On Celebration

The only reminders that Sherlock even had a birthday came in the form of yearly cards from Mummy and Mycroft (one filled with spidery lettering asking in various forms when he would be coming to visit, the other short and concise in a secretary's hand asking him if he would be needing any money for the occasion). He never let anyone he associated himself with know the date on which he'd been born, and no one had bothered to ask.

So it was more than a surprise when Sherlock stepped out of his bedroom, through the kitchen and into the sitting room to see John and Mrs. Hudson in a pair of silly paper hats. Mrs. Hudson cheered, "Happy Birthday, luv!" and John blew once, completely straight-faced, into a noisy party blower.

Sherlock blinked twice, turned on heel and stepped back into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson stashed the confetti they had planned on throwing when the detective had come closer, which he hadn't, as John made his way to the locked bedroom door. He knocked, and something thumped against the door. Pillow?

"Who told you?" came a muffled voice from within. "No, don't say anything," he snarled in interruption before John could open his mouth. "It was Mycroft, wasn't it? Any excuse to fill his disgusting maw with pastry and frosting. When will he be showing his obscene face?"

"Sherlock," John said, and it landed like a brick. Once he was sure of silence, he continued. "I picked up the post this morning. You know, when normal folks are up and about? You didn't tell me it was your birthday."

"It's extremely unimportant," Sherlock's tired voice droned.

"Well, you've got something from your brother. And your mum." He shifted, listened for any signs of movement. "And from Mrs. Hudson and me."

He must have moved silently, because he was on the other side of the door in an instant without John hearing. He opened it a dismal crack and peered out at him. One bright blue spot in the darkness of his bedroom. He spent an inordinate amount of time peering at the hat that John still had perched on his head, frowning.

"What is it?" he asked in a low, tight voice.

"You don't just... tell people their birthday presents," John said with a sigh. "Come on. You can deduce it if you get out of there."

Sherlock hovered behind the crack for a handful of silent seconds before he snapped the door shut again. John sighed, turned to help Mrs. Hudson tidy up, when Sherlock emerged in full a moment later. He had cinched his robe, made his hair the slightest bit tidier; he had his nose in the air as if it weren't his idea to follow John in bare feet and aloof air, being forced to attend his own birthday.

Mrs. Hudson looked up and clapped her hands together in joy when she saw that John had wrangled the man from his room, and it was only quick, frantic maneuvering on John's part that kept her from showering both men in a liberal dressing of confetti. Sherlock might have been smirking, but it was gone by the time he flopped onto the sofa.

John chomped on one of the cupcakes Mrs. Hudson had made, offered one to Sherlock. When he sniffed disdainfully at the offering, John gave an insistent look and offered again. His brain fired quickly, as it usually did, and he took the gift with a wide smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said a bit too generously. "What a wonderful gift."

"You're too skinny by half, Sherlock," she chided, setting the tray down in front of his knees at the coffee table. "Eat up, luv, it's your birthday! Indulge!" She moved to the kitchen, murmuring about his luck that it wouldn't go straight to his hips.

John set a light box on Sherlock's knees, wrapped hastily in a handful of sheets of Big Issue that John must have dashed to the corner for. The doctor gave it a dismissive wave, nodded to the box. "That one's mine."

Sherlock was going to be derisive, but he couldn't miss the look of intense anticipation that hung on John's face, locked on the box and Sherlock's fingers on the box. And he was ready to look hurt, with Sherlock already having opened his mouth to say something derisive. And perhaps it was too early to trifle with insults, or perhaps he had decided not to hurt John's feelings just yet, but his mouth snapped closed and he began to tear at the newsprint.

It was a scarf. It wasn't anything special, nothing that anyone had slaved over for months. John had likely seen it in a window or hanging off a rack on his way out to grab cupcake ingredients for Mrs. Hudson's cupcakes. It wasn't quite the color of the one Sherlock wore most often; this was darker with hints of violet to it.

John gave a single trill of the party blower in plain-faced celebration. Then, he cracked a lopsided, embarrassed smile. It was so simple and easy, kind but thoughtless, that one side of Sherlock's lips tilted up in empathy.

"It's very nice," Sherlock said, weighing it in his hands before he threaded it around his neck to compare its color to his throat. Satisfied, he let it hang pooled at his shoulders and faced John again. "But it's not what I wanted."

John's face fell, looking very much like a disappointed dog. He gathered himself quickly, tried to make himself look as if Sherlock hadn't punctured his heart like a balloon and gave it his best stiff-upper-lip.

"Well, what the hell do you get for the world's only consulting detective, then?" He tried not to sound hurt (it had, after all, been a bit of a shot in the dark).

Sherlock answered with a smirk, looped his scarf around John's neck in one flick of his wrist, and firmly tugged both ends until John's lips were pressed up to his own. Firstly, he made sure that John was trapped firmly against him. Secondly, he yanked the flimsy paper hat off John's head and tossed it indiscriminately aside (passed it off as nothing by sliding his fingers generously through John's hair).

John gave in surprisingly easily. Fit both hands behind Sherlock's head and jammed them closer together. Sherlock gave an appreciative noise and let him.

Mrs. Hudson diverted her incoming path as soon as she caught sight of the boys as the tangle of limbs and lips they'd become. Chuckled to herself, setting down the tray of nibbles she'd planned on offering them, and winced at the sound of something (or two someones) crashing to the ground. She fled down the stairs to her own apartment as quietly as possible so as to keep from interrupting Sherlock's birthday present to himself.

AN: Very short, but it's just for the fun of the holiday! Scholars like to say that Jan. 6th is Sherlock Holmes' birthday, though it's never explicitly stated when it is. So, in honor of his maybe birthday, have a birthday fic! Hope you have fun, leave us some love, and STAY AWESOME!