Happy Birthday MF!
Disclaimer: Don't own or profit.
John sighed.
Mrs Hudson had grabbed him in a bear hug as he left for work this morning.
Molly had insisted that she should buy him a cup of tea.
Mycroft and Lestrade had both sent texts, the latter offering to take him for a beer next Saturday to celebrate.
Sherlock, on the other hand, had vaguely waved his hand and made a snide comment about John not keeping his patients waiting, before sprawling on the couch to 'think'.
Cakes had materialised in the staff rest room at break, and as he tucked into a cream horn (why did nurses always buy them, and then giggle as they ate them?) John had to admit he was hurt. Everyone remembered except his very own genius.
The rest of his day dragged, then with just an hour of his shift left, he received a text.
'Come home, I'm in pain. SH'
Without a second thought he left his work, and hurried out to find a taxi, worrying all the way home.
Bursting through the flat door he called out
"Sherlock? What happened?" Then he stopped dead in the living room doorway.
Sherlock lay naked on the couch, posed like a Botticelli angel, his plan blatantly obvious in the state of his anatomy.
Licking his lips he smiled, his eyes smouldering heatedly.
"Happy birthday."