A sequel of sorts to The Best Kind Of Denial, just a look at moments throughout Watson's pregnancy
Eyes flying open, Watson props himself up on his elbows looking down at the offending hand gripping him, he finds Holmes halfway down the bed hovering over his abdomen. One hand is holding Watson down by his hip; the other has the headpiece of a stethoscope lightly pressing just under Watson’s navel.
Looking up from his task, Holmes removes the earpiece of the stethoscope and smiles. “Would you like to hear our son’s heartbeat old chap?”
Nodding, Watson reaches for the stethoscope replying “yes, I’d love to hear our daughter’s heartbeat.”
Holmes smirks reaching for Watson’s hand that holds the headpiece, dragging it across the swollen abdomen settling just on the underside of the rounded belly.
It’s static noise and then suddenly Watson can hear it, the glorious sound of his- their- baby’s heartbeat.
“He’s rather active, going to be trouble, that one,” Holmes murmurs catching Watson’s gaze.
Smiling Watson nods “I’m sure she will be.”
Watson stood before the bedroom mirror scowling at his reflection as he tried in vain to fasten the buttons of his trousers. They remained a good inch and a half apart from closing, showing no chance of moving any closer.
Groaning in frustration, he dropped his hands to his side in defeat. These were the biggest pair of pants he owned, and now, even they didn’t fit him.
Hearing the groans of dismay emanating from the bedroom, Holmes walked across the sitting room giving a courtesy knock before sticking his head inside the room.
Turning around, the good doctor gave an exasperated sigh motioning to his gaping pants and the fleshy bump that protruded. “My pants don’t fit,” he whined.
“Of course not, you’re pregnant. You didn’t expect to keep the same wardrobe throughout did you?”
Watson gave a slight laugh shaking his head. “Well no, but what am I supposed to wear? I don’t have anything else!”
Taking another cautionary step forward, Holmes spoke plainly “we’ll buy you new clothes.”
Watson stood quietly biting his bottom lip for a moment before giving a slight nod in agreement. “Just five more months,” he murmured, in part to reassure himself.
Holmes smiled then, closing the gap between them in a few steps, he dropped his hand to the gentle curve of Watson’s midriff. Lowering his head, lips brushed over Watson’s temple, “I told you he’d be trouble.”
Looking up at Holmes, Watson quirked an eyebrow “she Holmes, she.”
Holmes’ face scrunched up in mild repulsion as he watched Watson eat breakfast.
Last week the man had demanded ham with raspberry jelly for breakfast. Holmes had conceded, it wasn’t that bizarre of a craving, and in all honesty the mixture didn’t seem the least bit disgusting.
That had been last week, this week had brought on a less savory, in Holmes’ opinion, craving.
Holmes wondered how Watson could stomach the atrocious combination, let alone crave it, but he’d learned rather quickly to not deny Watson his cravings.
Feeling his own stomach give an unpleasant turn, Holmes grabbed the newspaper, hoping the visual blocker would ease his stomach.
It worked; until Watson gave a contented moan around a forkful of that vile mixture causing Holmes to lower the edge of his paper.
“You really should try this Holmes; it’s fantastic!”
Lips pursing in a thin line, Holmes brought the paper up again.
“Can’t old boy; I’ve got a case, and you know I don’t eat while I work.”
“A case? Did I miss Lestrade’s call,” Watson asked curiosity lacing through his words.
Holmes shook his head, “no, this is a personal case, Watson.”
“Well can I help?”
Holmes smiled flipping a page “you already are.”
Watson sounded genuinely confused now “I am?”
“Quite, you see my case is that of the pregnant doctor and his odd cravings,” Holmes responded lowering his paper once more.
Watson frowned slightly lowering his fork. “I can’t help what she wants,” he spoke rubbing his belly as if to punctuate his point.
Folding the paper neatly Holmes smirked, “well he’s got quite odd taste.”
Standing up, Holmes pushed his chair in heading for the sitting room.
“Holmes! Where are you going, aren’t you going to eat?” Watson called after Holmes’ retreating figure.
“I’ve got a new acid to test out,” Holmes replied keeping the ‘I’m suddenly not hungry anymore’ silent.
Really pickled eggs drizzled in syrup; Holmes hoped this craving would pass quickly.
Watson is sitting in his usual chair, feet stretched out before the fireplace when he first feels it; a brief flutter, nothing more.
Straightening up, he brings his hands to rest on the now prominent swell of his abdomen. He waits quietly, fingers splayed across his midriff, for the flutter to return.
Minutes tick by and then suddenly it’s back, stronger this time.
“Holmes,” Watson cries, his hands never leaving their spot.
Bursting through the door Holmes looks shaken as he approaches the armchair.
“You’re not hurt, Watson? Say you aren’t hurt.”
Reaching for Holmes’ hands, Watson brings them to rest on his bump along with his hands.
Holmes’ face relaxes considerably and he gives a laugh of relief as he drops down in front of Watson. Fingers moving along the shirt fabric Holmes smiles, “he’s kicking, Watson.”
Carding his fingers through Holmes’ hair Watson hummed in agreement “yes she is Holmes.”
It’s Holmes who broaches the subject of leaving London for the duration of Watson’s pregnancy. Mycroft has a house in the country that they can use, and besides, a change of scenery would be nice
Watson isn’t too sure about leaving London just yet. He enjoys their lodgings at Baker Street, never a dull moment, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to pack up and leave for the country to live in isolation for the next four months.
For a while, Watson has Holmes convinced that they don’t have to leave London. That is until he has a fainting spell when trying to leave for the bathroom. Luckily he sinks back down to the settee rather than toppling over to the floor, but the damage has already been done.
When Watson wakes, Holmes is already half packed and is in the process of having Mrs. Hudson order a coach for the three of them to take out to Mycroft’s house.
There’s no use fighting it, so Watson makes to stand up and help Holmes finish packing.
“Tut, tut,” Holmes is by his side in an instant, hand on his shoulder pushing him back down to the settee. “You sit old boy, I’m packing.”
Watson sighs but gives a nod of agreement. Shifting to get more comfortable he brings both hands on either side of his burgeoning bump speaking softly to the child inside.
“You’re getting to be quite a handful sweetheart.”
Shoving a nightshirt into an already overstuffed bag, Holmes called out “I told you he’d be trouble.”
Watson smiled turning around from his spot to face Holmes. “She must take after her father.”
Watson felt down right miserable.
At 7 ½ months it was nearly impossible to find a comfortable position. Lying on his back left him feeling short of breath at the pressing of new weight on him, lying on either side only worked for so long before limbs began to ache, sitting for extended periods placed a pressure on his bladder causing major discomfort; nothing in short seemed to work.
In addition to being in a perpetual state of discomfort as he searched for a better position to sit, his ankles had taken to swelling from time spent moving around and his back was now constantly tight from arching backwards to counterbalance the weight of his bump.
Holmes tried his best to ease Watson’s discomfort. Back massages throughout the day became ritual, foot rubs always preceded bed, any and every craving was adhered to; whatever he could do, Holmes did do, for Watson.
Late at night when Watson was tossing and turning to find a more comfortable, if any did exist, position, Holmes would crawl up behind him, pulling him back into an embrace.
The heat of Holmes body pressed against his back would soothe his muscles, and when fingers wound through his, thumb lightly brushing over his knuckles, he finally felt at ease.
Warm lips press against Watson’s neck “Is he finally letting you rest?”
Watson nods yawning “she’s finally sleeping.”
Holmes smiles pressing a kiss to Watson’s temple “get some sleep old boy.”
Even breathing and soft snores answer in reply.
Watson pressed back against the mountain of pillows surrounding him in bed. Shirt pulled up to his armpits, he carefully studied his bump, fingers moving across taunt skin, tracing over angry red stretch marks.
He marveled at how much his body had adapted to carry the new life growing within him.
Hand trailing down to dip below his underwear, he moved his hand between his legs, tracing a finger along the new entrance, a makeshift birth canal, that had appeared over the last week; it was still rather sensitive.
Lightly nudging a finger in Watson gasped audibly at the sensation. Experimentally he began to move his finger in and out testing what movement brought the greatest amount of pleasure.
Biting his bottom lip, Watson lifted his hips a fraction pressing deeper with his finger. Cautiously he pressed a second finger at the entrance whimpering slightly at the feel of being stretched and filled.
Eyes closing he dropped his head back, languidly working his fingers in, crooking them slightly to run over sensitive flesh. Moaning softly as he delved further, seeking out pleasure from this new entrance, Watson didn’t hear the steps on the stairs until Holmes opened the door.
Opening his eyes to look at Holmes, Watson flushed considerably as he removed his fingers hissing slightly.
Holmes’ eyes fixed on Watson’s fingers, unconsciously running his tongue over his bottom lip as he tried to re-gather his thoughts. “I, uh- lunch. What did you want for lunch?”
Watson took note of how Holmes stuttered, interesting, and followed his gaze noticing how the man’s eyes seemed fixated on his hand, specifically his fingers. A small smile flitting across his face, Watson moved further up the bed parting his legs slightly.
“You can try it too, if you’d like.”
Holmes nodded closing the door behind him and making his way to the foot of the bed. “Yes, perhaps for experiment’s sake.”
Watson smiled parting his legs further apart to accommodate for Holmes, “of course.”
Watson winced shifting in his armchair. Brixton-Hicks had been plaguing him for the last week, but today they seemed stronger, sharper somehow.
Rubbing a hand over his belly soothingly, he murmured softly trying to quiet the agitated child. The baby moved lower in retaliation and Watson tensed feeling the added pressure to his bladder.
Holmes looked up from his chemistry set giving Watson a curious look as the man gripped the armrests attempting to stand up. “Watson, are you ok?”
Pushing up, Watson nodded bringing a hand to his back. “Just need to go to the bathroom.”
Watson took one step then froze at the feel of warmth spreading across the crotch of his pants and down his right leg.
Giving a startled cry, Watson looked down to see he was standing in a small puddle and the entire front of his pants had been soaked through.
“Holmes,” he spoke tentatively, “it’s time.”
Shooting up from his workbench Holmes gave a cry for Mrs. Hudson. Stepping closer to Watson, he wound their fingers together beaming proudly. In a softer tone he spoke “it’s time, he’s finally coming.”
Watson didn’t even bother to correct Holmes as he doubled over with a new wave of contractions.
Red faced, with his hair plastered to his forehead in sweat, Watson muffled a cry as a Mrs. Hudson told him to push. Gripping Holmes’ hand he did as he was told, bearing down and pushing.
“You’re almost there dear, just one more push,” Mrs. Hudson spoke encouragingly.
Watson squeezed Holmes hand even tighter, a choked cry falling from his lips as he gave one more push. The sounds of crying filled the room and Watson relaxed falling back against the pillow taking deep breaths and relinquishing his hold on Holmes’ hand.
“Congratulations you two, you have a beautiful, healthy, young boy,” Mrs. Hudson spoke cradling the newborn.
Watson looked up at Holmes, “I swear if you say-” the ‘I told you so’ was cut off by a cry of pain as another set of contractions hit Watson. Reaching out instinctively for Holmes, Watson squeezed his eyes shut as the pain rolled over him.
“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to need you to take hold of your son, it appears Dr. Watson is having twins.”
For the first and only time in his life, the great Sherlock Holmes fainted.
When Holmes woke up he found himself slumped over in a chair by the bed. Dragging a hand over his face, he looked up to see Watson cradling two babies to his chest.
Turning to face Holmes, Watson smiled, “would you like to meet your daughter?”
“We’ve got a daughter and a son,” Holmes asked, voice filled with awe, as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to Watson.
Nodding Watson turned to hand off their baby girl to Holmes. “They need names,” Watson murmured as he watched Holmes cradle their daughter with the utmost care.
Smiling Holmes looked to Watson, “did you have anything in mind?”
“Just the last name,” Watson spoke softly holding Holmes’ gaze. “What if you name her and I’ll name this fella here,” he suggested.
Studying the face of his daughter Holmes pursed his lips together as he thought. She had Watson’s light hair and the brightest pair of baby blue eyes Holmes had ever seen. She was remarkably quieter than her older brother, who was beginning to fuss slightly in Watson’s arms. It was almost as if she was studying him as he studied her.
“I think,” began Holmes tearing his gaze away from the young girl to face Watson, “that we should name her Ada, Ada Grace.”
Watson murmured the name thoughtfully before smiling. “Ada Grace Holmes,” he repeated out loud.
“How about her brother, any thoughts,” Holmes asked nodding in the direction of the boy in question.
Rocking slightly to try and soothe the fussy boy, Watson nodded “what do you think of Aaron Bennet?” As if the boy realized it was him they were talking about, he suddenly ceased his fussing and calmly looked up at Watson.
Holmes smiled shifting closer to Watson on the bed so that they were both leaning against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder. “I think that he seems to rather enjoy the name.”
Watson looked down at the bundles in his and Holmes’ arms, Aaron and Ada, one boy and one girl, half Holmes and half Watson; both of them his-their- family.
Leaning his head against Holmes, Watson yawned, “You don’t ever do things in halves, do you?”
Holmes laughed softly, “apparently not my dear Watson.”