There are certain things that Sherlock worked hard to forget. The feeling of warm fur going cold under too small fingers, the sting of betrayal when his beloved older brother openly mocked him for trying to be more like him, the feeling of failure when he couldn't solve a case. On days when memories resurfaced, he'd turn to things he knew would chase them away—A spoon and lighter here, a box of nicotine patches there. It always worked in the end. He didn't care if it was harmful, he cared that it was effective.
Recently, he had learned, there were things even more effective at ridding his troubled mind of the memories, and all of them had to do with John. The scent of coffee that sometimes clung to his jumper when he came in from the cold, or smudges of shoe polish. The spark in his eye and the half cocked grin when Sherlock said something witty that made the detective's heart quiver in place. More and more his favourite fix was denied to him, but he clung to every moment like the junkie he was when it was given to him.
So when he woke up on the unusually sunny January day, he hoped for no better gift than his consultant's proximity. He brushed his teeth and even ran a comb through his unruly hair, giddy at the impending meeting. Surely, in all the years they had known each other, John would not deny him an outing on his birthday. Despite the distance between them, the anger and guilt that John nursed, surely he would put it aside for one day. Sherlock checked his phone; no new messages. No worry. It's still early.
He spent the first hour of the day nervously tapping his fingers and bouncing his leg. He longed for any kind of release; a cigarette, a toke, a good stiff drink, but reminded himself that he needed to be clear headed for his doctor. When nothing happened after the first hour, he rummaged through the mostly empty cupboards and fridge. Defeated, he sat on the floor with a packet of stale biscuits, staring at his quiet phone. Surely, he has not forgotten.
Before he could choke down the dry biscuits, a knock at the door shot him up from his spot on the ground. Of course! He came straight here! He threw the door open, ready to chide John for his ever-present lack of punctuality, but instead found the grinning faces of Ms. Hudson and Greg. She held out a cake (his favourite kind, homemade of course) and a small gift bag (the same Darjeeling tea he never drank that she gave him every year.) Greg held a small box, wrapped poorly, with a dark blue bow. If he had to guess, it was either cheap cologne or maybe a new scarf. For a moment, he didn't know how to react, but then he shuffled out of the way and gestured inside, his lips pulled taught into what he knew was an unconvincing smile. "Might as well come sit then."
Ms. Hudson was the first to speak. "We've brought you gifts! And cake, of course. You haven't forgotten it's your birthday have you?" She looked around the flat and tutted her tongue, but didn't speak to the disarray.
"It must have slipped my mind." He was good at impassive, so he went with that instead of trying to fake the emotion he knew he couldn't grasp. "You didn't have to bring me anything."
"'Course we did!" Greg clapped him on his back unexpectedly and nearly sent him sprawling. "Couldn't have our favourite detective moping about, unaware he'd gotten older." He shoved the package (surprisingly light, a scarf then) into Sherlock's hands and sat down at the table, eyeing the cake. "Are we the first ones here?"
For a second, Sherlock considered screaming and sending them off, but he reigned it back in. "No, you are the first. Really, how many people do you think would celebrate an arbitrary pseudo holiday of a detective they find mostly deplorable?" He sat down nonetheless and cut the cake, splitting it between himself, Ms. Hudson, Greg, and another larger piece he set aside. No one questioned it, but if they had, he would have claimed he wanted to save some for later. It wasn't entirely a lie.
"Oh come on now, more people care about you than you think," Greg said through a bite of cake. He brought his fist down on the table, causing the other two to jump. "Ms. Hudson, did you make this?" At her meek wide-eyed nod, he grinned. "It's great! Gotta have you make my cake in the future. Do you do chocolate?"
Conversation shifted then into a quiet din, of Ms. Hudson chatting idly of some of the recipes she'd picked up in her prime, and some of the cases Greg had been working on. Nothing exciting enough to hold the detective's attention past a few murmured comments here and there, and after an hour or so more they wished him happy birthday again and left, leaving Sherlock in the too bright flat alone.
Every minute that passed made him question his own faith more than he ever had. Surely John would show. Surely. At least a text, or an email. He checked his phone neurotically, refreshed his email every three minutes on the dot. Nothing. The sun shining in through his windows felt like mockery, that it should be such a beautiful day when he was feeling so miserable inside.
The second time someone knocked on his door the sun had started to fade. This time, for sure. He was prepared to chastise John, to tease him for forgetting. Instead, he was greeted to the smell of food and Angelo's cold-reddened face. "Sherlock! Happy birthday! I expected to see you in the restaurant; I was starting to get a bit worried, so I thought I'd bring your usual to you! Sorry I can't stay." He passed the parcel over to the shell-shocked man and waved before setting off again. Sherlock shut the door after him and returned to his spot at the table, the smell of garlic kicking off the growling of his stomach. He had hoped to eat out, but it was getting rather late after all. He made a mental note to thank Angelo when he saw him next and dug in.
When his phone vibrated half-way through his meal, he nearly threw the food to the ground to check the message. When he saw it was a simple "best wishes!" from Molly, he could almost feel himself deflating. His appetite gone, he closed the go box and put it in the fridge, trying hard to ignore the untouched piece of cake and its pristine plastic wrap. (He won't eat it if it's not wrapped; he knows what's been in this fridge.) For a while, he considered just going straight to bed, but eventually he was overtaken by curiosity.
Have you seen John today? –SH
Yes. He took Rosie to the park today and I took him dinner. –MH
Did he mention visiting today? –SH
No. He said he was going to bed early. I reminded him it was your birthday, but he didn't respond. Sorry. –MH
So that was it. He was, officially, nothing. Not worthy of a response. Not even entitled to a grimace. Sherlock could feel his throat coming dangerously close to closing off, his heart bloated and swollen. His eyes stung, but most of all he felt angry. Angry at himself that he even allowed himself to expect otherwise. Fingers shaking, he sent a response and set his phone down on the table.
Thank you, Molly. –SH
He didn't waste time on the hurt or let his mind settle on the profound feeling of loss. Instead, he did what he knew best, what he knew worked every time to numb the pain and take away the feelings. A dirty spoon and a lighter. He didn't care that they were harmful, only that they were effective. Only that they never let him down. Only that they never left him. Only that they chased away the pain and the memories he longed to forget.
And there were certain things that Sherlock worked hard to forget.