seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Poland
seen from Germany
seen from Yemen
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from Poland
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Additional Tags: Weight Gain, post-S3, Chubby Sherlock, Fatlock Summary:
Post-S3, Sherlock gains some happy relationship weight. Slow-burning WG kink.
12 Days of Fatlock: Day 4
Let’s get back to this, what do you think?
Totally oblivious WG
Totally intentional WG
Good-natured teasing
Lazing around
Retirement WG
Cuddling and noticing WG changes
Reassuring the gainer
Overindulging (and/or stuffing)
Trying to hide WG
Trying to flaunt WG
Old uniforms
WG because of a baby (omegaverse, parentlock, etc)
Slow, gradual WG
Surprisingly fast WG
WG while someone is away
Holiday WG (obviously!)
Continued from #3, and whoops, I didn’t mean this to get so long... ;)
They haven’t had a case on in at least a week, but for once, Sherlock doesn’t mind. Not when his current experiment is proving to be so enjoyable.
No, his attention is perfectly occupied watching John react to his new eating habits. After Lestrade’s comments, Sherlock decided there was no need to be covert about his increased appetite. Once they were done at the Yard, Sherlock ordered takeaway and ate three portions of Pad Thai while John watched in astonishment. That was just the beginning.
Since then, Sherlock has filled his days with large breakfasts, larger lunches, and even more indulgent suppers, with plenty of lounging in between. The feeling of constant fullness was odd at first, but not entirely unpleasant. There has been something fascinating about tracking the changes of his own body: he is warmer, a bit softer everywhere. Any extra weight on his frame seems to settle on his belly, although he can tell his arse is rounding out nicely when he examines himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look half bad, even if his belly is starting to get a little bit -- well, prominent. And of course, his clothes are shamefully tight, even his new suit.
Anyway, it’s easier to remain in his pyjamas, snacking on biscuits and lazing on the sofa. From time to time he tries a new tactic: licking his fingers after finishing a biscuit, settling a hand on his stomach. John, always nearby, continues to flush, stutter, and stammer whenever Sherlock does any of these things. Truth be told, it’s driving Sherlock to distraction. And yet John continues to say nothing.
It’s maddening. Sherlock decides to do something about it.
While John is working one afternoon, he orders double their usual takeaway, and eats half of it himself before John even gets home. John returns to find him sprawled on the couch, sated and sleepy, with a seemingly uneaten meal waiting for them on the table. Sherlock watches John, and is gratified to see John’s eyes fix quickly on Sherlock’s belly.
“Dinner?” Sherlock inquires innocently.
John flushes, clearing his throat. “Um. You’re -- hungry?”
“Mmm. Starving.” Sherlock stretches, feeling his t-shirt ride up over the curve of his stomach. He’s had to push down his pyjama pants an inch or two to get comfortable.
John’s eyes widen, and he licks his lips. He can’t help chuckling a little bit. Sherlock finds he wants to hear John say something. He needs to hear John comment, acknowledge what’s becoming obvious.
“What?” Sherlock tugs at his shirt. He hopes it doesn’t look purposeful.
“You, um.” John clears his throat again. His cheeks redden. “You’ve been hungry lately, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t noticed,” Sherlock lies, pushing himself up from the couch. It takes a little more effort than he’d estimated, and he can’t help the grunt that escapes as he sits up. He really did go a bit overboard on that first supper, and he wonders for a moment if this is a terrible idea. But he has to drive John to say something, do something.
“Have you moved from that spot today?” John steps forward, raising an eyebrow, and offers a hand.
Sherlock, much as he wants to take it, waves him off. “Fell asleep.”
“Ah.” John’s eyes fix back on Sherlock’s middle as Sherlock stands up stiffly. It really is rather round, and Sherlock feels drowsy from all the food still in it.
John, flushed as he is, turns quickly and busies himself at the table, cracking open the bottle of beer Sherlock’s left at his place. “Thanks for ordering. I had to take two extra patients at the end of my shift.”
“I’d deduced that.”
John smiles. “Of course you did.”
Dinner is lovely, of course, but Sherlock’s appetite flags when he’s only a few bites in. Even with all his increased meals, he’s really not used to so much food at once. He looks up to find John staring at him, riveted as Sherlock takes bite after bite. That’s all it takes to spur him on, and he polishes off his entire helping of Angelo’s pasta, feeling John’s gaze on him as he eats.
When his plate is clean, his stomach gives a mighty rumble, and Sherlock can’t help stifling a small burp. He sits back, suddenly aware of his tight, overfull stomach, now straining into his lap. He feels positively huge.
“Delicious,” he manages.
John looks as if he might pass out, though not from overindulgence. “All right, there?”
“Might have overdone it a bit,” Sherlock admits, shifting in his chair.
“I can see that,” John breathes, and then catches himself. He gives Sherlock a warm half-smile. “Maybe a bit of telly, then?”
Sherlock nods, managing to ease himself back onto the sofa as John clears their plates. His stomach sloshes dangerously, and he puts a hand on it as he sits down again, amazed at the heat of it, the taut skin. It’s positively -- carnal.
John comes in from the kitchen and nearly stops dead at the sight of Sherlock on the sofa. He blinks at him. “Sherlock. You, um. You look --”
“Full?” Sherlock supplies.
John simply nods, as if words are too much to deal with.
Sherlock’s belly churns again, proving a distraction. He really did overdo it; that wasn’t a lie. Wincing, he puts a hand on it.
John’s medical instincts kick in. “Budge over,” he tells Sherlock, and settles onto the couch next to him. “Now lie back a bit.”
Sherlock obeys, his nerves thrilling with John’s close proximity, but finds it’s not so easy to move with his overfull stomach pinning him down. John’s eyes widen in amazement, but he cringes a bit in sympathy. “I don’t know what’s got into you lately,” he mutters.
“Dinner,” Sherlock deadpans.
“Obviously,” John says, and their eyes meet. Something heated passes between them.
John licks his lips, then exhales, businesslike. “Now, see if this feels better.” He rucks up Sherlock’s shirt and slips a hand underneath it, pressing gently on Sherlock’s belly, prodding the taut flesh experimentally.
Sherlock can’t help it: he groans, more from sheer pleasure than discomfort.
John pulls his hand away quickly. “Sorry --”
“No, that was -- that was good,” Sherlock manages. “Perfect.”
“Oh,” John breathes.
“I think it might -- help.”
Without a word, John slips his hand back under Sherlock’s shirt, gently prodding his belly. It feels amazing. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he bites his lip, trying not to groan again. If he had known the sheer pleasure of this sensation, he would’ve gotten fat long ago.
Sherlock also decides that this has to be the most blatant and clumsy seduction imaginable, but since John insists on remaining clueless and stubborn, Sherlock is determined to stay the course.
“What else did you eat today?” John says wonderingly, his fingers still kneading Sherlock’s sore, tight belly.
“Mmm. Can’t remember.”
“You’re lying.” John prods his side gently. “Might be a bit more than a plate of Angelo’s in here.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
The kneading continues. Sherlock wants to melt out of sheer bliss. John gently works his fingers over Sherlock’s generous middle. “You do realise this... isn’t really like you.”
Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, eating. You don’t usually -- I mean. You’ve been, um.” At last, at last he rests his hand on the curve of Sherlock’s stomach and gives it a soft pat. “Getting a bit bigger, haven’t you?”
The energy between them is electric. Sherlock finds he can’t look away from John’s nervous, uncertain gaze. John looks worried Sherlock might snap at him. Time to remedy that.
Sherlock shifts on the sofa, then looks down at his belly for a moment. “Hmm. Yes.” He watches John. “I find I... rather like it.”
John’s breath catches. “Oh. I, um.”
“Do you?” Sherlock murmurs.
He waits.
They gaze at each other. John’s lips are slightly parted, as if in shock.
“Yeah,” John whispers.
“Good,” Sherlock breathes, and before he can say anything else, John’s lips cover his in a crushing kiss.
God, finally. Finally. Sherlock can barely think. It’s scorching, too hot for words, it’s been far too long in coming and they seem in danger of bursting into flame.
Finally, they pull apart, breathing hard, Sherlock barely able to move between the weight of his gut and the deep fire of his own arousal.
“Christ,” John breathes, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.
“Thought you’d like it.” Sherlock tugs John closer, nosing into his neck to kiss it.
John gasps, then pulls back, looking incredulous. “Sherlock. Did you --”
“I conducted an experiment.”
“You --” John begins to chuckle, his hand roaming under Sherlock’s shirt. “You saw that I --”
“Obviously.”
John exhales sharply, shaking his head in disbelief, but his smile is fond. “You figured out a little kink of mine, and drove me mad on purpose, you mean.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
John’s laughing now. He leans in to kiss Sherlock again, then lowers himself gently so that they’re chest to chest. Sherlock hums in pleasure, but can’t help wincing.
“Christ. Sorry,” John says, still laughing. He pats Sherlock’s gut. “God, Sherlock. You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
John shifts, and they gingerly rearrange themselves, John sinking down slowly so as not to jostle Sherlock’s swollen stomach. “This okay?”
“Oh, God yes.” Sherlock’s hands cover John’s, still roaming over his middle. “I didn’t intend to -- overdo it.”
“Maybe you should rest.” John pulls back to look at him. “We can continue this later.” At Sherlock’s murderous look, he laughs again. “Okay, okay. But we’ll go slowly.”
“I’ll be -- oof -- fine.”
“Will you now.” John sucks a kiss onto Sherlock’s neck. “Because this is a pretty hefty tum you’ve got.”
Sherlock’s voice drops into a low growl. He shudders happily at John’s kiss. “You think so.”
John chuckles wickedly, gently prodding the tum in question. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a bit of a kink for this too. Makes no sense, you skinny bastard. Although --” He slides lower on the couch, pushing up Sherlock’s shirt. “Not so skinny, are you?”
“Not at the moment,” Sherlock manages.
“Not anymore, if I get my way.”
Sherlock hopes his kiss is a good enough answer. John seems to understand.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Additional Tags: Weight Gain, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fatlock, Feeding Kink, pudge love Summary:
For the following prompt: After Sherlock and John finally get together, the sex is incredible. And so is Sherlock’s appetite. Apparently, the only reason Sherlock didn’t have much appetite beforehand was that he hadn’t had sex for years. Now that he and John are having regular, fantastic sex, Sherlock is ravenous. John is secretly thrilled as he watches Sherlock fill out, and more than a little turned on to watch the effect he’s having on Sherlock.
More is More
FIC: More is More, 2700 words, J/S, Explicit
Prompt: After Sherlock and John finally get together, the sex is incredible. And so is Sherlock’s appetite. Apparently, the only reason Sherlock didn’t have much appetite beforehand was that he hadn’t had sex for years. Now that he and John are having regular, fantastic sex, Sherlock is ravenous. John is secretly thrilled as he watches Sherlock fill out, and more than a little turned on to watch the effect he’s having on Sherlock.
Well, twist my arm, then...
* * *
“Oh, God,” John breathed, letting his head fall forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh, God. That was amazing.”
Ordinarily, Sherlock would shoot back with a self-satisfied remark when John said something like that, but not at the moment. He was speechless, breathing hard. John propped himself back up on his elbows and grinned down at him. “All right, there?”
“Yes,” Sherlock rumbled, eyes closed, an expression of utter bliss on his face. “God, yes.” He opened his eyes and looked hazily back at John. “I’m starving.”
John grinned down at him. “I think we can remedy that.”
* * *
The sex, as John had said, was amazing. There was no other word for it. Years of pining and longing had exploded into the most passionate, intense lovemaking of John’s life. If he’d ever had any doubts about crossing the line of friendship with Sherlock, they were blown away the first time they fell into bed together. They managed to keep up with Sherlock’s cases, but just barely -- it was hard not to be distracted by thoughts of what they might do when they got back to Baker Street.
John didn’t need to worry about deciding to tell their friends, either. Contentment and happiness must have been radiating from him, because Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson all guessed separately that it had finally happened. Sherlock himself looked so thoroughly well-shagged that his demeanor was markedly different. He actually held the door open for Sally at the Yard one day, prompting Anderson to ask if Sherlock was feeling all right.
Sherlock was definitely feeling all right. And he was also feeling... hungry. John was entirely amused to find out that only a week into their fledgling relationship, Sherlock had eaten nearly double the amount of their usual groceries. And when he wasn’t eating, he was complaining about the lack of food in their flat.
“Christ, Sherlock, I’ve been to the market three times this week,” John said, after Sherlock’s fortieth complaint about their lack of breakfast cereal. “I bought some each time. What have you been doing, pouring it down the gutter? Is this some sort of experiment?”
Sherlock scowled. “I want cereal. Nothing wrong with that, is there? You’re always trying to get me to eat.”
John chuckled. “Okay. It’s fine. Just checking.”
Although it was hard for John to believe, the sex got even better as time went on. Of course, it made perfect sense -- Sherlock was brilliant at everything he did, and this was no exception. He was so gifted at knowing exactly what John wanted that John felt like Sherlock knew it before he did himself. Not wanting to be outdone, John tried his hardest to figure out new and enticing ways to keep Sherlock guessing, and he turned out to be fairly talented at it. They ended up paying a contractor to come in and soundproof Sherlock’s bedroom, and then sent Mrs Hudson a giant bouquet of flowers when it was done. In return, she brought them a giant batch of scones, which Sherlock nearly demolished in a single afternoon.
“Save one for me, will you?” John teased, as Sherlock reached for yet another scone, absorbed at his microscope.
Sherlock grunted, waving a hand at the plate. “There are plenty.”
Well, no, not anymore, John thought, and hid a smile. Sherlock took a bite and shifted on his stool, and John’s gaze wandered over him affectionately. And then he blinked. Sherlock’s bespoke trousers were pinched at the waist, creased in a way that suggested they were a tiny bit tight.
Could that be right? Was Sherlock actually -- filling out? John supposed it was a natural result of Sherlock’s hugely increased appetite, but he hadn’t actually imagined it would affect Sherlock the way it would a normal human being. He studied Sherlock, who was still wolfing down the scone. Sherlock’s shirt buttons were straining as well, even more than usual. The sight was incredibly endearing -- and, John was surprised to find, more than a little bit arousing.
Unable to help himself, he stepped behind Sherlock, running his hands up and down his sides. Sherlock groaned happily into his touch, and John noted that Sherlock’s waistband was definitely a little tight.
“Want to take a break?” John murmured into his ear, and Sherlock nodded, popping the rest of the scone into his mouth before tipping his head back to let John kiss his neck.
* * *
Weeks turned into months, and the amazing sex continued, and even improved. And so did Sherlock’s appetite -- John found that his cooking had never been so appreciated. Gone were the days when Sherlock left cold, untouched plates of food around the flat. Now he actually requested his favourite meals, and more than that, had started to pitch in to help with the cooking and shopping.
They were getting plenty of exercise, if sex counted as exercise, but Sherlock’s appetite showed no signs of waning. And so, much to John’s amazement, he continued to fill out. His thin chest broadened, and his ribs began to disappear. His arse rounded out in a delicious curve, which drove John to distraction. And most impossibly of all, his belly started to poke out by a fractional amount. After one lazy weekend spent lounging in their pyjamas, Sherlock went to dress after showering and found his trousers just wouldn’t do up.
“Was wondering when that would happen,” John said, smirking fondly at Sherlock from the bed.
“Sex makes me hungry,” Sherlock muttered.
“Nothing wrong with that,” John assured him.
Sherlock reddened, and tugged at the clasp. “They’ll close.”
John’s grin widened. “I don’t think so. Want to borrow some of mine? They’ll be a bit short.”
Sherlock glowered down at himself, then pulled at the offending clasp again. “I’m fine.”
John stood up, padding over to where Sherlock stood by the mirror. “You are,” he said matter-of factly. “You look incredible.” He gripped Sherlock’s arm until Sherlock released the trouser clasp, then turned Sherlock to face him, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Honestly,” John added, settling his hands on Sherlock’s waist. “You look healthy. And really bloody happy, if that’s all right with you.”
Sherlock couldn’t help a small smile, but he glanced down at himself again ruefully. “I suppose.”
“Now we’re going to take these to the tailor,” John said, tugging at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers.
Sherlock’s newly rounded stomach, pressed between them, gave a loud rumble.
John laughed, slid his hand over, and patted it. “And we’re going to feed this belly of yours on the way home.”
* * *
John’s middle wasn’t exactly trim these days either, but this wasn’t really anything new. His weight had fluctuated within a ten-pound range for the past few years, and at the moment he was nearing the upper end of things -- which Sherlock sometimes teased him about, poking the bulgiest bit of his stomach or settling his head against it on the sofa. But Sherlock’s added weight was an entirely new development, and John watched in continued surprise as the numbers on the scale continued to tick upwards.
They’d bought a scale -- Sherlock had insisted -- but given John’s great enthusiasm for Sherlock’s fleshier body, Sherlock seemed to be using it for curiosity’s sake, rather than as a weight loss incentive. One afternoon John heard the scale’s telltale beep, then watched as Sherlock strode out of the bathroom, cheeks slightly flushed.
“What’s it say, then?” John said, as Sherlock pretended to have urgent business checking his phone.
It had to be some significant number. Sherlock’s enthusiastic appetite was now the norm, rather than an anomaly, and their friends had started to comment on Sherlock’s filled-out frame. The trousers Sherlock had altered were starting to pinch and crease again. The weight had settled mostly at Sherlock’s middle, and his belly was getting visibly rounder under increasingly tight shirts.
“A stone and a half,” Sherlock grumbled.
John raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock looked down at his phone again. “Maybe two,” he added, far more quietly.
John began to chuckle. “Maybe two.”
“All right, two stone.” Sherlock shot him a look, pocketing his phone, then folded his arms over the unmistakable curve of his stomach. “No need to feed me up anymore. Happy?”
“Very,” John answered honestly. “I’d like to show you how happy, if you don’t mind.”
Sherlock’s gaze went from irritated to heated. “I...”
“Bedroom,” John commanded, and Sherlock grinned.
* * *
After that, Sherlock stopped complaining. It seemed that John’s persistent enthusiasm and lavishing of attention over every inch of new flesh had put his mind at rest. The sex continued to be amazing, and Sherlock’s weight crept up, slowly but surely.
John, for his part, couldn’t get enough of it. He loved the way Sherlock moved these days, still light on his feet, the added weight making him look stronger, more solid. He especially loved when Sherlock discovered another piece of clothing that had grown too small, and pretended to be put out by it. Plenty of his older things could not quite contain his little paunch, and John suspected that Sherlock kept them around just to drive John crazy. In a good way.
And the sex, oh God, the sex. When they’d first started sleeping together, Sherlock had been all bones and muscle. These days he was still heavy with muscle, but he was more belly and arse than bones. He felt soft and warm and just... incredible. One night in bed Sherlock straddled him, then leaned in to kiss his neck and let out a surprised “oof” of breath. John kissed his shoulder and began to laugh. Sherlock’s tum was in the way, pinning John down just enough that he felt a bit breathless.
“You’re getting heavy,” John managed, as Sherlock ran his tongue over John’s ear. John shuddered happily.
“Hmm,” Sherlock breathed. “Am I crushing you?”
“Not really.” John kissed him again. “Not yet, anyway.”
Sherlock rolled to the side, pulling John with him. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, and John could tell he was smirking in the dark.
“What’re you implying?”
“You like me bigger.” Sherlock prodded him. “Obvious.”
John rolled Sherlock onto his back, pinning his shoulders, and began to kiss a line down his body, running his hands over him as Sherlock hummed appreciatively. Even flat on his back, John noted, Sherlock’s belly was starting to curve upwards rather than lay flat. John kissed it reverently. “I’d be mad not to like this.”
Sherlock chuckled, and his tum jiggled faintly. He rested a hand on it, where John had just kissed. “I’m getting fat, and it’s all your fault.”
“My fault.” John began to kiss lower, down to the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs. Sherlock squirmed.
“Encouraging me.”
“Is that what happened.” John returned to kiss Sherlock’s tum again. “You think so? Feeding you, was I?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, and gave a helpless moan. John’s arousal spiked. His mind was filled with a vision of Sherlock, belly huge after an enormous meal, reclining on the sofa. Apparently the idea was arousing enough to nearly send both of them over the edge.
“You’d... like that, would you?” John managed. “I should feed you sometime?”
“Must... experiment,” Sherlock gasped, before they became far too distracted to talk.
* * *
They tried not to let things get out of hand, and mostly, they managed. But the first time John fed Sherlock dessert -- a thick slice of cheesecake -- they were both nearly moaning by the time he’d finished, and couldn’t even make it into the bedroom before tearing each other’s clothes off. That led to a memorable evening ordering far too much takeaway, with Sherlock propped on the sofa at the end of it, cradling his swollen belly in a sated stupor. The sex after that had been even better -- Sherlock could barely move, which was somehow erotic all by itself.
John wasn’t sure what was so damn arousing about this, but the fact was, they were both turned on beyond reason. Maybe it was the danger of it, actually -- Sherlock couldn’t afford to be truly fat, not really, so this kind of overindulgence seemed like forbidden fruit -- a truly foolish idea. Which meant it was also appealing as hell.
And there was also the way Sherlock looked with a belly on him -- a real belly, not just a soft little tum. When he overate, they could both see how he would really look, if the effects of his meal stuck around -- Sherlock was tall, and his chest was broader now, and he could get big if he really wanted to do it.
Or maybe it was just a fantasy, imagining the day when they might retire and sit around the flat getting fat on Mrs Hudson’s scones. Which was not unlike what they were doing at the moment, actually.
They tried to limit their experimental sessions, mostly because Sherlock would sometimes be out of commission for at least half a day, and they couldn’t always risk it. But even so, Sherlock’s weight stopped inching up, and instead, took a leap. It wasn’t until Mrs Hudson bustled in with their linens one afternoon that John truly noticed.
“Look at you,” she cooed at Sherlock, who was lounging on the sofa, lost in thought about a cold case. “John, you’ve done such a marvellous job feeding him up, I tried for years.” Setting the pile of folded sheets on the sofa, she raised an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction. “Even a bit extra, hmm?”
“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock snapped. She started, but gave John a twinkly smile before hurrying back down the stairs.
John looked up at Sherlock and saw immediately what had prompted Mrs Hudson’s comments. Sherlock was slumped back on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, wearing a soft t-shirt. In this position, his belly was proudly on display, looking quite a bit bigger than John remembered. Sherlock sat up and tugged at his shirt, and their eyes met.
“I could retire,” Sherlock said, and smirked.
John looked at him fondly. “Really?”
Sherlock sighed. “No, not quite yet. So maybe we should -- restrain ourselves. Until then.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve no idea how much I weighed this morning.”
Sherlock looked flushed, but was it embarrassment -- or arousal? John felt his own cheeks growing hot. Last time he’d checked, Sherlock had been thirteen stone -- up from his usual rail-thin eleven stone.
“No idea.”
“Thirteen ten,” Sherlock said, smoothing a hand over his stomach, then drumming his fingers on it.
“Thirteen ten,” John breathed. Nearly two hundred pounds. The thought made his insides go absolutely molten. “No wonder.”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “No wonder... what.”
“I mean. Look at you.”
Sherlock smiled slowly, and stretched deliberately, his t-shirt rucking up over his belly to expose a sliver of pale flesh. “Maybe you should look a bit closer.”
John was at Sherlock’s side before he could really think, locking the sitting room doors and sliding onto the sofa next to him. They leaned in, reaching for each other, and John swallowed a moan as Sherlock’s gut pressed against him. John put a hand on Sherlock’s side, and broke off their kiss. “Bit podgy now, aren’t you?” he murmured slyly.
“Closer to plump, I think.” Sherlock leaned in, tugging at John’s shirt. “You’re the podgy one.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Their contented giggles faded into moans, and soon they were half-stripped of clothing, John propped above Sherlock on the sofa, licking kisses into the soft skin of his belly.
“Too bad this can’t stay, hmm?” Sherlock murmured.
John pulled back, not able to hide his disappointment. “Going to lose a bit, then?”
“Think of it this way. Now we know what we both like. We can make... plans, for the future.”
“Hmm,” John said, nosing at the soft skin at Sherlock’s hip. “Collect recipes, you mean.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. “Find a cottage somewhere. Near a few excellent restaurants.”
“We should definitely research the restaurants.”
“And get a few larger suits, just in case.”
John blew out a breath. “Really?”
“Only if you’d like.”
“Well, we can’t have you exploding out of your old ones, I suppose,” John said, with a grin.
“Oh, God,” Sherlock groaned, the thought apparently too much. “I’m going to be huge.”
“Mmmm... maybe a bit bigger, yeah.”
“Heavier than this, you think?”
“Well, you’re plenty round now, but... yeah, I think so.”
Sherlock bit his lip. “Yes.”
“I can’t wait,” John breathed, and Sherlock grinned into their kiss.
It’s All Fine
Johnlock, explicit, kind of long-ish, slow burning kink thing? Post-S3, Sherlock gains some happy relationship weight... enjoy :)
Time heals all wounds, or so the saying goes, and John was thankful for it. Mary was gone now, back in hiding after her past had caught up with her in a dangerous way. The baby was with her, which was painful, but not quite as painful now that John knew he wasn’t the father. Sherlock welcomed him back to Baker Street, and it was as if a huge weight had been lifted. After a rough few months, John slowly began to feel more like himself than he had in years.
It felt just like old times -- but better. John knew he would never take Baker Street for granted again. He didn’t feel like dating, and after a while, he began to suspect the reason. It had always been Sherlock, hadn’t it? It had been Sherlock since that very first day.
John couldn’t bring himself to make a move, but it didn’t much matter. He basked in Sherlock’s company, and if he found himself admiring the detective from afar, well... that was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock would probably never figure it out, and if he did... John would deal with it when the time came.
As Mary’s departure faded into the past, the mood in Baker Street steadily improved. They were busy, but not too busy, striking a balance between case work and leisure time. If John didn’t know better, he’d almost say Sherlock seemed... happy. The violin played soaring melodies these days, rather than cacophony. The wall hadn’t been shot at in ages. Sometimes, John came back from the surgery to find that Sherlock had even replenished the milk. Baker Street was starting to feel downright domestic.
In fact, John mused one morning as Sherlock poured John a mug of tea, then settled next to him to read the paper -- it felt eerily close to being married. At least, this felt more like it than John’s actual marriage ever had.
Life continued as usual: plenty of takeaway, late nights at Angelo’s. John took to cooking meals, and to his great surprise, Sherlock actually ate them -- and even seemed to enjoy them. Encouraged, John stepped up the shopping, and soon even Sherlock took a turn making supper several nights a week.
Of course, Sherlock was a brilliant cook (“it’s SCIENCE, John!”). They took to planning meals around their favourite crap telly shows, then capping the night off with a bottle of wine. It was as close to heaven as John could imagine, except -- well, except that he couldn’t reach out and kiss Sherlock when he felt like it.
One morning, John walked into the kitchen and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder affectionately as he went past, not even realising until Sherlock flinched in surprise.
“Sorry,” John said quickly, casting about for an excuse.
Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. “No, it’s, um. It’s fine. Really.”
“Oh,” John said, daring a smile. “Okay.”
Sherlock smiled back.
After that, John found himself reaching for Sherlock without thinking about it, nudging him with his shoulder, sitting closer on the sofa as Sherlock tangled one foot under John’s. Lines were definitely blurring.
And at last, one night, the final line was crossed. Well, make that demolished. After a particularly potent bottle of wine, they found themselves on the sofa, Sherlock’s long legs tangled over John’s for a rewatch of Sherlock’s favorite Bond flick. John put a hand on Sherlock’s knee playfully -- and then left it there. Sherlock put a hand over his, just as playfully, and squeezed. When their hands twined together, it wasn’t surprising. And when they both leaned in, after that, it was nearly a relief.
For the next week, they hardly left Baker Street. Clothes were abandoned, appointments cancelled. They resumed life quietly after that, mostly the same. Except for that one not-so-subtle change, the one that meant John could kiss Sherlock whenever he wanted. At last.
After a few happy, content weeks, John began to notice another change. They’d been cooking even more, enjoying frequent meals together, dining out whenever they could. John’s trousers were feeling a little snug. But could it be that Sherlock’s buttons were straining even more than usual? John didn’t think it was possible. But the more he looked at Sherlock, the more he was convinced that his chest looked broader, his waist a touch thicker. He definitely looked healthy -- regular sex and plenty of good food had given a glow to his pale cheeks. If Sherlock was putting on a few pounds, it was certainly a change for the better. God knows he’d been seriously underweight for years.
One morning, as Sherlock stood up to clear his breakfast mug, John noticed. A shift in the soft silhouette of Sherlock’s pyjama shirt, the faintest of outward curves where there was once a concavity. But it could have been an illusion -- the shirt was very loose. John didn’t think anything of it, and finished his cuppa.
But that night, in bed, John couldn’t resist. He devoted himself to an exploration of Sherlock’s long, strong frame, and when he ran his hands over Sherlock’s belly, he felt a gentle rounding, a soft bit of extra flesh just at Sherlock’s middle. Delighted, he gave the spot plenty of attention, but decided not to comment -- he’d hate for Sherlock to be self-conscious about such a tiny bit of pudge.
Still, the revelation caused John to take stock. The next morning he stood in front of the mirror, examining the not-so-little bit of pudge on his own frame that was causing difficulty in buttoning his jeans. He’d certainly put on a few pounds of happy relationship weight -- his belly was noticeable even under his heavy jumper. He vowed to take better notice of his eating habits, and dug an old pair of trainers out of the closet. When he put them on and went for his first run in months, Sherlock didn’t comment -- just chuckled and poked John’s belly in passing. “Don’t be too long,” he said, settling into his chair with his laptop.
Weeks went by; John continued to jog, and tried to eat reasonably. His trousers were still a little tight, but they didn’t seem to be getting much worse. Sherlock’s appetite, on the other hand, continued to pick up. John watched with a warm rush of pleasure as Sherlock enthusiastically dove into the roast they’d prepared, raided the fridge for late-night snacks, and ordered starters and pudding at Angelo’s. It seemed a happy Sherlock was a Sherlock who actually ate. And John was sure he liked this Sherlock rather a lot.
But it was still surprising to see the effects of Sherlock’s indulgences slowly becoming visible. Straining buttons at Sherlock’s chest were joined by even more stressed buttons at his middle. Sherlock’s trousers began to look painfully tight at the waist, their bespoke tailoring unprepared for any added inches. Even his jacket buttons were beginning to look strained. Sherlock took to wearing his pyjamas more often, abandoning his suits as soon as they got home from a case, his pyjama bottoms pushed lower to accomodate his newly rounded little belly.
Because Sherlock was getting a belly, now -- there could be no denying it. Much of his new weight was settling low around his middle, and his once-flat stomach was becoming nicely rounded. “Nicely” was a good word for it -- John found the sweet curve of it utterly irresistible. He was quickly becoming obsessed with making sure Sherlock didn’t lose it. Did Sherlock, in fact, notice this new change to his “transport,” or was he oblivious? Should John say something about how much he loved it, and risk Sherlock taking notice (and starting to diet)? Sherlock never did anything by halves -- he’d be skinnier than ever in a month or two.
John couldn’t figure out what to do. So he said nothing, but as soon as the lights went off and they went to bed each night, he continued to lavish affection on Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock, for his part, continued to take John to pieces with his hands and his tongue, as usual. And when they weren’t in bed, Sherlock continued to eat with his now-normal enthusiasm.
One afternoon a man in a dark suit delivered a large box from Sherlock’s tailor. Sherlock said nothing about it, but the next morning, he was wearing a beautiful new suit that fit perfectly, hugging the curve of his now-slightly-visible belly. So Sherlock had to know, John guessed. But maybe Sherlock didn’t care? Or maybe he’d just gone to the tailor for a new suit without paying attention to the measurements? With Sherlock, anything was possible.
* * * * * *
The holidays rolled around, with plenty of parties to keep them occupied. Ordinarily, Sherlock complained to no end about social events, but now that they were together, Sherlock was much more amenable to an evening out. Especially if it meant he could stand next to John and make snarky observations about the other guests -- and then steal John away for a snog in the coat closet.
So they didn’t turn down any invites, and instead spent a week sampling hors d’oeuvres and eggnog. After that, there was Christmas dinner at the Holmes country cottage, and more Christmas feasting back at Baker Street. On Christmas Eve, they tumbled into bed together buzzing from several glasses of good Scotch, and full to bursting with Sherlock’s roast and John’s Christmas pudding. They reached for each other, their kisses sloppy, a little breathless from overindulgence.
“Go slowly,” John urged, as Sherlock’s hand crept lower. “I can hardly move.”
Sherlock only chuckled and reached for the lube, but groaned involuntarily as he did.
John laughed. “See, moving’s not so easy.”
Sherlock’s chuckle deepened. “Who said anything about moving?” he said, a wicked edge to his voice. He rolled back toward John, closing a lube-slick hand around both of them.
“Oh, Happy Christmas,” John breathed.
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, shifting even closer, and John shut his eyes, surrendering to Sherlock’s touch. They slid together, writhing, lost in bliss, Sherlock’s hand guiding them both over the edge.
As they lay together in the aftermath, breathing hard, foreheads touching, John began to notice that they fit a bit differently than they once had. Sherlock’s legs were tangled in his, pressing them together from hip to shoulder, except -- except, well. Sherlock’s belly was pressed against John’s, and it was -- well, it was quite a belly. John’s own middle was plenty round and full at the moment, but Sherlock’s -- it wasn’t a huge belly, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly hard to miss.
Fuzzy with Scotch and the buzz of orgasm, John couldn’t stop himself. He put a hand on the warm underside of Sherlock’s tum. “So,” he murmured, and gently patted it. “Holidays treating you well?”
He felt Sherlock stiffen, then withdraw slightly from their embrace. “Quite.”
No -- this wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all. John couldn’t make the right words come out. His hand felt cold without Sherlock’s warm flesh under it. “Because, um. Well, I meant to say --”
“That I’m getting fat?”
Sherlock was rigid next to him. John swallowed. He had no idea what to say. It made no sense to deny it -- Sherlock’s tum, full of supper, had just been squashed against John’s. “No, um. Well. Not fat, exactly,” John hedged.
“No?” Sherlock said coldly, his expression unreadable in the dim light of their bedroom.
“Just, well. I -- I like it.”
Silence, but then Sherlock shifted closer again. “Do you,” he said at last.
“Christ, Sherlock. Quite a lot, actually,” John said, shifting to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ve been afraid to say anything in case you’d decide to lose it.”
Sherlock exhaled. “I’d been afraid to say anything in case you wanted me to lose it.”
John still wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed Sherlock didn’t either.
“You -- you like me this way?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, after a moment.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.”
Sherlock took a breath. “I’m getting -- podgy,” he admitted.
John couldn’t help smiling.“You’re not so podgy.”
“John.”
“Well.” John nudged him. “Only a little bit.”
Sherlock grumbled.
“I hope, um. That is, I was hoping you’d just -- you know, try not to lose weight, just -- relax,” John added.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure if I can lose it.”
John blinked. “You’ve already tried?”
Sherlock sounded faintly embarrassed. “Not exactly. I did think about dieting. But nothing happened.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, thinking about losing weight doesn’t actually work. I’ve tried it.”
Sherlock sighed, sounding ,if anything, relieved to be talking about this at last. “I didn’t realise I could actually -- well. Put on weight. Until recently.”
“Oh, I can tell you firsthand, it’s easy.”
Sherlock rumbled a laugh. “I know.”
They fell silent again, but this time, it was a happier silence. “So, um. Were you just -- not going to mention it?” John asked hesitantly.
“Mmm. Well. I’d planned on saying something. At some point.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Obviously not.” Sherlock prodded John. “Neither did you.”
“No. No, I -- I didn’t.”
Sherlock rolled onto his back, and John settled against Sherlock’s side. Feeling bolder, he rested a hand on Sherlock’s stomach again, then gave it another pat. “Impressive.”
Sherlock glanced down at himself, sounding both amused and faintly offended. “What? My belly?”
“No. That we both waited this long before saying anything.”
They both laughed, Sherlock’s middle jiggling pleasantly under John’s hand. “Well, and your belly,” John added, an obvious tease in his voice. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Sherlock gave an annoyed huff, but John could tell it wasn’t genuine. “It’s not much,” he protested.
“No?”
“About a stone.”
“About a stone?” John tried not to sound incredulous.
“Maybe a bit more,” Sherlock said grudgingly.
“Hmm.” John gave Sherlock’s belly a faint squeeze. “Maybe.”
Sherlock chuckled, and poked John in the side. “You’re not exactly slim these days, either.”
“Ah, but I’ve never been slim.”
“True.”
“Hey.” John poked Sherlock back. “You weren’t supposed to agree with me.”
“But I’ve always liked you this way,” Sherlock said, leaning over to nuzzle a kiss into John’s neck.
John sighed contentedly. “Fair enough,” he murmured, and kissed him back.
When they broke apart, Sherlock hummed contentedly. “I did wonder why you’d started to pay so much attention to -- certain areas, in bed. I feared you were trying to give me a subtle hint.”
“I was,” John said, grinning. “It just wasn’t the subtle hint you thought it was.”
* * * * * *
Christmas morning was brilliant. They did manage to get up and open a few gifts for each other -- and got a big laugh out of the cookbook and kitchen tools John had bought for Sherlock. But mostly, they spent the day in bed, exploring each other as if for the first time. Sherlock was back to his content, happy self, and they ended the day with another feast of holiday leftovers, plus the ham Mrs Hudson had sent as a gift from her holiday in Spain. That night, John curled against Sherlock on the sofa to watch telly, and Sherlock didn’t flinch away when John rested a possessive hand over Sherlock’s middle, now decidedly prominent after another good meal.
“You realise, if things keep going this way, I might get -- a bit bigger,” Sherlock said, during an advertisement.
“I can’t imagine you’d get too big, with all your running around.”
“Still.” Sherlock shifted. “I -- I think I may need another new suit.”
John nudged him. “Already?”
Sherlock scowled. “Had to repair the trouser button two days ago.” He rested a hand over John’s. “Both my parents gained weight when they got older. I suppose it’s my turn.”
“You look marvellous.”
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft’s having a field day.”
“You’ve never given a toss what Mycroft thinks. Why start now?”
Sherlock’s deep chuckle was contagious. When they’d stopped laughing, Sherlock sat up. “In that case,” he said, “I think it’s time for pudding.”
* * * * * *
one year later
“Oh, God,” Sherlock said, pushing back from the table. “That was delicious. I think I might explode.”
John raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock caught his eye and smirked. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You implied things.”
John merely chuckled, watching as Sherlock squirmed in his chair and reached down to unfasten the clasp of his trousers. Unrestrained, Sherlock’s belly relaxed into his lap, and Sherlock put a large hand over it.
“Better?” John asked.
Sherlock drummed his fingers contentedly against his middle. “Much.”
“I think so,” John grinned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his cheeks, already rosy from wine and food, flushed a bit pinker. His crisp white button-down was riding up slightly, exposing a pale, smooth sliver of belly.
Ah, Sherlock’s belly. John licked his lips instinctively, wondering how it was that Sherlock looked so attractive when slender -- but even more attractive now.
Sherlock’s weight had continued to inch upward, very slowly, but very steadily. Most of it had gone to his tum, which was now hefty enough to edge into his lap while he was sitting. John loved how Sherlock had gotten into the habit of putting a hand on it while he was thinking, or working on a case. He loved how it poked up when Sherlock lay on the couch. And he especially loved the shape of it when Sherlock was full, like right now: completely round. He still thought of Sherlock as slim, for some reason, but he supposed that someone who’d just met Sherlock might even think he was -- podgy. Just a little bit.
Well, if they saw Sherlock’s belly at the moment, they’d certainly think so.
“Might be time to get you out of those trousers,” John said, grinning.
Sherlock gave a half-grin in return. “Mmm. Agreed.”
John sighed, glancing at his own middle, which wasn’t too small these days either. “That does mean we have to get up.”
“Unfortunately.”
Sherlock heaved himself up, still unfairly coordinated despite the food and wine, and adjusted his shirt, which was riding up a bit over the generous bulge of his belly. As he did, his unfastened trousers began to slip, and he grasped the waistband at the side as John chuckled.
Sherlock shot him a pointed look, fumbling with his trousers. “Told you I was getting fat.”
“I still wouldn’t say fat...”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John looked at his lover’s undeniably round tum. “Well. Just fat enough.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Bedroom, then?”
John stood up slowly, feeling the satisfying weight of dinner in his own gut, and grinned back at him. “If we can make it there.”
* * * * * * * * *
While Away
J/S, 3k ... A little plot bunny ran away with me. Enjoy!
The estate was in the most remote part of England John had ever seen, so of course it belonged to Sherlock’s family. John had no idea how such a place could be a convenient location, but Sherlock insisted that they could easily work there unnoticed -- most of the work they needed to do was online, and they needed to get out of London and disappear for a bit. They were attempting to track an insidious case of fraud that went back over a decade and involved two powerful families of criminals, and the less attention they attracted, the better.
Thus, John found himself packing a bag -- well, both of their bags -- for an extended trip to the North Country, and after an eternal train ride and an even more eternal cab ride, they entered the heavy iron gates of Doyle Hall, a sprawling rural property surrounded by trees and fields.
“Sherlock!” a woman’s voice cried as they got out of the cab.
“Aunt Violet,” Sherlock said with a smile, and embraced her as John raised an eyebrow. Aunt Violet was tall, with the typical Holmes nose and sharp blue eyes, but unlike Sherlock, she was pleasantly round, clad in a wool jumper and long tweed skirt.
“And this must be John,” Violet said, and shook John’s hand heartily. Sherlock continued to beam at her, much to John’s confusion -- John had rarely seen Sherlock express happiness at seeing another human. “Come inside, you must be starving after your trip,” Violet continued, and they followed her into the enormous foyer as a porter trailed after them with their luggage.
Much to John’s continued surprise, Sherlock chatted amiably with Violet over supper, thanking her warmly for allowing them to stay. Violet had prepared a spectacular meal, a homemade steak and kidney pie with peas, and an outstanding treacle tart for afters. Halfway through supper John realised Sherlock was actually eating, tucking away the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in years. Wonders never ceased, thought John. This extended visit suddenly seemed much more pleasant, knowing Sherlock enjoyed his aunt’s company -- and her food.
They’d be rooming together, since part of the estate was under repair -- nothing unusual, John had shared dozens of hotel rooms with Sherlock before. They retired to their room after supper, both of them sleepy and incredibly full. Sherlock lingered in the doorway, stretching.
“Are you actually going to sleep?” John asked, fighting to keep his own eyes open.
“Mmm. Possibly. We can get started tomorrow.” Sherlock gave a contented sigh. “I’d forgotten what a good cook Aunt Violet is.”
“She’s amazing, yeah. Are you sure this isn’t putting her out, our staying here?”
Sherlock shook his head. “She loves to cook, and I think she’s been lacking in visitors since my uncle passed away. Always after me to come for a visit.”
“Well then.” John smiled. “As long as she doesn’t mind.”
* * * * *
They started in on the case, which was slow, painstaking work. They holed up in their room with laptops, reviewing legal records, bank statements, credit card receipts -- everything Mycroft could give them access to without raising suspicion. It was just a matter of tracking data -- a whole lot of data. Days and days worth of data. Possibly, weeks.
Thankfully, Aunt Violet kept the meals coming. Hearty breakfasts, savory lunches, tea with freshly baked biscuits, and comforting, homemade suppers. After a few days, John found his appetite dwindling -- all the rich food and lack of exercise seemed to slow him down. But he watched with increasing amazement as Sherlock continued to eat. It seemed that the key to Sherlock’s appetite was named Aunt Violet Holmes.
Violet was cheerful, bright, and very busy -- not too interested in extended chats, but visibly pleased to have a reason to cook. As the winter days grew colder, they continued to make slow, steady progress on the case, and Violet cooked warmer, more filling meals.
Sherlock was as focused as ever, but somewhere around the second week of their stay, John began to notice a change. Sherlock was sleeping more -- and sleeping soundly. There hadn’t been any late-night violin, no evidence that Sherlock was sitting up nights with nicotine patches. One morning John awoke late, left a sleeping Sherlock, had breakfast, and came back upstairs to find that Sherlock hadn’t yet emerged from their room. John knocked, and when no one answered, he pushed open the door to find Sherlock still in bed, deeply asleep, tangled up in the duvet.
John smiled to himself -- there was something unbelievably endearing about Sherlock like this. He hesitated, unable to bring himself to wake Sherlock, and unable to stop his eyes from wandering over his friend’s body, sprawled out on the guest room’s expansive bed.
Sherlock’s vest had rucked up over his chest, and the dips and ridges of his ribcage didn’t seem as prominent as they once had been. Sherlock’s belly rose and fell as he slept, and where it had once been concave, it was now the tiniest bit rounded. Sherlock had put on weight, it seemed. And it was no wonder -- he’d gone from eating almost nothing to eating heartily. His body was probably clinging to every calorie it could get.
John swallowed. He’d always found his flatmate attractive, but this sight sent heat rocketing through him. It was just because Sherlock looked healthier, he told himself. That was it. And Sherlock didn’t think of John in that way, anyway.
After that, John couldn’t stop noticing. Each day, Sherlock’s shirt buttons seemed to pull just a little bit more. There was a new flush of colour in his cheeks. His trousers began to crease at the waistband after he’d been sitting for a while. John found it harder and harder to ignore his racing pulse whenever Sherlock sat nearby, or leaned over his shoulder, or invaded his personal space. (Of course, Sherlock had no concept of personal space.)
One night, Aunt Violet invited a group of friends from her birdwatching club for supper. The meal was twice as extravagant as her ordinary suppers, and as usual, Sherlock couldn’t resist anything his aunt cooked. Long after John had pushed back his chair, Sherlock kept at it, making his way through seconds of roast, brussels sprouts, and potatoes, and thirds of dessert. Delightful as Violet herself was, Sherlock couldn’t tolerate idle chatter with her other dinner guests, so he left promptly after supper, leaving John to make their excuses and follow Sherlock back upstairs.
Sherlock paused to wait for John at the top of the stairs, and put a hand on the railing.
“All right?” John asked.
“Fine. Could do with a lie-down, though,” Sherlock admitted. John couldn’t help staring. Sherlock’s jacket button was straining.
“Quite a meal,” John managed, his mouth dry.
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed.
Sherlock was already in his pyjamas and in bed when John emerged from the toilet. He was lazing back on propped-up pillows, tapping away on his phone with one hand, the other hand resting on the small, rounded swell of his belly.
John could barely function. “Um, think I’ll turn in,” he managed.
Sherlock gave him a surprisingly shy smile. “Goodnight, John.”
John turned off the light and climbed into his side of the bed, feeling Sherlock’s warmth next to him. I am going to hell, he thought.
* * * * *
Days turned into weeks, and the case dragged on. John made noise about getting back to London, sure that they were wearing on Violet’s hospitality, but Violet insisted that they stay, and she seemed to genuinely mean it. Sherlock remained completely absorbed in the evidence they were piecing together. Alone in the guest room with John for most of the day, he began hovering nearer and nearer to John, dragging their seats slightly closer, looming over John’s laptop, edging closer to John at night in the giant bed they shared. The connection between them seemed more electric than ever -- just the two of them, attempting to dismantle an intricate crime ring alone.
John noticed he’d put on a bit of weight himself -- an extra handful of flesh had settled around his middle, and his jeans were feeling a little snug. He expected Sherlock to rib him about it, but Sherlock didn’t say a word. And amazingly, Sherlock’s own enthusiasm for Violet’s food was beginning to show. His trousers were growing tighter, inching down his hips each day to accomodate his newly rounded belly. To be sure, it was still a very small belly, but on Sherlock’s lithe frame it was entirely unexpected.
Aunt Violet even commented one day, nudging Sherlock as she placed his favourite chicken and mushroom pie on the table. “Glad to see nothing’s changed,” she smiled, a gentle tease in her voice. “A few weeks at Doyle Hall always puts a bit of meat on your bones.”
“Nothing’s changed?” John asked, watching Sherlock help himself to pie.
“He’d come up for the summer when he was young, such a scrawny little thing,” Violet said. “Wouldn’t eat much at home. Said he only cared for my cooking. He always needed a new school uniform by summer’s end.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was never scrawny as a child, Violet.”
Violet shook her head. “Don’t listen to him, John.”
Sherlock gave John a half-grin before tucking into his serving of pie, and John felt his face flush.
* * * * *
The evidence was nearly complete, assembled in a perfect puzzle that was sure to incarcerate at least ten guilty parties. John felt he should have been thrilled to leave their cramped guest room and get back home to Baker Street, but instead he felt a sense of dread. This time with Sherlock, alone and removed from the rest of London’s distractions, had been heavenly. This was the most relaxed he’d ever seen Sherlock, even though they were working a case, and John found he wasn’t eager to go back to sleepless nights, and having to remind Sherlock to eat every few days.
Although, John thought, Sherlock might be all right for a while if he went back to his old habits. Certainly he’d stored up a bit extra -- from certain angles, his tum was approaching a real little pot-belly.
John was torn between constantly staring at Sherlock, and pretending he wasn’t staring. He’d always thought Sherlock was gorgeous, but tracking the incremental changes to Sherlock’s body had made John even more aware of his attraction. Every day seemed to bring a more appealing change -- Sherlock had left skinny behind, gone straight through slender and was headed for well-fed. And apparently a well-fed Sherlock was even more John’s type than the slender version.
Then there was the matter of Sherlock’s clothing. John tried his best not to look while Sherlock was dressing, but he couldn’t help wondering how Sherlock was continuing to wear the same clothes. It was a testament to how well-made Sherlock’s shirts were, really -- John couldn’t believe the buttons hadn’t abandoned ship. John half-expected something to give way every time they got up from a meal, but Sherlock adjusted his trousers a little lower and carried on as usual.
One night, as they finished up supper -- and plenty of wine -- Sherlock announced what John had been dreading: Tomorrow they could put the case in Lestrade’s hands. The thought made John’s heart sink. Much less time together -- and probably, much less Sherlock in more ways than one.
“You’ll probably be glad to get back to London,” Sherlock said, between bites of pudding. “We’ve been out here far longer than I’d intended.”
“I, um. Actually, not really,” John admitted. “It’s been... nice.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John could see he looked pleased. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it has, hasn’t it?”
“We could, um. Delay a bit,” John said, amazed at his own boldness. “If Violet doesn’t mind. You know, just a day or two. The weekend’s coming up, no point in rushing home, really.”
A genuine smile lit Sherlock’s face. “True,” he said. “I’ll ask Violet.”
“Okay.”
They’d lingered long enough over pudding that Violet had already gone to bed. Sherlock took another helping of Eton mess and dug in with a happy sigh.
* * * * *
They tottered upstairs, having decided it was wise to finish the open bottle of wine they’d started. Back in the room, John’s head buzzed pleasantly as he took off his shoes. They’d have a day or two more of this; he didn’t have to go back to reality just yet. Another couple of nights with Sherlock in their too-large bed. Too bad John couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
He watched as Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers and gave a small, relieved exhale. Sherlock’s stomach, free of its confines, relaxed beneath his shirt, and a wave of heat washed over John. Just look at you, he thought, and Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes wide.
John hadn’t just thought it. He’d said it aloud. Damn that bottle of wine.
“I, um.” John stammered. “Nothing. Sorry.”
But something had clicked in Sherlock’s brain. John could tell when Sherlock was putting pieces together. Sherlock stepped toward him, an unreadable look on his face. “John.”
“Forget I said anything.”
“Can I kiss you?”
It was John’s turn to stare at Sherlock, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Can I kiss you?” Sherlock repeated, more confidently this time, taking a step closer.
John’s feet carried him to standing -- the rest of him was too surprised to move. “Oh, God yes,” he said, and before he could breathe, Sherlock’s lips were on his, and they were kissing, sparks rocketing behind John’s eyes.
* * * * *
“We’re such idiots,” John said. “We had this giant bed for weeks, and now we’ve barely got time to take advantage of it.”
Sherlock, on his back, spent and sweaty, chuckled. “I think we can make up for lost time.”
“I like the way you think,” John said, running a hand down Sherlock’s side. He couldn’t resist; he rested a hand on Sherlock’s round tum, which was rising and falling with Sherlock’s breath. “We’ll have to make sure you get enough pudding before we leave.”
Sherlock’s deep laugh rumbled under John’s hand, and he put a hand over John’s. “I think I’ve had enough, don’t you?”
John grinned. “Hardly,” he said, and bent down to give Sherlock’s belly a kiss.
* * * * *
Epilogue
“I think that’s everything,” John said, closing up his suitcase and giving one last look around the guest room. The last few days had been a blur, and it was a minor miracle they’d been able to get themselves out of bed for long enough to pack. John felt sore, exhausted, and blissfully happy.
“We didn’t bring much,” Sherlock said, closing up the closet. “I didn’t think we would stay as long as we did.”
John quirked a smile as Sherlock adjusted his trousers. “Maybe we should make a stop at Marks and Spencers on the way back to the flat,” he ventured.
Sherlock’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I’m fine.”
“Oh, you’re definitely fine,” John grinned, and reached out to pull Sherlock into an embrace. “I just think you could be a little more... comfortable?”
Sherlock made a noise partway between a grumble and a groan as John ran a hand down the straining fabric of his shirt. “That would mean I’d be keeping this,” Sherlock said, bending to kiss John’s neck. “I don’t intend to.”
John couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. “No?”
Sherlock pulled back to look at John, quirking an eyebrow. “I let myself go a bit. Temporarily. I always do, at Aunt Violet’s.”
“I, um.” John gave an abashed smile. “I was hoping things might stay the same, when we got back to London.” He patted Sherlock’s middle. “This too.”
“Hmmm.” Sherlock looked down at himself.
“And maybe,” John added, “we could come back here. Every so often. You know, if we need to... let ourselves go, a bit more.”
Sherlock pretended to consider this, but he was already grinning. “I’ll be as big as a house, you realise.”
“I’ll make sure you get plenty of exercise,” John said, grinning back. “Doctor’s orders.”
fic: holiday season
I started this before Christmas, and totally forgot it was in my Drafts. So... happy belated holidays? whoops! enjoy :)
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"Oh, God. If I have to go to another holiday party I swear I'll strangle someone."
Sherlock tossed his coat over the back of a chair. "I wouldn't. Murder via strangulation is very difficult to cover up."
John laughed as he hung up his own jacket, then winced. He'd eaten too much -- again. He had a bad habit of losing track of his snacking at parties. He slumped onto the couch, then shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his tight trouser waistband.
Sherlock settled next to him. "I ate too much," he grumbled.
"I always do," John said, giving in and undoing his trouser button. His belly relaxed outward, and he put a hand on it. It was distinctly larger than the last time he'd checked. He looked down, chagrined to see that his stomach was rounding out into his lap. "Er, obviously."
Sherlock glanced at him, unable to hide a smirk. "I'd say so."
"Oh, sod off," John told him genially, nudging his flatmate. Sherlock chuckled, then tugged his own shirttails free from his trousers. For a second, a flash of pale, rounded tum was visible; since when did Sherlock have a belly?
"Hang on. What's this?" John said, feeling Sherlock's side. Sherlock squirmed away, but not before John had gotten a good grab of extra flesh.
"It'll drop off soon enough," Sherlock said, undoing his own trouser button.
"God, I hope not," John said, and -- shit. Had he said that out loud?
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and his cheeks went a bit pink. But not nearly as pink as John's. "Sorry," John amended. "I mean. I just -- I worry about you eating enough. You know."
"No need to worry now," Sherlock said gruffly, still blushing faintly.
"Well. Um. That's.... good."
####
Two more parties (and three batches of Mrs Hudson's Christmas cake) later, John was aware that he'd added a bit more winter weight than usual. His trousers and jeans were suffering, and he was forced to fasten them lower down. His belly was starting to round out visibly above his belt, which was now on the very last hole. Christ. He really didn't want to replace his clothes. That would be admitting that the winter weight might be sticking around.
But it was hard to be virtuous when the holiday season was still in full swing. Christmas was nearly upon them, and they had at least another full week of feasting and merriment ahead. January, John thought. He'd get back in fighting shape come January. Until then, might as well forget about it.
They still had a case, anyway, which kept them busy too. But crouching down next to a body at a crime scene was a little uncomfortable in tighter jeans. John managed it, straightening up with a grunt afterwards, and pushing his jeans a bit further down.
Damned if Sherlock didn't catch everything, though. His mouth twitched with amusement as he straightened up next to John. "Problem?" he said, letting his eyes linger on John's middle.
John glanced down. "Nothing I can't fix come January."
Sherlock grinned, reached out, and gave the bulgiest part of John's belly a little pat. "Don't fix what's not broken."
Sherlock's touch sent electric shocks through John's entire body, and John blushed crimson. Too quickly, Sherlock swept away to lecture Donovan, and John found himself wondering why he felt like a blushing teenager. Sherlock wasn't using this opportunity to poke fun, either. Maybe he was imitating John's embarrassing confession from the other night? It was all a bit... baffling.
####
A few nights later, on Christmas Eve, John had nearly forgotten all about it. The usual crew was over for drinks -- Lestrade, Molly, Mrs H -- and everyone was feeling fairly tipsy after a few glasses of Mrs Hudson's excellent mulled wine. Mycroft had sent over an entire roast, to make up for the lack of his actual presence, and there was far too much food for five people. Soon enough the other three were saying their goodbyes, Mrs Hudson the first to go after she nearly fell asleep on the couch, and Molly soon after.
Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder as he was putting on his coat. "Happy Christmas," he said cheerily. "Glad to see you two have been taking it easy a little bit."
John laughed. "We just wrapped a case."
"Yeah," Lestrade grinned, "but you both look a bit more... comfortable." He winked.
John put a hand on his middle, and he chuckled. "Yeah. A little too comfortable, maybe -- wait, both of us?"
Lestrade laughed. "Haven't you noticed? I thought watching Sherlock was a hobby of yours." He gave John a half-hug, then waved. "Best be off. See you soon, mate."
John waved him off down the stairs, and refilled his own cup of mulled wine. He padded back into the sitting room, where Sherlock was packing away his violin. Sherlock had taken off his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and -- hmm. Something was different. Sherlock's tailored shirt clung to his waist, which seemed a bit... thicker.
Sherlock turned back to John, and suddenly John could see what Lestrade was talking about. In fact, he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed earlier. Sherlock's impeccably tailored trousers were creased at the waist, pulling at the sides. He was also wearing them a little lower than usual, accommodating the slight swell at his middle.
Sherlock cleared his throat, and John became aware that he was staring. Embarrassed, John held up his cup of wine -- maybe he'd had too much of it. "Want s'more?"
Sherlock smiled. "Please."
Soon enough they were back on the couch, finishing off the cookies Molly had left -- and then the last of the roast, and maybe a bit more wine. At last Sherlock leaned forward to set down his plate and gave an uncomfortable groan. He sat back on the couch, and John's mouth went dry. Sherlock's belly was straining against his waistband, nearly bulging over the top. Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers with a sigh, and his new little belly rounded out under his shirt.
Before John could say anything, Sherlock glanced over at him. "Aren't you uncomfortable?" he said, his voice even deeper with all the wine they'd had. "Here."
And Sherlock reached out and unfastened John's trousers.
Sherlock's hand on John's middle was too good to be true. Before John knew what he was doing, he'd covered Sherlock's huge hand with his own, pinning it there.
"Hey," John began, smirking, "what'd you think you're --"
But before John could finish, Sherlock made a contented sort of rumble, and slid even closer to John on the couch. Suddenly they were blinking at each other, their faces just a few inches apart.
"You feel amazing," Sherlock said, and leaned in.
####
The kissing was, in fact, amazing. Once John had gotten over his initial shock that this was actually happening, he let himself sink into it. He and Sherlock were actually... kissing. John was buzzing from the bliss of it all. Well, and possibly the wine. Sherlock's hand hadn't left his middle, and John would have been self-conscious about it except for the noises of sheer pleasure Sherlock was making.
Eventually, John dared to reach out, pulling Sherlock closer. When his hand settled onto Sherlock's waist, Sherlock groaned with delight. It seemed that their indulgences had made Sherlock more... relaxed, somehow. More vulnerable. John couldn't get enough.
When at last they broke apart, breathing hard, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "I don't -- I don't understand," he breathed.
Sherlock flushed. "I saw how you looked at me. That night, after the party, I -- I couldn't stop thinking about it."
John smiled, then dared a little squeeze at Sherlock's waist. "So you decided to indulge a little more?"
"I liked how it looked on you, too," Sherlock said, and leaned over John, pushing him back onto the couch.
"Oof," John grunted. "Careful." He chuckled as Sherlock settled onto him, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck. " --oh. Oh, God. Why haven't we done this before?"
Sherlock's chuckle rumbled between them in response. "I think this might be an improvement."
####
Toast and Jam
Tiny sequel to Eggs on Toast. Under the cut!
* * *
"Have you left that couch today?" John says, hanging up his coat on the back of the door.
"Of course," Sherlock says. "Needed breakfast. And lunch."
John glances at the kitchen, where a pile of dishes fills the sink. A plate of toast and jam is still out on the counter. He smirks. "Of course."
Sherlock stretches lazily. "Lestrade is useless."
"No cases?"
"No-pe," Sherlock replies, popping the "P."
"No cold case files?"
Sherlock sighs. "Solved them."
"Would've thought you'd be crawling the walls," John says, smiling to himself.
Lately, it seems Sherlock's newfound appreciation for food has had a few pleasant side effects. One of which is the increasingly prominent belly poking up under Sherlock's dressing gown. And another of which is that Sherlock no longer seems to mind a day of lounging around the flat. The two things seem to go hand in hand.
Sherlock folds his hands over the swell of his stomach, and John raises an eyebrow. There's no denying it -- Sherlock's put on even more weight recently. Even while lying flat, his stomach rounds upward; his hips look wider, a soft lip of pudge straining the waistband of his pyjamas. And the last time Sherlock had on his trousers, John was certain he was about to rip a seam.
"Mm, no," Sherlock says. "There was something on the telly."
"Ah," John says, and grins. "Up for Angelo's tonight?"
Sherlock sits up and stretches again, his t-shirt riding up to expose an expanse of pale flesh. There's something decadent about the way the extra weight has settled on Sherlock, and as he stands up, John wants nothing more than to get his hands on that generous belly, those plush hips, the newly rounded swell of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock smiles as John steps closer.
"Maybe," Sherlock says. "Although perhaps I should skip it."
"Not hungry?"
Sherlock pats his middle, which gives a definite jiggle. "Getting fat," he grumbles.
John chuckles.
"Not disagreeing with me, I see," Sherlock adds.
"No, I'd say that's accurate." John grins. "I just happen to like it."
"I keep telling you, that's absurd," Sherlock says, but smirks nonetheless.
"You know I do." John prods Sherlock's belly. "And I like you lounging around the house. Getting a bit lazy, too, I think."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but blushes. "Ridiculous."
"Of course, if you want to lose some weight, I'll try not to get in your way," John amends innocently.
"Perhaps," Sherlock says, and then shuts his eyes as John runs a finger along the edge of his waistband. "O-or, perhaps next week. I can -- oh! oh, John."
"I do think you need to lose these, though," John murmurs, pulling at Sherlock's pyjama bottoms insistently.
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, his eyes closed.
John nuzzles Sherlock's ear. "Don't bother putting them back on again, either. They're a bit small."
"Shut up."
"Not saying anything."
"Mmm." Sherlock groans with pleasure as John's hands tug down the too-small pyjamas. "Angelo's after?"
John laughs. "Absolutely."
* * *
