Author's Note:
I read online that today is Dr John Watson's birthday and so this oneshot was born. I wrote it very quickly and it is largely unedited so I apologise in advance for any mistakes. For anyone who also reads my other story, The Spy in 221B, I have not abandoned it in any way but am in need of some ideas. This happens in the same universe/timeline (whatever you want to call it) but this only has Sherlock and John in it, hence the separate story.
Please review, it helps me improve my writing, but only if it's constructive.
A Birthday to Remember
It was John's birthday and it was raining. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't even disappointed: at the beginning of July, while officially summer, rain was not uncommon, thunderstorms even less so, so the pathetic drizzle that barely dampened the pavement did little to dampen his mood. He had had a lie-in for once, Sherlock wasn't bored and shooting at the walls, Rosie wasn't screaming yet and Mrs Hudson had made him tea without complaining that she's "not your housekeeper." As he made his way downstairs, head filled with thoughts of his plans for later, he failed to notice the water on the floor and slipped. Even this did not sway his mood. Rosie toddled over to his chair with her arms out for a hug (she had started walking a few weeks previously but still couldn't make it too far before tumbling down again) so he picked her up and sat her on his lap to watch the news. Sherlock still hadn't appeared but John was unconcerned as it was not unusual for him to leave early for a case or experiment of some sort. Then he heard a muffled clatter from the bathroom. "Sherlock?" he called. "Are you ok in there?" He heard footsteps slipping briefly and a hissed curse. "Oh, bugger. We forgot about the flatmate."
It was amused by the trespassers conversation. The sheer terror in their voices as they discussed their predicament was perfect for the darker humour he occasionally indulged in. He wondered what Alex would make of the affair, then dismissed the thought. Alex had returned only a few hours ago and had asked not to be disturbed 'unless the house is burning down.' With a sigh, he placed Rosie down on the sofa and rose to confront the invaders.
Both were very young. One was a young man in his twenties, hair close-cropped and eyes wild with fear. The other was slightly older, married but with the scarred and calloused hands of a manual labourer. The younger of the two was squeaking shrilly as John opened the door, begging his partner to leave, asking John to pretend it never happened. John rolled his eyes, tossed his phone up and down in one hand and invited them to join him in the kitchen.
He made them tea but watched them closely while he did so and locked Rosie in his bedroom. No matter how pathetic the burglars were, he didn't want them anywhere near his daughter. He brought them their mugs and sat down opposite. "So, why did you try to rob this house? There are thousands of houses in London. Why this one?" The men looked confused for a moment before the older of the two answered. "Well it's Sherlock Holmes's house, ain't it? If we can rob 'im, we can rob anyone. We wanted fame, fortune, everything. We won't get anything now, 'cause someone couldn't do their job." He glared at the younger man who gulped down a mouthful of scolding tea and gasped painfully before fixing his gaze on his knees. John had paid attention while the man spoke and took note of their accents. They were from the rougher end of London and, judging from the worn out soles of their shoes, struggling for money. He looked at them sadly; two bright young men forced down a dark path. He stood and rifled through his address book on the mantlepiece until he found what he was looking for. Returning to his chair, he handed them a business card and told them solemnly: "you need money for your families. The pay is good and you can go home often, I should know." They looked at him strangely but thanked him. He hoped they would take his advice. The country needed soldiers more than thieves.
Sherlock returned hours later and immediately deduced what had happened. He carried a strange package under one arm and placed it on the table while he removed his heavy Belstaff. The package then made its way to John. Sherlock fidgeted nervously as John stared at him quizzically. He made a helpless gesture as if to mime opening it, which he did. Sherlock had bought him a pair of socks. John laughed loudly and Sherlock seemed to take offense so he was quick to placate him. "Sherlock it's fine. I just wasn't expecting you to remember my birthday, that's all." Sherlock looked a bit happier. "Of course I didn't forget," he exclaimed indignantly. "I would never forget my blogger's birthday! It's far too important to just delete." There was a warm feeling in John's chest. Sherlock, who had deleted the solar system from his memory, remembered his birthday.