This was written for a prompt from a random generator:
A character will prepare for a birthday, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems. A character is resigned throughout most of the story. During the story, a character finds a long-lost friend.
Enjoy!
6:00 am.
John Watson simply did not want to get out of bed. He did not want to face this day. However, he was due at the surgery in an hour, so he was forced to get up. As he stood, a sharp pain raced through his leg, and gasping, he reached for his cane. Since the day that Sherlock had stepped off the roof and out of his life, John's life had very much gone back to the way it had been before they met. Hopeless. Pointless. Unbearable.
Leaning heavily on his cane, the doctor traipsed out of his bedroom and down to the kitchen. As he went, he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice wishing him a good morning. But when he looked up, pausing on his way down the stairs, there was no Sherlock to be found. His eyes dampening, he once more dropped his gaze and continued his descent.
Some days he was not like this. Some days he woke up and found he was completely fine. No nightmares, no memories, no flashbacks, no guilt. Some days he could walk without the assistance of his cane, even with a spring in his step. But then he would see or hear something that reminded him of his flatmate, and all of it would wash over him again.
John was now at work. He was just finishing an appointment with a young man who had experienced facial trauma less than a year ago. His scars had recently flared back up, and John had prescribed medicine to reduce the swelling. His jovial country-side physician mask in place throughout, he had shaken hands with the family and watched as they exited the surgery. The young man pulled his coat down from the rack in the waiting room. It was Sherlock's coat.
John's eyes widened as he watched the boy pull on the coat much as Sherlock had done, with a bit of a prideful flourish. His coattails had flown back behind him as he walked swiftly out the door. He backed into his office, shocked. And that's when John lost his grip on reality.
He vaguely remembered falling, but arms were there to support him. He saw the scar-covered face of the young man again in his mind's eye. As he watched, the face turned into Sherlock's, bloody and broken, lying on the pavement.
"John."
The picture of the detective's lifeless body flickered, and for a moment, John saw Sarah's face looking deeply into his own. He knew now that it was a nothing but a memory, a flashback, but as the picture reappeared, John began to lose himself in it as he had done so many times before. He suddenly became aware that he was growing dizzy.
"John, listen to me. Come back to reality. It's just a memory, you're alright, you're here in the surgery."
The memory again flickered, then faded. John now only saw Sarah kneeling before him. She was speaking to him, but John could not hear her over the rushing sound in his ears. He realized that he was hyperventilating.
"Slow down, John. Breathe. You're alright. Can you hear me? You're alright…"
He tried to follow her instructions, matching his breathing rate to hers. The panic was now fading, and he felt himself blush. He had just collapsed on the job, in front of Sarah. Surely he would be fired.
"Alright, that's much better. You okay? Don't worry, no one saw you but me."
"Yeah…yeah I'm fine. I'm so sorry, Sarah. That was very unprofessional."
"Don't worry about it, I'll keep it quiet. But perhaps you should call it quits for today, okay? Just go home and relax over a nice cup of tea and a comedy. I'll make excuses for you."
John could see the pity in her eyes, something he didn't much like. He wanted to be okay, but when the looks in everyone's faces were a constant reminder of that horrible day, how could he be? At first he had wanted comfort of any kind. But now, he just wanted to forget and be able to move on.
He stood up from where he had been half sitting, half lying against the wall, and steadied himself with his cane. Thanking Sarah, he collected his things and limped out of the surgery.
As always, when he reached 221B, he felt a strange aversion to going inside. And as always, he entered the flat anyway. After staggering up the stairs, he gazed around the room. All Sherlock's things were exactly where he had left them. John had not been able to bring himself to touch any of them. Part of him was curious as to whether he had left any sort of final message for him, but another part did not want to know. If he found one, he knew it would only make all this mess even worse.
He knew exactly why he had felt the memories so strongly today. Today was the sixth of January, Sherlock's birthday. Flopping down on the sofa, John recalled the first time he and Sherlock had celebrated his birthday. John had been tipped off by Mycroft that the detective seemed especially lonely today, and that today happened to be his birthday. Before Sherlock descended from his bedroom, John had whipped up a straight-from-the-box birthday cake for him, topped with icing and sprinkles. He remembered the utter shock on Sherlock's face when he had seen it, and the rare smile he had given John as he began to sing "Happy Birthday."
But all the happiness was gone now. There was nothing left to celebrate today.
The doorbell rang.
John heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door, and then to his surprise, he heard footsteps echoing up the staircase to his flat. He turned toward the door and saw none other than Greg Lestrade, looking very disheveled and wind-blown. His eyes met the doctor's. The D.I. saw none of the former sparkle of amusement and intellect that always accompanied him to Sherlock's cases. He saw only a hollow, hopeless, utterly broken man. After those few seconds of silent understanding between the two, Lestrade entered the flat and sat next to John on the sofa.
They sat in silence for nearly a minute, neither looking at the other. John was merely grateful to know that someone cared enough to come by the flat. After a few minutes more of stillness, Lestrade felt it was necessary to speak up.
"I remember the first time I found out it was Sherlock's birthday. He always refused to tell me, for some reason. But Donovan somehow managed to get a look at his records, and we found it. So on his birthday, we decided to call him into a fake crime scene. We really had all the Scotland Yarders crouched in a dark office and ready to yell "surprise." The look on his face was one I'll never forget. He nearly jumped out of his skin, but he looked so happy. He was happy that someone cared about him. I don't think he got much of that as a kid. But then, of course, he decided to pretend he was annoyed and yelled at me about what a bloody idiot I was. But later, when everyone else had left our mini-party, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. God, he was so young then. But I never forgot that day. That was one of the only times I ever saw his mask of indifference and cold logic slip. Until you came around, of course."
John actually chuckled at Lestrade's story, remembering what a git Sherlock could be. Lestrade saw this and felt as if he had won a battle.
"Do you think we should celebrate? You know, just to remember?"
John thought for a moment, his lips pursed, then nodded. He and Lestrade got to their feet.
And so they baked a cake for Sherlock, to remember all the good times they had with him. Though he had been nearly impossible to work with, and even more so to live with, both men had loved him as a brother. Lestrade lit the candles, and they both began to sing, though it was very ugly and off-pitch.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sherlock…happy birthday to you!"