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"Oh, look at you! How many are you having, dear?" The old woman at the till asks cheerfully.
"Oh. Just one." Says John quickly. He wants to pay and get out, he's tired of having this conversation again and again.
"My! The baby's quite big, then! When's your due date love?"
"Um... August 13th..." He mumbles. He really should lie, he thinks.
The woman openly gapes in astonishment. John knows, of course he knows how he looks; swollen with child and overdue, despite only being six months along. Like he's carrying two or three, big enough to come out. He's looked ready to pop for ages now. He's been emotionally ready too; ready to stop feeling bigger every day, tired of feeling the odd mix of awkwardness, happiness and every other emotion that decides to emerge. He's ready to stop being gawked at by strangers. The suspense has been growing as swiftly and as much as the giant child inside him.
"Tsk! You poor thing." she says as they both watch his enormous stomach ripple under his taut white shirt. Only a week ago it fit. The baby moves a lot.
John scoops up his change and grabs his shopping. He wants to go home.
"Good luck..." says the woman at the till.
The flat is empty. Sherlock is out on a case. Nothing much has changed for him it seems.
They've only fucked once. John replays that morning in his head for the millionth time, a day not long after Sherlock had "come back". Emotions were running high and in many directions. It had happened in between sips of morning tea and artificially idle conversation. Sherlock abruptly bending John over the armchair, pushing himself inside of John. And then thrusting his hips a few rough times. So fast, so casual. John feeling surprised more than anything else; at Sherlock's thick cock and suddenly being full of semen. And nothing between them after that, except...
John sinks into the sofa with a sigh, legs splayed, his enormous belly between them. It's increasingly difficult for him to get comfortable. In the blink of an eye he's gone from being buggered over a chair to barely able to sit up in one. Sherlock’s ultimate burden.
"I'm going to keep it." He'd told Sherlock. It was early but his belly was showing, the growing baby inside him already greedy for space. He'd mistakenly thought he might be having twins.
Sherlock had merely nodded, and continued with the experiment before him. Something with drosophila and cosmetics.
"Whatever you decide is fine with me," He'd said, and meant it.
Only things have been a little strange.
They aren't lovers but are certainly more than friends. And Sherlock isn't much of a nurturer, and the intensity of John's ballooning up makes it all feel wildly out of control; Sherlock's seed thriving inside him from the start, making John grow and grow.
John's done his best not to panic as it’s happened - over the months he's become larger than he'd have imagined possible.
Sherlock by contrast seems genuinely calm; content with the situation, perhaps even a little underwhelmed, as if it was all expected. He takes it for granted that John should carry his massive child.
"You'll be out of commission for a while. It will almost certainly be a difficult labor. " Sherlock says matter-of-factly when John brings up the irregular size of his offspring.
"I imagine you'll need a cesarean, which is a shame; it will be even longer before you can come back to help me." he adds, briefly glancing at John's bulging stomach. This, John knows, is meant to be a sympathetic comment. Supportive sentiment, Sherlock style.
John expects little from Sherlock regarding the pregnancy, but he doesn't take it personally either. Sherlock does for John what it occurs for him to do, he just doesn't think very well in this area.
John goes into labor just at the start of week thirty-two. He is thankful; he’s grown so large he’s having real trouble walking. He's tired of having to find larger clothes each week, tired of feeling so swollen, gravid. He’s tired of being kicked and stretched from the inside by Sherlock's oversized child. He wants to hold his baby, too.
For an entire day John paces the flat, grunting, moaning, struggling with the burden of his heavy body and the contractions that grip him. His stomach seems bigger than ever, he feels impossibly full. There is a pressure building inside that renders a part of him terrified. He’s oddly aroused, his erection unflagging, pushing up against the swell of his belly, adding to his state of discomfort.
Sometimes Sherlock is there. He rubs John's back, tries to say encouraging things. But there is a case on, and he is quick to point out it will be sometime before the main event.
"Call me when your contractions are close together, five or fewer minutes apart." He says offhandedly as he sweeps out the door.
The pain becomes unbearable after eleven more hours, and John starts wailing, crying out with each contraction despite himself. They are close together by then. His massive stomach rolls again and again as he cries out. The baby has become super active, he imagines it moving with excitement for its impending arrival.
"I -I think I should go to hospital now." He gasps into the phone. Sherlock's voice sounds far away. John misses what he says; he’s distracted by the feeling of a forceful burst inside and a gush of warm water between his legs. John groans at the relief of pressure, then immediately cries out as the next contraction hits him. It’s so much stronger than the others.
The baby inside him is moving down, fast. The weight of it working with gravity. John drops his phone, crumples to his hands and knees. His belly bulges against the floor.
He's waited too long. The baby's coming NOW, he thinks.
John's legs spread on their own accord. His hand instinctively slides between them, covers the wet, widening opening there. The outer flesh around it is swollen, puffy. His body is eager to birth. His perineum is beginning to swell, bulging outward.
"Haaaaaaaaannnnnnghhhhhh!" The desire to push is overwhelming. He's not there yet, he knows he must wait for the baby to crown. He puts his head to the cool linoleum floor, he tries not to cry as he shudders with effort and pain. The child inside him twists and tries to stretch, bringing the tears to John's eyes. John's belly contracts and rolls. He howls and pants. Time crawls.
Cautiously, he slides his fingers inside himself. He can feel the baby's head. Now it doesn't seem to be going anywhere, although his body would have it otherwise. Another contraction grips him, and then another.
"Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrn!"
"Hnnnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhnnnnn ohgodddd!"
He can't do this alone.
Mrs Hudson is away. He will get himself to the hospital.
John struggles towards the stairs, crumpled over and crying out every minute or so as his belly rolls and contracts, his legs spread in a wide horse stance. Amniotic fluid continues to trickle down his thighs, small bursts occasionally escaping from between his legs with contraction.
The pressure in his pelvis is unbelievable. The giant baby's head is lodged there, he's sure of it.
He feels between his legs again. He's slowly stretching, he's a little more open. His perineum is bulging dramatically. The hot flesh pushes against his hand, but his body is still offering too small an exit for a very large head.
John can’t resist pushing down a little. The urge is too great. The effect is immediate. He groans, shuddering, cries as the baby moves very slightly, then stays lodged where it is. He grabs hold of the balustrade with both hands. He takes the first painful step down.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock opens the door to find John in the foyer, seated at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to 221b. His legs are spread wide, his body yawning around the beginning of a mass of dark hair. Sherlock is momentarily taken aback at the sight; as he witnesses the child's head push forward then slide cruelly back into John’s body. John screams in pain and frustration. He is drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his head.
“It’s too Unnnnnn! big!” he pants desperately, “Help me! Nnnnnmmmm....Please! Nnnnnnnh! Please! Nnnnghhhhhh.... get it out of me!”
“Its too late for the hospital now.” says Sherlock. Instead he determines the stairs are key. John isn’t sure he agrees, but he’s so desperate to lean on someone else, to not have to make a decision that he complies.
John clings to Sherlock as he is walked painfully back up the stairs. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s arm hard enough that there are sure to be bruises.
“Mmmnnn... please, please... Hnnnnnngh....!” John wails. He buries his face in Sherlock and sobs with each step, his pelvis grinding against the baby lodged there.
“I can’t... I...Nnnn!”
“Another step.” says Sherlock amicably, then “come on, one more.” He half pulls John along, forcing him to go a little too quickly.
By the time they’ve reach the top, John knows the baby is crowning, feels the effects of gravity taking over once again. Sherlock is always right.
By the time they make it into the flat, John is walking with the head practically halfway out of him. It's the size of a small melon. It feels to John like it’s the size of a large bus.
They don’t actually make it to the bedroom, or wherever Sherlock was about to lead him.
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!”
Instead, the baby’s head pops out fully as John stops and doubles over, half squatting, half standing in the hallway. He opens his shaking legs as wide as he can. There is another gush of water as John screams and pushes hard, feels himself widen impossibly. Sherlock moves, fast as lightning. He crouches down to catch their enormous child, a look of sudden joy in his eyes.
….
Two months later John is dreaming.
He misses this, the feeling of running through the night with Sherlock. In his waking life he’s kept his consulting down to the practical; visiting crime scenes, making medically based assessments. No more direct confrontation with danger and violence.
Which is actually fine, because John loves taking care of his big boy more than anything, even running across rooftops as he does now. Sherlock beckons him from the top of the neighboring building.
“C’mon, jump! He’s getting away!” he calls, and John feels an oddly placed rush of pleasure as he leaps off the edge.
His eyes snap open, face in pillow, ears resolving the sound of Sherlock groaning softly even as it fades. Sherlock is in his bed - on top of John, inside him. There is a flood of hot semen pouring out of him, filling John, so excessive it leaks freely into the sheets as Sherlock slides his giant cock out slowly, still spurting waves of sticky love.
Sherlock rolls off to one side with a deep exhale. John turns over quickly, his eyes wide.
“You - What have you -”
“Shhhhhhhh.” Sherlock says cutting John’s alarmed sentiment short. To John’s amazement, he gently pushes John’s legs closed, curls them back so John is hugging his chest. His long hands rest on John’s knees, discouraging movement.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock says planting a soft kiss on John’s shin, “This one will be easier...”