When Dr. John Hamish Watson had moved in with William Sherlock Scott Holmes, there were a lot of things the two men didn't know about each other. One example being their full names.

While this puzzle took it's time to be solved by both sides, other quirks and habits were pretty obvious.

There was no need to be a brilliant consulting detective to deduce Sherlock wasn't into trivial festivities. Surely, he did attend the annual Christmas party, but to be fair there were only a few things in the world he would reject when it came to making Mrs. Hudson happy.

In the end it was no surprise for John when he didn't receive any kind of birthday presents or even a card by his flatmate. The man had saved his life on several occasions and John thought that this was a better gift than a new cup or book anyway.

Of course things had dramatically changed in the time he had lived with Mary. There had been plenty of presents, a huge self made birthday-cake, balloons and most of his friends at the surprise-party she had organised. Mary. Or whatever her real name was. And whoever the real father of the girl was, who was now a little more than one year old. John had felt from the start that there was something wrong with his daughter and a paternity test had brought the devastating truth, that her name and past weren't the only thing his now ex-wife had lied about.

The night John had waited in the living room of 221B Baker Street with only his most important stuff crammed into three suitcases, he had played out several scenarios of how Sherlock would react in his mind. His best friend simply patting him sympathetically on the shoulder, mumbling a low but genuinely comforting "Welcome home." wasn't one of them though. And still that was exactly what Sherlock had done. No questions, no snarky remarks, not even a "Of course I knew it wasn't yours." (though John was sure Sherlock had deduced this as well). They got back to their old routines in a couple of days and it was almost like Mary never had been a part of his life. There would be emotional scars on John's side as well as very physical and visible ones on Sherlock's torso, but time would heal them both, the doctor reminded himself everyday.

So when on the morning of his 38th Birthday he got a simple but oh so out of character text by Sherlock, John couldn't stop himself from grinning. Maybe he had indeed changed the man to be a more... well... human human being.

Happy Birthday, John. I'm off to NSY. Present is on the coffee table. - SH

John turned his gaze into another direction when he made his way into the bathroom to take a shower and shave. There was no way he would spoil himself the surprise of what Sherlock had actually bought him.

Letting the razor glide softly over his chin, the line "I prefer my doctors clean-shaven" suddenly popped into his mind, dismissed in an instant by his very own "I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes." Though it was somehow a reminder of Mary as well, he more chuckled at the thought of the endless little banters he had with Sherlock, almost cutting himself with the blade in his hands.

A dark pair of jeans and his blue striped jumper clung softly to John's still lightly wet body. After all he couldn't get himself out of the shower and into his clothes fast enough anyway and he practically rushed over to the living room.

The present was very visible on the coffee table, a small card dangling from the handle. A handle that belonged to a cane.

John's eyes widened at the view. Sure, it was a beautiful piece, entirely made out of dark wood (rosewood he would learn later) with small polished metal rings and a nicely curved handle. Just below this handle, there was something engraved into the bigger metal ring.

"Property of Dr. John H. Watson"

At least Sherlock had been decent enough not to mention his full middle name. But still – a bloody cane?

John's limp had been back shortly after he left Mary and her child but he certainly didn't need a cane right now. And then John suddenly realized, why Sherlock had chosen this particular present...

The door swung open and Sherlock entered the room, a bright smile beaming on his face.

"Oh, you've already found your present! You like it?", he said at the view of John twirling the piece of wood in his hands.

"This... this is a bit not good, Sherlock."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Okay, I get it. Yes, I am a bit older than you are. Ha ha. Very funny."

"John, I don't think..."

"What's next? A gift card for prescription glasses? A container for dentures?"

"Let me explain, will you?"

"Oh, yeah, go on. Make fun of me on my birthday."

Sherlock let out a long sigh, dropping into his chair and gesturing for John to sit down as well. When his flatmate seemed finally to have cooled down a bit, the detective opened his mouth.

"This present. It's actually not for you alone."

"Of course. Why would you get me a present anyway?"

Ignoring this comment, Sherlock went on.

"Have you ever heard of masochists? People liking to... well, get hurt?"

John knitted his brows.

"Yes. And...?"

"Coincidentally, I am being one of them."

"You? Uhm. Okay. But what does it..."

"I want you to use it on me. The cane. Your old one wasn't very aesthetically pleasing, so I got you that one."

"Wait. What? You want me to do what...? To hit you with the cane?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, you're... I don't even know what to say. But that's too much. We're flatmates and yes, you still are my best friend. But. Borders, Sherlock, borders. You have to learn about them. Seriously. This is just ridiculous!"

With that John rushed off into his bedroom, leaving a confused Sherlock behind.

Two days they haven't spoken a word to each other. There had been a small birthday gathering at a pub (which Sherlock – of course – hadn't attended) and the next day was stuffed with patients in the clinic for John and a rather interesting case for Sherlock.

Almost 48 hours after receiving the questionable gift, John padded down with bare feet into the living room, finding his flatmate in the usual "sulking detective" position on the sofa.

"Sherlock?"

"Mh."

"We need to talk."

A bunch of black curls and pyjama pants and nicotine patches unwrapped itself, until Sherlock was finally sitting upright.

"What is it then, John?"

"Well... uhm. Have you ever heard of sadists? You know, people liking to..."

"too hurt other people. I'm familiar with the term, yes. Care to tell me, why you are asking me this?"

John cleared his throat several times before he was able to look Sherlock directly into the eyes.

"Coincidentally, I am being one of them."