Disclaimer – Characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Warning – established relationship (John/Sherlock). Random cute animal. The arrival of Houdini. Also, slight slash.
The one with the Gerbil in the Box
John woke alone, which was not unheard of, and spent a moment rubbing his eyes and stretching slightly. Sherlock was a sporadic sleeper, but a dependable bed mate. If he was sleeping in the same vicinity as John then he would be attached to John like a limpet, long arms and legs wound tightly around his bed mate as if someone was going to sneak in while the great brain was unconscious and steal him. John had become accustomed to it.
He sat up and fished in his bedside table for the notepad and pen they kept there – because inspiration could strike at any time and Sherlock had learned that leaving in the middle of certain things to follow an idea was Not Good – and wrote a brief sentence on it before tearing the top sheet off and going to find his partner.
Sherlock was hunched over his microscope, peering at something intently and pretending not to notice John. He was still in his pyjamas and there was a slight tension to his shoulders that could not be explained by his posture. John ran a hand down Sherlock's back and bent to kiss the nearest temple.
"Happy birthday," he murmured and smiled at the ferocious scowl now aimed at the microscope, "Here."
He handed the bit of paper to Sherlock and went to make tea – more as a distraction than anything else. Sherlock had made a point early in their acquaintance of stating that he didn't 'do birthdays' and John had cheerfully ignored him. Sherlock had a present – something practical – every year they'd known each other, but in deference to Sherlock's dislike of the tradition it had always been unwrapped and no further birthday traditions had been inaugurated. They hadn't been a couple last year, so this year John was planning to add 'birthday sex' to the mix, but as Sherlock had never shown any reluctance in that arena he didn't think his partner would mind.
Sherlock had gone to the skull, which had a note beneath it directing him to the bathroom – where a new box of nicotine patches awaited – which further directed him to look inside his coat pockets. John sipped at the tea that he didn't expect to finish and watched his partner fish around, the patches in one hand, finally coming up with the plain silver case that John had slipped into his inner coat pocket last night while Sherlock was in the bath.
The patches were tossed onto the couch and the case was opened. Sherlock spent a moment examining the contents, which John knew to be a set of business cards with 'Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective' and the flats address and Sherlock's mobile number on it. They were very simple and plain, black elegant script on a white card and if the expression on Sherlock's face was anything to go by, John had been Very Good.
He put his tea down hastily and received the enthusiastic kiss of his lover with a laugh, pushing his hips forward against the other man. The mix of arousal, love and affection was a heady one and his whispered suggestion of birthday sex as a new tradition went down very well if Sherlock's expression of need was any indicator.
An hour later found John flat on his back, his lover draped languidly over him. He could feel Sherlock's toes flexing in contentment, which made him smile through the afterglow.
"Smug," Sherlock mumbled and John grinned even louder. Reducing Sherlock to one word sentences was a skill.
"God yes," he replied, satisfaction dripping from his tone. Sherlock snorted and stirred, moving enough to kiss John thoroughly. He swept his hand down his lover's back again, a stroke that Sherlock always welcomed.
"Shower," Sherlock informed him and John let go, appreciating the view as his lover wandered off to the bathroom. That had gone very well indeed and hopefully would cushion the blow of Mycroft's birthday present which was sure to arrive later in the morning.
Eleven am found them both dressed and occupied with various tasks in the flat – John reading and Sherlock once more at his microscope, this time with a business card beneath it. John had been very careful in choosing the card he gave to his lover – the paper had been treated in such a way as to make it capable of retaining a message written in ink and yet resistant to water and various other liquids. Sherlock was of course destruct testing samples now, having first checked with John that he didn't mind. As declarations of love went it was unorthodox but again John had accustomed himself to it.
A knock on the door caused Sherlock to put his pipette down and go to answer it – the couriers had been instructed not to hand their parcel over to anyone but Sherlock – coming back upstairs with a medium sized wooden box in hand. John felt a sense of foreboding – the box had air holes in it, which meant that Mycroft had decided to gift them with a living animal. While John knew that Sherlock would never be deliberately cruel, it couldn't be denied that he was concerned that whatever was in the box would be subjected to a series of passive experiments. There was also the distinct possibility that John would end up caring for whatever was in there, or even worse, that whatever was in there would be poisonous.
Apparently at some point in his childhood, someone had convinced Sherlock that it was Manners to open cards before presents. Why this lesson in etiquette had stuck when almost everything else had failed escaped John's notice entirely, but he joined Sherlock on the couch after an impatient huff from his lover and consented to let the box rest on his lap. Whatever was in there was heavy enough to be heard moving around, which was not quite a comfort.
Someone else had written the card from Mycroft, but it was signed by Sherlock's brother. John wondered if this was one of the reasons Sherlock got so touchy about his birthday – his family treated it so impersonally as to take the fun out of it. The message was bland enough and covered the usual social conventions, so John didn't object when Sherlock threw it towards the kitchen, no doubt to be destroyed as a comparison for the business card he was carefully deconstructing. John let the box be taken back and Sherlock opened the little brass latch cautiously.
John's first thought was 'small rat' but then he took in the dark grey creature with the white spot between its ears and the white stripe under its chin and identified it as a gerbil. Sherlock was still as a statue, staring with rapt attention at the little thing. It stared back at him with just as much curiosity, showing no fear as it stood on its back legs and sniffed at its new owner. Sherlock put a cautious finger into the box which was thoroughly sniffed before little paws came to rest on the end.
One look at Sherlock's face set John's mind to rest. His lover wouldn't be experimenting on this gift.
"Did Mycroft at least send a habitat for it?" John asked, reluctant to break the spell but long inured to being the practical one. Sherlock glanced at him with a frown.
"Can't it just roam free?" he asked, "I thought cages were cruel?"
"Gerbils chew paper and materials, Sherlock; your notes wouldn't be safe. Also, it might get into your chemicals or nicotine patches. That could be fatal. We can buy a habitat that isn't too small and there are toys and games you can buy to entertain them," John explained. They'd both been involved with a recent case where a less than stable RSPCA advocate had been attacking people for perceived cruelty to animals.
Sherlock sat still, his finger stroking over the back of the gerbil. He had what John privately called his 'thinking at light speed' face on. After only ten seconds the box with the gerbil was once more in John's lap and Sherlock was at the door, pulling on his coat and scarf.
"I'll be back with his habitat, John. You wait here and keep him safe!" the thin detective whirled out of the door, clattering down the stairs before John could formulate an answer. John cautiously patted the gerbil and then carried it into the kitchen. A shot glass (the only thing he had that was small enough and also clean) sufficed for a water dish for now and he found some peanuts from the Great Sautee Disaster of three months ago. He popped the latch closed again and carried the box back to sit on his lap while he picked his book back up. Peace reigned and John appreciated it while it lasted.
Sherlock returned with a bang of the front door and much bumping as he climbed the stairs. He almost staggered into the front room of the flat; his arms piled high with boxes and bags. John ignored the accusatory scowl at the closed lid.
"He's got water and peanuts," John replied to the look, "And I wanted to keep him safe."
"It's a him?" Sherlock asked, "How do you know?"
John gave him the Look – the one that meant Sherlock was underestimating him again and would do well to stop. Sherlock sniffed and dumped his packages on the couch before sweeping across the room and carefully lifting the box from John's lap. He placed it on the mantelpiece, peeked inside and closed the lid once more before snatching John from the armchair and pulling him over to help.
"The adulterer at the store was very helpful, though I wouldn't let her too close," Sherlock nattered, "There is a fascinating array of these things called pods available and if you put them all together they make a very interesting living space for the pet, which seemed better than just a wheel in a cage which is what she first tried to sell me. If we have to lock him away at least he'll have some variety in his living space."
John looked at the array of tubes and shapes that were designed to hook together around the central living space. Some of them were coloured, but anything that was large enough for a pet to stop and observe what was going on around him was clear, so as not to impede his ability to observe as Sherlock informed John proudly. They spent a good thirty minutes putting it together and tightening it so the habitat wouldn't fall apart and then Sherlock read the bedding instructions thoroughly and set the rest of the living space up. He positioned the habitat carefully near the window and then whirled over to the box on the mantelpiece to collect the gerbil and place him inside.
"It's empty!" the cry startled John, who was busy picking up the empty packaging.
"Didn't you latch it shut?" John asked, straightening. Sherlock looked a little panicked, his eyes sweeping over the mantelpiece before he turned to look at John.
"Put that down and check it! Maybe he's in there! You said they liked paper didn't you? Don't throw him out!" Sherlock demanded. John shook his head and pointed to his armchair, relishing the rare chance to be more observant than his partner for a change. There on the arm sat the gerbil, looking around inquisitively. Sherlock sighed in relief and scooped him up, carrying him to the habitat and depositing him gently before locking the door securely and then checking it twice.
After the fourth escape from the habitat, John insisted on naming the pet Houdini. After the fifth escape and some research, Sherlock agreed.
END
AN – going with the timeline that Sherlock Holmes in ACD was born on Jan 12th (Twelfth Night)