As far as birthdays went John Watson was not a fan of them. At thirty five years old (thirty six tomorrow) birthdays were a cruel reminder of where he was in life.
That is, he will be a single thirty six year old man with only half a flat and a room of belongings to his name.
His last five birthdays had been celebrated in the military. Four of those were served during his tour of duty. These consisted of general well wishing, a badly sung happy birthday song and lots of birthday bumps. One of them, his first birthday during military service, was had during training and he was dragged out by his army friends for a knees up the likes of which he hadn't experienced before or after.
Every birthday before that had been the usual dull affair; a more or less obligatory family meal that ended up with Harry arguing or crying and sometimes, if John was really unlucky, both.
He didn't know if he should be glad that there wouldn't be a meal this year. His parents were going to a wedding and they were staying with family the whole week. John had convinced Harry that he didn't fancy going out and so here he was, the eve of his thirty sixth birthday sat alone in the flat.
There were no cards or gifts waiting to be opened and even though he knew it shouldn't bother him it did a bit. He just felt alone and miserable.
John felt tired suddenly and a little bit old. He abandoned his pity party, swallowing the last of his wine in one gulp. Slouching off to bed he wondered if Sherlock would have something interesting for them to do tomorrow for him to take his mind off of things. He didn't know if he should laugh or snort that he vaguely hoped for a murder as a birthday gift.
While he stripped down to his boxers he let his mind wander to what he wished his birthday would be like.
Running, adrenalin, exclamations of 'amazing' and walking home tiredly with Sherlock, laughter on their lips. That would be an amazing gift. He doubted he would receive it though. Instead Sherlock would spend the day complaining in the flat or in Bart's, quietly contemplating bacteria through a microscope. John would mull around the house and watch Jeremy Kyle and try to drown himself in tea.
And so, as the former army doctor lay in the dark, only the sound of London in the late evening kept him company and lulled his mind from darker thoughts and into sleep.
The morning light filtering through the window woke John up. He spread out in the bed, languid and relaxed, before breathing a sigh and rolling out of bed to get ready for his day.
The flat was as empty and quiet as it was when he went bed, though the cold tea and toast on the table said Sherlock had been home.
John stopped in front of the table and stared for a moment. The tea and toast were on the side of the table he usually sat at (this was an unspoken agreement that all house mates come to). There was also a waiting jar of jam and a knife set to the side. The tea hadn't been drank from and the toast was still whole, just cold and waiting. He stood looking at table as his mind whispered, 'Sherlock wouldn't do this... He wouldn't do birthdays even if he did know it was mine today.'
He poured the cold tea down the sink, ignoring the twinge of guilt that he felt. If Sherlock had left this for him... Well, even the small gesture of a cup of tea was something big from that brilliant man.
With a fresh cup of tea he sat in front of the plate of cold toast that was now spread with a little jam. As he chewed thoughtlessly on the cold toast, which was something he was used to from his student days, the front door opened.
As Sherlock came into view John wondered if his eyebrows would find their way back from the back of his head because what he saw now surprised him more than the time he found a corpse in his bed.
The cream coloured gift bag that hung from Sherlock's hand was emblazoned with the words 'Happy Birthday'. In Sherlock's other hand was a bottle of wine.
The coy smile on Sherlock's face softened John's surprise and replaced it with something else entirely. He dismisses the more-than-friends fondness that bursts in his heart. 'Not today John,' his mind admonishes, 'try not to think on this today.'
"Happy Birthday, John." Sherlock's voice is quieter than usual and he sits down at the table, sliding the bag and the wine across the wood. Sherlock watches the doctors lips as he absently sucks agonizingly slowly at the strawberry jam on his fingers. He hopes John sees the tapping of his foot as apprehension and not for what it really is, frustration.
John swallows the last of the jam from his fingers and wipes them on his jeans.
"Thank you." He tries not to sound as shocked as he actually is, "How did you know that today is my birthday?"
"I remember from looking at your records when we first met. I only recalled last night when I saw the wine."
John's unsure if he should be impressed or insulted that Sherlock looked at his records, though at least, for the first time this morning, he wasn't surprised. He pulls the card out of the bag first, also cream coloured with Sherlock's scrawl on the front. It simply said 'John'.
"What do you mean the wine made you recall?"
"You drank two more glasses than you usually do."
John nods and a small smiles appears on his lips because, for once, he knows how that gave him away to his friend who didn't miss a beat when it came to the way people behaved. The card is a simple affair with a simple birthday wish, though it really is the thought that counts with Sherlock. John thanks him again and stands the card in the centre of the table, almost like a trophy.
The present is next. He doesn't try and guess what the rectangular object is, like he knows Sherlock would do (and succeed). He peels back the simple cream paper with its flecks of golden confetti and birthday wishes.
It's a photo frame.
An elegant mahogany one.
But that's not the thing that John Watson is staring at.
No.
It's the picture in the frame.
He remembers the day it was taken.
John is stood next to Sherlock in the entrance hall. Sherlock is looking at the camera with an amused smile and John is beaming at Sherlock. Both were laughing and panting only moments ago, united in the adrenalin high they were both coming down from. Mrs Hudson had been given a new camera and had pounced on the pair to take a photo them of as soon as they had returned home.
Sherlock watches John taking in all the photograph and knows he's recalling the moment it was taken. One of the few photo's of them together and relaxed. He knows the doctor likes it, the small upturn of the corner of his lips is tell enough but when he looks up Sherlock can see that his eyes are vaguely watery. He ignores it, not because he doesn't care but because he doesn't mind. He understands.
John quietly thanks him and thumbs the frame once more. He makes a decision then, standing from the table he walks to the mantle piece and places the frame next to the skull.
"That's all right, isn't it?" John's not sure if it's a question or not but Sherlock nods anyway.
Before either of them can speak there is a knock on the door and Lestrade strides into the room. He raises an eyebrow at the unusual scene and regards the empty bag and the card.
"Sorry to interrupt but we need your help Sherlock. It's urgent." Lestrade looks to Sherlock who in turn looks to John.
"It's up to John."
John is stunned into silence for a moment, and he supposes Lestrade is too since he looks between the two men with a slack jaw. An almost smirk worms its way onto John's mouth and Sherlock smiles broadly as he stands and strides across the room to the coat stand. He grabs his own coat and tosses John his before walking with Lestrade out of the flat.
John pulls his shoes on and glances around the flat. The lone card is standing proudly on the table and Sherlock smiles in amusement through the glass of the frame.
As far as birthdays went John Watson was sure he would have a very happy one this year.
A/N: This is a birthday gift for alltheroads. Happy Birthday! Hope you have a good one! This was not beta'd, just let me know if you see any errors.