Sherlock100 43/100 #29 Birth
Title: Having My Baby
Characters: Sherlock/John, subtle Mystrade
Word Count (if fiction): 1100
Rating: PG15
Summary: John was 43 weeks pregnant and crabby.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Mpreg
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
John was 43 weeks pregnant and crabby. The private doctor provided by Mycroft had warned against inducing the birth and strongly suggested that John wait until there were contractions or water breaking. Everything had been pretty typical of the pregnancy (aside from John being a man), so everyone assumed that the end of it would be typical as well. But John was very displeased with how long it was taking. John was so irritable he had warned Sherlock to stop all his experimentation in link with the pregnancy.
“And that includes measuring my belly, taking saliva samples and poking it!” John growled from the armchair, which he hadn’t moved from in hours.
Sherlock stood like a deer frozen in headlights holding a roll of measuring tape. John heaved a great sigh and pushed his unnatural girth out of the chair. “God, I have to pee…have to pee, have to pee…” He waddled toward the bathroom cursing. “Make some tea, Sherlock!” he yelled as he slammed the door.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Tea will just send you right back there…” But he went to brew a kettle anyway.
John came back a few minutes later with a vicious glare when he saw that Lestrade and Mycroft had stopped by to visit. He focused his evil glower on Sherlock who threw his hands up innocently. “It’s not as though I asked them to come, John. How could this be my fault?”
John narrowed his eyes. If he’d been a cartoon bull, steam would be blowing out his nose. “Sherlock,” he said calmly. Lestrade and Mycroft were very quiet, eyes darting between Sherlock and John. “You put this thing inside of me. That means everything bad that happens in the world is YOUR FAULT!!”
Lestrade looked at a pretend watch. “Hmm…must be getting close to baby time…I hope.”
“Shut up, Lestrade,” John hissed, plopping down in his chair, spreading his legs out much wider than normal. “It’s not as if you’ve done anything to help these hellish nine months.”
Lestrade gaped at that. “I brought you groceries everyday for a month when Sherlock was away on a case. I--I rubbed your feet at the end of that month--”
“You rubbed his feet?” Sherlock asked, eyes going large and mouth wrinkling in horror.
“Yes, Sherlock, he rubbed my feet,” said John. “It’s what caring, considerate people do when their pregnant man friend has fifty pound swollen feet.”
“Perhaps you should try some home remedies to induce labour,” said Mycroft unassumingly. John and Sherlock instantly got emails detailing a list of activities that could bring about faster labour.
Sherlock read over the list. “Let’s try nipple stimulation.”
John scowled at him. “Let’s try a walk.”
…
“Get out of me, you bastard. Get out before I explode!” John was a sight, shuffling down the sidewalk, yelling at his overgrown stomach. Sherlock followed behind, hands in his pockets, avoiding looks. John started pulling on the neck of his shirt to fan himself. “God, why do I have to be nine months pregnant in July? For God’s sakes!!”
“Would you like to stop for castor oil?” Sherlock suggested as they passed a chemist’s.
“I want to stop and punch you in the throat,” John muttered. He stopped and Sherlock walked around to his side. “Sherlock, I’m going to die. This baby is going to kill me.” He started to look all teary-eyed so Sherlock patted him on the shoulder before pulling him in for a hug. John instantly pushed him off with a growl. “Get off me! This is still your fault. You are not forgiven.” John waddled on.
“Mood swings are pretty bad today. Maybe that’s a good sign,” said Sherlock.
John fisted his hands, trying to tell himself The father of your child must not have a concussion. John hoped that Sherlock was appreciative of all the things he did for him.
…
Back at their flat, John eased back onto the sofa, feeling no closer to giving birth to his evil child than he had the day he’d found out he was pregnant in the first place. “God, this is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my life,” John complained as Sherlock got him a bottle of water. “I’m sweating, I’m huge, I keep getting kicked, I can barely move, can’t take a hot bath…”
Sherlock had learned to keep some things to himself over the final trimester. Things that he wanted to say, like You’re not doing us any good by complaining constantly. That was the kind of mistake that would get him silent treatment, or more recently, a good whacking with the newspaper. Instead he said, “Sexual intercourse is one of the home remedies on our list. I know how you feel about me touching you right now, but if it’s the only way…”
“That’s how this whole thing got started,” John spat. “You want to put more of these things in me? You want me to suffer this crap for nine more months?”
“John don’t be silly--” WHACK! “Augh. I’m just saying, you can’t possibly get pregnant again. Not until this first one has been born.”
John rolled his newspaper up again. “So you know the ins and outs of male pregnancy, do you?”
Sherlock scoffed. “I think I may be the world’s expert on the subject, yes.”
There was a very long, tension-filled silence. “Fine,” John said.
…
“Lucky guess,” John muttered ten minutes later when he started getting contractions.
“I never guess,” said Sherlock. “I think it was the nipple stimulation that did it, but I’d have to run a few more trials before I could be certain…”
“Just get me a cab!” John yelled. He went down the stairs slowly as Sherlock ran past to go hail a taxi.
They made it to the hospital in record time, Sherlock yelling out directions and back streets while John just screamed at the driver to “Move this piece of shit taxi!”
They needn’t have gotten to the hospital so quickly, as they ended up sitting around for eighteen hours while John grew increasingly aggravated and difficult. Mycroft had to fly in the private doctor while the nurses just tried to make John as comfortable as possible and Sherlock made frequent runs for ice.
Finally, finally John was getting prepped for surgery. He allowed Sherlock to hold onto his hand as they started to roll him away to the operating theatre. “I love you,” he said quietly.
“I love you too,” said Sherlock, kissing John’s forehead. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. You can touch me and annoy me with experiments anytime you like,” John said.
Sherlock nodded. “I knew you would eventually see how unreasonable you were being.” WHACK. That time it was with John’s open fist.
Characters: Sherlock/John, subtle Mystrade
Word Count (if fiction): 1100
Rating: PG15
Summary: John was 43 weeks pregnant and crabby.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Mpreg
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
John was 43 weeks pregnant and crabby. The private doctor provided by Mycroft had warned against inducing the birth and strongly suggested that John wait until there were contractions or water breaking. Everything had been pretty typical of the pregnancy (aside from John being a man), so everyone assumed that the end of it would be typical as well. But John was very displeased with how long it was taking. John was so irritable he had warned Sherlock to stop all his experimentation in link with the pregnancy.
“And that includes measuring my belly, taking saliva samples and poking it!” John growled from the armchair, which he hadn’t moved from in hours.
Sherlock stood like a deer frozen in headlights holding a roll of measuring tape. John heaved a great sigh and pushed his unnatural girth out of the chair. “God, I have to pee…have to pee, have to pee…” He waddled toward the bathroom cursing. “Make some tea, Sherlock!” he yelled as he slammed the door.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Tea will just send you right back there…” But he went to brew a kettle anyway.
John came back a few minutes later with a vicious glare when he saw that Lestrade and Mycroft had stopped by to visit. He focused his evil glower on Sherlock who threw his hands up innocently. “It’s not as though I asked them to come, John. How could this be my fault?”
John narrowed his eyes. If he’d been a cartoon bull, steam would be blowing out his nose. “Sherlock,” he said calmly. Lestrade and Mycroft were very quiet, eyes darting between Sherlock and John. “You put this thing inside of me. That means everything bad that happens in the world is YOUR FAULT!!”
Lestrade looked at a pretend watch. “Hmm…must be getting close to baby time…I hope.”
“Shut up, Lestrade,” John hissed, plopping down in his chair, spreading his legs out much wider than normal. “It’s not as if you’ve done anything to help these hellish nine months.”
Lestrade gaped at that. “I brought you groceries everyday for a month when Sherlock was away on a case. I--I rubbed your feet at the end of that month--”
“You rubbed his feet?” Sherlock asked, eyes going large and mouth wrinkling in horror.
“Yes, Sherlock, he rubbed my feet,” said John. “It’s what caring, considerate people do when their pregnant man friend has fifty pound swollen feet.”
“Perhaps you should try some home remedies to induce labour,” said Mycroft unassumingly. John and Sherlock instantly got emails detailing a list of activities that could bring about faster labour.
Sherlock read over the list. “Let’s try nipple stimulation.”
John scowled at him. “Let’s try a walk.”
…
“Get out of me, you bastard. Get out before I explode!” John was a sight, shuffling down the sidewalk, yelling at his overgrown stomach. Sherlock followed behind, hands in his pockets, avoiding looks. John started pulling on the neck of his shirt to fan himself. “God, why do I have to be nine months pregnant in July? For God’s sakes!!”
“Would you like to stop for castor oil?” Sherlock suggested as they passed a chemist’s.
“I want to stop and punch you in the throat,” John muttered. He stopped and Sherlock walked around to his side. “Sherlock, I’m going to die. This baby is going to kill me.” He started to look all teary-eyed so Sherlock patted him on the shoulder before pulling him in for a hug. John instantly pushed him off with a growl. “Get off me! This is still your fault. You are not forgiven.” John waddled on.
“Mood swings are pretty bad today. Maybe that’s a good sign,” said Sherlock.
John fisted his hands, trying to tell himself The father of your child must not have a concussion. John hoped that Sherlock was appreciative of all the things he did for him.
…
Back at their flat, John eased back onto the sofa, feeling no closer to giving birth to his evil child than he had the day he’d found out he was pregnant in the first place. “God, this is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my life,” John complained as Sherlock got him a bottle of water. “I’m sweating, I’m huge, I keep getting kicked, I can barely move, can’t take a hot bath…”
Sherlock had learned to keep some things to himself over the final trimester. Things that he wanted to say, like You’re not doing us any good by complaining constantly. That was the kind of mistake that would get him silent treatment, or more recently, a good whacking with the newspaper. Instead he said, “Sexual intercourse is one of the home remedies on our list. I know how you feel about me touching you right now, but if it’s the only way…”
“That’s how this whole thing got started,” John spat. “You want to put more of these things in me? You want me to suffer this crap for nine more months?”
“John don’t be silly--” WHACK! “Augh. I’m just saying, you can’t possibly get pregnant again. Not until this first one has been born.”
John rolled his newspaper up again. “So you know the ins and outs of male pregnancy, do you?”
Sherlock scoffed. “I think I may be the world’s expert on the subject, yes.”
There was a very long, tension-filled silence. “Fine,” John said.
…
“Lucky guess,” John muttered ten minutes later when he started getting contractions.
“I never guess,” said Sherlock. “I think it was the nipple stimulation that did it, but I’d have to run a few more trials before I could be certain…”
“Just get me a cab!” John yelled. He went down the stairs slowly as Sherlock ran past to go hail a taxi.
They made it to the hospital in record time, Sherlock yelling out directions and back streets while John just screamed at the driver to “Move this piece of shit taxi!”
They needn’t have gotten to the hospital so quickly, as they ended up sitting around for eighteen hours while John grew increasingly aggravated and difficult. Mycroft had to fly in the private doctor while the nurses just tried to make John as comfortable as possible and Sherlock made frequent runs for ice.
Finally, finally John was getting prepped for surgery. He allowed Sherlock to hold onto his hand as they started to roll him away to the operating theatre. “I love you,” he said quietly.
“I love you too,” said Sherlock, kissing John’s forehead. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. You can touch me and annoy me with experiments anytime you like,” John said.
Sherlock nodded. “I knew you would eventually see how unreasonable you were being.” WHACK. That time it was with John’s open fist.