Chapter Text
Sherlock
John has been irritable all day. He can barely eat. He’s raced to the bathroom three times by noon alone. His face seems just a bit flushed and he’s gained a little weight. Not much. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed it at all, but after all, this is Sherlock Holmes. His scent’s changed a bit too, Sherlock notes, to a very, very specific sort of scent omegas only have under a very specific medical condition. Bit not good, Sherlock realizes. Does John know? Should he tell him? If he tells him, Sherlock reasons, they will surely have to finally talk about that night, which they have both been conveniently pretending never happened. But if he doesn’t tell him, and John finds out that he knew, that could also be the source of significant strain in the relationship. Sherlock decides to just bite the bullet.
“John, you’re pregnant.”
The statement hangs in the air a moment and Sherlock watches as his blogger swallows once, and a look of understanding comes upon his face, a sudden intake of breath follows and then he grips the table tightly. Panic. Adrenaline. His knuckles are turning white. Should I comfort him? A minute passes. Then thirty seconds more. Sherlock just stares at him. Waiting. Observing.
“You’re sure?” John asks quietly.
“Nearly positive. Almost negligible margin of error. You should perform a test just to be sure.” Sherlock turns back to typing on his laptop to give John some privacy in digesting this newest development.
Even without looking at him Sherlock can tell that John’s breathing hard, his hands are on his face, he’s sweating just a bit. Do I go to him? No. Not yet. He doesn’t want you. Then just like that John gets up and goes up the stairs. Should I follow? Should I say anything more? No. He needs to be alone. Doesn’t want you. Best leave him be. It is after all, your fault.
Sherlock searches for a statistic on the Internet and shakes his head. Only 7% of unbonded couples can successfully conceive during a heat. What were the odds?
***
John
John doesn’t know why he’s been feeling like shit all day. Maybe it’s the fact that despite the fact that it’s been weeks since that night, the scent and sight of Sherlock still make him feel that aching want. Maybe he’s caught something from the clinic at work. Or maybe…? No. That can’t happen. This is hard enough as it is.
In the end, it’s Sherlock that deduces it. He’s sitting in his usual chair in the living room, a perfect picture of stoic elegance, when he announces rather coolly, “John, you’re pregnant.”
John hears it the first time and ignores it; after all, Sherlock makes announcements all the time. Sometimes to no one in particular. Then it replays in his head. He swallows. No. No. No. No. He looks downwards as he feels a sudden surge of hatred that his body would betray him like this. This is humiliating. He grips the table as the idea hits him with the speed and fervor of a moving train. He's pregnant, he realizes, his worst nightmare since first presenting as an omega has come roaring to life. And the alpha responsible isn't just someone he can blow off. It isn't someone he just met by accident in the chaos of a heat. It's Sherlock. John tries very hard not to panic. But it's just too hard. He closes his eyes and gasps a few times, every harsh intake of breath representing each of his fears. This will end our friendship for sure. Am I going to keep it? Do I want it? Does Sherlock want it? Of course he doesn't want it. He's Sherlock.
"You're sure?" John asks in a whisper.
Sherlock makes a curt scientific reply John doesn't really hear through the throes of his hysteria. He needs to go somewhere else. He needs to think. So he gets up to go upstairs, turning around one last time to look at Sherlock, wondering if he'll come up with him. Why would he? Just because he put a baby in you doesn't mean the work still doesn't come first. He warned you. John looks at him. He's typing something. He probably isn't thinking about this. About them. And maybe he never will.