Archive of Our Own

"You're ten weeks, William."

Huh? Ten weeks? Of what? His face contorted with confusion, he looked up at the woman who was still moving the transducer over his abdomen, applying pressure to certain areas. Her fingers tapped the device professionally, while all he could see was the monitor with its black background and traces of what looked like grayish lights. In the middle of the image, he could make out a small, dark, bean-shaped spot moving from side to side as the device massaged the area. He'd simply come in with an upset stomach. What on earth was she talking about when she told him he was ten weeks?

“No, I don’t understand… Ten weeks? Of what?”

The woman in the white coat raised her eyebrows curiously and, turning to him, rotated the screen a little more so that he could see it properly.

“This little spot here is from the pregnancy, my dear.” Her index finger pointed to what he had already noticed. “It’s the fetus. We can already make out its head, what will be its hands, and soon its legs. It measures approximately 3 centimeters.”

He couldn't stop his throat from going dry, and his eyes were lost in the silent, moving image of that small being that was apparently inside him, in his womb. How? When? He was sure he had taken enough care, and not only him, Sherlock too; they both took the necessary precautions, knowing the natural capabilities of their bodies.

“We can even hear its heartbeat if we wanted.”

“Ah, I…” He wanted to refuse; hearing a heartbeat was too soon. He could barely grasp that he existed. If he heard they heartbeat, he… “Please.”

The sonographer offered a gentle smile and, pressing another button on her machine, her ears soon picked up the muffled sound of small, constant tapping that echoed through the office. It was rhythmic, even somewhat accelerated, but apparently normal, judging by the expression of the person accompanying him.

"It sounds good."

A sigh of relief escaped his chest unconsciously; he was okay, "that" little being inside him was fine.

“So… what’s next?” he asked cautiously, as if he were even talking about a crime.

“For prenatal care, after leaving here, request an appointment with an obstetrician so they can put together your follow-up file month by month until your birth,” she suggested with her kind smile, looking at him attentively before calming her expression, making it almost maternal. “Unless, of course, this isn’t what you want; if so, we can request an interruption.”

Interruption? I mean, an abortion? First of all, he never thought he'd be in this situation. What did he really want? A child? Not only was he not married, but his relationship with Sherlock had been going on for a couple of years, during which they never discussed these kinds of things that might happen in the future, and now here he was, with the product of what they both were.

"Can I think about it for a bit? I... This is really unexpected, I mean, we both take care of each other."

“I understand, it can happen, unfortunately contraceptives are not 100% effective.”

“I know,” he sighed, resting his head back on the stretcher and bringing his hands to his face to rub his eyes.

"From week fourteen onwards, requesting an interruption is riskier. I know it might be unexpected, but you only have a few days to think it over carefully."

As she finished the final checks, noting some data on a form, she took the classic screenshot of the ultrasound to print it and attach it to the papers. Afterward, she cleaned the blond man's abdomen before telling him he could straighten his clothes and get up.

“This is yours,” she announced, handing him the documents with everything seen during the meeting and the images.

“Thank you.” Once he had straightened his outfit, he picked up those files to look at them quickly, noticing the small image in one of the corners.

"Remember that whatever decision you make, William, will be the right one. Just do what you believe you have to do in due time."

Thanking sincerely one last time, he put on the coat that reached his knees and in an inside pocket folded into almost four parts what had been given to him as a result of his “analysis”

Honestly, it was unexpected. The reason he ended up having an ultrasound was to find out if there was any kind of condition in his stomach that was causing his nausea and disgust with some foods. The first diagnosis was "gastritis," but clearly the situation was different now.

Once outside the clinic, he took a moment to soak in the silence of the gentle autumn breeze that stirred the dry leaves piled on the sidewalk. The rapid heartbeat of the one now nestled inside him returned to his mind, bringing a small, unconscious smile to his face, lost somewhere in the surrounding landscape. His shoulders trembled as he felt the unexpected chill on his neck and face, forcing him to press his arms against his body as he made his way to the parking lot where he had left his car.

Before getting into the vehicle, he took his keys and cell phone out of his pocket, checking the time and seeing that a message from his boyfriend had recently appeared on the notification panel.

Should I call him? Should I tell him now?

No, doing it by phone wouldn't be the wisest thing to do, not to mention that Sherlock was probably in the middle of the case he mentioned yesterday; interrupting him with news like the one I had to give him could destabilize anyone.

Taking a deep breath, he unlock the device so he can see what they wrote to him

"Let me know when you've left the clinic, I hope you're well wrapped up."

He couldn't help but laugh at the last part; Sherlock could really be very overprotective of his health when he wanted to be.

“It’s already out”

“I want to tell you what they told me in person”

"Shall we meet at your apartment today?"

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he gently nibbled his nail, clearly nervous. Would that be suspicious? No, it shouldn't be. It's normal to want to talk about health issues in person, not by text.

“Of course, I’ll bring the dinner already cooked.”

"Great, see you later, take care."

“Take care of yourself too, I love you.”

Smiling sweetly, he sighed, feeling somewhat less nervous, and settling into his car, drove home. During the half-hour drive, his mind wandered to the recent news, when he had confessed to Sherlock about his physical condition and the difficulties of maintaining preventative care, given how unusual it is in today's society for a man not to have undergone the famous "repositioning" surgery. He readily agreed to use condoms, and he would take the pill himself, which, unlike women, has an even higher failure rate.

Damn sexist society.

With the advancement of medicine and technology, male pregnancies were quite rare. Most men born with this condition underwent a procedure at a certain age to remove the parts responsible for producing eggs capable of being fertilized, thus eliminating the possibility of fathering children. Those who chose to keep them mostly did so due to limited resources or simply because they knew they would want a child in the future. His case, however, was neither of those reasons. His thinking was, "If I was born this way, why deny it?" Simple and straightforward, so from a young age he dealt with his monthly problem, which over time became quite irregular, although he was clearly used to it.

Due to the shortage of men who can become pregnant, pregnancy prevention methods have stagnated. What was available on the market hadn't been updated in at least ten years, so there weren't many options other than to play this biological game of russian roulette. Condoms are generally safer, but we can see that the 1% failure rate is real.

Arriving at his apartment, which until recently he shared with his younger brother (luckily he was able to move out), he left his things and coat in the hallway, picking up the papers to read them once more, and came across that small photograph.

Lying on the sofa, he couldn't stop looking at it. He had carefully removed the staple holding it in place, leaving only the image. His fingers traced the smooth edge, his eyes following the outline of the bean-shaped figure, apparently three centimeters in size, inside him. Taking hold of his t-shirt, he lifted it to see his stomach, still flat to his eyes. When would it start to bulge? What would it look like?

Glancing at a cushion decorating the sofa, he momentarily abandoned the image, giving in to curiosity. Taking the cushion, he placed it under his clothes, over his abdomen. Once standing, he adjusted it as best he could to simulate a larger belly. He couldn't help but let out a stifled laugh at the silliness of his actions.

Walking to the full-length mirror located before the apartment exit, he stopped in front of it to look at himself from head to toe, concentrating for a moment on the area he wanted to highlight on purpose. Was this how he would look in the future? In a few months? His right hand gently caressed the fake belly and a soft smile formed on his face.

So this is what he wanted?

To conceive that child and give birth to him, to name him and raise him according to his teachings and values—was it the right time? At twenty-six, he should have started to consider that if time kept passing, the train would eventually leave him, but was his relationship with Sherlock even stable? It's true that up until then they had enjoyed a pleasant relationship for quite some time, and of course he was completely in love with him, but this is not a one-sided thing.

A child changes anyone's life and routine. For starters, they weren't even officially living together; they occasionally shared apartments, but they didn't have a place they both called home. Marriage is another story—they didn't even live together, I mean, come on. Thinking about marriage was even more out of place, but they could still have a child. Who would tell the math teacher that he was doing things backwards in his life? The order of the factors doesn't change the product, as they say.

If he wanted to, he could certainly adapt his life to a small child, but what about Sherlock? That man of busy, chaotic routine, who is constantly on the go, sometimes without giving him a chance to eat or sleep properly—wouldn't his life become doubly or triply complicated with a child to raise?

What if Sherlock didn't want it?

What was I supposed to do?

A conflict of interest would undoubtedly come into play; one thing was clear now: he wanted it, he wanted to continue with the pregnancy. Now, if Sherlock didn't share the same vision, several things could happen that would certainly embitter his life for quite some time.

It's not that I'm not used to situations like this, but it would be better if I could avoid them.

Returning to the sofa, removing that cushion from his abdomen, he lay face down on the soft upholstery to hide his face in a pillow for a moment.

What if I asked him to abort him?

His brow furrowed at the mere thought of it; perhaps he was letting his imagination run wild, but he had to be prepared for any possible scenario, no matter how painful or annoying it might be.

After letting out a long sigh, he turned his head to settle down, ready to sleep for a while. It was still early, and Sherlock wouldn't finish work until late, so he could rest for a bit before heading to his boyfriend's apartment.

…

Six thirty in the evening. He was truly exhausted, considering it was barely noon when he arrived, and he began to let his imagination wander. He hadn't eaten anything, and it was taking its toll, but it wasn't as if he was actually very hungry.

He should take better care of himself, and rightly so, now, if he was planning to continue with his recent pregnancy, then he should focus his personal and nutritional care on the being that was growing inside him and whose existence depended on him for the time being.

He also had to take into account his nausea and disgust, eating something light or that wouldn't make him feel too nauseous and trigger his gagging.

With a piece of fruit in his hand, he grabbed his mobile phone, keys, wallet and, of course, the ultrasound that he had to present to the other party responsible for the small existence that now occupied his belly. Making sure everything was turned off and secured, he left his house. If he was lucky, he'd be back the next day; otherwise, he'd be able to sleep alone.

“I’m on my way. Do you want me to stop and buy anything in particular?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got everything, you’ll probably arrive early so you know you can get comfortable ;)”

Leaving his phone behind, he finally headed to Sherlock's apartment, which he could call his "second home." He had a copy of the keys, an obvious sign of the trust that had been established in their relationship for some time. And Sherlock, of course, also had his own copies of the keys to his apartment. We could say that's a good and clear sign of a stable relationship, right? Right...?

There was no point in dwelling on it; he would know that very night whether their future together still held great promise or if their paths would diverge for the greater good. In the meantime, he had to figure out how to tell him.

Arriving at Sherlock's apartment after a few days where they had shared the pleasure of being in each other's was just as he had imagined it would be. It was true that his partner's organization had improved a lot since they met, but there were still some vestiges of his quirks and habits. Leaving his jacket and keys in the hall, he went into the space that led directly to the living room. On the coffee table, he found a stack of half-read file folders, some photographs, and unused cups that hadn't been there for more than a day.

What he did have to admit was that the dishes and the kitchen were spotless, which meant he hadn't been eating well for a few days because the trash was full of evidence of takeout. He couldn't complain too much; he could have the same tendencies during exam periods when planning and grading papers for at least four courses was torture.

In the room, all he saw was the unmade bed and clearly dirty changes of clothes; it was noticeable that the case he was currently dealing with had him quite busy that he barely took the time to take a proper bath.

Shaking his head in defeat, he picked up the clothes to take them to the laundry basket in the bathroom. He would use the time to tidy up the space a bit without touching what was scattered on the coffee table in the living room. When it came to cases, Sherlock could be very meticulous with his investigation "board"; everything had a reason for being where it was, and removing it from its place could ruin the entire thread of the story.

Being of a curious personality, as he took out the used cups and coffee candy wrappers, he took the time to look at what was in sight, occasionally moving some papers to read them and then meticulously leaving them as they were. It seemed like a case of serial murders, since in the various photographs you could see different victims who only had two things in common: women with reddish hair.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself, his voice thick with intrigue. He had to admit one thing: Sherlock’s work was undeniably fascinating. Following clues, drawing conclusions, solving equations to arrive at a final result was as methodical and captivating as mathematics itself. And someone like Sherlock, despite his sometimes effusive personality, brought a unique touch that made it all the more compelling. He had refused to work with Scotland Yard because his passion for teaching was even stronger than any mystery case, but if he were to lend his critical and observant eye, he would certainly accept. Besides, working with his partner was always rewarding.

Apparently, Sherlock was still not close to finding the culprit based on what he had in sight; what was physically there was still uncertain, but he couldn't rule out the idea that perhaps he kept more clues and details in his head that the rest were unaware of.

The sound of the keys in the lock pulled him from his thoughts. Standing up, he set aside the cup he'd been drinking during those long minutes of tidying up. And now that he remembered why he was there, a nervous feeling fluttered in his stomach.

This was not the time to be feeling nauseous, please.

“I’m here!” he announced once he was in the hallway, taking off his jacket, which was barely damp from the autumn night dew. He left his shopping bags on the hallway floor so he could get comfortable before going inside.

“Welcome home Sherly,” the blond man greeted as calmly as possible, approaching to take what he had brought as dinner for both of them.

“Did you have to wait too long?” Closing the distance between them, he gave a smile before quickly kissing his lips in a small greeting.

“Don’t worry, I’ve had things to keep me occupied.”

Nodding his head towards the living room, the blue-haired man quickly understood what he meant, ending up making a face of displeasure as he remembered the state his apartment could have been in due to his distractions.

“I’m sorry, I forgot, I hope you didn’t go to the room.”

“Too late, Sherly, I already took care of that.” Walking to the small kitchen shared with the living room, he placed those bags that gave off a pleasant aroma on the counter.

“It wasn’t necessary, Liam, I could have done it myself.”

Receiving a sympathetic look from his partner as a sign that he shouldn't worry anymore, he curiously and with noticeable appetite observed what had been brought to them.

"This smells good. What is it?"

"Oh, yes, I brought something relatively light. I know your stomach hasn't been doing too well these past few days, so I made sure it wasn't anything heavy or greasy."

Remaining motionless for a moment as he returned to "that" matter, his eyes wandered over the plastic bags before he forced himself to react, moving his hands almost clumsily. Luckily for him, Sherlock had gone to a cupboard to get two plates and cutlery, so he didn't notice that small lapse.

It could turn out to be an awkward night; he had to get the weight off his shoulders as soon as possible. Unconsciously feeling one of his back pockets where he jealously guarded the photograph of his ultrasound, he took a deep breath.

“Yes, thank you for your consideration.”

Inside the tightly wrapped plastic containers, he found two portions of gratinéed chicken and what appeared to be mashed potatoes. He didn't know if it was hunger or if the aroma was truly exquisite, but suddenly his appetite was awakened for the first time that day.

With both courses served, the modest dinner took place at the breakfast bar since the coffee table in the living room was occupied. In a somewhat lost silence, Sherlock briefly recounted his day with this case that had Lestrade's team running around gathering clues.

"I imagine you checked the table, tell me, what do you think?"

"Huh? About those poor redheaded girls?" The dark-haired man nodded eagerly, ready to hear his conjectures. After a hesitant silence from the blond man, he could only manage to say, "I don't know..."

“Ah?”

Visibly disappointed, Sherlock frowned slightly, leaning his elbows back on the wood and looking at him strangely.

"Don't you know? Can't you think of anything?"

“No… I mean, I don’t know, what’s in the archives is so scarce.”

“Oh come on Liam, I know you’ve come up with some great ideas with much less,” he insisted, taking another bite of his food while still looking at the blond man who seemed at times dismayed by himself.

Sighing wearily, he took another bite of his half-finished meal. That was the reality; what Sherlock said was true, and with much less he could have said quite a lot, but at that moment his thoughts were simply blocked, and with good reason.

"Is something wrong?" he asked curiously, putting his cutlery aside and leaning back in his seat.

Of course, subtlety wasn't one of his strong suits at that moment. Sherlock would clearly notice that something was bothering him and wouldn't hesitate to try and find out what it was. They didn't usually hide things, especially not things that could cause any kind of trouble. Taking a deep breath, he placed his silverware on the plate, making them clatter against the ceramic—a clear sign that something was definitely putting him in a bad mood.

“I went to the doctor today.” Sherlock’s face automatically tensed as he thought it might be bad news.

Pressing his lips together, he gently tapped his fork on the plate before working up the courage to ask, “And what did they tell you?”

He had only put himself in this awkward situation; the idea was that they would both relax a little before giving him such news, but apparently his subconscious wanted to do it in this… clumsy way.

Reaching back into his back pocket to touch the image printed on his jeans again, he nodded, searching for the right words. If there were any. Slowly, he gripped the edge of the paper between his fingers with almost crushing force, hesitating for a moment before pulling it from its hiding place.

“Liam? Whatever they told you, please tell me.” Insisting again when he saw him become shy, he extended one of his arms on the wood to show him his hand in a gesture of support.

Swallowing hard, a nasty feeling of fear filled his throat. Why was he hesitating so much? Why did he suddenly feel so guilty? Things shouldn't have happened this way. Why? Why, when he had taken every possible precaution?

“I…” He wanted to speak, he really wanted to, but his vocal cords now seemed so rigid that he didn’t think he could string two words together.

So pathetic.

Bringing his free hand to his face, he ended up holding his hair with some force, taking that paper out of his pocket and holding it on his thigh without having the willpower to show it yet.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Sherlock…”

Parting his lips, unsure what to say, a flicker of worry crossed his chest at the full mention of his name. Whatever was happening must be serious, but what was the reason for the apologies?

“Liam, please tell me what’s wrong.” Wanting to stand up, William quickly shook his head to keep him still. “Whatever it is, I…”

“No… don’t go on, don’t make empty promises, Sherlock,” he snapped, wanting to avoid hearing words that might end up being meaningless after he confessed his condition.

“What are you talking about? Making empty promises? Liam, for heaven’s sake.” Ignoring his partner’s refusals, he stood up in one swift motion, walked around the bar, and approached him, intending to take his arms, which William quickly denied. “You know, you know that whatever is happening, I’m with you, and I’ll always be with you.”

No, no Sherlock Holmes, it's not as simple as one might wish. William had more than obvious reasons to fear and worry. We're back to the same point: a child is no small matter, and for them, who didn't even have the audacity to move under the same roof, the outlook was even worse. The blond man wasn't exaggerating when he filled himself with anxieties and possible future scenarios if things didn't turn out as his heart desired.

Perhaps due to hormonal sensitivity, or because the whole bundle of unexpected feelings truly led him to that state, the anguish that invaded all his senses only found a way to release itself through tears that soon stained his cheeks, leaving a stunned Sherlock not knowing what to say or do, with his hands in the air in a frozen intention of wanting to hug him but which was now held back by the unexpected reaction of his partner, whose condition he still did not know.

“¿Liam…?”

What an idiot! This shouldn't be happening, not like this. Now it was only increasing Sherlock's worry and further complicating his confession situation. Trying to hold back his tears, he unconsciously raised his other hand, still clutching the paper that was beginning to crumple beneath his palm, to hastily dry his face.

“Sorry, um, I…” Cursing under his breath, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to compose himself. “Damn, I don’t know what’s wrong with me… I’m sorry, excuse me.”

“Calm down, honey, it’s okay.” Taking his hands carefully to uncover his face, he smiled when he found him blushing because of his unexpected crying.

Observing his fists wrapped around his hands, before letting go, he noticed the trail of paper in his hand, which he seemed to be clinging to as if his life depended on it. Could it have something to do with what he wanted to tell him? His medical diagnosis? His lips relaxed for a moment as he realized that the situation could be more serious than he thought.

“Tell me, Liam… What’s going on? What have they told you?”

A little more relaxed but not calm, he observed his clenched fist with a hint of doubt, while Sherlock followed his gaze, which fell once more upon the paper. Swallowing hard, he looked at it again, the implicit question of whether he could see what it was about peeking through his blue eyes. He could see the nervousness and even fear in the blond man's scarlet eyes, who, despite wanting to surrender his body to his thoughts, tightened his grip even further.

Using his right hand to bring it to his own, he delicately used his fingers to slip between his own in order to slowly loosen his grip, finally reaching the meeting of his fingertips with the texture of the paper, feeling William's fingers tremble on his own.

“Sherlock… I…” Pressing his lips tightly together, he swallowed hard before gathering the courage to continue. “Before you see it… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Eager to know the cause of so much guilt in his partner's eyes and voice, when the trembling hand loosened its grip enough to release that now somewhat battered image, without hesitation he took it between his fingers to first smooth it as best as possible before concentrating on its contents.

The conical image of a space of gray rain and black stains filled his vision. The name William J. Moriarty was printed at the top, along with the date and other unfamiliar information. His face grew confused, and his eyes narrowed as he didn't initially understand what it was. Focusing more on the image than the writing, his gaze traveled over a small, peculiarly shaped figure that seemed to be inside a black puddle, huddled against one of its edges in what he knew as the "fetal position."

Fetal.

God, by all the heavens.

A flash of light hit him and his ideas quickly settled; his expression changed to one of disbelief and now both hands held the laminated paper to examine it in better detail.

William was in a deep silence, his throat had suddenly gone dry and he didn't feel capable of making a single sound. He wanted this to end quickly, for Sherlock to say what he had to say so he could assess his next action. He was putting all his willpower into not crying anymore, but the fact that his partner didn't say anything and only their breathing could be heard in the space they occupied was beginning to weigh heavily on his chest.

“Liam… Is this…?” He stammered, not wanting to be the one to say it, and looked up at the blond man who seemed to be awaiting his death sentence, sitting in that chair with his hands pressed so hard on his thighs that his nails were almost digging into his palms. Silent tears decorated his cheeks once more, falling almost like rain onto the backs of his hands.

Overcome by sudden nerves and the state of his partner, the dark-haired man then understood that these were not misconceptions, that the anguish the blond man felt was because of "this," that this image, this ultrasound, was proof that he was undoubtedly pregnant.

"Whose is it...?"

Oh dear Sherlock Holmes, how can you be so brilliant and such an idiot at the same time?

William abruptly raised his tear-filled eyes, his nose already red, frowning indignantly. He clenched his teeth before opening his mouth, ready to unleash a string of complaints and insults.

“You… Are you really asking me that?” he managed to say, feeling his breathing become ragged with embarrassment at having to clarify something so obvious.

"Is it... Is it mine?"

“Who the hell else could it be?” he replied, finally breaking down once again, hiding his face with both hands.

His heart ached to see him in such a distraught state. Why was he crying? Why did it pain him so much to have to give him this news if this was something between them both?

He wasn't an idiot; he was more than aware of the risks when William confessed that he was naturally capable of becoming pregnant in the future. Even so, taking all possible precautions, they decided to take the next step in their relationship and have sex whenever the desire arose. Although one would have thought that with condoms and birth control pills, pregnancy would be virtually impossible.

But here they were, after all, almost impossible doesn't mean 100% impossible.

William surely knew it too; he's a mathematician after all, so why is he crying with so much worry on his shoulders?

Could it be that he…?

Smiling calmly, he placed the paper on the wooden table where the empty plates still stood, and kneeling slightly, he used his arms to lift the man under his legs and behind his back. A gasp of surprise escaped the blond man's lips as he watched them head towards the living room sofa, where Sherlock sat with the man on his lap.

His hand went from his legs to his waist while with the other he hugged his shoulder and laid him gently on his chest, letting him snuggle up to his, which William gladly accepted in order to hide his face.

"I'm sorry…"

“Why do you keep apologizing?”

"If I had taken better care of myself..."

“Liam, we took every possible precaution, we always knew the possibility was there,” he whispered calmly, caressing his waist with small circles of his palm, very slowly testing the change of direction further down.

Kissing his hair gently, he rested his chin on his head to remain silent for a moment, waiting for William to continue with his decision regarding how he wanted to face it. Part of him believed that if this affected him in such a way, it meant that he was not ready to continue, but it would not be him who put the ideas and words in his mouth; he would wait for him to take the reins.

“I…”

“¿Mh?”

“I want to have him, Sherly… I want to have this little one,” he murmured, his voice almost drowning in his partner’s shirt.

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief, his shoulders relaxed, and now that timid hand that hesitated to close further on his abdomen automatically moved to his lower belly where it continued its caresses.

“Then we’ll have it.” William’s body trembled slightly before he raised his flushed and somewhat puffy gaze to him.

“You… Do you want it?” he asked, wanting to make sure that it wasn’t a misconception, that what he was implying was exactly what he imagined when he heard those words.

Sherlock nodded, hesitant at first but then focused his gaze on him, his sapphire eyes meeting the blond man's ruby ​​eyes. There was a certain particular brightness in his orbs, a kind of contained emotion mixed with fear. Bringing his forehead to his own, he took a breath before nodding again, now more firmly.

“Yes, I want this, Liam. From the moment you said you were capable, I…” Stopping his caresses on his belly, he cupped that area in his palm, applying gentle pressure so he could feel his touch. “I haven’t been able to stop imagining what it would be like, a child of ours.”

“That was almost three years ago,” Sherlock let out a small, embarrassed laugh.

“I wanted us to settle down more before putting that pressure of the future on our shoulders.” Kissing his cheek gently, he hugged him tightly. “But it’s perfect, now it seems like the perfect time.”

As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, William sighed with immense relief before returning his embrace with equal intensity. Now he could finally breathe calmly, with relief, utter relief. After all, he wouldn't have to leave there with his dignity sullied and his feelings shattered; they both wanted the same thing.

“Why did you ask ‘whose’?” he asked, genuinely intrigued, before stepping back so he could look him in the eyes.

Sherlock gave a nervous laugh, gently shaking his head to indicate that he really didn't have much of an idea why.

“Sorry… Seeing you like that, a bunch of ideas came to mind all at once, and that's all I could say.” Shifting his gaze now to the blond man’s shirt-covered abdomen, he pressed his lips together. “Of course I knew he was mine, but I’m an idiot.”

William relaxed his expression to smile at him tenderly before letting out a laugh, bringing one of his hands to his face and delicately moving a lock of his hair aside to see his face better.

“I imagine you also thought I wouldn’t want it.”

“Whatever you decided would be fine with me.” Holding his hand in the air, he quickly kissed the back of it in a show of support. “I would be there to support you.”

“Even if you did want it?”

“Will I be the one to carry it inside me?” he whispered conspiratorially before they both lowered their gaze again to the still imperceptible but magnetic belly now that they both knew there was “something” there. “I’ll be anything you want, but not a damn jerk.”

William gave a slight smile and rested his head back on the dark-haired man's shoulder.

“I’ll call tomorrow to make an appointment with an obstetrician.”

The blue-haired man nodded, remaining silent for a few moments, letting different thoughts race through his mind now that he knew the news. He would be a father then, he would raise a child with William, good heavens.

“I know we’ve mentioned it before, but I think we can’t keep putting it off.” The blond man looked up, doubtful.

“You mean…”

“Let’s move in together right away.” William nodded in agreement. “We can look for a new place or…”

“Well, Louis has already moved out, so there’s a spare room in my apartment that we could use for the baby,” he mentioned, noting that the dimensions were more than adequate for a child. Sherlock smiled and hugged him again with his free arm before placing a kiss on his temple.

“That sounds good to me. I’ll tell Lestrade I won’t be around for a few days so I can move without him bothering me.”

“What about the case? It’s just as important.”

“This one?” he said, pointing to what was on the coffee table in front of them. “I’ve almost got it sorted, actually.” He added with an air of superiority, which made William raise an eyebrow.

"I figured as much. Take care of that first; we still have time. This little one is still a while away from being born."

"How many months are you?"

“Ten weeks, almost in the third month”

“Oh… so that’s why you were feeling unwell?” William nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t anything serious.”

Sighing with relief, he rested his cheek on his head and closed his eyes for a moment, his arms now wrapping around him with some firmness, holding him close to his chest.

“Does anyone else know?”

“No, just you and me, and the kind woman who helped me today. I want to wait a little longer before telling Albert and Louis.” Sherlock nodded without adding anything else. As much as they were now filled with excitement, it was still too soon to tell their families. It was enough for him to know, at least until some time had passed.

“Fine, so be it then.”

—--- 3 months later —---

"So you want to know the sex? Because let me tell you, it's perfectly clear this time," the obstetrician said with a laugh, then turned her gaze to both parents.

The two men looked at each other, in a silence they understood perfectly, and nodded decisively before turning to the woman who awaited their answer with a smile.

“Yes,” they answered in unison, holding back their excitement.

“Okay, great.” Her head turned back to the screen as the transducer she was holding over the blond-haired man’s belly was moved to another area of ​​his abdomen to press down with some force.

Both William and Sherlock remained in a deep, expectant silence; it wasn't that they had a preference between one sex and the other, but confirming it beforehand would be a great help in thinking about their name and the decorations for their room, which already had enough neutral colors.

“There it is!” the brunette exclaimed enthusiastically, having found the angle again. William’s eyes widened in amazement as he recognized it immediately. “Well, congratulations, parents, it’s-”

“A little girl” stepped forward to finish, to which the woman nodded enthusiastically.

“A girl?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“That’s right, congratulations gentlemen.”

William instinctively adjusted his grip on Sherlock's hand, a smile forming on his lips before he turned back to him. The dark-haired man chuckled with excitement, repeating that it would be a girl, before quickly kissing him.

“You’ll have to tell me the name you’ve chosen later,” the doctor said calmly after noting a few things on the monthly follow-up sheet. “Well, William, based on how things are going, we’re still a good option for a natural birth. We’ll be able to finalize it when you’re in your last few weeks.”

“Thank you, that’s good to know. Does that mean everything is alright with her?”

“Your blood and urine tests came back normal, and she looks to be a good size and shape, so rest assured that everything is progressing well. You're doing great, Dad.” A sigh of relief could be heard from both men as he finished speaking. “I hope to see you next month. You have my contact information if you need anything.”

“Thank you again, Gabrielle.”

“Please, it’s a pleasure.”

After the woman in the white coat cleaned his belly and allowed him to straighten his clothes again, they were given the monthly check-up documents that they kept in a tracking folder along with the rest of the things that had to do with his health and that of the little creature growing in his belly.

“So, parents of a little girl, huh?” Sherlock asked aloud once they were both settled in the vehicle outside the clinic.

“Yes, I have to admit I was surprised, for some reason I thought it would be a boy.” The dark-haired man chuckled softly.

“This is the first time your instincts have failed you,” he mocked.

“This isn’t an exact science, Mr. Holmes, it was fifty-fifty.”

“Oh come on, I know you wanted it to be a boy because you made a bet with Albert, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” the blond man replied without a hint of shame, adjusting his seatbelt. Sherlock burst out laughing. “But what I lost with Albert you’ll regain with Mycroft.”

The blue-eyed man closed his mouth and looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“How come you-?”

William shrugged and smiled sarcastically, feigning innocence in the face of the obvious.

"It will be our secret, this little one here doesn't need to know that we're betting on her sex," he murmured, observing his belly.

“My lips are sealed.”