Sherlock rolled over sleepily and reached for John. Finding the other side of the bed empty he opened an eye in question. He was surprised because lately John had been lying-in in the morning and Sherlock found he very much enjoyed this. But this morning, hearing John in the kitchen Sherlock rose, pulled on his robe and wandered out. Perhaps John could be persuaded back to bed. In Sherlock's experience when the incentives were right, John certainly could be.
Not this morning though for John was busily preparing what seemed to be breakfast for a twice-starved army; eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans and fried bread in generous portions were laid on the table which oddly, was covered with a freshly laundered tablecloth.
"You're hungry aren't you?" questioned John.
"Mmmm, yes, starving, John. It smells delicious." What on earth?
John poured tea happily and urged Sherlock to a chair. He piled Sherlock's plate high with food and sat down across from him expectantly.
"You aren't eating, John?"
"No, I'm not hungry, I'll just have tea."
"John−" Sherlock stopped and looked around carefully.
The kitchen appeared cleaner than it had last night; in fact, the entire flat was looking very clean. And were their books, all four shelves, now organised in alphabetic order? Yes, they were. They hadn't been last night…
"John, what time did you get up?"
"Ummm. About five o'clock I think. Why?"
"Oh, no reason, just wondering."
More information was needed. Perhaps John was anxious about something. He had seemed contented lately, happy in fact (Sherlock paid close attention to John's moods), it had been a several weeks since he had had a down spell, but grief could creep in at unexpected times and perhaps this was one of those times. However, studying him discreetly now, Sherlock thought John looked relaxed, sitting across from him watching with a pleased smile as Sherlock swallowed mouthfuls of bacon and mushrooms. It was likely nothing.
When he could eat no more, Sherlock arose, feeling slightly groggy from so much food and, after assisting a contentedly humming John with the breakfast dishes, retreated to their room to dress for the day.
John was still humming when he met Sherlock at the door to see him off. John wasn't working that day and seeing him now, wrapped in his robe, his hair adorably askew, Sherlock very much wished he could stay home too but a case beckoned…He would come for lunch most definitely though.
But what was John doing now? He was helping Sherlock on with his overcoat, fastening the buttons up to Sherlock's chin and lifting the lapels. The scarf followed next, looped snuggly around Sherlock's neck and fluffed for good measure.
"Where are your gloves?"
"In my pocket, but John, are you alright?"
John looked up surprised, "Yes, I'm fine. I feel wonderful…I love you. Will you come home at lunch?"
Sherlock felt relieved, John's sincerity was obvious. So he hugged and kissed John thoroughly, gave him a lascivious wink and reluctantly left.
It was another glorious day of married life; the best part of which was lunchtime of course which had stretched from one, to one-and-a-half, and then to two hours; neither of them noticing this in their complete absorption with one other. In the evening Sherlock forestalled the possibility of another enormous meal by bringing home John's favourite dishes of take-away Indian food for dinner. After dinner Sherlock suggested they relax together on the sofa with a film, one of his favourite activities because he could study John at his leisure and memorize small details while John was absorbed in watching the telly.
John usually enjoyed this time too but on this night he seemed unable to settle, sighing and fidgeting until he finally rose and could then be heard rummaging in the hall cupboard. Sherlock was unsure of what was actually in the hall cupboard, never having opened it himself, so he couldn't be certain as to what John was doing. He began to worry again, though, because something clearly was bothering John. He pondered in front of the telly for some time about what it could be before he realized that the flat was quiet and the film over. He sighed, turned off the telly and made for their bedroom.
John was there humming happily once more and making their bed. Ah, so the hall cupboard held linens. Sherlock watched John for a moment; John seemed to be organizing blankets and duvets first one way and then the other. Sherlock observed that there were more pillows on the bed than usual, as well. As he watched, he could see that John was focusing most of his attention on what was Sherlock's side of the bed.
"John?"
"Hmmmm?" said John.
"What are you doing?"
"What? I'm making the bed. I'm making it comfortable for you. Do you like it?"
The expression on John's face was so endearing and earnest that Sherlock's heart melted despite his concern at John's odd behaviour.
"I do, thank you love," he said.
John was still fluffing pillows when Sherlock emerged from the loo. Sherlock's side of the bed was now mounded in so many duvets that it looked like an overblown field mushroom. John cheerfully patted the bed and as Sherlock climbed in he proceeded to mound the duvets up over Sherlock and, for heaven's sake, was John tucking him in? It was going to be a long night of thinking, not to mention a very hot one.
Sherlock rose early and after reassuring himself that John, who was sleeping soundly, appeared well, he settled himself with his laptop and a cup of tea in the living room. They would both be working today but there was a little time before the morning routine had to be started. When he heard John stirring in the bedroom he refreshed the tea and got bread ready to toast (there were certainly enough leftovers from yesterday's breakfast that little else would be needed). He would take John his tea and offer to iron him a shirt. Sherlock was an excellent ironer.
As he entered the bedroom John, who had been sitting on the side of the bed, rose with a smile to greet him, turned white and fainted, banging his head on the nightstand as he fell to the floor.
"John!" Sherlock reached for him, the tea forgotten, and began to explore John's body with frantic urgency. But John recovered from his faint as soon as he hit the floor and was struggling to sit up. He clutched his banged head and moaned, "God, my head hurts!" then, turning his face away from Sherlock, he was sick on the floor.
Sherlock was horrified. John was ill! Why hadn't he seen it sooner!? Why hadn't he insisted that John tell him what was wrong yesterday when he'd first noticed something off!?
John was sick again as Sherlock pulled his phone out and barked into it for Mycroft to send his doctor to the flat right away and to forget whatever bloody election he was meddling with!
"Yuk, sorry Sherlock, it must be the Indian food. I'm really sorry…"
"For God's sake John, you're ill! Please just lie still for a moment. I'm getting you a pillow and a blanket."
Sherlock pulled a blanket and pillow from the bed and made John as comfortable as possible. Mobile in one hand, he then started to clean John's face with a damp flannel in the other. By the time he had finished with the flannel Mrs. Hudson was arriving at the bedroom door with a solemn looking man who was accompanied by a very obvious body guard.
Sherlock tossed his mobile aside leaving nothing but dead air in response to a sputtering Mycroft, whom he had been haranguing to hurry with the doctor.
The doctor was calm and unhurried in his examination of John. He poked, prodded and asked questions, gently inspected the bump on John's head, shone a light in his eyes and drew some blood from John's arm which he tested in a small tube. He then asked Sherlock to get a glass of water for John, if he would please, and when Sherlock left the room he turned to speak to John, a hand on his shoulder.
When Sherlock returned, moments later, it was find John sobbing with his hands over his eyes, shoulders shaking and crying for Sherlock. Sherlock dropped the glass of water, adding to the mess on the floor and, with a roar of outrage, launched himself at the doctor only to be caught mid-air and flung to wall by the iron-fisted body guard. He was winding up for a second attempt on the doctor when he was stopped by John sobbing, "No, Sherlock! Stop it, please stop it!"
This is the scene that greeted Mycroft as he arrived in the doorway accompanied by Mrs. Hudson once again, who looked around the room, shaking her head and clicking her tongue in gentle disapproval.
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" exclaimed Mycroft in exasperation.
"Let me go to him!" rasped Sherlock, finding it difficult to speak with the ham-like fist pinning him to the wall by the throat.
"Sherlock…" moaned John miserably, emotionally overwrought and convinced his love was being killed.
The doctor, not at all fazed by the chaos, placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder and spoke to him again. John nodded vigorously in response and made a valiant attempt to stop weeping.
The doctor then turned to Sherlock and said, "Alpha, your mate needs you to calm down. Can I rely on you to do that?" He spoke firmly but not unsympathetically.
At Sherlock's brief nod, brief because the bodyguard's hand was still pressed firmly against his throat, the doctor motioned for everyone else to leave the room.
As soon as he was free Sherlock reached for and enfolded John, vomit and all, into his arms. "What John? Is it bad news? We'll get through it, don't worry. Mycroft knows specialists…"
"No, no Sherlock, that's not it."
"What then, love, what is it?"
"Sherlock, the doctor says I'm pregnant. He said that there is no mistake. I am." John looked up at Sherlock, bemused. "I think…I think he's right Sherlock, I remember now, this feeling, I remember."
"John!"
"He said it's not surprising, in his experience, Omega like me heal differently and reproduce differently from others. And, there is no reason to think that anything is wrong. He said he would recommend an obstetrician for us and we should get the baby checked out of course, but that everything seemed to be fine."
John had switched from crying now that he had Sherlock, to smiling radiantly instead. He began to return Sherlock's embrace, hugging him tightly, pressing kisses on his lips and repeating, "Thank you Sherlock, thank you! A baby, our baby! It's what I wanted, I didn't expect it of course, but that didn't stop me from wanting it!"
"Baby," repeated Sherlock slowly, as if he'd never heard the word before.
"I'm happy, so happy! Are you Sherlock? As happy as I am?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock sounded somewhat dazed, which was to be expected, but also tender and loving. "Yes, John. I am very happy."