I don't own Sherlock

I don't have a beta, and this isn't brit picked.

Sherlock sat on the floor of the dark, dirty bathroom.

He'd deleted it. He had deleted one of the most important things about his "transport."

And now he was paying the price for his ignorance.

Mycroft had always insisted that it was an accident. And it was, in a way. But it was still his fault.

He'd left his door open while going to the kitchen for a glass of water.

And that was the mistake.

He'd broken Father's one rule: Never leave Mycroft's doors open. Because leaving a door open allowed his ever curious, ever hyper two year old brother access to his room.

And that meant that Sherlock had access to a high-strength feminine fertility drug in a thin glass bottle that was sitting on his desk. And isn't it a widespread fact, that most development happens in the first three years?

Later, when he was five, doctors were able to confirm it.

Sherlock would be able to carry a child. He would carry any child he were to have for 18 months instead of 9, but he would be able to conceive, nonetheless.

Mycroft convinced his parents not to tell him. At least, not until he was old enough to comprehend what they would be telling him. They continued to avoid the matter for several years.

The night that they told him, he was 20 years old. That was the first night that Sherlock did cocaine.

He'd deleted his ability to carry children while at rehab, seven years later. Sherlock hadn't done cocaine to get away from his own mind. He'd done it to get away from his "transport."

Because his classmates were right, Sally Donovan was right, everyone was right.

Sherlock Holmes was a freak.

He'd never warned John of the possibility because he didn't remember.

And now, John believed him to be dead, having taken his own life via the rooftop at St. Bart's.

In reality, Sherlock was sitting in a small, run-down flat in Russia staring at a little white plastic test with a small pink plus sign at the top.