*five months later*

"John, have you put on weight?"

Doctor John Watson looked up from his laptop to glare at his boyfriend, sitting across the room. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, of course I haven't."

"You've only been wearing elastic-waist pants for the last few weeks," Sherlock noted.

"The other ones feel . . . odd."

"I told you you were putting on weight," Sherlock said with a satisfied smile. He pulled out his bow and began running a chunk of rosin up and down its string.

"No, no I thought so too, but I bought a pair of jeans in a size bigger and they fell down around my hips. It's not that the jeans are too small, it just feels like there's something in my stomach that they're pinching."

Sherlock jerked his head up, looking alarmed. "John, has your stomach been hurting for a while?"

John thought back, trying to remember the last time he hadn't had pain in his abdomen. "Um . . . maybe . . . two months, I guess? Why do you ask?" Seeing the worry on Sherlock's face, he added, "I'm sure it's nothing, love. Don't worry about it."

"John,of course I'm going to worry about it. You're my boyfriend, it's my job."

"Sherlock, honestly, I am fine!"

"John, let me think about this, okay? You're only wearing pants with a soft, elastic waist, but jeans a size up are still too big. You say it feels like something in your stomach is being pinched, but the waistband of the jeans comes to below your actual stomach, so it has to be something else. You've been throwing up an awful lot, mostly in the morning, and your tastes have changed dramatically. It's almost like . . . "

John closed his laptop and met his boyfriend's gaze, fear and dread slowly filling him. "You aren't saying . . . "

"It almost sounds like you're pregnant, John."

"Or I might just have appendicitis, Sherlock," John replied, even though he was lying through his teeth.

"No, you're lying, you've already had it removed. And even if you hadn't, it's only a possible explanation of some of the facts. Pregnancy is the only logical explanation of ALL of the facts."

"No, that can't be logical, because I am a BOY! Men can't have children unlesss they have sexual intercourse with a woman, and even then, they don't do the carrying!"

"It almost sounds like you . . . took . . . the . . . oh, no," Sherlock gasped.

"What , Sherlock, what is it this time?" John sighed.

"I've been developing something to allow gay couples to give birth. Friend of mine asked me to work on it, I did major in chemistry. It's based off of the DNA of species where the father cares for and carries the children. It was incomplete, experimental. It hadn't been working. So - "

"You gave it to me?" John demanded. "Sherlock, how could you?"

"I didn't give it to you, don't be daft. It's right here, look." Sherlock stood, set down his violin, and walked into the kitchen. He returned with a small glass jar full of a thick, golden-y liquid. "It's right here, see?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait. That's the honey jar, I put it in my tea, like, three months ago."

"No, this is my experiment. But if you put it in your tea, then it might have caused you to grow a uterus. And with all of the sex we've been having, it wouldn't surprise me if you somehow became impregnated."

"Well, how are we supposed to know? It's not like we can just walk into a hospital and ask for an ultrasound. I'd be regarded as crazy! And if I am, I"ll be taken away for testing - regarded as a freak of nature. What do we do!"

"We call in someone else. Someone who we can trust. And - John, you are not a freak. You are special, and I will still love you. MRS. HUDSON!"

The landlady-not-housekeeper poked her head around the doorway to the kitchen. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"You have a daughter, correct? I believe her name was Claire or something?"

"Oh, Clara, yes. Finally getting over that awful marriage, thank goodness. Back in medical school, too, managed to get her scholarship. Well, of course she did, entered at only 15, brightest child there ever was in the school."

"Where is she now?" Sherlock pressed. "It's urgent. I know she's traveled all over the world with her scholarship, studying everywhere, but where is she NOW?"

"She's in Edinburgh, dear. Scotland. Last I heard from Clara she was taking her end-of-term exams. She'll be starting her residency training in London in a week and a half. Is that what you needed, dear?"

"Almost. Do you have a number I can contact her on?"

* * *

Eleven days later, a knock sounded on the flat door. John was in the kitchen, heaving into a trash can, and Sherlock was rubbing his back. John straightened, wiped his mouth on a rag, and went to the door.

A girl stood there, a girl in her early twenties who looked far too young to be completing medical school. She had shiny brown curls that hung to her shoulders, tan skin, and big blue eyes. She was wearing a blue cable-knit jumper, jeans, and trainers, there was a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and a suitcase sat next to her.

"Is this 221 Baker Street?" she asked. Her voice was very quiet, like someone who has been abused and told to shut up their entire life. And as John looked at her, he knew exactly who she was.

"Clara Hudson? As in, the ex-wife of my sister, Clara Hudson?"

"John?" she asked, a look of bewilderment crossing her delicate features. Then she grinned. "John Watson, it is you! I've missed you."

She flung her skinny arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, and John hugged her back, smiling, because yeah, he'd missed Clara a lot.

"Here, let me get the suitcase. I think you've already talked to my boyfriend, Sherlock?"

"Yes, we spoke on the phone. I told him I'd try to get here as soon as possible," Clara said. John noted with surprise the Scottish lilt accenting Clara's words before remembering that she had been studying in Edinburgh.

"Thank you for coming. It's just, we don't know what else to do, and - "

"Clara!" Mrs. Hudson called, interrupting John and hugging her daughter tightly.

"Hello, Mum. It's good to see you again," Clara said, grinning. "Where should I put my suitcase?"

"Just leave the case in the hallway, dear, the boys will get it later. Come in, have some tea."

Just then, several gunshots sounded from upstairs. Clara jumped and Mrs. Hudson looked worriedly upstairs. "The last client left, I thought?"

"We didn't have any yet today," John realized, turning and running up the stairs with Clara right ahead of him.

He nearly ran into Clara, standing in the doorway, staring. Sherlock was dressed the same way he had been when John had left - no shirt, plaid pajama bottoms. His chest was smeared in something bright red, as was his face, and his gun was in his hand.

"Sherlock!" John pushed Clara aside and ran over to his boyfriend. "What happened? Are you alright?" He noticed shards of glass embedded in Sherlock's chest, face, and hands. "Good God, what happened?"

"Just fine," Sherlock muttered crossly. "I tripped while moving a couple of jam jars and landed on them."

"And the gunshots?"

"I didn't exactly realize what had happened immediately, I hit my head. I heard voices, felt sharp pains, assumed that I was being attacked, and fired off a few rounds. Don't seem to have been damaged, though."

"You're absolutely full of glass, Sherlock. Yes, you have been damaged!" Clara said. Sherlock turned his steely gaze on her.

"And just who are you?" he snapped.

"I'm Clara Hudson. We spoke on the phone?" she stammered, twisting a curl of hair anxiously around her finger. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but then he doubled over, wincing.

"Sit him down there," Clara instructed, unfastening the catch on her bag and pulling out a small kit.

"Relax, Sherlock, Clara's a doctor. Well, she will be, anyways. You can trust her."

"Can I have a wet washcloth, mum? And a bottle of iodine if you've got it, or any other disinfectant. Have you got a magnifying glass, Sherlock? I'd assume you would, being a private detective?"

"It's in my coat pocket," Sherlock said. Mrs. Hudson brought Clara the washcloth, setting the Neosporin and the magnifying glass on table next to her. Clara gently wiped the jam off of Sherlock and pulled tweezers out of her bag.

She carefully pulled out the pieces of glass she saw, and then used the magnifying glass to make sure she had then all out. Then Clara dabbed disinfectant onto the cuts. The minute she touched washcloth to skin Sherlock bellowed and jerked away.

"No! I don't need this ridiculous, nonsensical - "

Joh seized Sherlock's face and kissed him, long and hard. While a stunned Sherlock was distracted, Clara quickly dabbed disinfectant onto the rest of his cuts. Then she pulled out a box of band aids and started sticking them onto the cuts.

"I really hate you for that," Sherlock murmured, pulling away from John.

"You know you loved it," John retorted, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's soft curls.