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Late pregnancy was not particularly kind to Sherlock. The maternity corset he wore was on the last of its laces, as it were, and barely fit well enough to provide the support he needed. Even with it on, he looked and felt enormous.
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re just glowing!” his mother had said, embracing him far too vigorously when he and John walked through the door of the Holmes residence. John was carrying a bag with gifts for Sherlock’s parents, which he set down to help Sherlock out of his coat.
“I am not glowing,” Sherlock replied with a glare. He let John help him out of his coat, trying not to squirm too much in the uncomfortable confines of his clothes. “I shouldn’t even be out, in my condition, but John didn’t want you and father traveling to ours and risking the weather.”
“He isn’t wrong, darling, though I’m not sure whose condition is more fragile right now,” she said, glancing downward at Sherlock’s middle. “But either way, we are positively delighted to see you, and so glad you were able to make it even in your state.”
Sherlock merely grunted and moved toward the sofa, eager to sit down. The carriage ride over had not been easy on him, and his back felt a shambles. John kissed Violet’s cheeks in delayed greeting and, shrugging off his own coat and hat, followed through to the sitting room.
A light meal was served, catering to Sherlock’s condition. A feast like they’d usually have just wouldn’t suit, since one member of the party couldn’t eat a plate full. He barely finished his small portion as it was, and demurely turned down dessert. He pulled John close and whispered in his ear while mummy and father cleared the plates. “I need...my stays adjusted,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “I’m being dug into, and I need loosened.”
“There’s hardly any laces left as it is,” John said, brow furrowed. The corset had fit fine when he’d laced Sherlock into it this morning, and he’d never needed it adjusted midday before. Perhaps the travel and meal had shifted it. “Come, let’s go to your old rooms and I can help you.”
Indeed, Sherlock’s corset was ill-fitting. “Late pregnancy often brings abrupt changes to the Omega’s form,” John said, unlacing Sherlock’s stays and trying to discern how best to adjust it. A red line had dug into the lower part of Sherlock’s abdomen, where the corset had clung to his full middle in the wrong place. “I believe I may have to lace from the bottom and have you hold it up, to give you the proper support.”
Sherlock, for his part, wanted nothing more than to be rid of the thing, support be damned. Somehow he knew that no amount of fiddling with the fit would bring him any sort of relief. “Whatever you think best,” he sighed, knowing he’d be unable to fit back in his garments without the minimizing, if uncomfortable, corset.
“Poor man,” John murmured, sliding the boning down into place over Sherlock’s stomach and starting to do up the laces again. “Not much more of this to endure, with any luck. A Christmas baby, perhaps, or New Years at the latest.”
“My own birthday, at the latest,” Sherlock replied with a frown, wincing as John tugged his stays tighter. “New Years if it waits only a week longer than it’s meant to, my birthday if it waits two. It certainly doesn’t seem keen on being a Christmas baby,” he said, taking a shallow breath and laying a hand on his confined middle as John continued to pull the laces in.
“Not much sign of it,” John agreed. It was Christmas Eve Day, just past noon now. Though Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable and was truly due any day, their child seemed content to stay put. A New Years baby it might be, then. He focused on finishing the task at hand.
Somehow, he’d run out of laces when he’d had just enough that morning. He frowned and looked down, trying to figure out what had changed. “You’re run out of laces,” he said, glancing at the nearly four inches of undone corset at the top. “I don’t know how, unless I’ve not done it tight enough.”
“It’s tight enough,” Sherlock said, feeling like he’d been stuffed into the thing. He could hardly move for how tight it was around his lower middle. “Don’t tell me I’ve grown since this morning, I won’t hear of it.”
“You must have done,” John said, shaking his head. “Otherwise I’d have enough to finish. I’m sorry, my good man, but you’ll have to do without the top laced up, because I’ve no slack.”
Uneven support, then. Worse almost than an ill-fitting corset, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Not having the full support the whole way up his spine meant that his lumbar region had to take the brunt of his weight, which would give him a fierce backache almost instantly. “Delightful,” he groused, pulling his shirt back on and buttoning it. He enlisted his mate’s help in getting back into his trousers and vest, doing his best to ignore how much worse they fit than they had just a few hours ago, before the apparent growth spurt and corset adjustment. “I want to be home where I can get out of these things and be in comfort,” he said, fussing with a button that wouldn’t do up on his vest.
“Thankfully, your parents won’t mind if not everything is fitting perfectly,” John said, attempting to soothe. “Your mother bore two children. She understands the difficulty of it.” He pulled at the button and hem until he managed to force the two to meet, if just barely. All done, he laid both hands on Sherlock’s middle and rubbed softly. “You’ve not long to go, I promise you. Babies are fickle things, but they always come in the end. You’ve done a wonderful thing, you know. It will come soon, and be healthy.” He planted a soft kiss on Sherlock’s frowning mouth.
“It won’t come soon enough,” Sherlock grumbled. “And you won’t see me do it again. One child will suit us fine, and I won’t suffer this again.”
John smiled and kissed his mate once more, and this time Sherlock relented and returned his affections a bit begrudgingly. “You’ll come round to the idea of a house full of children once you’ve got this one in your arms. If it’s anything like you, it’ll charm you into the idea of a little brother or sister as soon as it’s able to talk.”
Mollified, Sherlock allowed John to take him back downstairs, where his parents waited by the Christmas tree. If the straining button popped free when Sherlock sat down, nobody said anything.
It was later, much later than they were planning to stay, by the time John bundled a tired and aching Sherlock into his coat and out the door. One glass of mulled wine had turned into several, and everyone but Sherlock was indulging merrily until night began to fall. Finally a rosy-cheeked John had looked out the window and startled, almost immediately wobbling to his feet in his haste to get Sherlock safely home before pitch dark set in.
“Send word when the baby comes,” Violet said, kissing Sherlock’s cheek as they prepared to leave. “Daddy and I will come by to meet the little one and bring gifts. I think we’ll see you again before the year is out,” She cooed, patting Sherlock’s middle.
“If we’re very lucky,” Sherlock agreed drily, and let John shuffle him toward their waiting carriage.
The night air was bitterly cold and nipped at Sherlock’s nose and cheeks as their carriage trundled over rough brick roads. It would be an hour and a quarter in the daylight, which meant it would take more like two hours to get home in the cold and snow and dark. Just what Sherlock needed, he thought sourly - a long, cold, rough carriage ride with a poorly-fitting support garment and a due date of yesterday.
Somehow, his more-than-tipsy Alpha managed to fall asleep at the reins, despite the bumpy ride. Sherlock sighed and took them up, letting John snore inelegantly beside him. The horse knew the way almost as well as Sherlock did, and the roads were near deserted thanks to the hour and the weather. He winced when the carriage wheel hit a pothole, jarring the seat and sending a sharp pain up his back. John stayed sleeping soundly, his head lolling against the seat back as the carriage righted itself and swayed back to level.
The sharp shifting must have jarred him more than he thought, as the corset was digging in again. He could almost feel his abdomen straining against the bottom hem of it, the boning clutching at an expanse of flesh that wanted freedom. He tried to pull it back into place, but the attempt only resulted in even more discomfort and more strain on his back.
In a fit of pique, Sherlock pulled his shirt from his waistband and released the strings at the base of his stays, relieving some of the pressure. He almost immediately regretted it - what little lumbar support he had was now gone, and all the strain of his weight was concentrated on the weaker part of his back, already strained by this girth and the weight of the baby he carried. He let out a little whine as his back smarted.
There was no relief from his discomfort. What he’d hoped would release some of the strain had only added to it, and now he had no support to keep his back from jarring at any of the subsequent potholes and loose bricks the carriage trundled across. The pain in his back was only growing worse the closer they got to their home on Baker Street. With a frustrated cry he urged the horse to go faster, needing the warmth of their home, the freedom from constricting clothes and his soft mattress for relief from this ache.
They were mere minutes from home when a sharp lurch of the carriage ended with a warm, wet patch spreading across Sherlock’s trousers. He immediately felt his cheeks heat with shame. He could now add incontinence to the long list of struggles this pregnancy had brought on him. The wet fabric cooled on his thighs, a clammy reminder of his embarrassment. His back smarted again, adding insult to injury, and he shifted uncomfortably on the unforgiving wooden bench seat. He was stiff from the cold and pain, tears of frustration and shame gathering in the corners of his eyes. He was a weak man, to be brought to such emotions by discomfort and cold. He wiped his nose with his handkerchief, dabbed at the tears in his eyes and guided the horse into their driveway.
John startled awake when the carriage came to a halt. He squinted out in the dark, trying to figure out where they were through his sleepy, half-drunk haze, and finally looked across at Sherlock, who was barely maintaining his composure. “D’jou get us home?” he asked, slightly incredulous. He fished for his hat and put it on his head, halfway cocked to the side.
“Miraculously, yes,” Sherlock said thinly, handing the reins to the stable hand who had appeared out of the house. “Help me out. I had - an accident.”
Thankfully, the pitch dark disguised the wet patch on his trousers, but it didn’t mask the sound of wet fabric sticking to Sherlock’s upper legs. He tried to stand but found he couldn’t of his own will power. His spine was stiff and sore, the irregular support of the corset having pulled it out of alignment on the rough ride home. “I can’t get up,” he said, half-choking on his words. “Ah - John, help.” He put a hand on his lower back, which was throbbing with pain.
“Careful, then. Easy does it, let me.” The cold air and his mate’s noises of pain seemed to sober John up quickly, and he took both of Sherlock’s hands in his and pulled him slowly to his feet.
Upright, Sherlock found the pain was worse than he’d thought. His whole middle seemed to be a jumble of sore muscles bunched up from the cold and stiffness. He shuddered and held back a quiet cry as he tried to step down from the carriage, his hips grinding painfully. He half-fell to the ground, uncoordinated and slow. “Slowly,” he said thickly. “I’m in - pain.”
“I should have gotten you home much sooner than this,” John said, his voice dark with regret. “You should have been wrapped up, I should have been driving the horse. I’m meant to take care of you.” The alcohol had him still somber.
“Just get me indoors and in the bath,” Sherlock said, with no mind for should-haves.
John made a sympathetic noise when they reached the light of the house and he could see the damp fabric clinging to Sherlock’s thighs. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed red-hot again and he said nothing, moving slowly and achily across the threshold and into their house.
When they reached their rooms and the en-suite, it became clear why Sherlock’s corset was so ill-fitting. Once he was divested of his clothing, it was obvious that his body was preparing for a birth, the baby dropping lower in his womb. Angry red marks where the corset had dug in, even after having been adjusted, spoke volumes of the change.
His trousers and the rest of his undergarments were taken away to be washed. Sherlock stood on shaky legs on the tiled floor while John ran a hot bath. He didn’t dare look in the mirror for fear of what he’d see - his own body, grossly swollen and disproportionate, sagging and marked. Another spasm of pain rolled through his back and he pressed a hand to it, biting his lip and leaning hard against the sink.
“Get in,” John said after a few moments. When Sherlock didn’t reply, John turned around and must have seen the pain writ on his face, because he stood up and gathered Sherlock in his arms. “Too long a day, too little rest and relief,” he murmured, his strong arms wrapping around Sherlock’s shoulders. “In the bath with you, and then sleep.”
The hot water did ease his pain, but not enough. He stayed in only long enough for the bubbles to dissipate before he was itching to get out again, to do anything to try and relieve the tightness in his lower back. John dried him and dressed him and led him to the bed. Sherlock got in without complaint, and fell asleep.
He woke some time later to the unpleasant but now familiar feeling of a wetness between his thighs. “I’ve pissed myself again,” he snapped, angry and frustrated when John awoke and made a questioning noise. He struggled to his feet, stood for a single, wobbling second and then almost collapsed onto the bed again. John had scrambled off the bed, throwing back the sheets and turning on a lamp.
“Sherlock -“ He stopped, staring at the pink stain on the sheets. Another was growing between Sherlock’s thighs, spreading down on the side of the mattress while Sherlock shook, his knuckles white.
“It’s time,” he said, his voice weak and reedy. “The baby, it’s coming. John -“ He put a hand to his middle, his nightgown wrinkled and rucked up over the full curve of his belly.
John dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, pushing up the hem of his gown, heedless of decorum. He gasped and looked up at the omega. “It’s past time. Sherlock, the baby is almost crowning.”
A series of dots connected in Sherlock’s mind and he drew a shuddering breath. “I was in labor in the carriage,” he said, breathless. “My waters leaked then. The back spasms were contractions, they must have been.” John nodded in agreement, reaching the same conclusion.
“A baby before the New Year,” he said, unable to hold back a smile, which Sherlock, in his giddy relief, returned. “I’ll gather my bag. Stay put.” He rose to his feet, pressed a fleeting kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and dashed out of the room.
“You could have been more obvious about it,” Sherlock murmured to his belly, putting both hands on the surface. “I nearly slept through it.”
“You wouldn’t have slept through this part,” John said, striding back into the room, looking silly in his pyjamas carrying his leather bag. Sherlock was about to agree when a pain started in his lower back, creeping around to the front of his belly and stealing his breath away. John pressed his stethoscope to Sherlock’s belly as he cramped, listening for a heartbeat. “Still strong. Lie back when this contraction is over.”
Sherlock did as he was told, with John stuffing pillows behind his back and shoulders to elevate him. They rucked his stained gown up over his knees and John retreated once more to wash his hands, returning as another contraction petered out. He slid onto the bed between Sherlock’s spread legs, pushing his hand into Sherlock’s body and murmuring a small comfort as he did so. He withdrew after a moment, wiping his hand on a towel. “You’re ready,” he said, his voice shaky. “The baby is coming. When you feel the need, bear down. Don’t hold your breath, but push as hard as you can. I’ll tell you when you need to stop.”
Sherlock, in intense discomfort, nodded and reached for John’s hand. Their gazes met for a moment and he took a shallow breath, eyes wide and worried. John’s were equally so, but he nodded as if to say, ‘Yes, Sherlock, you can do it.’ He nodded back, closed his eyes, and waited.
When the pain came, he pushed. Almost immediately it felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. His body was not designed to stretch this far - would he be strong enough to bear their child into this world? A tear leaked from his eye and he grunted, still pushing.
He felt John’s hand on him, on the sore, swollen flesh between his legs, pressing down as if to give resistance. He took another breath and pushed, and felt himself spread wide against John’s hand. Pain, white-hot, burned through that flesh, and he stopped pushing even as his womb continued to contract. “It hurts,” he whimpered, his chest jerking with irregular breaths as he looked up, worried, at John.
“The baby is crowning. You’re stretching to let it past. It will burn, it must burn. Don’t stop now,” the doctor said, harried. Sherlock could feel his hand shaking. “Small pushes, two - two seconds each. Breathe between. Small pushes.”
Sherlock did what he was told, as best he could. The pain grew worse, until he was certain he was tearing at the edges. But then John’s hand was gone, moving away from his sore flesh, but there was still resistance there -
“The head is coming out,” John said, throwing a glance at Sherlock. “I’m holding - I’m holding it in my hand. It’s coming out slowly. Just breathe.” He fumbled for Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock took it, squeezing his fingers unbearably tight as he felt the slow emergence from his body.
John squeezed his fingers back and let out a gasping, relieved breath. “The head is out. The cord is where it should be. The baby will rotate, let it move for a moment - just like that. Push again, when you’re ready. Just the shoulders now, and the worst will be over.”
Sherlock allowed himself one deep breath, staring at the ceiling for a moment. The worst was nearly over, their child nearly here. The pain came before he was ready but he gathered his strength and his wits and with tears in his eyes and a cry in his throat, he pushed again.
A heartbeat. Two.
He was empty.
The sound of John’s hand slapping something wet, and then -
A newborn’s cry.
Sherlock sagged back on the cushions and he stared down weakly at the foot of the bed. His curls clung damp to his forehead. Just as he lifted his hand to brush them away, John lifted a crying, purple being from the bed and held it up, beaming from ear to ear.
“Here she is,” John said, standing up and moving and laying the squalling thing in Sherlock’s arms. “Healthy and hale as a horse, ten fingers and ten toes. You’ve borne us a daughter,” he smiled.
Tears gathered again in Sherlock’s eyes. He let them fall on his nightgown, blinking them away to see his daughter in his arms. She wailed, her eyes tight shut and fists waving in protest. She was wet and her head and shoulders were streaked with blood, but her skin was lightening to a healthy pink as her lungs worked to draw in air for the first time. A few wisps of dark hair were messy on her head.
She was beautiful.
“A daughter,” Sherlock breathed, his chest heaving and arms shaking. “I’ve borne us a daughter.”
Sherlock held her while he delivered his cleanings, while John cleaned him up and put towels under his body. He let John take her only for a minute to wipe her clean, and then he took her back, now dried and wrapped in a blanket and only occasionally whimpering. Her cheeks were full and rosy, her lips pursed and eyes still closed. He ran his finger along her cheek, his smile breaking into a grin when she smacked her lips.
“A Christmas baby after all. She will need a name soon,” John said quietly, sitting down on the bed next to Sherlock. “Had you thought of any?”
“A few,” Sherlock admitted. He’d made a short list which he kept by his bedside. As soon as he’d seen her, though, as soon as she made her first cry and was laid in his arms, he’d decided.
“Her name will be Georgia,” he said. “Georgia Marie.”
“Perfect,” John said, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder lightly. Their daughter was as pale-skinned as her father, but had her papa’s button nose and cheeks. Sherlock’s dark hair was a drying wisp of a curl on her crown. As the sun came weakly through the windows, the snow falling just beyond the glass, Georgia slept peacefully in her father’s arms on her very first Christmas morning.