All John Watson wanted to do was buy his semi-reclusive flatmate a cake after work, wish him well, and be done with it. Nice and simple.
Of course, since this concerns Sherlock Holmes, nothing is simple or all that nice. It seemed that way when he left the flat this morning, a regular boring, grey London morning, drained of all color now that Sherlock's wrapped up his latest case and passed out somewhere in the vicinity of his bedroom. John didn't much care, as long as his flatmate was unconscious and out of trouble.
Clad in his usual black jacket, off-white jumper, blue buttoned-up shirt, and black trousers, he seemed to pass invisibly through the hospital doors and past the waiting patients in the lobby, nobody really bothering with the sandy-haired man and his unprepossessing nature. John signed in, and as per the season, saw a small herd, that is, a small family of sniffles and gave them all the same treatment, he just had to remember to put different names on the notes for the different family members. "Ah," he sighed, thankful it was another boring day at the office.
Then D.I. Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan crashed in, looking for all the world like they wound up on the wrong side of a mugger this morning. "What happened?" John asked, partly for formalities' sake, since he wasn't into the deduction game like Sherlock, especially this early and on only one cup of tea.
The gray-haired man glared dully at him, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes from a forehead wound bleeding profusely, although it was actually just a tiny cut. "Wrong side of a mugger," Lestrade grumbled as he pulled off his jacket, to reveal an uglier gash on his right arm.
Donovan winced and did the same, although on her skinnier frame, it looked worse. "Too bad the freak wasn't there, he could've gotten these instead of us," she muttered, her mouth pursed at her ruined business jacket.
John sighed, feeling he should save his eye-rolling for something more worthwhile. For what, exactly, he wasn't sure, but he was sure something was bound to turn up. "I'm just wondering why you're here instead of at a regular ER, is all," he murmured as he applied ointment and bandages to Donovan's skinny arm.
"Oh, just wanted to wish Sherlock a happy birthday," Lestrade grunted. He didn't wince like Donovan did when John applied the ointment, but his lips flattened as the bandages were wound tight. "So, yeah, happy birthday and all that."
"You could just text him," John said mildly as he attended to Lestrade's head wound. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it."
The grey-haired man gave him a look at the word "appreciate" and John made a face in return. "Yeah, well, he never answers unless it's something to do with a crime, and only a mind-boggler at that," the D.I. said, then hopped off the table.
As John nodded at that sentiment, the thin black woman rolled up her jacket efficiently, ready to go. "I'm surprised he even has a birthday, I thought he escaped full-grown from a madhouse or a lab experiment."
It's too bad I already bandaged her, John thought regretfully, I could've really pulled the bandages tight right then, and I probably shouldn't punch a copper, much less a woman. He shook his head instead and said aloud, "Right, well, I'll pass on the greetings," he said, not really meaning it.
The D.I. gave him a half-grin, as if he expected as much. "You do that," Lestrade nodded, "be seeing you."
"Yeah," the doctor gave a half-hearted wave as the two walking out of his office, as abruptly as they came in.