Birthdays are a special time of the year, a day for celebration of a person's arrival in the world and of their particular talents and attributes. A day for the person to relax and be showered with affection or gifts, or at the very least do something they've been wanting to do for a while.

John Watson found himself thinking this as he woke up on March 31st, his birthday. Certainly Sherlock had planned something special for him.

As he came downstairs, feeling rested and alive, he saw Sherlock leaned over an experiment. The detective didn't acknowledge the other's appearance with a greeting or a wave, instead focusing on the petri dish he had a pair of tweezers in.

John bounded up to him. "Good morning, Sherlock!" He quipped.

Sherlock looked up. "What's got you in such a delighted mood?"

John faltered slightly, but persisted. "Do you know what day it is?"

Sherlock thought, searching his massive brain for any reminder of what occasion it was today, on March 31st.

"It's Bunsen Burner Day." He finally came up with. "But I don't believe that you are so excited about that as I am, so pray tell what is so special about today in your head, John?"

John scowled at Sherlock. The git had forgotten! Or, more likely, deleted it from memory. Sherlock never forgets anything. So he hadn't deemed it important enough to remember, ay?

"Nevermind." John huffed. "It's nothing."

Sherlock watched, bewildered, as John spun around and stalked off, his good mood seemingly evaporated. What had he said?

Resolving to look into it later, he turned back to his work. John sat on the couch with his laptop, blogging, and ignoring Sherlock.

Soon, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade. Whooping, he called, "John, a case! Come on!"

"Not today, Sherlock." Was John's reply. Sherlock paused in his rush for his coat and looked at John. The man didn't seem ill or injured. Slowly nodding, Sherlock said, "Alright then. I'll be home later, then."

He disappeared out the door. John glared after him, then sighed. Of course Sherlock wouldn't remember his birthday. He doesn't care about people. Only his work. Turning back to his blog, he tried to forget it.

When Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, he found Lestrade and asked about the details. It turned out to be the murder of a young boy, and done by a serial killer who suffocated his victims before cutting out their tongues.

As he examined the body, his phone rang. Straightening up and stepping to the side, he read the text.

I hope you're happy. John is at your flat alone and appears to be quite upset. -MH

Sherlock sent a reply to his brother.

How is this my problem? And I asked you to remove the cameras from our flat. -SH

Obviously, you forgot the occasion. -MH

Yes, he did ask about something like that. What occasion did I miss? -SH

His birthday, obviously. How could you of all people not realize? Honestly. -MH

Oh. That explains why he was unusually chipper. -SH

Yes. -MH

People actually care about birthdays? -SH

Yes. -MH

I suppose I need to apologize. -SH

Yes. -MH

A few minutes passed while Sherlock stared at the phone. Then he sighed and texted back.

You just delight in me owing you favors, don't you? -SH

Whatever do you mean? -MH

Fine, I'll play your stupid game. Will you please help me apologize to John? -SH

Already made the arrangements. His gift (from you) will arrive at 6:35 tonight. Please don't screw it up. -MH

I don't "screw things up." -SH

Mycroft didn't text back, but Sherlock had predicted that and had already put away his phone after that last text. He went back to his crime scene.

When John hung up the phone with Harry, who had called to wish him a happy birthday, he decided to go and buy himself a special dinner. By the time he got home, (at 6:24), Sherlock was already back and pacing around the flat.

"Finally! You're back, I was worried you'd be late." He said upon seeing John.

"Late for what?" John asked, hanging up his cloak.

Sherlock didn't respond, only sitting down and messing with his experiments. John shook his head.

Eleven minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock was up in a flash, calling, "Sit down and stay there!" over his shoulder to John, who had stood as well.

Sherlock opened the door. Anthea stood there, texting on her blackberry and holding a box in her free hand. Sherlock took the box and thanked her. She nodded without looking up, then turned and walked back to the car.

John looked up when Sherlock came back up the stairs. "What was that about, then?"

Sherlock handed him the gift box. "Happy birthday, John. I apologize for upsetting you earlier."

John took the box, a bit surprised. "Oh. Sherlock, thanks. I had thought you had forgotten."

Sherlock wisely stayed silent. John unwrapped the box. He pulled out a new laptop. "This is… really expensive. Sherlock, you didn't have to."

Sherlock hmphed, standing up and striding off. "Don't mention it."

John hid a smile, he knew Sherlock was embarrassed. He figured he had had to ask Mycroft to help. He wasn't a fool, he knew what happened. But the fact that Sherlock had swallowed his pride and asked his brother for help meant that, on some level, he cared for John.

That was, in a way, the best birthday present John had ever gotten.