When I asked sevenpercent for a prompt for her January 7th birthday story, she asked for something angsty revolving around Sherlock's January 6th birthday. In fact, Sherlock's words in paragraph four are hers and comprise the prompt.
John stood before the box of Christmas decorations. It was a large box, rather larger than the one he'd used at Baker Street. With some reluctance, he sealed the box of festive ornaments that would be packed away for their year-long exile to the attic.
He was only too aware that January 6th was fast approaching.
"I'd like to do something for your birthday," John said tentatively, bracing for the rant he knew would come. "Nothing big. A quiet dinner, maybe?"
Sherlock launched himself from the chair he was sprawled in, irritability etched into every furrow of his brow. "Birthdays!" He spit out the word like a curse. "What's the point, John? Yesterday I was 365 days older than I was the year before. And tomorrow I will be 365 days younger than I will be next year. The date is irrelevant; time moves ever forward. Why 'celebrate' any particular day over another? In fact, why celebrate anything at all?"
"For a genius, you can be astoundingly dense, you know that? We've had this discussion before."
"To the same end."
"Yes. You become the incredible disappearing man on your birthday. And anyone else's, too, for that matter. The best appearance you could come up with, I seem to recall, was an edited video that Lestrade wrung out of you."
That earned him a glare, but John could not help but notice a tinge of guilt in those hooded caesium-coloured eyes.
John sighed, softening a bit. "OK, Sherlock. Emotional Intelligence for the Beginner, then. Holidays. Birthdays. It's how we average people mark time. And celebrate those we care about. "
"With parties. And people. Don't be cruel."
"Well, you'd know about cruel, wouldn't you?" It was said before he could stop himself. John squeezed his eyes shut tight in regret, shaking his head at his misstep. "Sorry." The whisper was barely discernable, but Sherlock's shoulders had slumped fractionally.
The Consulting Detective spun in the opposite direction, settling, for the moment at least, for steering around that particular minefield. He still felt odd pacing around this flat—this flat that wasn't theirs, wasn't 221B.
"Aren't you the one who told me that Christ's birthday, Christ-mas—the date is all wrong, by the way, in case you didn't know—doesn't have much import without his resurrection?"
"Comparing yourself to him now, are you?"
Another glare.
"Having a birthday right after the holidays is hard, Sherlock. I get that. I really do. People put so much energy into Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve… By the time January 2nd rolls around, they are so done with it. The celebrating, I mean." He'd seen it often enough in the clinic. Post-holiday depression set in like a cloud, as threatening as an ice storm. He could only imagine what that kind of dismissal of his childhood birthdays must have done to the boy Sherlock.
If there was any sadness about thoughts of childhoods past, it did not reach Sherlock's eyes. "My point is that birthdays are meaningless. Day of birth. People haven't done anything yet except breathe, cry, eat and eliminate. A babe has no conscious control over the day it gets born. Kudos for doing nothing? No. At least pick a date that is significantly more important, like the day one graduates uni, or the day one dies."
Sherlock watched as a red flush of anger consumed John's face.
"You had to go there, didn't you, you hateful prat."
"I didn't mean–"
"No, no, no, no! You always say exactly what you mean. Yes, let's celebrate the day you died. And then we can celebrate it all over again when it really happens."
Sherlock stood stone still, his eyes averted to the safety of middle-distance. "Are we ever going to get past this, John?''
"I dunno. Just when I think…" The damn, creeping sadness and hurt that continued to crop up unexpectedly since Sherlock's return underlied John's words. "You must know that I celebrate every day that you're here. Tell me you know that."
Sherlock nodded.
"Because I thought I'd never have another chance—." He turned away, his shoulders squaring subconsciously as he struggled for control. " — the chance to say, 'Mornin', Sherlock.' Or scream, 'Keep the damn severed fingers out of the butter dish.' I don't know what to do with the anger. All I know is I don't want it to drive you away."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Damn right, you're not. And neither am I. And you're getting the damn birthday dinner. I don't care if you eat it or not. You've got to understand that this is something important to me, something I need to do."
"Understanding is not my strong point. What you're asking… I'm not that person, John. Don't try to change me into something I'm not! We'll both end up hating each other for it. I cannot simply change who I am, nor do I wish to. Not even for you."
"Oh, but you already have. Changed."
Sherlock turned, surprised.
"The Sherlock I first met wouldn't have stayed in the room long enough to have this conversation."
Sherlock's lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. He nodded in acknowledgement.
The Consulting Detective closed the distance between them, locking eyes with his former flatmate, an intrusion into John's personal space that the doctor was still getting re-accustomed to. "I don't understand your need for this superfluous 'celebration', but I do respect it. You. Respect you," he stammered, sounding more like a certain pathologist than himself.
"Dinner, then?" John didn't even try to hide the sentiment in his voice.
"Starving."