Baby," he mutters.
"Yes, and it will be genes of both of us, mixed up forever, and ever. Nothing will ever be able to pull them apart."
"Miracle," he whispers.
"Yes, we're making a miracle," I encourage.
"I'm going to be a mother," he beams. And then he manages to forget the awkward place our lovemaking session is taking place in, and abandon ourselves to the moment.
-0-
It's the first time that Sherlock doesn't clean me up after we're done. He's much too focused on making sure that our samples are okay.
Then, just like that, with my pants still around my ankles (the joys of going second in something like this) he slips out of the room.
"Bloody hell," I mutter.
And that's when I notice that he's left the giant dildo behind him. His long coat is full of all sorts of pockets, more than enough places for him to hide something like that. My clothing does not have that particular advantage.
I pull my pants up, and shove the stupid toy up the sleeve of my jacket before going out in the room. Sherlock is making comments about the quantity and clarity of our samples (his is winning apparently, because of course it is). She is acting like she's been waiting her whole career for someone to talk about the scientific specimens she works with every day with this sort of interested detachment.
Sherlock looks at me as he comes out of the room, "Did you injure yourself?"
"No," I say in a tone that would cause anyone else to drop it. But Sherlock has deleted all the social graces he once knew in order to make room for recognizing every kind of perfume by scent.
"Your arm is stiff. I know that nerves had a negative effect on my performance, but I really hope it didn't cause you to injure yourself," he repeats reaching for my arm. When he touches it his eyes go wide, "Oh."
"Yeah," I say hoping that no one else is going to figure out what is happening. They probably won't right? I mean giant sex toy in the sleeve probably does not happen often enough that it becomes a guess, not even in a place like this.
"Well, I'm glad it's not permanent," he says with a shrug.
A shrug, but no apology.
"Are we good to go home?" I ask the lady behind the desk.
"Yep, we've got everything we need," she says with a nod.
I loop my arm, the one not impeded by his carelessness around his very sharp elbow.