Disclaimer: This small ficlet is inspired by the fabulous art of 'thebritishteapot' on tumblr, in particular, this one: .com/post/19127799506/more-than-a-present
More than a Present
Turning seven isn't fun. At all. The adults still look at you as though you are a baby, and the babies think of you as an adult. And you are neither of them. Somewhere in-between. Which I hate. Being in-between is boring.
Holding my hand with his left one and the umbrella (though it's perfectly shining outside) with his right, Mycroft enters the kindergarten with the dumbest smile one has ever seen. Mycroft, for God's sake, it's my birthday, not yours! I'm not happy on my birthdays because I'm not as mad about Mummy's cake as you are. But, nevertheless, you can have mine – I believe it's a chocolate one with some strawberries on it – I've seen the leftovers of its glaze on Mummy's skirt today when she woke me up.
'Here we are, Sherlock. And have a nice birthday!'
Right. No one knows it is my birthday, actually. Who does even care for such dull things? I'll just sit here, alone as always, and sing 'Happy Birthday, Sherlock' by myself only. Which is dull too.
'Puah. Birthdays. I don't want to celebrate my increasing brain failing.'
It's true. I've already sensed it. With every single year my head becomes just a tiny bit larger, but my brain... Oh, my brain becomes so large in a year, that my head can't bear it sometimes. John told me that is the reason of my frequent headaches.
I can't sing. Should I try?
'Happy Birthday to you... Happy Birthday to you...'
Oh, stop it! It's so false that even I can't bear my own voice.
Right. Now I'm all alone – no Mummy, no Mycroft, no chocolate-strawberry cake, not even Mummy's stupid old damsels. No one. Nothing. Boring.
'Uhm... Sherlock... I need to tell you something.'
Molly. Her parents did probably have a wrangle yesterday – her eyes are always so puffy the morning after such things. Plus, apparently, her mother did not have enough time or nerves to make Molly's hair look at least... acceptable.
I raise my head and look at her as emotionless as I could possibly be. Interesting. Does she remember it's my birthday today?
Oh, no, she doesn't. She starts sniffling, then sobbing.
'You always tell me such terrible things! Always,' that's not right. I'm being honest there. Since when honesty is not tolerated well? 'Please, stop!'
She turns her back and leaves the room. Alone again.
'Sod it! I don't need you on my birthday. You're useless.'
It's strange that when I murmur this to myself, I feel an odd pain in the chest.
Five minutes. No one. Ten. No one. Fifteen. Still no one.
That was it. They all hate me and don't care about my stupid birthday. I want to go home and to lock myself into my Mind Palace. I don't even want to share my cake with Mycroft – he can take it all for himself.
'I've something special for you, Sherlock!'
Oh, the little Donovan! Her mother has forced her once again to rub the floors at home – her knees are in the well-known terrible condition. That's the risk of being the eldest of five children. Thanks God it's only two of us in our family and I am the lucky younger child.
'Stop being weird! I hate you! You're a freak!'
She leaves the room, slamming the door behind herself.
I'm not weird. I'm not a freak. Right – hate me as much as you want; I hate you too. But I'm just... not ordinary. You'll see, Donovan, when we become adults... When my birthday five times seven comes, I'll be the best detective in the world, and you'll be just a simple and ordinary person. And your knees will still be in a miserable state.
'Sherlock!'
Ohhh... This shrill voice is of one person only. Jim. I wonder what he wants. He is always intriguing, though he is bad towards me.
'Look, I've got a present for youuuu!'
Oh, interesting! I can feel the thrill on my fingertips. Someone actually did remember my birthday! Ouch! An apple? In my forehead! Damn you, James-disgusting-Moriarty! My Mummy will have a talk with yours very soon! Again...
'Ahahahah!' it's not funny. It hurt, 'I owed you one!'
I've hit you with a kiwi! It was rotten and it couldn't even reach your forehead – it splashed on the table in front of you. John was the one who threw an apple at you and hit you right between the eyes. Oh, John – he is always so flawless when it comes to shooting or hitting someone.
Alone. Again. It can't be like that. Only Jim Moriarty remembered my birthday... and threw an apple at me. I hate my birthdays. I hate my seven years. I hate my life.
'Sherlock!'
John? Oh, here he is! I wonder what he wants... with this stupid little smile of his.
'I have a present for your birthday!'
For my birthday? He remembered! Yay!
No, Sherlock, stay calm. He will give you something small and stupid, and useless. Nothing special.
'Presents are boring, John. Birthdays are boring, John. Leave, John.'
But he doesn't leave. Leave, John, please. I want to be alone. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. From... apples being thrown at me.
A... pocket magnifying glass? JOHN! Joooohn! I-... I-... You're amazing! You're fantastic! I love you!
Nope, Sherlock, stay calm!
'Oooohhhh... A pocket magnifying glass! Very clever. Awfully clever.'
He stares at me with this stupid little smile of his, again and again. His blue eyes are shining with an expectation. I want to jump from my chair and to hug my bestestest – this word does not even exist in the glossaries, Sherlock! – friend. He remembered my birthday! And he gave me the best present I've ever dreamt of!
'Unfortunately, I can't use it because it's use-less!'
I throw it behind myself and as I hear its creaking sound on the floor, I just close my eyes quickly, hoping it's not broken. This would be devastating. Plus, my explanation of not wanting the present was... incredibly idiotic.
He smiles even wider. He knows me too well. I'm trying to look away – I don't want him to see I like it. But he starts chuckling. Am I really so predictable?
'Shut up, prick! I know you like it!'
He takes one of the toys thrown around the room and walks out.
Even the packing is cute. A dark-blue one – my favourite colour.
Magnifying glass? Hey, pocket magnifying glass?
I turn around – it's laying there. It's not broken, thanks God. I stretch my hand, touch it, grab it.
'You're so beautiful! I will use you every day for the rest of my life!'
I wonder if I've just started covering it with kisses or it's my imagination caressing it. Either way, it's the best birthday gift ever. The best birthday ever.
'Sherlock!'
John opens the door and glares at me and my mutual affection with the magnifying glass. Chuckles once again.
'I've just hit Jimmy with an apple. The perfect shot!'
I smile in return. My perfect John. The best John ever.