***Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the characters though at this point I rather think they're communal property. This is my first attempt at Sherlock/John.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Watson

John knew Sherlock's opinion on birthdays. He considered them fairly pointless except for determining a person's age and in that case there were so many other ways to figure that out. (A person's gait, the type of shoes they wore, how worn a watch, wallet, etc. was were just a few of the ways that sprung to mind.) So John was not excepting his flat mate to mention it was his birthday. No doubt Sherlock knew that it was but he would probably see no need to say anything. That was how Sherlock's mind worked and John was becoming used to it. He often wondered what it was like inside the world's only consulting detective's mind but he never asked. Sherlock was like one of those abstract paintings in the museum; there to be admired but never completely understood all random strokes of brilliant color to the viewer but an intricate pattern to the artist. The viewer being the former army doctor and the artist being the lanky man pacing the floor of the small flat.

"It has been ten minutes. I knew that most of Scotland Yard was incompetent but this stupidity is bordering on criminal, John."

John nodded his head in agreement from his chair.

"John!"

"Mm?"

"Are you listening at all to what I've been saying?" Sherlock had finally stopped pacing and was staring at John.

He shifted in his seat, "Of course. Double homicide, texted Lestrade, Scotland yard incompetent."

Satisfied that he was listening after all, Sherlock resumed his pacing. It had been slow lately. There were plenty of crimes in the city of London and surrounding areas but not all of them were deemed interesting enough for Sherlock's attention. As others would put it, he liked the 'weird ones'. John knew it was because those were the only ones that provided a challenge and that was what Sherlock craved. John couldn't complain; he followed the consulting detective from crime scene to crime scene because he craved the excitement and, if he was more truthful, the danger. The familiar buzz of Sherlock's phone broke the silence.

"Finally!" Then a moment later, "Aha! Come on, John."

Sherlock headed for the door, throwing his coat on as he did, and not bothering to see if John was following. For his part, John thought about staying and spending a quiet birthday at the flat with a cup of tea. (Without milk as they were out again and he hadn't been to the store yet.) He immediately stood up and hurried after Sherlock.

When he got down to the street, Sherlock was holding the door of a cab open and looking mildly impatient. At the sight of John he raised an eyebrow questioningly. John climbed into the cab which was really an answer in itself to the unspoken question: "I wasn't sure you were coming or not, you took so long." "Of course I'm coming, you dolt, haven't you learned?"

Instead as soon as they began moving, Sherlock said, "I trust you remember the details of the case."

That was not a question.

"Double homicide inside a busy hotel. The couple is from Cardiff and staying in London for a long weekend. Both were stabbed multiple times but nothing was taken which rules out robbery. So, crime of passion?"

"Unless one stabbed the other then themselves, doubtful."

"It could be a jealous lover," John offered. Sherlock clicked his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gave a small shake of his head.

"Possibly."

"But you don't think so."

"I need to see the crime scene before I can say for certain."

John knew just by the look on Sherlock's face, how he was staring at the back of the driver's seat, that he was composing and cataloging data. He sat quietly next to him mostly watching out the window but occasionally glancing back at Sherlock. John had studied his face as thoroughly as Sherlock studied the crime scenes but he could only claim a small fraction of knowledge. It was almost disappointing.

Lestrade was waiting for them in the lobby of the Mint Hotel when they arrived. There was a group of hotel staff and guests standing behind the police tape and all looking rather cross when the detective inspector waved the pair through. Lestrade's shirt and coat were wrinkled; even John could tell he hadn't slept in a while before Sherlock said anything.

"You look terrible. It's been, what, two days since you slept judging the bags under your eyes and the over-powering deodorant."

"Can we just talk about the case? After the Kennington murders, which you so politely declined to help with, my superiors have been on me to clear this up and quickly," he said as they began to climb the stairs to the fifth floor.

"You were perfectly capable of handling that case on your own."

"That's not the point. Have you seen the papers? It's like half the city has gone mad." Stopping in front of a hotel door that was flanked by police, he raised a hand to stop Sherlock's protests. "I know, I know. Not possible. Just look at the crime scene, please?"

Sherlock stepped through the door Lestrade was holding open for him. "That was the intention."

John had developed a routine. Mostly that involved standing behind or next to Sherlock and making exclamations every time he made a particularly astounding deduction. None of it was faked and it wasn't because John was dim and therefore impressed by any amount of brilliance; it was because Sherlock's mind worked in a completely different way than John had ever encountered and he was truly fascinated. Then there was the smile that Sherlock would get on his face at John's random 'brilliants' or 'fantastics'. That certainly helped. John enjoyed being the one to make the consulting detective smile. Maybe it was a selfish thing because there was something about one of the few living people (an interesting corpse didn't count) to invoke that reaction. It made him feel, well, special and John so rarely felt special. So John hovered over Sherlock's shoulder as he knelt by each body in turn trying to return the favor and make him feel special but not in the same way most people meant 'special' in regards to Sherlock.

At the moment, Lestrade was not looking very pleased however. "What do you mean a serial killer?"

"Exactly what I just said. Don't be so dim, Lestrade, it's unbecoming." Sherlock stood and glanced around the hotel room one final time. Both bodies on the floor at the foot of the bed, facing each other. No real signs of struggle except for the suitcase that had been knocked off the luggage stand.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I am. Look at them. The bodies positioned after death to face each and the faces being the only thing unmarred. The killer took the time to wipe the blood off of them. It's a signature."

"One case doesn't make a serial killer." Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and pulled out his phone, fingers working furiously. It took him all of two minutes to find whatever it was he was looking for. He held the phone towards Lestrade who peered at the screen.

"Three weeks ago there was a murder in Sutton, a home invasion in which a couple was killed in almost the exact same way. You have a serial killer, Detective Inspector, and he's just getting started," said Sherlock in the same tone a child would use when receiving their favorite toy for their birthday. At least someone would be getting what they wanted today, John thought.

"You don't have to look so bloody pleased about it," Lestrade huffed and stalked out of the room presumably to get another cup of tea since he wasn't going to be sleeping any time soon. Sherlock turned to John and clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.

"Come on! We have work to do."

By the time they were done with their 'work' which consisted of a thrilling trip to the morgue and digging through evidence lockers, John was pretty sure this was one of the most tiring birthdays he had ever had. He wouldn't have called it bad per say. As far as days went it was a pretty typical one with Sherlock and John enjoyed those days, really, even when he complained about them. (Much like his complaints about his leg, they were becoming less and less frequent as time went on.) But it was normal for a person to want their birthday to be something special so John couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He was in their small shower, scrubbing away the smell of the morgue and staring at the chipped tiles, as he thought about the strange turn his life had taken since that hot day in Afghanistan. He also thought that the next thing he was going to do was have a nice cup of tea and sit down in his chair.

It wasn't until he left the bathroom dressed in his lounge pants and a t-shirt, still toweling his hair dry, that he realized he had forgotten to pick up milk while they were out. Tea just wasn't the same without milk and at least two spoonfuls of sugar. He sighed heavily and tossed the towel on the back of his chair. His flat mate was nowhere to be seen. John frowned. If Sherlock wasn't pacing the floor, he was sitting on the couch.

"Sherlock?"

"Cup of tea?" Sherlock asked by way of answer as he stepped from the kitchen holding John's mug. There was a satisfied smile on his face. John closed the distance and took the cup almost warily. "It's how you like it."

John stared at him open-mouthed.

"I do notice these things, John; contrary to the belief my memory limits itself to macabre."

"I thought we were out of milk."

"I picked some up."

"You bought milk?" Sherlock gave him that same smirk he had on the day they had met in the lab.

"Happy birthday, Dr. Watson," he said pressing a kiss to the smaller man's forehead as he walked past. John stood in the kitchen a smile spreading across his face just as the warmth from the mug spread through his hands. He shook his head and followed and when Sherlock made room for him on the couch he sat there instead of his chair. This wasn't such a rubbish birthday after all.