Chapter Text
Sherlock keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, refusing to acknowledge the other person in the room. It’s easier to continue pretending he’s asleep, if only because he’s in no mood to face any recriminations.
There’s a light knock on the door and he can hear the doctor talking in hushed whispers with his brother. Sherlock risks a glance in their direction; his brother looks deadly tired, but resigned and just nods along whatever the doctor is saying, at least until the man hands him Sherlock’s file and points at something.
Mycroft pales considerably, his lips drawn into a tight line and he nods one last time before the doctor steps out once more. Sherlock closes his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He’s really in no mood to listen to his brother’s sermon; not now at least.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, taking a seat next to the bed once more but the younger man continues feigning sleep. “Sherlock, please,” his brother pleads and something in his tone makes him relent, opening his eyes and turning to face Mycroft. He looks even more tired now and simply pases Sherlock his medical file, eyes infinately sad.
Sherlock’s eyes sweep over the chart. Everything seems quite normal, or as normal as it does when he overdoses. This isn’t his first time certainly and so he knows more or less what to expect, both in medical terms and in relation with his brother’s reactions.
He almost hands the chart back, not knowing what he’s supposed to be seeing when he notices something odd. A blood test is among the regular tests for people who have overdosed, if only to check what type of toxins are in their bloodstream. This however-
Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) ……... 28090 mIU/ml
That can’t be.
He’s not aware of the chart being taken away from him, his eyes fixed on some spot in the far wall. He desperately tries to remember the last time he bleed and keeps coming up blank. Not that it has ever mattered; he’s never been very regular with his periods and considering the way he abuses his body ( it’s just transport after all ) his doctor has always said it’s to be expected.
But this can’t be! He hasn’t had sex in years; he can’t even remember when was the last time. So this is completely impossible; there must be something wrong with the test!
His heart constricts painfully in his chest as he shoves a half formed memory back into its neat box in the depths of his Mind Palace. He has (mostly) convinced himself that that never happened (much like John himself probably has too); so now is not the time to be reconsidering his version!
Except this new… development seems to suggest that it did happen.
He turns to his brother, who is looking at him intently. He doesn’t think either of them ever actually thought this was something that could happen, not even back in Sherlock’s darkest days when he spend most of his time being high and hanging with other drug addicts like himself.
“What-” Sherlock begins, interrupting himself by biting on his lip. He feels like a child that has done something wrong and now has to come to his father to beg for help to fix it. “What do you think I should do?”
Mycroft sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I think we should schedule an abortion and forget all about this…” he trails off, waving a hand vaguely. “It’d be the sensible, reasonable, probably honorable thing to do.”
Sherlock nods. His brother is right, of course. After all John is married now and it wouldn’t be fair- “That’s not what you want to do,” Mycroft says, interrupting his thoughts and the younger man has to hold back a sob as he shakes his head furiously. “Oh, Sherlock,” his brother murmurs, coming to sit on the bed next to him, gathering him in his arms. “It’s alright. It’s fine, I promise, we’ll figure it out.”
Sherlock hides his face in his brother’s chest, crying silently. He feels awful, as he usually does after an overdose, his body rebelling at his mean treatment of it, but now there’s sentiment being added into the mix and that’s… that’s not good at all.
Oh god, what has he gotten himself into?
Sherlock realized he was really a boy when he was six.
After the initial revelation and subsequent announcement of his discovery to his family, he hadn’t thought much of the matter ever again. His body was just transport, so it didn’t matter much how it look. Later, when puberty came, he had thought these new developments were annoying, but not something worth thinking about. Mycroft proposed some surgeries when he was 18 and so old enough to have them done without their parents permission, but Sherlock hadn’t thought them necessary. It seemed silly to him how much importance people put into external characteristics.
He was a man and that was it.
He had small breasts anyway and his periods were irregular enough for him to simply ignore the fact his body didn’t match society's expectations of what a man’s body was. Sex was… well, not something he was particularly interested to begin with and something he was most definitely not interested when he realized most of his partners reacted badly at his body not matching his identity. He had considered the surgeries briefly, but promptly decided it was too much of a hassle to go through just for other people’s sakes.
When it came to children, he had always assumed he wouldn’t have any. He had no delusions he would make a decent father, nor that he would be able to retain a partner long enough to conceive a child, let alone raise it. What he wanted or didn’t want wasn’t important; it was of no use daydreaming about things he couldn’t have, even if he was biologically capable of it.
Now though-
He knows the sensible thing to do would be getting an abortion. His lifestyle is not really conducive to raising a child and he’s technically in the middle of a case; a blackmail case no less. It’s simply the worst time to be revealing parts of himself very few people know, not to mention-
He sighs. The press will love the scandal; he can already see the headlines: who’s Sherlock Holmes’ baby’s father? And the speculation… god, that would be hell. There are only 3 men that spend any significant time with him and one is related to him, the other technically works with him and John-
John is married.
He huffs. Now the press would love that. For years they speculated about the nature of their relationship, now they would have “proof” that they were lovers all along. Only that’s not what happened, not at all, but perhaps it’s better than the truth. It certainly sounds less pathetic than we drunk a little too much on the stag night and I might have finally gathered the courage to kiss John.
God, he’s an idiot.
The worst part is that he doesn’t even remember the damn thing. He recalls coming home entirely too drunk, laughing like a maniac at whatever silly thing John said. He sat at his usual chair, still laughing and then John had almost fell over, grabbing Sherlock’s knee to rebalance himself and then-
The rest is a blurr. How typical that the one time he gets to kiss John Watson, his brain is too intoxicated to remember despite the fact he usually remembers everything (including those things he’d rather forget).
Although apparently kissing is not all they did. He had woken up naked in his bed, his thighs sticky, a bloody love bite on his hipbone. But he had discarded the evidence; he had told himself that if he didn’t remember, it hadn’t happened and so he had sent John away, reminding him to be in time for the wedding rehearsal while he had carefully put all his scattered memories in neat boxes and shoved them to the back of his Mind Palace.
He hadn’t thought about repercussions. It never occured him John could have left him with something other than a hazy memory of precious kisses and sweet words: now there’s something growing inside him and he has no idea what to do about it.
He knows what he should do. But as Mycroft said, that’s not what he wants to do.
The thing is that he has lost John forever. His supposedly best friend hasn’t even called him in two months and their only contact was through blog messages nearly 6 weeks ago. He thinks that’s evidence enough that he is alone now and so a baby…
A little piece of John that wouldn’t left him. Or at least not for the following 16 years or so.
He huffs. It’s an horrid, selfish thought. And yet, the sentiment rings true. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing either; don’t people have children precisely because they love their partners and want something that it’s a little bit of them both? This child is his and John’s and no one, certainly not Mary, with her normalcy and domesticity , can take that away from him.
Mind made up, he settles to think about what he’s going to do now.
He has much to plan after all.
“Christ,” Lestrade whispers, looking more devastated than Sherlock himself feels now and he wonders why is that. “Are you… umm… you’re keeping it then?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’ve just said that.”
Lestrade exchanges a concerned glance with his brother and Sherlock narrows his eyes, not liking his expression one bit. “And are you… what about John?”
“What about him?”
A sigh. “Are you telling him?”
Sherlock scoffs, “why would I do that?”
“Sherlock-”
“He’s married now,” he interrupts sharply, not wanting to listen to Lestrade’s reasonings that will make him feel guilty no doubt. “It’s not- it would be unfair on him and Mary. He chose her and I don’t- it wouldn’t be fair,” he finishes lamely, staring at his hands resting on his lap.
“He would want to know,” Lestrade insists gently, placing a hand on his shoulder in silent support. “I know it sounds awful and unfair, but maybe he’ll-”
“I don’t want him coming back just because I’m pregnant,” Sherlock interrupts once more, looking up darkly. He knows John would come back to him if he knew he’s expecting a child, but-
The thing is Sherlock wanted John to choose him. Just him. Not their child.
Lestrade sighs once again, evidently not liking his decision, but willing to support it. “Alright then. What now?”
“I’ve already scheduled an appointment with Dr. Wales,” Mycroft says calmly and Sherlock makes a face. He does like his doctor; she’s nice and understanding and not once has she made him feel self conscious or treat him badly, but-
“You realize of course you’re going to need to take better care of yourself,” Lestrade adds and Sherlock turns to glare at him. “I mean it, Sherlock. Three meals a day, decent sleep and definitely no more drugs. You should probably quit smoking too.”
Sherlock crosses his arms in front of his chest, annoyed. He has already thought of that, of course. He doesn’t particularly care about his transport but he’s not going to do anything that could compromise his child’s future health.
“Going through withdrawal is going to be particularly… difficult,” Mycroft points out, earning himself a glare from the younger Holmes, because of course he knows that. “It’s a miracle your last overdose didn’t have… dramatic consequences.”
Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes. He thinks the other men are just trying to help, but their comments are not being helpful at all. He knows all this already but he knows there’s really no other choice. He shouldn’t be doing drugs anyway, hadn’t Mycroft said as much?
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while,” he says, leaning back on the small uncomfortable hospital bed. “I have much to think about.”
His companions share a look and nod, although they seem reluctant to leave him alone. Not completely unexpected, considering he has done some pretty foolish things in the past right after overdosing, but they seem to believe he’s not going to do anything that might put his baby in danger.
Sherlock listens to the door close, eyes closed. He has been feeling quite despondent lately and the drugs seemed the easiest solution to the pain of his broken heart, if only because they helped him ignore the world at large. He had tried to resist, telling himself over and over he was better than that, but had ultimately succumbed to his old vice. Naturally he hadn’t been planning on overdosing, but he had made a slight miscalculation and-
In a way, he’s thankful he did, because otherwise he might not have realized he was pregnant and if he continued taking drugs he would eventually either lose the baby or done some irreparable damage to it. At least now he knows he has a reason not to fall into his self destructive tendencies.
A reason to smile too, he supposes. He places a hand over his still flat stomach and daydreams about the future.
And if said future happens to include his child’s other father-
Well, nobody needs to know about that.