It was three in the morning when Sherlock came home from his latest job - which involved a lot of running around the city, jumping over rooftops and possibly even a swim in the Thames.
Sherlock was curious why John hadn't joined him on his latest adventure – he refused to come out of his room - but even more curious as to why a cake stood on his desk.
‚John?', he inquired ‚there is a cake sitting on my police report.'
‚Yes', replied John with a slight smile.
‚Why?' Sherlock asked incredulously.
‚You seriously can't tell Mr I-Deduct-Everything?'
Sherlock shoot him a sour glance. ‚While you are correct that I am able to deduct a lot, I must admit myself defeated. Enlighten me. Why is there a cake on my desk?'
‚Cause is your birthday, Sherlock', he informed his slightly confused looking friend.
‚No it isn't', stated Sherlock.
‚Yes it is.'
‚No.'
‚Yes.'
‚No... I thought my birthday was on March 5th.' Now he was really confused. Not that he would ever admit it.
‚Honestly Sherlock? You can't even tell your own birthday? You helped Mrs Hudson's husband get kill on March 5th.'
‚Oh... well... August 26th?'
‚First solved case anniversary.'
‚... December... well... okay, you defeated me again. Pray tell, how can you be so sure.' This was frustrating, he was supposed to be the clever one with all the answers not this stupid little doctor – no offense. Compared to him everyone was stupid.
‚Because Mycroft texted you to congratulate. And since you hardly ever use your mobile, he send the message to me. Just to make sure you would get it in time.'
John pulled his mobile out and showed him the text.
While Sherlock read the message, John put on his jacket and opened the door. Before he left he took his mobile back and turned to his friend ‚before I forget, I got you a present.'
‚Really?' What could John have gotten him? It's not like needed anything.
‚Remember the eyeballs you accidentlly burned last week? I got you a pair of new ones.'
Sherlock stood dumbfounded in the room. That was the nicest and most thoughtful – and usefully he might add – present anyone has ever gotten him.
‚Now are you coming or what?' John called halfway out the door.
‚Where are we going then?'
This was going to be be the worst day Sherlock ever had. John was too good at this, misleading him, hiding his intentions - there was after all a reason why he took John as a flatmate.
He should be able to tell their destination without having to ask. He hated birthdays, he always looked like an idiot on those.
Instead of replying John tossed him his phone again. The simple text message read:
‚Murder in Soho. Need assistance. Come as quickly as possible.
Lestrade
P.S.: Happy Birthday, Sherlock'