This was hard. Infuriatingly hard. Such a trivial task like the one at hand should not have been causing the detective so much grief, yet Sherlock was locked in a heated battle with his decision making abilities; the ones that were usually on his side. Today, however, every possible choice seemed wrong. It had never gotten easier, even after all this time. At some point, he finally had to accept that he just wasn't good at this sort of thing. Of course, that didn't relieve him of this responsibility, the one that came every single year. Still, he hoped it would lower the expectations. He wasn't sure how long he stood in front of that rack of colorful cards, and had it not been for John's aggravated throat-clearing, he might have stayed there all day. Finally he reached up with one gloved hand and paused dramatically before a card with a basset hound wearing a party hat.
"How about this one?" Sherlock pointed. He liked the dog.
John smirked, pulling it off the rack and opening it up.
"'I thought I smelled cake. Wishing you a barking good birthday,'" He read, rolling his eyes. "Oh, yeah, funny and heartwarming. He'll love it."
"No good?" One thing Sherlock had gotten better at over time was picking up on John's blasé sarcasm. "This one, then?" He pointed to a bright blue card with a picture of a whale spouting confetti.
"Enough with the animals, he's turning sixteen, not two," John spun the rack around to reveal an agreeably more tasteful array of images.
Sixteen. It was the third time John had mentioned the age, as though it was something special. When Sherlock turned sixteen, he certainly had felt no significant change. But other people were different, he reminded himself. He did have to admit that the sixteen years had gone by fascinatingly fast.
Sherlock blew a puff of air out through pursed lips.
"You know what? You're the expert. Perhaps you should just pick something you think he'll like, and I'll be over there looking at the tabloids."
He made to walk away, but one firm hand held out by John kept him in his place.
"Sherlock." He hated when he used that voice. It was so condescending. Surely it was Sherlock's job to be condescending, and not the other way around. Still, he sighed, and refaced the rack of excruciating choices.
"You pick out all my presents for Rosie," He pointed out, trying his best not to sound whiny.
"Yeah, because I don't want a repeat of what happened at her fifth birthday party."
"We found the rat, didn't we?"
"The point is," John narrowed his eyes. "This is different, and you know it. You're a grown man. I'm here to help, not to do it for you."
"Fine, then, my trusted advisor. How about…"
He trailed off. Sherlock stared in silence at the taunting birthday wishes before him. None were right. Or maybe all of them were. Finally, John sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"We go through this every year," John said gently. "It doesn't have to be this tough. You know him. Now, get on with it and pick a good bloody card. It's the thought that counts, anyway."
Sherlock knew they were lies. That he knew him well enough to choose a birthday card. That it was the thought that counted. He didn't, and it wasn't, and John was perfectly aware. Still, Sherlock didn't argue, allowing his friend the satisfaction of believing he'd provided some comfort.
Roughly half an hour later, the two men left the store with a bag of crisps, a pack of nicotine patches, and a card with a watercolor painting of a New Zealand landscape.
"…and then of course there was the sniffling, not a sign of a cold, but of allergies, from which we can easily deduce she'd been spending time around cats. Not her own, of course, what woman with a cat allergy would own cats? Him, though, he had two. Maybe three, wouldn't rule it out. But his ring had clearly-"
"Yes, yes, the cashier is sleeping with the bagger. I believe you, Sherlock," John said with a mouthful of crisps. He sensed the tiredness in John's voice. The man was funny in that respect; at a certain point, he stopped needing to know how Sherlock knew everything. Sometimes, he just loyally took his word for it. At least for the little things. Yet, any conclusion drawn without indisputable evidence is not admissible. Or fun.
"Well…not for long, anyway, she's going to end it. The sex isn't worth being around the feline dander."
John gave him a smile that was an odd combination of proud and sad.
"You did well, you know. With the card. Remembering he likes Lord of the Rings, I mean, that's big."
As usual, John saw right through his eagerness to prove himself and moved on to exactly what he didn't want to talk about.
"Hardly," Sherlock mumbled. "He wanted to watch them all, last time. I think I was busy with a case or…something. You should've heard him, though, going on about the cinematography and composition."
"Mention it when you write the card. Try to connect."
Sherlock chuckled softly. Connecting had never, and would never be his strong suit, even with someone he was bound to by societal dictation, law, and blood. Especially with someone of that nature.
"It's…probable I've already severed that relationship beyond a hope of rekindling," He murmured.
"You know what I always say. It's never too late. He knows you still care."
John, ever the sentimentalist. He knew he should've heeded every word of parenting advice his friend had given him, after watching how well he did with Rosie. Often he had felt a surge of uncharacteristic jealousy when he would watch the man play with his daughter, or hear her tell him 'I love you.' When he first experienced it, he thought he was going mad. He could never be a parental figure, not even when circumstance thrust the role upon him. It wasn't his nature. It wasn't his purpose. Why, then, did he still want to have hope when he thought about the boy?
John could continue telling him it wasn't too late for years to come, it wouldn't make a difference. For Sherlock, 'too late' had happened ages ago. Too much time had already passed. The boy was almost full grown, and he'd made it painstakingly clear he wanted little to do with Sherlock.
"Would you consider writing the card for me?"
"Sherlock…" John began, shaking his head.
"Had to try. Give Watson my love."
Sherlock hailed a cab with ease and opened the door, nodding to John before sliding in.
"We'll be on Baker Street Friday evening. Mrs. Hudson already invited us and Molly for dinner, so do try to put on a good mood, yeah? Rosie misses you," said John.
Dinner on Friday. Clearly, they didn't want him to be alone that day. Before shutting the door, Sherlock gave him what he hoped was a half-smile. As the cab pulled away, he didn't have to look back to know John's eyes were still on him. Watching him from behind whenever he was concerned was one of John's many annoying habits. He sighed, taking out his phone and huddling deeper into the collar of his coat. Two texts. Both from Lestrade. Another case so soon? Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.
(1/2) Smith wanted me to pass on thanks for last week. Says she owes you big, wants to give you free membership passes to the bowling alley. If you don't want them I'll
(2/2) accept on your behalf.
Alas. No good deed goes unpunished. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he pressed his forehead against the window, steaming the glass with his breath.
When he arrived back at the flat, he was grateful for the faint whir of Mrs. Hudson's hoovering. She wouldn't hear him come in over the noise. That would grant him approximately eleven minutes of peace.
Sherlock stumbled through his door and unwound the scarf from his neck. He tossed the card on the massively cluttered work table. He threw the brand new box of nicotine patches in the waste bin. At last, he hoisted open the window and grabbed a cigarette from the half-empty pack lying open beside his laptop. But where did he put his damn lighter…
Cigarette in mouth, he fumbled around the mess until his hands sought what they desired. The flame was an inch from the tip when the door opened and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in. Damn. He'd miscalculated. Sherlock quickly dropped the lighter back into the sea of litter, and the cig along with it.
"I do miss the days when you were a fan of knocking," He said irritably
"My house, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, bustling inside with a small tray. "Thought you might like a cuppa."
She knew it was that time of year. She always had a knack for remembering important dates, and unfortunately this one never slipped her mind either. He didn't want her pity tea, but he'd learned there was no avoiding his landlady's overzealous caretaking. Sighing, he gestured over to the kitchen table where she set down the tray and began to pour. There was only one cup, as ever. At least she knew enough to let him drink alone.
"Sherlock, why do you leave the window open?" Mrs. Hudson chastised. "You'll catch your death of cold!"
What irony that would be. After facing murderers day in and day out, to succumb to the common cold would be laughable indeed.
"The breeze helps me think," he lied.
"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" said Mrs. Hudson in such a sympathetic voice it made his skin crawl. "I know it's this Friday. Sixteen, my god! Seems like just yesterday he was toddling around the flat, nearly giving me a heart attack! You really did nothing to baby-proof the place-"
"Thank-you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, opening the door wide to encourage the woman's exit. She got the message. With a shaky sigh, she moved towards the door. She stopped before she left, one hand on Sherlock's arm.
"He'll come around. Just be patient," She said, giving him a light squeeze.
"Good night," was his solemn reply
When the door was shut and locked, Sherlock returned to the table where the card lay, its bright colors making it stand out against the bleak assortment of case notes and post-its. It would be better to get it over with, then and there. He procured a pen from the disorder, flipped open the card, and began to write.
Basil,
Happy birthday. Hope you like the card, apparently the mountain in the way back is the one they used for Mount Doom.
If what everyone says is true, sixteen is a monumental year in your life where you'll start to learn who you are and what you want. But then again, those were things you've never had any trouble knowing. So, cheers to a year that, with any luck, will be just fruitful as the years thus far, and the years to come.
Your father,
SH
He signed his name with a flourish, then read over his work a few times. Part of him wished he hadn't written in permanent ink, but it was what it was. He slid it into an envelope, sealed it shut, and scrawled the address, leaving the name for last. Basil Gillette. It didn't exactly roll off the tongue, but then again the name hadn't been his idea…
16 years ago
He had been perched precariously on the edge of the hospital bed, inexplicably cautious about getting too close. He hadn't been there when it happened, but he hadn't left the room since. Whether he'd provided much of a comfort, however, was another issue.
"Basil? That's what you're going with?" He'd scoffed. "It sounds like the name of an old man. Or a lonely botanist." She hadn't even bothered to look up from her enchanted gaze at the squirming bundle in her arms, but the annoyance in her voice was clear despite her low tone.
"It's Greek. St. Basil the Great was a Bishop in the fourth century, a theologian and caregiver to the underprivileged," had been her firm defense. "And technically it means 'royal' and 'kingly', so that's cool."
"Did you know all that off the top of your head or did you conduct extensive baby name research?"
She cracked a smile.
"A bit of both. It was also my grandfather's name. You got something better, Holmes?"
She never did like calling him by his first name.
"No, definitely not. Basil Gillette, then. It's…nice," He had conceded.
"Basil Holmes has a better ring to it."
Sherlock took one last look at the card before setting it back down on the table. If he mailed it tomorrow morning, it would still arrive by Thursday. He'd never missed a birthday since the first-he supposed it was his way of making up for it.
The tea would surely be cold by now; it had taken him an inordinate amount of time to produce the letter. His hand involuntarily reached for the cigarette once more, and the lighter beside it. He leaned his head out the window into the frosty November night, and took a long drag. Immediately, his muscles relaxed and he felt the smoke curl through him like an antidote to a hidden poison.
He was Sherlock Holmes. He'd smoked through a pack and a half in the last twenty-four hours. He'd solved five small-scale cases that week. And he hadn't seen his son in over three years.