Boring. The most overused word in the history of the English language – or at the very least, of Baker Street. Sherlock used it to describe almost any mood that wasn't 'busy', and as a result, John made an effort to use it less. But even he had to admit, as he flicked through that mornings paper, that even the news was just that. Dull, boring, and a waste of 50p in his opinion.
Sherlock was already awake by the time John had come downstairs, not that that was anything out of the ordinary. He'd given up asking or even wondering what time his flatmate went to sleep, or if he even slept at all anymore. The detective was busy at his microscope, and so John only got a mumbled reply to his 'good morning' – again, nothing abnormal there. Settling into his chair, John picked up the paper (dutifully loaned to them by Mrs Hudson) and started reading.
This didn't last long, however. On the side table opposite, Sherlock's phone started to vibrate – a welcome change to Irene's idea of a practical joke. When, after a few minutes it carried on, John flipped to the next page as he spoke up;
"You going to get that?" No response. Over the next 20 minutes, the buzzing started and stopped – that was three texts now. Glancing over at it as the fourth one came through, John glanced up at it, and called back towards the kitchen;
"That makes four. Want me to see who they're from?"
"Mmm…?"
"Sherlock, are you even listening?"
"Yes, yes…" John rolled his eyes, and closed the newspaper, setting it down as he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the phone up from the table and opening the inbox.
"One from Lestrade – might have something for you, wants you to call him asap. One from Mycroft-"
In the kitchen, Sherlock paused, waiting to hear what his brother had to say. A moment later, John appeared in the doorway, phone in hand, and the expression Sherlock had coined as the 'pre-epiphany' face.
"Mycroft's texted you"
"You just said that-"
"It says 'happy birthday'…" His tone suggested he wanted Sherlock to finish his sentence somehow, preferably with confirmation or denial. He opted for neither, instead ignoring John for a few seconds longer.
"Is it?"
"What?"
"Your birthday"
"What's the date?" They both knew full well the detective knew the answer, but John humoured him anyway, checking his watch.
"Sixth of January."
"Then that would be a 'yes'" he replied, still not looking at his flatmate as he replaced one microscope slide for another. John smiled a little, heading further into the room and putting the kettle on.
"You should have mentioned it" Glancing up, Sherlock frowned lightly.
"Why?" Turning to face him, John scrubbed his nails through his hair half heartedly.
"Well, I would have gotten you something …could have-" His suggestion was met with a dismissive wave. Still, he persisted.
"We should do something to celebrate at least-"
"I'm not a child, John – I don't need you to make a big occasion out of it or give me things. Christmas is bad enough…"
"It's not a matter of- Look, at least let me buy you dinner tonight. Wherever you like." Sherlock went to protest, but was met with a stubborn look. Hesitantly, he surrendered.
"…Fine."