It was the sixth of January, a cold, dark day in London, and the mood was reflected in the atmosphere at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite chair in front of a small fire, his one concession to celebrating his birthday was the glass of rather excellent Scotch he was sipping, compliments of his brother. Sherlock was not a big drinker, but he did appreciate excellence, and the yearly birthday bottle his brother supplied was all the acknowledgement of the anniversary of his birth that he would allow.
It was not always so. When he was a child, young William, or Will, as he was called affectionately by his family, loved being the birthday boy. It was not the presents, although they were not unappreciated. It was the lovely cake, which his mother would bake, from scratch. Violet Holmes was not a homebody, particularly, but she never failed to provide her boys with this small indication of her devotion. Chocolate was always her young sons' favorite, and the more frosting the better. She would then carefully scroll a birthday message on top, and present the cake to the family at teatime. Sherlock remembers everyone sitting around, singing that ridiculous birthday song, while he gazed longingly at the chocolate delight waiting to be cut and served. At the end of the song, Papa would clap a congratulatory hand on his shoulder, Mummy would smother his face with kisses, and Mycroft would ruffle his little brother's hair affectionately. Remembering all this as he gazed into the fire, he took another sip of Scotch, and couldn't help a small smile appearing on his studiously dour face.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of a key in the downstairs door lock. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, as she was still visiting her sister and would not return for several days. John Watson knew better than to darken his door on this particular occasion, as he was well aware of the detective's aversion to birthdays, and the sentiment they tended to engender. The only other person with a key was Molly Hooper. He had given her one in order to expedite delivery of certain experimental materials when he was away from the flat. In addition, Molly was the only one he knew brave enough to breach his fortress of solitude on such an occasion. As her heard her light footsteps on the stairs, he found he could not be angry. Merely curious.
Things had not been good between him and his pathologist for quite a few months now. First, there was the whole relapse thing, when she had slapped him repeatedly, and gave voice to her disappointment. Then, of course, there had been Janine, his erstwhile "girlfriend". He had explained to Molly, or rather, had tried to explain, that both incidents had been for a case. A rather important case. But they had been estranged for months. And then, he had killed a man, and subsequently been sentenced to an exile sure to end in his death. And he had not said goodbye.
Sherlock knew that Mycroft had kept the pathologist apprised of the situation, but he had never been sure if that was wise. But Mycroft had his own opinion. He and Molly had become rather friendly during Sherlock's two year "death", and Mycroft had urged his younger brother not to go off to his real death without a farewell to the kindly and gentle woman who had done so much for him. Sherlock even suspected that Mycroft knew why he couldn't bring do so. And that was because the detective simply couldn't bring himself to say goodbye. Not again, and not forever.
Instead, Sherlock had sat himself down and written a letter. And adjusted his will. In the letter, he confessed all the things he could not bring himself to say face to face, and in the will he provided for Molly's support in the style of a Holmes. Mycroft hadn't read the letter, nor had he had the occasion to deliver it, as his brother's exile had ended after a mere four minutes. His absence could have been permanent, however, had Sherlock's attempt at a fatal overdose proved successful. So the document had been returned to the detective, along with similar missives to his parents, and been disposed in the very fireplace which now warmed his bones. The detective should be in a rehab facility at this very moment, but Mycroft knew that that was not possible, since the commutation of his sentence depended on the detective's work in finding out who was behind the newest Moriarty threat. The almost exile was under virtual house arrest, watched over by his brother's minions, and doing most of his investigation on-line. It hadn't taken him long to discover that there really was no threat, as Mycroft himself was behind the whole "fauxriarty" thing. Sherlock had yet to inform his brother of his conclusion, as to do so would involve the necessity of a "thank you", which would only serve to embarrass them both. So, rehab would wait, an expression of gratitude would wait, but, as it now appeared, a reconciliation with his pathologist would not wait.
The door opened, and Molly tentatively stepped into the room. "Hello, Sherlock."
"Hello, Molly. I can only assume that you have come to commiserate about my advancing years. Hardly cause for celebration." He tried to school his features into a frown, but felt the corner of his mouth moving upward in an unintended smile. "What have you there? Certainly not a present. You know I abhor birthday presents. I had nothing to do with the accomplishment of my birth. Perhaps you should forward it to my mother. And father, who did contribute in some way."
"Sherlock, don't be like that!"
"Like what, Dr. Hooper?"
"Like Sherlock, you git!"
"My sincerest apologies. Whom would you like me to be?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I just want you to be you. The real you, without all the ego and attitude."
"Well, I can try. But without the ego and attitude, I'm apt to be rather bland." He smirked, and took another sip from his glass.
"Mycroft said I'd probably find you sulking, with a drink in your hand."
"My brother knows me quite well, it would seem. So, what have you brought me, Molly? It's not in an insulated container, so I assume it not a body part."
"It's just something I made for your birthday, Sherlock," she said as she removed the item from its box and placed it on the coffee table, before taking a seat on the couch. Sherlock looked at it, and his face went into the expression which John Watson often referred to as his "buffering mode." But it didn't last long, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs once again disturbed his solitude. "Mycroft," he muttered.
Mycroft entered the room as if he had been invited. "Many happy returns of the day, brother!" His smile seemed genuine, but it was hard to tell if it was in deference to his brother's celebration, or in response to the cake currently occupying the coffee table. The beautiful chocolate cake, piled high with frosting, and bearing the word, "Happy Birthday William!"
"I should have known you would show up if cake was in the offing, brother!" Sherlock said, but not in angry tones. "As I recall, you used to eat the lion's share of each and every cake Mummy ever baked."
"I was merely looking out for my baby brother! Think of the calories, the tooth decay, the sugar high…"
"Perhaps if you had allowed me the sugar high, I would not have gone searching for other highs, brother."
"Nonsense. You would have found your highs no matter what I had done. Just as I found mine with your cakes!" Mycroft's eyes seemed a bit dilated as he turned to Molly. " I think we can dispense with the singing, and proceed with the cutting." He then went quickly into the kitchen in search of cutlery.
"Don't bother looking for clean plates, Mycroft. I've bought paper ones." She looked over at her detective, and continued. "There's bees on them! And beehives." She was hoping this would bring on a smile, and was happy to see that it had.
As Mycroft accepted a large piece of the chocolate concoction, he looked over at his brother. "Anything new on the Moriarty broadcast, Sherlock. I'm sure Molly is concerned for her safety."
"You know as well as I do that Molly need not have any concerns. Moriarty is dead. Absolutely! And if I had thought for one minute that he was not, I would have insisted that Molly have security of the highest level."
"Dr. Hooper does have security of the highest level."
"The better to keep up appearances, eh, brother?" The look exchanged between the two men left no doubt that Sherlock knew who was behind the broadcast. "How much longer must I stay under wraps, Myc."
"Until the next crisis forces the whole Moriarty thing into the background, I'm afraid. You should find something with which to occupy yourself. Mycroft scooped the last morsel on his plate into his mouth before saying, "Molly, I'm afraid I have time for only one slice. Could I trouble you to wrap one for me to take with me? It's absolutely delicious, by the way."
"I told you he always tried to hog my cakes!" Sherlock said, but in a more kindly tone, "Make sure to make it a large slice Molly, as I owe my brother a debt." Mycroft merely nodded in acknowledgement.
Mycroft accepted the small parcel from the pathologist as he rose to leave. "I shall leave you then, to unwrap your present." He then stepped over to where Sherlock sat in his chair and, smiling, reached over to affectionately ruffle the man's hair. "Happy birthday, Will," he said with a smile as he quickly exited.
"Well, that was unexpected," Molly gasped.
"Not entirely. Mycroft is far more emotional than he lets on," he looked down at his hands, then rose to his feet to join Molly on the couch. "It's a family trait, I suppose."
Molly was feeling slightly uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to say, before coming out with, "I really don't know what Mycroft meant, Sherlock. Unwrap your present? I didn't bring you a present, and I didn't see one with him. Any idea to what he was referring?"
Sherlock looked down at the cake, half eaten. But one word remained untouched. His childhood name, William. The name used only those closest to him. By those who loved him, and whom he loved. "I can make an educated guess, Dr. Hooper," he said, reaching for the top button of her blouse. By the time he got to the second button, he was kissing her. When he pulled away, he licked his lips and said, "Chocolate. My favorite!"
"Sherlock, what are you doing?!" Molly said rather loudly, although she had barely found breath to voice the words.
He reached for the third button, and murmured against her neck, "Merely following my brother's not so subtle suggestion!"
"Sherlock!"
"Molly, please, if you don't mind," Sherlock said as he continued working at her buttons and nibbled her ear, speaking softly, but certainly loud enough for her to hear, "Do you think you could bring yourself to call me 'William', or even better, 'Will'?"
Barely able to breathe what with the way this man, the love of her life, was taking her breath away, the ecstatic woman managed to whisper "Will!"
And, just like that, William Sherlock Scott Holmes realized he was about to have the best birthday of his life. Chocolate cake, a hair ruffle from his big brother, and Molly in his arms. Childhood birthday delights hopefully about to be replaced in his memory by more adult ones. And the only woman he had ever, or will ever, love addressing him with the intimacy of the name he had been born with, his family name, the name of his happy childhood, the name used by his nearest and dearest. And she was certainly now the foremost of them.