Things to believe in.

It was the norm that with out a case Sherlock would spend his time repeating the words 'Bored, John'  or using the kitchen as a morgue.  However, it had been almost two weeks and all the detective had done was lay around the flat, occasionally changing his pyjamas, and drink excessive amounts of tea.

In short, he didn't appear to be well. His skin was more pasty than usual and his eating habits had all but dwindled entirely. It was not unlike the man to stretch out on the couch and go days without eating, but it was very unlike him to drag out his oversized duvet and hamster himself into a ball.

This is how John found him nine times out of ten. The kitchen untouched, except for the teabags in the sink, and the television switched to E4.  All that could be seen from the couch was the top of Sherlock's head peeking from below the covers.

Saturday, September 18th. 


John had kept quiet for much too long. He made them both a hot chocolate, whipped cream and the full works, and sat at the bottom of the duvet.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Came the reply.

"Y-you're watching Hollyoaks."

"It's rather interesting. This fellow here, wants to get with this young woman. However, she is already engaged to be married to another fellow. And someone's sister died, but that was less interesting."

"Right." John pursed his lips, "Is there anything wrong?"

Sherlock remained quiet.

"Anything bothering you? I am your partner, as well as your friend; you can tell me."

"Yes. Yes I know."

"You've been here on the couch for almost a week now. Aren't you bored at all?"

"No."

"You haven't eaten."

"Yes. I know. I feel quit ill if I'm truthful. I'm afraid that if I eat anything, even soup, that I may be violently sick."

"Why didn't you say you felt ill? I'm a doctor, you know."

Sherlock pulled the duvet tighter around himself and furrowed his brow.

"John, if you don't mind, I'm missing this."

John growled and switched the television off.

"There is a +1. Sherlock, for God's sake, tell me what's wrong. Or so help me I will force it from you."

"I - I can't tell you." The detective hid his head, "My room, beneath the bed, the bathroom bin. If I can't tell you the bin will."

"The- That's where the bin went to!? Sherlock, you are - " John stood and headed to the bedroom, "I don't even know what you are!" he yelled.

Then silence. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he heard foot falls and, finally, felt the couch dip. The unmistakeable sound of plastic hitting wood and then a sharp intake of breath.

"Sherlock - are these - ?"

"Yes." He whispered in reply.

The duvet was pulled back from his head. He opened his eyes to see John watching him, his expression unreadable, and holding two pregnancy tests. Both with faint pink lines. Sherlock shut his eyes and promptly snatched the covers back; he couldn't look at the mocking positives without feeling sick.

"When? How long? How- "

"Oh come off it, John. We have been lovers for just over nine months. This was bound to happen - "

"We used protection."

"Nothing is 100%."

John sighed. Sherlock peeked from beneath the covers.

"Two months. I'm two months gone."

"Right."

"I've upset you."

"No." John reached down and kissed him on the lips, "Over this? No. Not at all. Honestly, I'm stuck between feeling overwhelmed with joy or feeling devastated for you."

"Why for me? This thing is as much mine as yours."

"You don't seem so pleased."

"Why do you say that?"

"For a start, you called it a thing."

"Yes. Well. It is, technically at the moment, nothing more than a thing. Like one of those millennium babies, the gooey things in pods."

John smiled down at him. He lay down next to the man, cuddled into the duvet and rubbed his nose against Sherlock's. He reached a hand beneath the covers and placed it gently over the detective's belly. Sherlock snorted in disgust.

"Your hands are cold. The thing dislikes it."

"You dislike it. The baby will be fine."

Sherlock smiled sweetly.

"I'm going to be a daddy - it is mine, isn't it?"

The detective pinched him playfully.

"No. I love to sleep with unnamed men. No brains, blonde hair; Gods of Adonis." Sherlock gently kissed his lovers lips, " Not a strand in that babies DNA belongs to you."

John pulled him closer. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of Sherlock's neck and took great pleasure in the rise and fall of his boyfriend's chest.

"When were you planning on making an announcement to Great Scotland yard?What about your family? When can I tell Mrs Hudson?" John asked.

"When I begin to show. My family need never know and, as for Mrs Hudson, she already knows."

"What? Why does she know before me?!"

"Girl thing."

"Sher-"

"I am having a baby. That makes me the male carrier, the one with the womb. That makes me closer to the female of the species. Ergo 'girl thing.' It means I can gossip and socialize with women better than you can, John."  Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, you can't socialize with anyone. In fact, it's a wonder I even let you leave the flat."

"People are boring. Baby agrees."

John chuckled. He pulled the taller man closer to his body, entangled their legs and pulled the duvet tight around them.

"You are just a little crazy, honey. But I love you."

"If I weren't crazy I would be boring. The baby says it loves you too. Me, not so much."

**

 That night  Sherlock lay awake in their bed. He stared the ceiling, a hand over his stomach and the other on his heart. He heard the blood in his ears, the ringing of his dying brain cells.

He would have to stop running, stop his reckless habits of starving and nicotine patches and not sleeping. He would gain weight, become slow and heavy and, what if, John didn't want to touch him any more? What if the doctor stopped loving him?

Watching the mindless piss on television had stopped the thinking. John not knowing made it less real. But now it was all flesh and blood and bone; it was all fact. With a heart beat and needs.

Sherlock had been brought up a gentleman. Everything was proper, in line and clean. Somehow he had shed that life, become a socio-poathic bastard with a gun and a quick mind.

 He was going to ruin this child.