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“Are you pregnant again?” Sherlock says, eyeing John suspiciously.
John stops, spoonful of Branston Pickle halfway to his lips with a sidelong glance.
“What?” he asks. Innocently, but not very convincingly.
“Oh come on, John, all those symptoms you’ve been having! Despite that jumper, you're already showing! For heaven's sake, look at what you're eating! A child could figure it out.” As if on cue comes the sound of something like a small herd of elephants trampling above their heads through the flat. It's followed by a tremendous crash, and a moment of silence in which they both sit up, alert. The trampling resumes and John and Sherlock relax.
“Want some?” John offers, holding his toast out. It's adorned with nutella and kippers.
“How far along?” demands Sherlock. He pushes the plate back to John with a grimace.
“'Bout eight weeks. The night we cracked Blackfriars Brief.” munches John.
Sherlock settles back with a snort of reminiscent delight. That had been a good night...but still...
"How can you get knocked up every time we -”
“Victory fuck? Dunno...”
“I was going to say 'solve a case'. What about your birth control?”
“Forgot it.” John says licking the tip of his thumb thoughtfully. He opens a jar of clotted cream on the table and begins to spoon it onto his plate.
“You’re a doctor for heaven’s sake!”
“You're a genius. Maybe," John says with a lick of the spoon, “you should know to wear a condom.”
The two look at each other. The sound of Svetlana shouting at someone drifts faintly downstairs.
"We're going to need a third nanny." Says Sherlock, "Those two can barely handle your brood as it is, Dr. Watson."
"Soon we'll have our own rugby team." Says John rubbing his stomach. Sherlock watches and becomes aroused as he thinks of how big John will get over the coming months.
"Don't forget the subs." Sherlock says hotly.
"Already working on it," says John pulling up the wooly jumper. The baby bump is even bigger than Sherlock thought, seems more than eight week's worth of cells dividing and food cravings.
"Got an ultrasound yesterday," Says John freeing Sherlock's erection from his trousers, "Might be better to look for two nannies."
Sherlock moans and ejaculates with these words; as John simultaneously squeezes him, rolling his spine and pushing his belly out giving the illusion of lewd and sudden growth. Sherlock's shudder is long and drawn out, a herald of the times ahead.
John licks salty come off his fingers. It's just the flavor he was missing.
"Love you, babe." He says turning back to his clotted cream.