Chapter Text
Sherlock smoothed a hand over one straining side of his belly, and frowned at his reflection. The furthest crest of his swollen middle was invisible in the full-length mirror, pushing well beyond the scope of the frame. John had gotten him with a full litter on his first try, and the detective had ballooned enormously over the past months. As his pregnancy progressed, his belly grew fuller, heavier making Sherlock’s legs bow wider, devolving his long stride into a deep, encumbered waddle. The Omega kept one hand beneath his girth, as if somehow the slight support would relieve him of the burden of carrying six well-overdue pups in his womb. He’d only been standing for a few minutes, but his back had been screaming in protest from the moment he’d heaved himself up.
The prickling sensation of an oncoming itch made the Omega wince. Sherlock quickly pinpointed the origin, bringing his finger to trace soothingly over an angry red stretch mark even as the itch began to spread. He lumbered over to the bedside table to retrieve a bottle of lotion. He’d given up the idea of preventing stretch marks quite early on. The lotion was only to quiet his sensitive skin as it was being forced to stretch mercilessly around his ever-growing womb. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed for a bit of respite, dragging the weight of his womb onto the mattress with a labored huff and leaning back against the headboard.
A soft moan escaped Sherlock’s lips as he massaged the lotion into his skin. The lubricant alleviated the itch and allowed him to focus on a different kind of sensitivity. The larger he grew, the more pleasure he gained from stroking his swollen middle. He worked in the lotion until his skin glistened with it, his cock firming steadily as his hands moved over the vast expanse. By the end he was flushed, hard and leaking, his eyelids fluttering and his breath coming in short little pants of pleasure. Desperate, he groped under the low hang of his middle for his cock. With a little effort he managed to close a hand around it and began to stroke clumsily. It only took a few pumps before he gave a ragged cry, making a mess of his belly and the sheets beneath him.
Sated, Sherlock let his head loll back against the headboard. He cast his gaze over to the wardrobe across the room. There was a case on - the purpose of heaving himself out of bed in the first place - and as much as Sherlock wouldn’t mind, Lestrade would never let him into his crime scene stark naked. Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance, pressing a hand to his belly as if already feeling the strain it would take to move across the room. He heaved himself up again with a deep groan, and waddled over to the wardrobe.
The contents of the wardrobe made Sherlock grimace further. His usual clothes were long packed away, having been replaced by hideous, stretchy maternity wear in ever-increasing sizes. Even worse, Sherlock’s current garments were too small. Several weeks ago John had irritatingly insisted that Sherlock should consider himself bedridden due to the impending arrival of the pups. In an effort to encourage Sherlock to stay responsibly at home, John had also refused to replace the shirts Sherlock had recently outgrown.
Nevertheless, Sherlock was determined to venture out. Perhaps it was irresponsible, but being cooped up in the flat was driving him up the wall. Cold cases were no longer enough. He needed the real thing. His opportunity to slip out unnoticed had finally arrived: John was at work, and Mrs. Hudson would be gone to the shops all morning. So long as Greg kept his mouth shut, Sherlock could easily spend a few hours getting his fix and be back in time for Mrs. Hudson to serve him lunch. John would never be the wiser.
Sherlock stuffed himself into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and the largest shirt he owned, an awful v-neck in white cotton spandex. The shirt rucked up on top of his middle despite his best attempts at modesty, the slightest of movements sending it springing upward from where he’d pulled it down. Frustrated and aroused from the friction of the fabric against his skin, he was forced to surrender. He shoved his swollen feet into a pair of hard-bottomed slippers, yanked on a track jacket, and waddled out to hail a cab.