A/N: Another big thanks to my beta Jenamy for taking the time to beta these monstrosities called chapters! I really appreciate all the support and feed back! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I haven't said it so far, but I love seeing your comments and responding to them when I have the chance. Every word in a review means the world to me, thank you!

Warning for this chapter: Slight John/Lestrade action. Sorry, but it's needed to create tension! Believe me, if I didn't have to do it, I wouldn't!

Disclaimer: Another line from 'Friends' snuck in here, I think.

Xxx

At his 20th week, Sherlock was beginning to feel rather frustrated with the whole 'pregnancy' thing, and a bit tired of it all. Halfway through his term and weighing more than he ever had in his whole life, his back was hurting almost incessantly and the cramps in his legs and swelling in his feet didn't help matters at all. At this point, John was taking great joy in telling him that his appendix was stretched to about the size of a cantaloupe, if the women's uterus was anything to go by, and Sherlock felt so tight and stretched that he couldn't be bothered to argue with his live-in doctor. John was also quick to remind him that the hormones raging through his body were loosening all of his joints, muscles and ligaments in preparation for his expanding insides, and that with the growing fetus would come a severe shift in his body's center of gravity that would make him a touch less elegant and graceful than he usually liked to be.

It was all a little much for him to deal with sometimes, and most mornings he spent half of his time getting ready simply staring at himself in his full length mirror, shirt only half buttoned so that the two pieces of material fell away on either side of his rounded belly, staring at the paper-thin flesh with a mixture of intense curiosity and slight abhorrence.

He hated what this thing was doing to him—physically, mentally—yet it intrigued him. Something so small, so seemingly inconsequential, and it was turning his life upside down.

For the past few weeks—ever since he had started getting bigger—every morning always started the same. He would measure the ever-growing width of his waist, the length from the bottom of his sternum to the top of his pubic bone, and the amount of weight that he gained from one day to the next. All the measurements would be meticulously written down in his notebook, along with each cramp, each craving, each pinched nerve. Nothing was left out of the data, not even sexual desires that came in crashing waves at the most random moments. Everything was jotted down—much to John's mortification—and at only 5 months into Sherlock's pregnancy, he had already filled up two composition notebooks and was working on his third.

He kept those notebooks in the small fireproof safe that John had bought for their important documents and his few guns, and which Sherlock had recently commandeered to use for the data's safe keeping. The whole reason he had taken the Synathida, after all, was for the research. And the more he declined the requests for interviews and examinations by other doctors or scientists that had been coming in floods the past week, the more important his data became.

It had only been 6 days since the news reporters had shown up on the front stoop of Baker St, and though there had been a mad dash to be the first to break the case, Sherlock was pleased that his prediction to John the other day had come true.

No news reporter worth his salt would want to publish a story—especially such a juicy one—with only a few small facts, and, since he and John certainly weren't confirming, denying, or granting interviews with anyone, even other doctors, there was no hard evidence to keep the story going.

For once in their lives—and their line of work—both Sherlock and John were extremely glad for doctor-patient confidentiality. It couldn't last much longer, they knew, but at least for the moment the only people they had to put up with were the incessant specialists, scientists and a few of the more radical citizens who were active in the Synathida campaigns, whether for it or against it.

John's voice suddenly cut through the silence of the flat, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"Sherlock, ready to go? We don't want to be late for this one."

Sherlock smiled to himself and quickly jotted down the last few measurements. Surprisingly, he was excited about today's prenatal checkup—something which was unusual.

But today's was special. Because, in a few hours, he would hopefully have one more piece of vital information to put into his notebooks.

Today, they would find out the sex of the fetus.

Xxx

It was tricky finding a way into Dr. Greenwhich's office without being noticed. Thankfully, there was not a protest mob out today. It seemed that over the past few months, the anti-Synaths had begun to focus their efforts more on one major event at a time, instead of dispersing widely and constantly organizing a rally every few random days or so. It also helped that, as time went by and the world didn't burn like the proverbial Sodom and Gomorra, the rallies seemed to be getting smaller, less intense, and less frequent.

But neither he nor John wanted to push their luck that much. The longer they could keep a confirmation of Sherlock's condition out of the papers, the better off they would all be.

And Sherlock knew that all radical groups like the anti-Synaths never truly left a stake-out spot unattended, no matter how long it had been since the last protest they had made there.

So that was why he didn't think it unnecessary at all to go through the trouble of finding a way into the building from the delivery entrances in the back, like John seemed to think it was.

"We're sneaking in like criminals," the doctor complained, as Sherlock checked the loading docks over quickly to make sure their way was clear. It was empty at the moment, not even a late load being delivered. The two made their way hastily towards the back door, and slipped through it, meeting surprised nurses and physician's assistants in the back corridors of the medical office as they made their way back towards the front room to check in.

They didn't make it though, as Dr. Greenwhich turned a corner and spotted them, waving them down jovially.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" he called out happily to them. "I was getting a little worried; you aren't usually late to your appointments. And I see you've brought Dr. Watson with you, how wonderful!" He turned his bright, friendly smile on John and the shorter blonde man couldn't do anything in the face of that grin but smile back. "Big checkup today, isn't it? Are you both excited?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tired of the small talk already. That was one thing he hated about having John go places with him. The small doctor tended to make Sherlock seem more 'personable', as Lestrade had so eloquently put it one day at a press conference after he had told Sherlock not to go anywhere without John right by his side. And it would seem it proved itself to be true, as people always seemed to want to stay and chat more with him whenever John was by his side. Like an exotic animal at the zoo whose handler was right beside him, ready to pull on his leash in case he lunged.

Too bad he wasn't much in the mood for chatting, at the moment.

"I daresay we'd enjoy it just a tad more if we didn't have to sneak around town like children playing hooky from school," he stated rather scathingly to the plump old doctor, and got an elbow shoved none too carefully into his back by John for his rudeness.

The physician didn't seem to notice the couple's silent quibble, though. Dr. Greenwhich only lost the corners of his smile and turned away from them in a rather embarrassed sort of manner.

"Yes, I know what you must be going through," he said sadly, bringing a hand up to wipe at his bald head distractedly. "I've had to take your file out from the main office and carry it around in my briefcase, so no one else can get a hold of it. I'm sorry to say that I was a little slow to do it at first, and I had a receptionist or two who didn't mind playing fast and loose with my patient's private information." He winced as he remembered something, and Sherlock could only assume it was at the memory of the conversation he must have had with his staff. Dr. Greenwhich didn't seem the type of boss to be overly harsh with his employees, if the first name status he had with all of staff was any indication. "Everyone has been dealt with, but not before a few phone numbers had been leaked," he continued. "I apologize for that profusely. I know what the unneeded stress must be doing to you."

"I've hardly seemed to notice it at all," Sherlock replied snidely with an arrogant and exaggerated flip of his hand.

Dr. Greenwhich didn't seem to be one to catch sarcasm though, because he only smiled widely again, as if happy to hear that Sherlock hadn't been inconvenienced by the ordeal after all. "Good, that's good. I'm glad to hear that your delicate condition hasn't been affected by all the nonsense." He gave the consulting detective an appraising, medical-based look up and down, and nodded happily. "It looks like you've started eating rather well. Sight bigger than you were last time I saw you."

And before Sherlock could anticipate what the other man was doing, Dr. Greenwhich was reaching a hand out to playfully pat Sherlock's ever-growing baby bump, not aware of the murderous look that was building on Sherlock's brow.

Thankfully, John intervened before Sherlock killed the man. There had been a slight pause between the time that Dr. Greenwhich reached out to Sherlock's belly, and the moment when Sherlock lost all sense of the propriety and decorum that John had practically beat into him over the years, and John used that split second to step in between the men, pushing aside Dr. Greenwhich's hand with his own in a polite, inconspicuous kind of way, as he chuckled softly and agreed, "Er, yeah, been trying to plumpen him up a bit." He rubbed his hand over Sherlock's bulge like it was a tiny Buddha belly, to be sure that there was not a spot left open that the other doctor might try to touch again. "It's been a chore, though, let me tell you. He's never been much of an eater."

"That's fine, that's fine," Dr. Greenwhich said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "As long as all the numbers look good, that's what matters. Why don't you let Crystal take all of your measurements and I'll be in with the ultrasound technician in a tick. I have some paperwork that needs finishing up. Won't take long."

The whole time Sherlock stood there, stunned speechless at the audacity of it all. No words, no thoughts, would come to his mind that could describe the sheer amount of disgust he felt at the touch of a stranger's hand on such an intimate part of his body. Never before had anyone taken such a liberty with him, barely even John would do such a thing.

He was only vaguely aware of John and Dr. Greenwhich talking, but he tried to focus all of his attention on the slow, languid movements John's hand was making on his tummy, pretending that with each pass of John's hand over the rounded globe of his flesh, the other man's touch was erasing the distinctly icky feeling of Dr. Greenwhich's strange hand on him.

And then, before he knew what was happening again, John was steering him into one of the small, impersonal exam rooms and a short, red-headed nurse entered in after them, going over the tests they were going to run that day and the stats they were going to take from him

This was always the part of the checkups that Sherlock hated the most. The fact that he was still on edge from Dr. Greenwhich's impromptu touch didn't help matters at all. He despised having to sit still while some pimply-faced, teenaged, barely certified 'medical assistant' poked and prodded him, missing the vein in the crook of his arm twice as they tried to draw blood and holding the measuring tapes too far away from the top, so that they added a few extra centimeters. He was not that big around, after all!

This 'Crystal' character seemed a little more jumpy than the last few had been, and she made more mistakes than the others had in the past as she nervously fumbled with all of the medical instruments meant to check his statistics. She wouldn't look him in the face and she tried to rush through the exam, clearly not comfortable being the one who was performing the tests on Sherlock.

He guessed that he had gained a bit of a reputation among Dr. Greenwhich's nursing staff, after the last time he had made two of the more emotional women cry during his previous prenatal checkup. And one of the older doctors.

But it wasn't his fault that they were all idiots. I mean, really, he thought with an inward sigh and a roll of his sea green eyes to the ceiling. He could check his own blood pressure more effectively than the moron working over him right now.

"The cuff is far too loose, you know," he chastised her, when he finally couldn't take sitting there in silence for another moment. "And you've probably contaminated my urine sample by leaving out on the counter without a lid for the past five minutes," he said, using the arm that had the blood pressure cuff around it to point at the urine sample pointlessly. She knew where the sample was, after all, but he just wanted to prove a point. The cuff slid off of his upper arm to dangle uselessly around his wrist when he moved his arm.

"Oh, er…" The nurse, Crystal—or whatever her silly little name was—blushed profusely and began trying to fix the cuff and put it back into place.

"Sherlock," came John's warning voice from across the room, where he had been sitting quietly and patiently, in his usual rigid military posture, while the nurse had been fussing over Sherlock.

But he couldn't possibly leave well enough alone now, not when he was practically aching from the restraint he had been showing ever since coming to this blasted doctor's appointment.

"And you have the coldest hands anyone has ever touched me with," he told the young nurse bluntly as she continued to fiddle with the Velcro on the cuff, as if that were somehow the source of the problem. "It's like being man-handled by an Eskimo."

"Sherlock!" John snapped out, his tone harsher this time.

"I—I have poor circulation…" Crystal mumbled, finally giving up on the cuff and simply staring, wide-eyed and blearily, at Sherlock as he sat in the small little exam chair, staring at her rather intensely.

"That explains the stupid as well, then," he retorted. "Not enough blood getting to your brain. If I were you, I'd think of maybe switching to veterinary medicine. Med school drop outs don't make very good nurses, either."

"Sherlock!" John was standing now, angry scowl on his face. He was pushing and pushing his luck with his lover, he knew it. And it wouldn't hold out forever. He knew how much John hated when he was unnecessarily difficult, but there was only so much stupid he could be forced to deal with and, unfortunately, the fetus inside of him seemed to be draining his daily quota lately.

"We're done now, Crystal," he said, ripping the blood pressure cuff off of himself.

"B-but, I still n-need to—" her voice was wavering and cracking slightly with the lovely sound of imminent tears.

He shook his head and made a face. "No, sorry, you've missed your chance at it."

"But, sir—"

"Don't worry," John said to her reassuringly. "He's been charting his own progress at home. I snuck a peek at his stats before we left the flat, I can tell you all of them."

"That's very nice but—sir!" she exclaimed as Sherlock took the blood pressure cuff he had taken off of himself and balled it up, tossing it across the room and into the stainless steel sink at the other end. "—we still need to take our own measurements."

She ran over to the sink to try and salvage the poor cuff just as Dr. Greenwhich came back into the room with the ultrasound technician, following closely after him, wheeling in her machine.

"That's all right, Crystal," Dr. Greenwhich comforted the little red headed nurse as she sniffled and tried to untangle the mess of Velcro and tubing that Sherlock had made out of the cuff. "Mr. Watson is a doctor, and the only one who can spend any prolonged amount of time around Mr. Holmes without being mortally offended, it seems. We'll get all the information that we need from him." He turned stern-looking eyes onto Sherlock. "This once."

Sherlock was not convinced.

Dr. Greenwhich continued, when Sherlock did nothing but stare at the man blankly. "Mr. Holmes," he said with a tired sigh and a rub at his eyes underneath his small spectacles. "I do have to ask, though, that you learn to have a little more patience with my nursing staff. You still have several more checkups to go through before the end."

"I came here for one thing only, doctor," Sherlock said, unapologetically. "And that was not to be felt up by your staff."

At that, Crystal reddened again, and a fresh bout of tears came to her eyes. "I didn't feel him up!" she said, turning to Dr. Greenwhich desperately. "M-my hand accidentally brushed against his c-chest, but I didn't feel anything, I swear!"

From the other side of the room, Sherlock heard an exasperated, "Oh God," being exhaled on a scoff by John, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the man turn his back on Sherlock for a moment, to try to compose himself.

"Crystal, it's all right, I assure you," Dr. Greenwhich was soothing the girl. "Why don't you go have a cup of tea in the break room, and I'll be by a little later to explain patients like Mr. Holmes to you."

The young girl hiccupped ridiculously and nodded her head, sniffling and wiping at her eyes as she left the room without another glance at Sherlock or anyone else, blood pressure cuff still in hand.

When the door was closed, Dr. Greenwhich waited a moment longer before he said simply, "That's the fourth one you've made cry."

Sherlock 'hmm'ed his disinterest. "They shouldn't be so emotional," he said indifferently.

"You shouldn't be such a twat," John scolded, finally able to trust himself enough to speak.

Sherlock only smiled, happy to get such emotional responses out of everyone over such a little thing. He did also, secretly, like the fact that everyone was being extra tolerant of him lately—something he was beginning to understand he owed to the pregnancy. Apparently people were thinking that he was just being slightly more hormonal than usual.

He liked to use that to his advantage whenever he could.

So instead of giving Dr. Greenwhich an empty promise about being better behaved next time, he decided to ignore the physician's comment and change the subject. He was delighted when they let him.

"And why are you here, Dr. Greenwhich?" he asked, relaxing back into the exam chair and placing his hands behind his head for extra comfort—the chair didn't have much padding. "Only a technician can work the ultrasound machine. There isn't really any need for you to take as much personal interest in me as you have been."

Dr. Greenwhich chuckled and pulled out a small rolling stool from underneath the counter that the stainless steel sink was attached to. He sat down heavily in it and rolled closer to Sherlock. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Holmes," he answered. "It's not just you I am taking such personal care of. I have a handful of other Synathida cases that I am just as equally invested in."

"And why is that?" John asked, taking his own seat again and sitting with his feet wide apart, hands on each knee. His shoulders were a bit more tense than usual, even for his always-militant posture, and Sherlock had to hide a smile at his handy work.

Even after all these years, he could still push John's buttons.

Dr. Greenwhich gave John a little smile, and Sherlock noticed the ultrasound technician make a small, uncomfortable sound in her throat and begin to make a show of turning the machine on and calibrating it noisily, turning her back to the doctor.

Interesting.

"You boys never got to meet my partner," Dr. Greenwhich began with a clearing of his throat. "He died a few years ago. Three, actually, this coming November, long before I hired you and Dr. Watson here to help me when Mikayla got kidnapped. But, he was a wonderful man. The best." There was a long pause as Dr. Greenwhich stared at his hands, resting in his lap, and Sherlock exchanged quizzical glances with John.

"We had been together for 15 years before we decided that we should adopt a child together," Dr. Greenwhich continued, once he had composed himself again. "It was Mark's greatest dream, which he had put off for me because I hadn't thought we were ready. But then we found Mikayla, my daughter whom you saved last year." At the mention of the girl's name, the sadness that had stolen over the older doctor's face disappeared, and a smile replaced it. "We decided to push through the adoption papers right away, we both fell so madly in love with her. But then…" There was another long pause, as Dr. Greenwhich's voice cracked horribly, and not even Penny made a peep as she stood by the ultrasound machine. "Mark died, Mr. Holmes, before the adoption was finalized, in a car crash."

Sherlock stared at the man before him. He had known that Dr. Greenwhich's spouse had died not long before he had taken the case of his kidnapped daughter—the man still had had a tan line on his ring finger and there had been pictures missing from the walls of his house, taken down and never replaced with new ones—but he had not taken the time to realize that Dr. Greenwhich's spouse had been another man, or that there had been so much guilt attached to his death.

"He never got the chance to know the happiness that a child brings into your life, simply by being there," the physician continued, voice cracking now in earnest. "I feel like I was the one who kept that from him. Because I made him wait so long to have it."

For once, Sherlock didn't need John to tell him that he needed to hold his tongue, that he needed to stay quiet and not ruin this moment. And, for once, he listened to his instincts and let the man have a moment to compose himself again.

Dr. Greenwhich cleared his throat a few times, and blinked rather rapidly behind his small, half-moon glasses. When a decent amount of time passed he spoke again, and his voice was strong and level once again. "So, now, when Synathida can give men that feeling that Mark was looking for, how can I just sit back and not help this time, Mr. Holmes? I owe it to Mark to give every man who wants to have this opportunity the chance to make their dreams a reality. And I will fight with every breath in me to continue to do so for the rest of my life. That is why each and every one of my Synathida cases is so important to me. That is why I have so selfishly asked all of my staff to put up with the protests, and the rallies, and the mess that this is all turning out to be." He smiled over at the ultrasound tech, who smiled shyly back at him. "And all of my employees have been very understanding of my desire to do this. And I appreciate every single one of them."

Sherlock sat there for a long moment, not quite sure what to say. Words in these types of situations were not his strong suit—they never had been—and he was slightly relieved when John cleared his throat from across the room and broke the strangling silence that was settling on them.

"That's…I didn't know about you and your husband, when we were helping you get Mikayla back," John said, a bit awkwardly.

"No," Dr. Greenwhich agreed, shaking his head and swiveling his chair around to face the blonde doctor. "I don't speak about him often. It is still…painful."

"Of course," John said, quickly, with a small dip of his head.

"But enough of that," Dr. Greenwhich said, spinning in his chair once again so that he was facing Sherlock once more. "I don't mean to put a damper on such a wonderful day for you two boys. Penny," he called out to the ultrasound technician, "are we up and running?"

"Aye aye, captain," the woman confirmed with a smile, punching in a last line of data on the keypad of the machine and grabbing the Doppler wand up, putting it at the ready.

"Let's get to it, then, shall we?" Dr. Greenwhich asked, his smile growing to epic proportions.

Sherlock couldn't help himself—he fidgeted slightly in his seat, the only indication of his emotions at the upcoming event. He had tried to talk himself out of being excited over such a silly thing. It was only the sex of a child—it was a simple 50/50 chance that it could be one of two things…not really a big surprise. And ultimately, the sex meant nothing to him. It would not change the outcome of his experiment, or create a variable in his data. This sonogram meant nothing in terms of statistics and numbers and records.

And yet…

And yet, he couldn't help the light quivering of nervousness and anticipation that he felt, despite his best efforts. Because this was, in all actuality, life changing, and try as he might to not believe otherwise, deep down he knew that.

John, it seemed, couldn't control his anticipation either. He stood from his stiff chair in the corner of the exam room and made his way over to Sherlock, to stand by the man and be able to see the screen of the ultrasound machine better.

When the tech had Sherlock's abdomen gelled and ready, she pushed the Doppler wand into his stomach rather harshly, trying to be sure she could get a good, clear picture up on the screen. He winced as the end of the wand dug into his organs uncomfortably, but his eyes never once left the small black and white screen that everyone in the room was staring at intently.

For what, he couldn't yet tell. As far as he was concerned, the screen looked like a bad telly that was turned to an off-air channel. It was snowy and murky-looking, and Sherlock couldn't distinguish one thing on the screen from another.

But, it seemed that he was the only one.

"There's your cecum," the technician said, frowning and digging into Sherlock's belly a little harder.

"That looks like the appendix," John said suddenly, pointing to the screen. As if to confirm his words, there was a quick flicker of movement on the screen, something a regular organ of Sherlock's surely could not make.

"Yes," the tech agreed, focused on the screen in front of her. She gave a little twist to the wand, keeping it pressed harshly into Sherlock's stomach. "And right here is…"

She pointed to the screen, and to a small, almost bean-shaped figure that could barely be seen through the black and white static lines all around it.

Beside him, John smiled, grinning from ear to ear. "Look, Sherlock," he said, his voice teasing. "It has your wavy black lines."

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered with thinking of a response for John. Not when he was so intent on deciphering what he saw on the screen. But all of his medical knowledge, all of his skills of deduction, could not make the ultrasound any easier to read.

He didn't have to though, it would seem. Because the technician turned to him then, face alight with happiness. "Congratulations," she told him with a smile. "It's a boy."

And suddenly he felt like he was disappearing behind the placid, pale glow of the sonogram screen that was surrounding them softly.

Xxx

John's world had been effectively narrowed down to just three people in the past half hour. Him, Sherlock, and their little boy.

A boy.

He had always wanted a boy.

Someone he could play football with, someone he could teach how to shoot and take hunting, someone he could hug proudly on the day that they told him they wanted to serve their country, just like him…

A little boy.

He realized he was grinning like an idiot as they walked down the busy streets and back towards their side of town and he tried to stop, but when he glanced over at Sherlock and saw that the other man was doing the very same, he gave up the effort and just let the smile spread.

Sherlock turned to him then, catching his eye, and he opened his mouth to say something when someone suddenly ran into him as he was walking, a man in brown leather jacket that instantly reached out to him to make sure he didn't fall as the two collided.

"Terribly sorry, sir, didn't mean to—" the man said, turning to face Sherlock. John was instantly by the brunette's side, pulling him away from the stranger, but the man gave Sherlock one look and his words cut off, face suddenly splitting into a wide grin. "Oy, you're that bloke!" he said suddenly, his whole face lighting up when he looked at Sherlock and recognized who he was. "That—that Holmes fella! The one who took the Synathida, right?"

John instantly tensed and pulled Sherlock away from the man, stepping forward between them.

But the man reached a hand back out to grab at Sherlock's wrist, keeping him close. "I just want to tell you thank you," he said unexpectedly, moving his hand down to shake Sherlock's in a quick movement and then releasing him altogether.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Thank you," the man repeated. "I know you've been in the papers before, but you've always seemed like a normal guy who's just caught the interest of the media. I'm mean, you're not, like, famous or anything," he said with a bit of a shrug. "And so when they wrote about you taking the Synathida, it seemed more…real, 'ya know? Like, regular blokes just deciding to do something great. It's really inspired me." He smiled again, and John didn't know anything about the man but he could tell that the smile was genuine. Happy.

"I've decided to come out to me family, and introduce them to me boyfriend of 9 years," the man continued excitedly. "We want to take the pill, too. And we've even decided to get married before we get pregnant!" He laughed, as if he couldn't really believe it himself. "I never wanted to because me family didn't know about us, but we want to have kids together. And, if someone like you can come out and do it, then why can't someone like me?"

"You're very kind," Sherlock said politely, inching away from the man and John followed him, neither turning their backs on the stranger, "but, really, we didn't mean for this to affect anyone else other than ourselves." He gave the man what John liked to call his 'newspaper smile' (the one he saved for press conferences and pictures) and continued to walk away from him. "I'm happy for you, but we didn't have anything to do with the decisions you've made in your life. Congratulations, though. Very happy for you. Wish you all the best."

And with that done, Sherlock turned around to leave the man behind, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"You may not think you didn't have anything to do with the decisions I've made," the man continued telling them, coming around so that he was in front of them again, refusing to be ignored. "But I'm not the only one to be inspired by you. I keep reading about all those anti-Synath protests, but you should know that they aren't the only people who have strong feelings about the pill." Somewhere close by, a clock chimed the hour and the man looked down at his wrist watch with a small curse. "Well, I got to run. On me way to a prenatal checkup and I'm late!" With a finally, friendly wave goodbye he left, leaving Sherlock and John standing on the sidewalk, staring concernedly at each other.

"Did he just tell me that I wasn't famous?" Sherlock asked after a moment of stunned silence. "How utterly rude. Doesn't he know that my ego thrives on the fact that I get attention from complete strangers daily?"

John laughed at Sherlock's lame attempt at a joke, but it was a forced sound. "Sherlock, do you think he's right?" he asked the consulting detective, a worried frown coming over his face suddenly. "About you inspiring other people to take the pill?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," the brunette said with a flippant wave of his hand and a small scowl. He started walking again and John could do nothing but follow him. "You know as well as I do that one person can't change the minds of hundreds of people without even doing anything at all! These people don't know me; why would they flip their lives upside down to make a decision that I have nothing to do wi—?"

Sherlock's words were cut off as they rounded the corner of their block and stopped dead in their tracks. A large group of people were standing outside their front door, many with cameras and press badges, but many more without them.

Nervously, John ducked his head and reached out to grab a hold of Sherlock's hand, walking straight into the heart of the crowd and hoping that this would be over soon. He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a good cup of tea.

Surprisingly, the two made it more than half-way through the crowd without anyone noticing who they were, but when the first person shouted out "It's them!" their world exploded in a bang of camera flashes and questions shouted at them.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter and tugged on it gently to bring him closer, but the crowd around them was closing in fast and making it harder for them to move forward.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!"

"Have you just come back from visiting your doctor?"

"Did you have a sonogram today?"

"Did you find out the sex of your baby?"

John was shoving past photographers and reporters aggressively, suddenly not caring about propriety or politeness. He was coming dangerously close to panicking when someone suddenly grabbed onto him, pulling him harshly away from a few photographers who were closing in around him.

And for the first time, he noticed that parts of the crowd were moving against him, backwards, and pushing the outer ring of people—where all the media reporters stood—back, away from the door of Baker Street and away from them.

Dazed, John took a moment to look around him. Still faces—smiling, comforting—surrounded him, not shouting stupid questions or curses at them. The people around them were quiet and unmoving, not trying to keep him and Sherlock from entering their flat but actually opening a way for them.

Behind him, John could hear the mechanical whiz of flashes still going off, and the questions and comments never ceased, but they were far enough away now that he didn't fear them. He was too focused on what was happening in front of him.

Still holding Sherlock's hand, John took a tentative step forward and was vaguely surprised when the crowd didn't close back in around them, attempting to swallow them whole. Instead, a man stepped forward, older and fierce-looking with a full facial beard and long, scraggily hair.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?" the man asked, but he didn't wait for answer. "My name's James McNairn. I'm the head of the pro-Synath activist group. And I'd like to welcome you home."

Xxx

"What are they doing back here?" John asked, pacing the living room of 221b Baker Street in an agitated manner, hands fluttering as fast as his feet as he stomped back and forth from one wall to the next. Sherlock, of all people, had had to put the kettle on and offer Mr. McNairn tea and biscuits, seemingly much more calm about the whole thing than John himself was. "They left us alone after they couldn't get any information confirmed," the blonde doctor continued to mutter, while Sherlock and McNairn sat in the chairs in the living room, watching John fidget. "And we've only just been back from Sherlock's prenatal checkup. That isn't enough time for them all to have met up outside our flat like that."

McNairn took that moment to speak, throwing down the morning's newspaper on the coffee table, and both John and Sherlock leaned forward to look at the front page.

"It wasn't the checkup today that did it," McNairn said as the boys quickly scanned the article. "It was released today. There's no official confirmation yet, since no one who knows you personally has made a statement. But with a photo like this, a statement confirming the pregnancy is just a nicety."

It was a picture of him and Sherlock walking together down a London street. The wind had caught them just right and Sherlock's coat, which just so happened to be unbuttoned in the photograph, was blown back, revealing the too-tight shirt he had worn that day and the telltale bump that could be seen through it. Beside him, John was laughing at something Sherlock had just finished saying, his head thrown back and his cheeks flushed from the biting wind. In his hands were all the bags from Le Petite Boutique and the menswear shop that was located next door to the baby store. He suddenly remembered what day the photograph must have been taken on—the day they had told everyone the news, the day they had bought the crib.

"Well, that's damning evidence if I've ever seen any," John mumbled with a sigh, resigning themselves to being screwed. He stood up again once he had skimmed the article—nothing more than barely truthful facts and poor guesses at what was going on in Sherlock's life—and rubbed a hand over his face.

"And why are you here, Mr. McNairn," Sherlock suddenly spoke up, his voice deep and almost seeming to echo in the stillness of 221b. "If I may be so presumptuous as to ask?"

For his part, James McNairn had the good grace to look faintly ashamed of himself, and fidget in his chair slightly. But it was hard to look chagrined with a full facial beard and the scraggily demeanor of an aging hipster.

"You're wondering why we are here now, the pro-Synaths, I bet, yeah?" he asked, taking a small sip of tea and a part of John cringed as the man's grimy fingers clutched the delicate handle of his mother's antique tea cup. "Well, just like everyone else, we only found out about you for sure today."

"But what about before?" Sherlock asked, his tone not gentle. "When the anti-Synaths were gathering protest rallies at the Renaissance Medical Plaza, and the free clinics where men who didn't want their identities traced were going to get the pills, and all the other doctor's offices in London that were getting bombarded by those radicals? Where were you then?"

"As I'm sure you well know, Mr. Holmes," McNairn said, his voice a little harsh at being accused in such a way, "it is a lot harder to find people who are willing to go against the public majority and fight for a noble cause than it is to gather up an angry mob hell bent on telling you that you are living your life wrong. Is that not right?"

"So, then, what are you doing here, of all places?" John interjected, not liking the growing tension that was settling in his living room as Sherlock and McNairn continued to stare at one another, sizing each other up.

"Well, you've already been in the paper before about this situation—last week—though they didn't really make a big ordeal about it. But, when only one newspaper released the story today, we figured that it was going to be a mad-house at your flat today, and we've finally got enough people for our cause to make a difference once the lot of the anti-Synaths gather up."

"That's not all, though," Sherlock said, scathingly. "You also want to use this incident to get your name out there, don't you? A pretty good opportunity, I must say. You knew where the majority of news reporters would be today, and you could get a nice publicity shot in while you introduced your group of pro-Synaths to London. What could be more noble an introduction to the world than being seen helping a poor couple cope with the atrocities brought on by the paparazzi and the anti-Synaths? Am I right?"

"Yeah, I'd heard about your little tricks you like to play with people," McNairn said cautiously, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously from underneath his scraggily eyebrows. "Tearing them down so that you can show them what's what. But, believe it or not, Mr. Holmes, we are here to help you. We did already, did we not?"

"Yes, you did," John answered the man quickly, because he knew that Sherlock did not respond well to people telling him that he needed them. He put a warning hand on Sherlock's tense shoulder and held it there. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to anger the only people who were fighting the same battle as he was now. "Thank you for that. It was very helpful."

"Don't mention it," McNairn said with a nonchalant wave of his dirty hand. "We're in this together now, after all. And we have to start looking out for our friends."

James took one last drink from his cup, the delicate, gold inlaid porcelain looking ridiculous against his dark stained denim jacket and the purple, wrinkled tunic he wore beneath it, and stood up to leave. Sherlock followed suit, to escort the man to the door and John followed close behind them.

"Thanks for the tea, lads," McNairn said, turning on the landing to give the boys one last look. "And for the photo opp," he admitted freely. He gave both John and Sherlock a stern look, one that spoke of many wars waged and some even won, and John could see even in the poor light on the landing that the lines on his face were etched deep and hard into his skin.

"I'm sorry we didn't meet under better circumstances, Mr. Holmes," McNairn said, and John could tell that, if nothing else, he was being sincere about that particular fact. "But I think you should remember that we're on the same side now. And people like me…I'm just trying to make this world a better place for people like you and your partner to live in. And for you to raise your child in. Remember that."

And then he turned and descended the stairs of 221b, leaving Sherlock and John standing out on the landing and looking down after him as he opened the front door and walked out onto Baker Street, getting swallowed up by the crowd of reporters and flashes of light that had made their way back to the stoop.

Xxx

The picture was everywhere suddenly. Even more popular and annoying than the one of Sherlock in that silly little hat that had plagued his nightmares years before.

Both Sherlock and John refused to leave their flat for days after the incident and had Mrs. Hudson go out and bring them up take out and all the newspapers she could find.

Sherlock stayed surprisingly complacent over the next few days, not even complaining that Lestrade was not calling about cases and nothing was coming in over the blog. Little did he know that John had texted Greg not to call about a case on penalty of castration, and that John had disabled the wireless card on his laptop, so that the automatic ding of an email coming in didn't go off.

But Sherlock hardly even seemed to notice the lack of work. For the most part, he sat on the couch and watched crap telly with Mrs. Hudson for most of the day, while John went about moving furniture in his old room and making it more baby-friendly. And when Sherlock wasn't lying sprawled out on the couch, he was up at the window of the living room, looking down onto the news reporters still camping out on the sidewalk of Baker Street, composing bits and pieces of music, some soft and sweet and sad, and others a little more tumultuous.

After a while John even tried to get a rise out of Sherlock just for the hell of it, turning to the quiet brunette man one morning after Mrs. Hudson had dropped off the morning paper and some pastries, and John opened the periodical up to find yet another article about them in it. This one was on the fourth page and seemed decidedly smaller than the ones from the previous day—a good sign. It meant that the whole ordeal was dying down somewhat and that they could continue on with their normal lives soon. For each article that came out, there was always some piece of new information that the reporters had found out. How far along Sherlock was, the sex of the baby, how he was balancing work, theories on his career plans for after the baby was born. It was all rather disturbing, but John was glad it was finally winding down.

"For someone who says they don't like the attention," he teased Sherlock as the brunette lay sprawled out on the couch, long legs dangling over the armrest and a cup of tea resting on the growing mound of his belly, "you sure do get your photo in the paper an awful lot."

He was disappointed though, and more than a little worried, when the only response he got was a mumbled "Shut up, John," and Sherlock simply turned the volume of the telly up, otherwise ignoring the man completely.

No, not good at all, John thought worriedly.

Xxx

If Sherlock had thought that the few people harassing him before that first newspaper article was released was bad, it was nothing compared to the amount of attention he received after the article's print.

When he and John had finally deemed it safe enough to venture back outside of 221b Baker Street, dozens of strangers seemed to now stop him every day, whether to tell him congratulations or to say that he was going to burn in hell for his unholy sins. A few cried. A few others threw balled up newspapers, Styrofoam cups of tea, muffins, and rude finger symbols— whatever they had in their hands at the moment that they recognized him on the street.

And Sherlock was becoming more than a little fed up with the whole ordeal.

A part of him was glad when John finally texted Lestrade back and lifted the case-ban he had so unsubtly imposed on Baker Street a couple of days after the two had first started venturing out of the flat again, and the detective inspector called not long after with a job. It was hardly interesting—barely even a two on the scale—but the need to be out of Baker Street, to be doing something, anything, to take his mind off of things was great. And the low rate of the case on Sherlock's scale meant that John felt okay leaving Sherlock to work on that one alone, while he went back to the surgery.

He dawdled with the case a bit, intent on spending as much time on work as he could. It may not have been like him to take so long with such an easy case, but he was coming to understand that these increasingly rare moments when he didn't have to think about his future, or his decision to take the Synathida, or the damned pregnancy, were coming fewer and farther between, and he was going to hold on to any semblance of his old life that he could.

But after he had solved the riddle and Lestrade had raced out of the precinct to go apprehend the perpetrator, Sherlock knew that his job at Scotland Yard was not done yet. There was one more thing that he needed to do, before he went home to Baker Street.

He left Lestrade's office, going out into the common area where all of the other officers had their desks set up. In one corner of the room, he found Donovan and Anderson, heads bent low over a piece of paper on the curly headed female's desk, going over the results of some test.

He made his way quietly over to them, noting that they were the only three in the room at this late hour, and he had to remind himself to hurry home; John would no doubt start to worry if Sherlock didn't text him soon. And the last thing he wanted was to be fussed over by John.

When he got closer to the couple, they looked up at the sound of his soft footsteps, and both wore identical grimaces upon seeing him.

They were definitely spending way too much time together, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Freak and Freak, Jr. are still here, I see," Donovan said acidly, by way of greeting.

Anderson smirked slightly at the jab and Sherlock ignored the remark, with amazing self-restraint.

But he had not come over here to get into a game of wits with them. He didn't have the time, energy or the patience to rub the lack of necessary equipment to win such a game in their faces. No, he had come over for one thing and one thing only…

"I know that you're the ones who have been leaking information on my…condition to the press," he responded instead, stopping in front of them and standing tall before them. His stance was a little less imposing because of the bulge sticking out from underneath his overcoat, but he didn't let them know that that bothered him. "I know we've never been friends, Donovan, but this isn't just me you're hurting now," he continued, staring the woman straight in the face.

For her part, she stood her ground rather well, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. He knew he couldn't intimidate her, not with his belly and not when she was used to hearing and seeing worse things in such a male-based profession. So he tried to play to her more feminine emotions. "John worries about what the stress will do to the baby," he told her plainly, "and I've already been labeled as high risk. You have no idea what consequences you can bring about with your little stunts."

Donovan stared at him for a long moment, and Anderson stood quietly beside her, both not seeming to be bothered by Sherlock's accusation at all. He knew that it was them, and they knew that he would have figured it out sooner rather than later, and there was no sense trying to hide the fact any more.

But the frizzy haired woman just shrugged, as if the whole situation didn't seem to bother her at all. "Well, I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said, and her tone was careless and flippant, the usual way she talked to him, "but that's really not my fault. You knew what would happen to your life if you succeeded in this…circus act." Her words took on a venomous tone and it was hard for Sherlock not to react as she spoke of his pregnancy in such a way. "Don't stand there and tell me that you didn't think the media would go crazy over their precious Sherlock Holmes becoming even more of a freak." She shook her head, and her frizzy hair moved about her face annoyingly. "No, you can't blame this on us, Sherlock. I don't believe we're doing anything wrong."

"Nothing wrong?" Sherlock repeated, incredulously. "You are selling information on an innocent baby—one that's not even born yet—just so that you can get a quick fifteen minutes of fame!" He visibly shook with the effort to restrain himself from reaching out and wrapping his large hands around the bitch's throat, from wrestling her gun from her holster and putting a bullet in Anderson's brain as he stood there beside her, silently sneering and letting her fight his battle as well as her own.

The two revolted him.

"Are you that jealous, Donovan, that you will stop at nothing to have your moment in the spotlight, where I have been for years because of my talents?" he asked, leaning in closer to her and dropping his voice to a deep whisper. "Giving the reporters a quick story, getting paid for your services like a cheap whore. That's all that you're doing—selling my dignity, and John's, and what little you have left to your own name." He pulled away from her and sneered at her. "You disgust me," he said venomously, his voice shaking with the restraint to not say more to her. "You are the worst kind of vermin on this earth and I'm sorry that my child will ever have to know people like you in his lifetime."

He turned to leave, satisfied and proud of himself that he had held on to most of his self-control. So very unlike him.

But before he could even take a step away from them, Anderson spoke up, only able to defend himself and Donovan when Sherlock had already turned his back.

Repulsive.

"Yes, well, I'm sure your kid will get used to dealing with those kinds of people," the man said in his weasely voice, and Sherlock stopped moving and stood still, turning back around slowly as Anderson continued, "what with his daddy being a psychotic, self-absorbed, drug addict. He'll have to get used to all sorts of disappointments in his life."

And before Sherlock could stop to think about what he was doing, before he could try to rationalize a better solution to the situation, before he could even worry about the consequences of his actions, he pulled a fist back and punched Anderson squarely in the face, his hand meeting the other man's nose with a very satisfying, very loud, cracking sound.

Xxx

He got the rebuking of a lifetime for that one. Both from John and from Lestrade. He didn't mind, though. He didn't even mind the soreness in his hand or the pinch in his back from the fast movement he had done when he had pulled back to punch Anderson in the face. In fact, they felt rather good when he thought of the broken nose he had given the other man, and the look on Donovan's face as she had bent down to help her boyfriend back up.

Anderson had wanted to press charges, of course, and John had complained that that was the last thing he and Sherlock needed, for the press to get wind of Sherlock's anger and aggression and turn the whole thing into another spectacle. Lestrade had had to be called in as a mediator, like a head-teacher trying to get two school children to play nicely with each other, and it was agreed that Sherlock would acquiesce to the charges brought up against him as long as no more information was leaked to the newspapers about Sherlock's condition, or what went on in his life. A rather anti-climactic end to the whole ordeal, but one that seemed to make John content, though he was still upset about the whole situation in the first place, and when everything was squared away, he imperiously told Sherlock that he was going out to the pub with Lestrade for a bit, and that Sherlock shouldn't expect him home any time soon.

Sherlock guessed he deserved that, but he still couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that was beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach, as he watched John and Lestrade walk off together, the detective inspector throwing a genial arm around the blonde doctor's shoulders and making John laugh at something that he said.

Xxx

Once inside the pub, John let out a harsh sigh as he slid into the chair at a back table, Lestrade falling into the one beside him.

It was getting harder and harder to keep Sherlock in line these days. Not that it was ever easy. But at least before the pregnancy, he could anticipate what Sherlock was going to do, he could kind-of-sort-of know what Sherlock was thinking. But lately, Sherlock had been doing nothing but sitting on the couch watching the telly and not speaking to him, or staring out the window of their living room and playing his violin, or writing down endless notes in his journals.

It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to go for days without speaking. In fact, that in and of itself was very common. But after spending years together, working as a team and living as lovers, John had gotten very good at reading Sherlock, much as the other man didn't like to think so.

But recently…

Recently, everything had been going to hell.

"Want a pint?" Lestrade asked him suddenly, and John jumped as he remembered that he wasn't alone at the table. Not unusual, because he felt that he was always alone lately.

"Something a bit stronger for tonight, I think," he answered the detective inspector with a tired smile, and when the waitress came to take their order, he got himself a double shot of whiskey.

"Does he take that much out of you, then?" Lestrade asked, after the waitress left their table.

John didn't say anything in response, but his silence was answer enough.

They didn't speak for a little while, remaining quiet as the waitress brought their drinks and they ordered a few more rounds, John deciding that it would be safer if he stuck to beer after his shot. He knew that Lestrade was waiting for him to say something, that he was wanting John to bring up the reason for the doctor's anger, but John couldn't seem to find the right words while he was sober.

So the two just continued to drink in silence while John thought about Sherlock and the pregnancy, and everything else that was going wrong in his life.

"It's just so ridiculous," he finally said out loud, when the alcohol had done enough of its job to loosen his tongue and lower his inhibitions a bit. "He doesn't even like kids. I don't know why on earth he thought that he should…"

He trailed off, taking another long draught from his mug and Lestrade stared at him from across the table, hard.

"Who knows why Sherlock does any of the things he does?" he said, giving a small, useless shrug of his shoulders.

"He told me once, when he first got pregnant, that it was the 'penultimate experiment'," John told Lestrade, his tongue slurring over the last two words, rolling his eyes as he noted how very Sherlockian they sounded. Pompous and full of themselves.

"Experiment?" Lestrade repeated, raising a hand to flag the waitress down again. "Is that what he did it for, then? As an experiment?"

John shrugged his shoulders, but they both knew the answer to Lestrade's question.

"He's a fucking loon," the detective inspector said with a disbelieving sigh. "That anyone would go through all this mess for a bloody experiment or to prove a fucking point…I'm sorry that you have to put up with him John," he said suddenly, looking the blonde man in the eyes and trailing a hand closer to the edge of the table nervously. "I'm so sorry that he puts you through all of this, that he doesn't treat you better. I—"

And suddenly Lestrade's hand was on his own, as it lay motionlessly next to his now-empty mug. For a second John didn't comprehend the other man's touch through the haze that the alcohol was beginning to create, but it didn't take long before he realized that Lestrade's fingers were stroking softly over the tender flesh of the back of his palm, and he could only stare at their hands for a moment, at a loss as to what to do.

"—I think Sherlock doesn't understand what a wonderful guy you are, John. Anybody would be lucky to have you in their lives, and Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't even know what he has."

Lestrade's hand gripped his tighter now, and it may have just been the alcohol and the crowd in the pub but it seemed as if the space between the two men was closing, and they were getting closer to each other. "I would never think of hurting you like he has, John," Lestrade was saying softly, and John was surprised to find that he could smell Lestrade's aftershave, even through the smoke of the pub, and that he could feel the heat coming off of the other man, and suddenly there were lips pressing up against his own, and his mind went blank at the feel of the unfamiliar pressure against his mouth, so different from Sherlock's.

So different from Sherlock's.

His brain suddenly snapped back into focus and he realized with a jolt that Lestrade was kissing him, rather gentlemanly and chastely, but still—it was a kiss from someone who was not Sherlock.

He jerked back quickly, turning his head away from Lestrade, and he removed his hand from underneath the detective inspectors to bring it up to his mouth, trying to wrap his mind around the impression he still felt on it from the other man's lips.

"Greg…"

"I'm sorry, John," Lestrade said, sitting back in his chair and putting the distance between them back to the appropriate amount. And although he apologized, John got the distinct feeling that he wasn't sorry about his actions at all. "I just couldn't help it. I've had feelings for you for such a long time, and I've wanted to tell you, but…"

But you've been with Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John sighed heavily, trying to push down a growing frustration at everything that seemed to be snow-balling in his life.

Couldn't things ever just be easy for him? Couldn't he just spend a few months without some new catastrophe, or life-changing event taking place? Was it really too much to ask for just a brief period of normality in his world?

"Greg, I can't deal with this right now," he complained, shaking his head to try to clear it. "Not with everything that's been going on with Sherlock, and the pregnancy, and the newspapers. It's just…"

"I know, John," Lestrade cut him off. "God, I'm such a prat, for throwing this at you, too. I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you, John, even if Sherlock isn't. And I'd be willing to give you everything that he isn't. Because you deserve it John. And you don't deserve what he's doing to you. I've always thought that."

John's eyes fell shut as Lestrade spoke to him, giving him reassurement, giving him attention, giving him encouragement, all the things he had not been getting from Sherlock recently.

"I…" He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to think. The alcohol and the crowd in the pub were giving everything a distorted sort of feeling, and he really just needed a bit of fresh air and a good night's sleep. "Just walk me home, you tosser," he finally said with a grin.

Lestrade grinned back at him, looking slightly relieved that John wasn't upset with him, and when the two stood up, the detective inspector had to help John steady himself, wrapping an arm around the blonde man's waist that he kept there even after John had found his balance.

They stumbled back to Baker Street drunkenly, tripping over each other and their own feet and giggling like school boys doing something naughty. When they got to the door of John's flat, Lestrade pushed the blonde man up against the closed door, and before he could lean in John had the presence of mind to push him away gently, shaking his head slowly. "Don't, Greg," he said, his eyes moving up to look at the building above him. Even though they were directly under the window of his and Sherlock's flat, it was still irrational for Lestrade to try something so scandalous right on their doorstep.

The drunken man seemed to comprehend this, if only slightly, and he let up trying to lean back into John. Instead, he lifted his hand from John's waist and cupped the blonde man's cheek with it, his thumb stroking softly over John's unshaven skin. "I like you, John. I may regret telling you this in the morning, but I don't care. I just want you to be happy. With him or with me."

John nodded his head in understanding, but didn't trust himself to speak.

"I hate seeing what he's putting you through," Lestrade continued, his warm hand still on John's face. His voice was the ghost of a whisper, but they stood so close to one another that John could hear every word he said. "If he wasn't bloody Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't be this difficult for you."

At that, John couldn't help but smile. "If he wasn't bloody Sherlock Holmes," he said, his speech slurred, "I wouldn't be interested."

Xxx

When John finally managed to stumble his way up the stairs and into 221b, he was unsurprised to see Sherlock sitting in his dark gray leather chair, violin in hand and icy, strange colored eyes staring penetratingly at the door to their flat.

John stood in the doorway for a moment, like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but neither of them said anything. When John at last made a move towards their bedroom, Sherlock's voice finally rang out, deep and deadly and dark in the silence of the flat.

"You've been gone for a while. Have fun while you were out?" His large, pale hands plucked at the strings of his violin dangerously, pulling severe staccato notes from it in an ungentle manner.

John gulped slightly and knew he was in for it then. "Yeah, actually," he remarked defiantly. "Greg and I had a grand time of it." Let Sherlock think what he would of it; John was tired of walking on eggshells around the man.

" 'Greg'?" Sherlock repeated, his tone and his face deceivingly blank.

John swayed slightly on his feet and was suddenly aware that he was still very, very tipsy. "Sorry," he mocked, prolonging the word with a small, inebriated chuckle. "Detective Inspector Lestrade to you, then."

"I know who 'Greg' is John," Sherlock suddenly snapped out, his thick, dark eyebrows coming together in a frown. "I just didn't realize you were on a first name basis with him."

"Well, I guess there's a lot of things you haven't bothered learning about me lately," the blonde man said stuffily, as the world swam in his vision and he suddenly had to reach a hand out to steady himself against the wall.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look. "Are we really going to do this right now, John?" he asked, tiredly. "You're drunk."

"So?" John retorted, angry. "Just 'cause I'm drunk doesn't mean I'm still not mad at you."

And now Sherlock stood in a decisive, yet perhaps not as swift as it once would have been, movement. "What on earth are you mad at me for?" he asked with a sigh, setting his violin down gently on the cushion of his chair and turning around to face John once again. "I apologized to Anderson for breaking his nose, even though I didn't think I needed to—I probably did him a favor and made it a sight straighter."

John groaned, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, the movement almost enough to knock him over even with his hand on the wall. "Not that, Sherlock," he cried out, exasperated. "God, everything doesn't revolve around you, you know!"

Sherlock stared at him quietly for a long moment, and John couldn't discern what the other man was thinking to save his life. "Then what?" Sherlock asked him. "What did I do this time? Hurt your feelings, ignored you, said something mean and snide? Tell me what it is so that we can just get this done and over with and I can go to bed."

Drunk as he was, John still winced at Sherlock's words. Dismissive and uninterested, as usual. That was the way Sherlock usually treated him; he'd thought that he would be used to it by now. "Yeah, Sherlock, ignoring me is as good a one as any," he said, frowning. "You've been doing that a lot lately. I feel like I hardly even know you anymore."

At this Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, irritated. "John, stop being ridiculous—I'm not ignoring you any more than I would on a regular basis."

If John had been sober, he might have caught that particular admission. But his mind was on other things, now.

"That's not true," he argued, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock from across the room. "You haven't talked to me for days; you won't even look at me. And I can't even remember the last time we…" his voice trailed off demurely, a hot blush springing to his cheeks.

For a second, Sherlock just stared at him, speechless, and John fidgeted underneath his intense gaze. And then he slowly started making his way across the living room, his movements slightly predatory and the look on his face indefinable.

"So you want me to pay attention to you, John?" he asked as he came closer to the blonde man, who stayed rooted in his spot against the wall, like an animal getting cornered. He didn't know what Sherlock was playing at, but the look on the brunette's face as he came ever closer to John told him that it was useless to fight it. "You want me to give you the same kind of attention you think you can get from Lestrade? Okay, I will, then."

John frowned, and his heart skipped a beat in fear. "What are you talking abo—"

But his question was cut off as Sherlock grabbed him, pushing him up against the wall of their living room and kissing him harshly.

Sherlock's mouth was hard on his, unyielding and demanding, tearing John's lips apart with the hot press of his tongue and taking him ferociously, tasting every inch of the inside of his mouth.

When Sherlock finally pulled away from his mouth to bite harshly at the skin of his neck, licking the marks gently after he made them, John tried to draw breath to speak, but the words didn't seem to want to come out right.

"W-what are…you—ungh…" his sentence trailed off into a low groan as Sherlock's hands grabbed at his cock through his trousers, squeezing and rubbing it roughly.

"I'm giving you some attention, John," Sherlock said darkly against his neck, biting down hard on the soft flesh and making John cry out. The hand that he wasn't using to play with John's cock was unbuttoning his shirt fervently, pushing it off of his shoulders when he had worked through all the small buttons. "I'm giving you the kind of attention that you can't get anywhere else. Even if you wanted to."

John tried to ask what exactly Sherlock meant by that, but when he felt Sherlock pull his zip down and reach inside his pants to cup at the bare flesh of his cock, he couldn't think straight any longer.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock's mouth was no longer pressing against his own, and Sherlock's body was no longer pressing against his body. He opened his eyes to see where the other man had gone, and his gaze travelled downwards, to see the tall brunette man crouched on his knees on the floor, Sherlock's large hands yanking his trousers and pants down to pool around his ankles, leaving his erect dick uncovered and exposed.

There was hardly any time to even enjoy the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him. The brunette man wasted no time at all taking John into his mouth, as far as he could, and John groaned loudly and felt his head fall back to hit against the wall he was leaning on, his hands coming up to tangle in Sherlock's long, dark hair.

"God, Sherlock. Fuck!"

His lover's mouth felt so amazing, cutting through the drunken haze that had settled over his mind and leaving him increasingly sober.

Sherlock worked over his cock feverishly, with a sort of vigor and desperation that turned John on more than the feel of the man's mouth on him. When he looked back down the length of his body and to Sherlock, he saw that the brunette had opened the fly of his own trousers, and he was rubbing himself off as he sucked on John's cock.

"Sherlock, you're—" his words trailed off once again because he couldn't think of anything that could describe the other man at that moment, looking so sexy as he touched himself and took John's dick so deep into his mouth that he gagged slightly on it.

And then, suddenly, the wonderful heat of Sherlock's mouth left, and all that remained was the incessant tug of Sherlock's hands on his hips, pulling the blonde man towards him and pushing him down to the floor, so that John was lying on the hard wood and Sherlock was maneuvering himself on top of him.

"Sherlock?" he asked, confused. This wasn't going to be comfortable, for either of them. They hadn't had sex on the floor in years, since they had first started fucking, when the excitement and the urgency that they had felt between them in the beginning of the relationship had begun to die out.

But the brunette man didn't say anything; he simply divested himself of all of his clothes quickly, and crawled over John's prone form carefully, working around his large belly, positioning himself above John's cock and lining up his entrance with a practiced hand.

"Sherlock, wait," John said, raising his hands to stop Sherlock's movements. The man hadn't even prepared himself. He didn't want Sherlock to hurt—

But his thought was cut off with a groan as Sherlock ignored his request and sank slowly down onto John's cock, impaling himself. John couldn't believe how good the tight heat felt. It seemed that even a little stretching was a world of difference. His breath came in ragged puffs and he could do nothing but lay there on the floor, naked, as Sherlock began a steady movement and fucked himself on John's cock.

The floor beneath him was hard and unforgiving, and the thought crossed his mind distractedly that he wasn't as young as he once had been, and he would probably end up paying for this romp tomorrow, but he couldn't even begin to think about telling Sherlock to stop. Not when the man felt so good wrapped around him, so tight and so hot and so wet.

He opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body, unable to control the loud moan that tore from his throat at the sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was moving desperately over him, rocking his hips with an abandon that John had rarely seen in him. His own cock was stiff and leaking precum in sticky globs that ran down the underside of his dick as it jutted out from his body, and his belly seemed so round from John's point of view, large and delicate, and John couldn't seem to take his eyes off of it.

"Touch me, John," he heard Sherlock's voice say above him, ragged and broken. "Make me cum."

John did as he was told and lifted a hand to squeeze Sherlock's cock, using the man's precum to lubricate his palm and make Sherlock glide effortlessly against his grasp. He hardly even had to move his hand; the snap of Sherlock's hips above him was enough to push the brunette man's hard cock into and out of the tight ring of his fingers.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, throwing his head back, and John closed his eyes against the sight above him, afraid that it would send him over the edge. He didn't want to finish so soon. He wanted to stay like this forever, inside of Sherlock's tight heat, fucking him endlessly.

But just then, Sherlock decided to come with a hoarse whimper, shooting sticky spurts of liquid out to cover John's chest, neck and even a bit of his cheek. At the feel of Sherlock's semen on his face, John lost all control of himself, and his hips bucked up to meet with Sherlock's downward thrusts, driving his cock deeper into the man on top of him and finally sending him over the edge.

As Sherlock's orgasm washed over him, he stayed sitting on top of John, his head coming forward to rest against John's, panting harshly. John could feel himself softening inside of Sherlock, but neither man moved, letting John's semen leak out of Sherlock's used hole, making a mess of both of them.

"God, Sherlock," he panted, completely sober now and intensely out of breath. "That was amazing."

On top of him, Sherlock sat up slightly, and brought a hand up to wipe at the streaks of semen that were on John's cheek. He had a peculiar look on his face, one that John couldn't quite place.

"I—I love you, John," he murmured softly, so low that John almost couldn't hear him. "I'm sorry if…"

John frowned at him, suddenly remembering their argument and dismissing it just as quickly. He reached out to bring Sherlock back down towards him, hugging him tightly and loving the feel of Sherlock's belly pressing against his own stomach between them.

"Forget it, Sherlock. You don't have to apologize." He ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and held on to the man tightly, wishing they could stay just as they were forever. "I'm sorry. And I…I love you, too."

X.X.X

A/N: Next chapter, 'Masterpiece Theater II'.