Professional Fangirl

“When was your last monthly course?” he asked abruptly.

You blinked, taken aback by the question. “I - what? Why would you -”

“Humor me,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “When?”

You tried to think back, but honestly, you’d never been particularly regular, and with the whirlwind of married life, you hadn’t been paying close attention. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago? Perhaps longer? I’m not always regular, you know that.”

“Six weeks,” he said with certainty. “It’s been six weeks and three days since your last menstrual cycle.”

“How could you possibly -”

“Because I pay attention to everything about you,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “But that’s not the only indicator.” He sat on the arm of your chair, his hand moving to rest gently on your shoulder. “May I?”

At your nod, his fingers traced along your collarbone, then lower, ghosting over the swell of your breasts through your day dress. You shivered at the touch, but his expression remained clinical, observant. 

“Your breasts are fuller,” he said matter-of-factly. “Noticeably so. And more sensitive - you flinched slightly when I touched you just now, even through the fabric. You never do that normally.”

Your breath caught. “That doesn’t mean -”

“There’s more.” He stood, offering his hand to help you up. When you were standing, he stepped back slightly, his eyes traveling down your body. “Your waist is slightly thicker. Only by perhaps an inch, barely noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know your body as intimately as I do. But it’s there. And your hips -” his hands settled on your hips, thumbs brushing your hipbones through the layers of your dress, “- they’re fuller as well.”

“I’ve probably just gained a little weight,” you protested weakly, but your heart was starting to race.

“You’ve also been tired,” he continued, his voice taking on that rapid-fire quality it got when he was in the midst of a deduction. “More than usual. You’ve been taking naps in the afternoon, something you never did before. Three times this week alone, i’ve found you asleep on this very chair.”

He was right. You had been more tired lately.

“Your eating habits have changed,” he went on, beginning to pace now, his energy building. “You’ve developed an aversion to coffee - you used to drink two cups every morning, now you can barely stand the smell. Yesterday, you actually left the room when I made myself a cup. And you’ve been craving strange combinations - pickles with your tea two nights ago, which you insisted was perfectly normal despite never having eaten such a thing in all the time I’ve known you.”

“Lots of people enjoy pickles,” you said, but your voice was faint. 

“You’ve been more emotional,” he continued, turning to face you. “Not dramatically so, but I’ve noticed. You cried while reading the newspaper last week. An article about orphans. You never cry at such things.”

“It was a sad article,” you mumbled. 

“And this morning,” he said, coming to stand directly in front of you again, his hands cupping your face with infinite gentleness, “you were sick. You tried to hide it, but I heard you retching in the washroom. You’ve been nauseous for the past week, mostly in the mornings, though you’ve been attempting to conceal it from me.”

Your eyes widened. You had been feeling queasy, but you’d attributed it to something you ate, or perhaps stress. 

“And finally,” he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, his eyes shining with an emotion so intense it made your breath catch, “there’s the way you’ve been touching your stomach. Unconsciously, when you think no one is watching. Your hand rests there, protective, as though you’re already -”

He stopped, his voice breaking slightly. When he spoke again, it was with a certainty that left no room for doubt, but also with a joy so profound it transformed his entire face. 

“Darling,” he said, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, “I believe you’re with child.”

The world seemed to stop. 

“I -” you started, but your mind was racing, pieces clicking into place. The fatigue. The nausea. The sensitivity. And your courses - when was your last monthly bleeding?

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your hand flying to your stomach. “Oh my God, Sherlock, I think you’re right. I think I’m -” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, emotion overwhelming you. 

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, and this time his voice was thick with unshed tears. “We’re going to have a baby.”

And then he was kissing you, his hands cradling your face like you were made of spun glass, and you could feel him trembling, could taste salt and realized you were both crying, both laughing, both completely overwhelmed. 

“We need to confirm it,” you said when you finally broke apart, your hands clutching his waistcoat. “We need to be sure.”

“I am sure,” he said with absolute conviction. “But yes, we’ll confirm it. I’ll send for Dr. Morrison immediately.”

________________________________________________________________

An hour later, Dr. Morrison arrived at Baker Street, his black medical bag in hand. He was an older gentleman with kind eyes and a reassuring manner, someone Sherlock trusted - which was saying something. 

“Mrs. Holmes,” he greeted you warmly. “Your husband tells me you may be expecting. Shall we conduct an examination?”

You nodded, suddenly nervous, and Sherlock squeezed your hand. 

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, though you could see the reluctance in his eyes. 

"Actually," Dr. Morrison said with a knowing smile, "given Mr. Holmes's medical knowledge and his obvious concern, he may remain if you're comfortable with it, Mrs. Holmes."

"Please," you said, grateful. "I'd like him to stay."

The examination was thorough but respectful. Dr. Morrison asked you questions about your symptoms, felt your abdomen through your loosened corset and dress, and performed a careful internal examination while you lay on your bed with Sherlock holding your hand.

Finally, Dr. Morrison straightened, a broad smile on his face. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. You are indeed expecting. I would estimate you're approximately six to seven weeks along. Everything appears perfectly healthy."

Sherlock's hand tightened on yours, and when you looked at him, you saw tears streaming down his face.

"You're certain?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Quite certain," Dr. Morrison confirmed. "The signs are unmistakable. Your wife's uterus is enlarged, her cervix has the characteristic bluish tint of pregnancy, and combined with all the symptoms you've described, there's no doubt. You'll be parents by late spring, I should think."

After Dr. Morrison left with instructions for your care and a promise to call again in a month, you and Sherlock stood in your bedroom, simply holding each other.

"We're having a baby," you whispered against his chest.

"We're having a baby," he repeated, his voice full of wonder. His hand moved to rest on your stomach, even though there was no visible change yet. "Our child is in here. Growing. Right now."

The reality of it hit you both at once, and suddenly you were kissing again, desperate and joyful and full of so much love you thought you might burst with it.

"I love you," he said against your lips. "I love you so much. Both of you."

"We love you too," you whispered back, and his smile was brighter than you'd ever seen it.

________________________________________________________________

Over the following weeks, Sherlock became even more attentive than before. He'd already begun reading every medical text on pregnancy and childbirth he could find, had consulted with three different physicians about your care, and had begun making lists of things you would need.

The great detective had a new case, and it was the most important one of his life.

One evening, about two months into your pregnancy, you stood in your bedroom as Sherlock carefully unlaced your corset, his fingers gentle on the stays.

"You're even more beautiful," he said softly as the garment fell away and he could see the slight swell of your belly through your chemise. "Knowing you're carrying our child - you're radiant."

"I don't look much different yet," you said with a small laugh.

"You do to me," he insisted. "You're glowing. You're perfect. You're everything."

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his hands moving over your body with renewed wonder. Every touch felt weighted with meaning, with the knowledge of what was growing inside you.

"I want you," he murmured against your neck. "I need you. Is it - can we -"

"Yes," you breathed, understanding what he was asking. "Dr. Morrison said it's perfectly safe."

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bed with a gentleness that made tears prick your eyes. He laid you down like you were precious, like you were sacred, and the way he looked at you made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he said as he slowly removed your remaining undergarments, pressing kisses to each inch of exposed skin. "Tell me if I need to stop."

"I will," you promised, but you knew you wouldn't need to. Sherlock was always attentive, always careful with you, but now there was an added layer of protectiveness, of tenderness that made every touch feel like worship.

When you were both naked, he paused, his hand splaying across your stomach where the smallest curve was beginning to show. "Our baby is in here," he said, his voice full of awe. "We made this. Together."

"We did," you agreed, covering his hand with yours.

He kissed your stomach, soft and reverent, before moving up your body. When he entered you, it was slow and careful, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any sign of discomfort.

But there was none. There was only pleasure, only love, only the overwhelming rightness of being connected to him like this.

"You feel incredible," he breathed, moving with slow, deep strokes that made you gasp. "So perfect. So beautiful. Carrying my child. Our child."

The words sent shivers through you. There was something primal about it, something that made the pleasure even more intense. You were his, and he was yours, and you'd created life together.

"Sherlock," you moaned, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved. "Don't stop."

"Never," he promised, his pace increasing slightly. "I'll never stop loving you. Never stop wanting you. You're everything to me. Everything."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and the added stimulation made you cry out. He watched your face with rapt attention, cataloging every expression, every sound, learning what made you feel good in this new phase of your body.

"That's it," he encouraged as you began to tighten around him. "Let go, darling. I've got you. I'll always have you."

Your climax washed over you in waves, your body clenching around him as pleasure coursed through you. He followed moments later, groaning your name as he came, his body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward, he held you close, his hand never leaving your stomach, as though he couldn't bear to break the connection with the life growing there.

"I didn't know it was possible to love someone this much," he said quietly. "And now there will be two of you. How will my heart even contain it?"

"It will," you assured him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Love expands. It doesn't divide."

"Wise words from the mother of my child," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his hand protective over your stomach, both of you dreaming of the future.

________________________________________________________________

Seven Months Later

"Sherlock, I'm fine," you said for the hundredth time that week as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time in as many minutes.

"You're nine months pregnant," he countered. "You're carrying a significant amount of extra weight, your center of gravity has shifted, and you're experiencing regular false pains. You are decidedly not 'fine.'"

You couldn't help but smile. Pregnancy had turned your already attentive husband into something approaching a mother hen. He'd read every book, consulted with every physician, and had become so protective that Watson had started calling him "the guard dog."

Your pregnancy had been relatively easy, all things considered, but Sherlock had treated every symptom, every change, with the utmost seriousness. He'd been there for every moment of morning sickness, had rubbed your swollen feet, had talked to your growing belly every night, telling your child about the world they would soon enter.

Dr. Morrison had examined you just last week and declared, with a knowing smile, that based on the way you were carrying and the strength of the heartbeat, he believed you were having a girl.

"She's going to be just like you," Sherlock had said afterward, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Beautiful and brilliant and perfect."

Now, as you sat in your living room, your belly enormous beneath your loosened dress and your back aching, you watched your husband pace with barely contained anxiety.

"Sherlock, sit down. You're making me nervous."

"I'm simply -" he started, but then stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you. "You just had a contraction."

"It's just false pains," you said, but even as you spoke, another one hit, stronger this time, and you couldn't quite hide your wince.

He was at your side in an instant. "How far apart?"

"I don't know, I haven't been timing -" Another contraction, and this time you gasped.

"I'm sending for Dr. Morrison and the midwife," he said firmly, already moving toward the door to call for Mrs. Hudson. "Now."

"Sherlock, it might be false labor -"

"Your waters just broke," he said, pointing to the wet spot spreading on the sofa beneath you.

You looked down at the dampness seeping through your skirts. "Oh. Well. I suppose we are having a baby then."

Mrs. Hudson was dispatched immediately to fetch Dr. Morrison and Mrs. Brennan, the midwife. Within the hour, your bedroom had been transformed into a birthing room, with clean linens, hot water, and all the necessary supplies.

If you'd thought Sherlock was protective before, it was nothing compared to how he was during your labor. He held your hand through every contraction, breathed with you, encouraged you, and looked absolutely murderous at anyone who seemed to be causing you pain.

"You're doing brilliantly," he kept saying, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your hands. "So strong. So brave. I'm in awe of you."

Mrs. Brennan, a capable woman who'd delivered hundreds of babies, worked efficiently alongside Dr. Morrison. "Your husband is quite devoted, Mrs. Holmes," she said with an approving smile. "Most men won't even stay in the house during a birth."

"He's not most men," you managed between contractions.

Twelve hours later, exhausted and sweaty and in more pain than you'd ever experienced, you heard the most beautiful sound in the world.

Your daughter's first cry.

"She's here," Mrs. Brennan said, and suddenly there was a tiny, perfect baby being placed on your chest, all pink skin and dark hair and absolutely furious at being evicted from her warm home.

"Oh," you breathed, your hands coming up to cradle her. "Oh, she's perfect."

But when you looked at Sherlock, you found him frozen, staring at your daughter with an expression of such profound emotion that it made your already overwhelmed heart crack wide open.

"Sherlock?" you said softly.

He reached out with a trembling hand, one finger gently stroking your daughter's tiny cheek. A tear rolled down his face, then another, and then he was crying in earnest, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.

"She looks just like you," he managed to say, his voice broken. "She's - she's perfect. She's absolutely perfect."

And he was right. Your daughter was indeed a carbon copy of you—the same nose, the same mouth, even the same shape of her eyes. She was you in miniature, and the way Sherlock looked at her, you knew he was completely, utterly lost.

"Would you like to hold her, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Brennan asked gently.

Sherlock looked terrified. "I… what if I drop her? What if I -"

"You won't," you assured him. "Sit down."

He sat in the chair beside the bed, and Mrs. Brennan carefully transferred your daughter into his arms. He held her like she was made of glass, his eyes wide, his entire body rigid with the effort of being careful enough.

And then your daughter opened her eyes - your eyes - and looked up at him.

Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Hello," he whispered. "Hello, little one. I'm your father. And I promise you, I will spend every day of my life making sure you know how loved you are. How precious. How absolutely extraordinary."

Your daughter made a small sound, her tiny hand reaching up, and when her fingers wrapped around Sherlock's thumb, you watched your brilliant, logical, often cold husband completely fall apart.

"I love you," he told her, his voice shaking. "I love you so much already. You and your mother - you're my whole world. My everything."

________________________________________________________________

Three Weeks Later

"Holmes, I need you to look at these case files -" Watson stopped short as he entered the living room, taking in the scene before him.

Sherlock was on the floor, lying on his back, holding your daughter above him and making absolutely ridiculous faces at her. Your daughter was making delighted sounds - almost like laughter - her little hands waving in the air.

"Not now, Watson," Sherlock said without looking away from his daughter. "Can't you see I'm occupied?"

"You're making faces at an infant," Watson said flatly.

"I'm bonding with my daughter," Sherlock corrected. "It's important for her development. There are studies."

"You've read studies on making silly faces?"

"I've read studies on everything related to infant development," Sherlock said, finally glancing at Watson with a look of such dismissive coldness that Watson actually took a step back. "Now, unless someone is actively dying, I suggest you leave. You're interrupting our time together."

Watson looked at you where you sat on the sofa, and you just shrugged with a smile. This was normal now.

"Right," Watson said. "I'll just... go then."

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock said dryly, his attention already back on his daughter. "Look at that, darling," he cooed, his voice transforming completely. "You smiled at me. Yes, you did. You're so clever. Just like your mama."

Watson shook his head in amazement as he left. "Unbelievable," you heard him mutter.

Once he was gone, Sherlock carefully sat up, cradling your daughter against his chest. She immediately snuggled into him, her tiny fist clutching his shirt, and you watched your husband's face soften into an expression of such pure love it made your chest tight.

"She's asleep," he whispered, standing slowly and walking over to you. He sat beside you on the sofa, your daughter still cradled in his arms. "Look at her. Look at how perfect she is."

"I know," you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You say that approximately fifty times a day."

"Because it's true," he said seriously. "She's the most perfect thing I've ever seen. Well, second most perfect. You're still first."

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You're a wonderful father, you know that?"

"I'm trying," he said, his eyes never leaving your daughter's sleeping face. "I want to be worthy of her. Of both of you."

"You already are," you assured him.

He looked at you then, and the love in his eyes was so intense it stole your breath. "I never knew," he said quietly. "I never knew I could feel like this. That I could love like this. You changed everything. You and her… you're everything I never knew I needed."

"We love you too," you whispered. "So much."

Your daughter stirred in her sleep, making a small sound, and Sherlock immediately began rocking her gently, humming softly. You recognized the melody - it was the same one he'd hummed to your belly during your pregnancy.

As you sat there, watching your husband cradle your daughter with such tenderness, such devotion, you thought about the man you'd married. The brilliant, cold, often difficult man who kept the world at arm's length.

That man still existed - Watson and everyone else still saw him. Still experienced his sharp tongue and sharper mind, his impatience and his dismissiveness.

But you and your daughter? You saw someone else entirely. You saw a man capable of profound love, of gentleness, of complete and utter devotion.

The great Sherlock Holmes had been transformed by love, and as you watched him press a soft kiss to your daughter's forehead, his eyes closing in contentment, you knew that this - this right here - was his greatest achievement.

Not his cases, not his deductions, not his brilliant mind.

But this. The family he'd built. The love he'd learned to give and receive.

"What are you thinking?" he asked softly, opening his eyes to look at you.

"That I'm the luckiest woman in the world," you said honestly.

"Incorrect," he said with a small smile. "I'm the lucky one. I have you. I have her. I have everything."

And as your daughter slept peacefully in her father's arms, as Sherlock held both of you close, you knew he was right.

You had everything.