So today is my best friend's birthday. I told her I'd give her a birthday surprise, and this is it. Not much of a surprise, so sorry about that! I hope you like it, my dear. Happy 18th birthday! ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just write awful fanfiction with its characters.
Sherlock Holmes was bored. He'd had no case in a total of thirteen days now. Okay, maybe he'd had an offer to take one case, but it's not like it was at all interesting. On the Sherlock Holmes 'Scale of Interest' the case had struggled to register as even a one. Anything less than an eight and Sherlock was unlikely to accept it. It was so unbelievably see-through Sherlock found it amazing that the police hadn't solved it yet. Or maybe that was it – he'd suspected that the case was a ploy from Lestrade to at least try and tempt Sherlock out of 221B. Chances are John was the one who had asked Lestrade to set it up, as the ex-army doctor seemed to be increasingly irritated with Sherlock's constant moping around the flat.
It hadn't worked. Sherlock Holmes was still bored.
Normally in times like this he would have resorted to giving the already mutilated smiley face on the wall more features. A moustache, maybe. That however, was impossible – Mrs. Hudson had warned him that if she heard one more shot fired in the house she'd evict both of the men. No shots in the house unless there was a valid reason, but not what Sherlock considered a valid reason, such as sheer, unrivalled boredom.
Sherlock knew for certain Mrs. Hudson would never go through with it, but he thought it better not to further aggravate their pseudo-housekeeper.
So here he was – draped unceremoniously over the sofa, his long legs over the armrest and dressed only in his infamous dark blue dressing gown, eyes closed.
He could hear John shuffling around in the kitchen nearby, most likely cleaning up the remnants of his flatmate's recent experiment. It was such a shame, Sherlock thought, that John didn't hold the same appreciation for mould that the detective did.
John had been bit distracted lately, though. There seemed to be a skip in his step when he walked, and as soon as his phone text alert went off he grabbed the device faster than a speeding bullet. Sherlock deduced it was something in the nature of John's love life. That woman with the intense copper hair colour he'd be infatuated with lately. What was her name? T-something? Sherlock couldn't care less.
Sherlock sighed for what must have been the hundredth time that day. He scratched absently at the three nicotine patches on his forearm. He could just go for a cigarette right now. He wondered where John had chosen to hide them today. His last hiding place, the skull on the mantelpiece that John had begun referring to as 'Geoff' was no longer in use due to Sherlock knowing about it.
He could just slip outside for a minute – give in to this constant craving. He'd considered it: all he'd have to do is pass the closed kitchen door and go silently down the flight of stairs, then stand outside the front door. A few minutes and then he could be back in his current position on the battered leather sofa. John would never know. Or would he? His blogger had become quite efficient in his own deductions lately – no where near as proficient as the world's only consulting detective, of course, but much better than the ordinary person, mentioning no names.
…Anderson.
Back to the point. Sherlock had considered slipping outside for a cigarette, but he'd decided against it. John would probably smell the tobacco on him the moment he came into the room.
The sharp, somewhat lengthened ring of the doorbell brought him abruptly from his thoughts.
Sherlock didn't move, not even mulling over getting up to answer the door. John had obviously realised this too, because a few seconds later he had poked his head out from the kitchen, marigolds on his hands and covered in soap suds. He'd obviously got to the point of washing up Sherlock's lingering experiment equipment then.
"Sherlock, could you get that? I'm a bit busy at the moment." He asked, gesturing to his rubber gloves.
The detective noted the tiny curve to John's mouth that he was sure his flatmate remained unaware of. That smirk, Sherlock knew, meant John was up to something. What it was, Sherlock didn't know. John had obviously been careful to hide any signs that might give the game away. Either that or Sherlock had totally over-thought it and that smirk meant that John knew he was getting his leg over later tonight.
Sherlock sighed again as if the world had just been asked of him but stood after a moment. He made sure to tighten his dressing gown cord before heading to the stairs. He didn't give a damn if the visitor (definitely not a client, as the doorbell ring was too long for it to be one of those) got an eyeful, but the recent increase of press interest in the now somewhat famous Sherlock Holmes meant that John had had to ask his flatmate to take a little more care about what he did in public. Sherlock didn't know what John's reaction would be if he opened his morning newspaper to see a huge image of the detective's…lower regions. Maybe he'd never buy a paper again. At least that would save Sherlock the daily task of explaining why each individual article was utter nonsense and why it was obvious that the editor of the paper was sleeping with his PA.
After descending the stairs Sherlock reached the front door and turned the handle. He opened the door, his expression practically oozing indifference. As soon as their visitor came into view there was a sudden burst of song that Sherlock found far too obnoxious for four in the afternoon.
The person at the door turned out to be a somewhat scruffy middle-aged man with a rapidly receding hairline, dressed in a hideous pale green uniform adorned with the logo of the local bakery. He was boldly singing a bad out of tune rendition of 'Happy Birthday' as he held out a near-white box to the consulting detective. The box, roughly thirty centimetres in width, obviously contained a cake. A birthday cake. A birthday cake to celebrate the birthday of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
John had planned this.
He was probably laughing his head off upstairs right at this very moment, the bastard.
Sherlock hadn't even been aware today was his birthday.
He stood there, in silence, honestly unsure of what to say or do. What would normal people do to a stranger singing an extremely painful version of Happy Birthday? Sing along? Clap? Smile with a hand over their mouth in mock surprise? Or so exactly what Sherlock was doing, with an expression of both boredom and awkwardness on his face? He wasn't embarrassed. Sherlock Holmes never got embarrassed.
…Much.
After what seemed like the longest thirty seconds of his life, the singing of the delivery man ended, thank god.
Sherlock finally took the box the man had held out to him, the guy not seeming at all bothered with the negative – if somewhat unwelcome – reception to his delivery.
He must have had done this job for far too long. Sherlock thought.
Before the delivery man could have said anything else, the door was slammed in his face.
Sherlock now stood at the bottom of the building stairs, again unsure of what 'normal' people would do in this particular situation.
They'd probably run upstairs and say a heartfelt thanks to John and have cake with their tea and chat for hours on end.
The mere thought of that made Sherlock want to be sick. He was so glad he wasn't so trivial.
He climbed the stairs, still uncertain of what to do next. He heard John call out to him from the kitchen.
"Who was it, Sherlock?" He asked, Sherlock noting that smirk obvious in his tone of voice.
"You know damn well who it was, John." Sherlock replied.
John laughed and came from the kitchen, taking off his rubber gloves and dropping them on the table as he passed.
"Well I need a laugh every once in a while at your expense. Keeps things interesting." John smiled.
"Since when?" Sherlock questioned, frowning slightly. "Aren't things already interesting?"
"Of course they are. Still couldn't resist, though." John chuckled, gesturing to the box Sherlock held in his arms. "Wanna share?"
"Not really." Sherlock replied. "Help yourself." He said, handing John the box. "I need to research some things for a case."
"What case? You-" John began, then giving up. "Oh never mind." He said, turning to go back into the kitchen to help himself to a slice of cake.
Later, when Sherlock was back in his usual position on the sofa, contemplating whatever he does, John brought his a small plate with a slice of cake and held it out to him.
"I know you don't celebrate your birthday, Sherlock." He said.
Sherlock turned his face to face him. "I don't see the point in birthdays. The exact day after however many years since the day you were born shouldn't mean anything. I can't see how it can mean anything."
"I know. How I see it, someone's birthday is a day to show how much you appreciate them." John said with a small smile.
"Surely people should show their appreciation for someone every day of the year?"
"Probably, yeah. I still bought you a cake though." John said. Realising Sherlock wouldn't take the plate from him no matter how long he stood there, he settled for carefully placing in on the floor by the sofa, then returned to the kitchen.
When John went to bed around an hour later, he passed Sherlock still in the same position on the sofa, only now the plate he'd left on the floor was empty. Sherlock had eaten the slice.
John went to bed with a smile on his face, but not before whispering "Happy Birthday, Sherlock."