Summary: It's John's birthday and Sherlock wants to get him something for 'being the only one who hasn't told him to piss off yet'. The problem is, he ends up giving his flat mate the worst present ever without even meaning to.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. Obviously. *sniffs*
Warnings: Nope. Nothing much to warn about here except that this is a hurt/comfort fic and not a fluffy one. So, readers on the prowl for fluff might want to turn back. But there will be some fluff later on, just not that much in this chapter.
Author's Note: Hi guys. I'm back with another plot bunny. I'm pretty sure I know where this fic is going; it'll probably be a two-shot or maybe a three-shot at the most. But then again, stories do have a habit of running away from me. *shrugs* Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this fic. [I'm currently still working on Chapter Two of my other fic 'The Art of Strangulation' as well, so no worries!]
On with the story!
Birthdays Are Tricky Little Things
It's the time of the year again when everybody who knew about it (and bothered enough) wished him 'Happy Birthday' though not all of them actually meant it sincerely. Maybe see him on the street and mutter a "Happy Birthday, John. It's been a long time, eh?" or worse, clapping him heartily on the shoulder as if they were really that well-acquainted with him.
He hated it really, especially those half-hearted wishes from people who barely knew him.
Which was why his past birthdays had always been just a small gathering among friends, perhaps meeting up for a pint or two at a nearby bar with a couple of old friends from med school.
However, the thing is, ever since he moved in with his mad genius of a flat mate, he had been spending more time chasing down suspects, dodging bullets and trying to keep him and Sherlock from getting blown up than actually catching up with his friends. He had more or less drifted apart from them (and his old life), even more so when he had realised that the paper with the list of their contacts were burned to cinders in one of Sherlock's experiments.
Surprisingly, he found himself to be not really upset at this loss, if it could even be called one. He merely berated Sherlock (without putting much heart into it; after all, what could you possibly say to a pouting, wide-eyed Sherlock?) for burning up his possessions for what was most possibly the third time that week.
The conversation had gone something like this:
John: (glaring) What the bloody hell have you done now?
Sherlock: I was testing for the potency of –
John: No, what I meant was… Hang on, is that…? Sod this, that's the contact list for my friends from med school!
Sherlock: (with a pointed look at the burnt-beyond-salvation piece of paper) That was, you mean.
John: (makes a noise of utter frustration and annoyance, gesticulating wildly)
Sherlock: (giving John a wide-eyed look of innocence) I wasn't aware of that. Besides, if you really wanted to keep in contact with them, you would have keyed the contacts into your mobile phone. So really, not much harm done here.
John: (sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose) The thing is, Sherlock, I haven't keyed them in.
Sherlock: (triumphantly) Aha! Following what I've said earlier on, this proves that you are not really that interested with keeping contact with them.
John: (growls) I was planning to meet them for a customary pint or two down at the bar on my birthday. (with less anger and more fond exasperation now) And could you stop setting my possessions on fire the next time you decide to test the potency of whatever chemicals you have in mind?
Sherlock: (ignores the second part of his rant) Your birthday?
John: (sighs with exasperation) Yes, my birthday. Is there a problem, Sherlock?
Sherlock: (pouts slightly) I thought flat mates should know everything there is to know about each other. You obviously didn't plan on telling me when your birthday is or how you intend to spend it. Then when you accidentally let slip that you intend to spend it wallowing in a bar with your (wrinkles his nose) friends, you don't even consider that (in a slightly shy tone) I might want you to spend it here at the flat. With me. (a flustered pause and then continuing rather hurriedly) And Mrs Hudson. And maybe we can get Lestrade and a couple of the less annoying Yarders.
And then the conversation sort of careened forward, all thoughts on berating a certain someone's disregard for flammable substances simply forgotten.
But for all his talk on wanting to spend some time with John on his birthday (and not chasing after a suspect down dirty alleyways), Sherlock wasn't even home on the evening on his birthday.
So now here he was, sitting all alone in the flat, curled up on the couch with a medical book on his lap, eyes skimming the pages but not really reading the words. His mind kept drifting to what exactly his flat mate was up to now. Hopefully, not being assaulted by a criminal suspect.
As if on cue, he heard his mobile phone buzz, vibrating against the hardwood table.
6.05 PM
To: John
From: Sherlock
Are we out of milk? –SH
At this, John felt his eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline. The only times Sherlock ever brought up the subject of 'out of milk' was when either a) he needed a milk carton or the milk itself for one of his experiments or b) he wanted John to get the milk.
But then again, Sherlock had been exceptionally nice to him for the whole of today.
Sherlock had made him tea (slightly bitter and not all that great-tasting but John didn't mind) and even brought him some toast. He didn't torture his violin, going so far as to even play some of John's favourite pieces for him.
John felt oddly touched that Sherlock had made an effort to clear the kitchen of some of his more gruesome experiments, leaving just a bag of severed fingers in the upper sections of the cupboard where he generally made it a point not to go tiptoeing and reaching up for whatever unidentified objects lay up there.
A quick foray into the kitchen and a cursory glance into the refrigerator later:
6.09 PM
To: Sherlock
From: John
Yep. Why? You offering to get it?
6.10 PM
To: John
From: Sherlock
Anything that makes you happy. –SH
John read, re-read and read the text again. Anything that makes him happy? Since when did Sherlock…
John was officially freaked out. It was his birthday, yes, and he really appreciated the tiny gestures and the effort Sherlock made to not annoy him earlier on in the day. However, this was just too much. Getting the milk? If there was one constant in this whole world of ever-changing variables, it was that Sherlock Holmes never got the milk. Ever.
6.11 PM
To: John
From: Sherlock
Oh, do close your mouth, John. I can see your expression of utter shock from a street away. –SH
John snapped his mouth shut, a slight smirk gracing his features.
6.12 PM
To: John
From: Sherlock
I was merely suggesting that I got the milk, seeing as it is your birthday today, after all. I am under that impression that close friends of said person celebrating his birthday become his personal 'lapdogs' for a day. Unless I do not fall under the category of 'close friends'? –SH
John let out a deep-throated laugh as he could already imagine in his mind's eye the exact look on Sherlock's face when he typed this – a crease in his eyebrows, intense blue-grey-green eyes studying him and a slight tightening of his cupid-bow lips.
In between bouts of laughter, he sent a quick text to his flat mate before Sherlock did anything drastic. For good measure, he added a smiling face at the back of it.
6.13 PM
To: Sherlock
From: John
Yes, yes of course you do! I was just pleasantly surprised, is all. :-)
John stared at the screen, expecting a derisive comment from Sherlock about his rather excessive and wholly unnecessary use of these 'emoticons'. However, several minutes passed with no signs of an exasperated admonishment from Sherlock. Something like cold unease settled at the bottom of his stomach but he shrugged it off.
Perhaps Sherlock was too preoccupied with getting the milk for once that he didn't deem it necessary to reply.
He settled back into the couch, eyes fixed on his book once more but as time passed, he found that he kept looking over at his mobile phone distractedly. He put it off as being lonely (being all alone with no one else to celebrate his birthday) but he knew that he was slightly worried about his flat mate.
Get a grip, John Watson. Sherlock is an adult perfectly capable of getting a carton of milk from the grocery shop without, say, getting mugged or knocked down by a car or—
He stopped his train of thought there firmly, staring fixedly on the squiggles on the medical book.
After what seemed like eternity (but was actually just a quarter of an hour or more), his mobile phone rang shrilly, screeching for all the world like it was being bloody murdered.
He snatched up the device with more enthusiasm and speed than was necessary.
He frowned slightly at the unfamiliar number on his mobile phone.
He sincerely hoped it wasn't one of his med school friends, no matter how desperate he was for company right now. He just didn't feel like making small talk and thinking up excuses for not keeping in touch.
"Hello, John Watson, is it?" came a female, business-like voice from the other end.
An ex-girlfriend? He hoped not. It didn't seem likely though. He always remembered a voice.
"Uh yeah. That's me," he answered, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
There was a slight pause before the voice continued, slight sympathy tinging the otherwise emotionless voice, "Well, from the information provided on the patient, it seems that you're the next thing closest to family for *clicking of keys on the computer* one Sherlock Holmes?"
John felt his heart turn to ice. Patient? What happened to Sherlock?
"What the hell happened?" he heard himself blurting out. Sod it, not the most polite of words but it'll have to do.
The lady on the other line, a nurse or receptionist of a hospital, his mind supplied, seemed unfazed by his bristling tone, continuing in that same "I'm-so-sorry-your-pet-died" voice, "The patient was brought in just moments ago. He had been involved in a car crash down at…"
John more or less stopped listening when he heard the words 'car crash'.
Car crash. Car crash. A bloody car crash. Sherlock in a car crash. What the hell? How did that even happen? Oh god.
The words swam around and around in his head as he tried to wrap his head around it. Sherlock had just been getting the damn milk for once and he got himself into… into a car accident?
"Hello? Mr Watson?"
John realised he hadn't even been listening to what the woman had been saying.
"Y-yeah?" he breathed shakily into his mobile phone.
He usually would have corrected her with a 'Dr Watson' but he really, really couldn't be bothered to form the words now.
There was a pause and then came the woman's voice again, pity and sympathy coating her words, "I understand you might be in quite a considerable amount of shock right now but I think you might want to know which ward and bed the patient would be in. He is currently in surgery now but…"
Surgery. Surgery. Sherlock in surgery.
John forced himself to squeeze his eyes shut and to take a deep breath. He was afraid that if he didn't, he might end up cursing at the poor woman or perhaps thrashing up the entire flat.
"Which hospital? And which ward and bed?" John managed to choke out in a reasonably more controlled voice as opposed to before.
As she rattled off the details, John quickly scribbled them down on a scrap of paper.
"Alright, you got all that?"
John made a noise of acquiescence as he got into his jacket and shoes, mobile phone still wedged between his ear and his shoulder.
It was only after he had hung up that he realised he hadn't even said 'thank you' to the lady over the phone.
Sod that. Sherlock's more important now.
It was a good ten minutes later before he managed to get a cab.
Sherlock and his magical cab-hailing powers, he thought distractedly as he stuffed the paper into the cabbie's hands, not trusting his voice to work without breaking off into swearing or worse, sobbing. He ignored the weird look the cabbie gave him.
Whatever. He didn't care if the cabbie thought he was a mute. He really wanted to avoid breaking off into tears right now so he didn't mind the alternative.
Nestled into the backseat of the cab, he let himself bury his face in his hands.
Please be alright, Sherlock. Please. That's a better present than getting the milk for the rest of the time we live at 221B. I'm saying this now and I wouldn't mind saying this again, you could experiment all you want and leave body parts in the kitchen for all I care, just please, please be alright.
The thought that Sherlock might not even be well enough (or alive, a devious-sounding voice pointed out in his head)to live at the flat with him again had him breathing shakily through his mouth.
Bloody hell, Sherlock. Just… Just be alright.
Please.
And that's all for now. Sorry for ending on a cliffhanger of sorts (does that even count as a cliffie?). I'm thinking of doing the next chapter either in Sherlock's POV or continuing with John's POV, dealing with what happened to Sherlock later on. Your thoughts and suggestions on this would be much appreciated. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it and thanks for taking the time to read this! Thanks and don't forget to review!
Cheers,
Rainflower