A/N: Set during His Last Vow, in between getting shot and killing Magnussen. Also posting on AO3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.
xx
Sherlock Holmes was in a foul mood. Of all the stupid moronic things to happen to him in his life, this was by far the worst. John and Mrs Hudson had teamed up to throw him a 'surprise' birthday party which, of course, he had deduced two weeks prior but his arguments and protestations had been utterly ignored, resulting in this God-awful evening celebration.
It was all so… happy. Despicable, really. Fairy lights had been strung up around 221b as though it was Christmas, music was playing, people were drinking wine and chatting and laughing and mingling… Sherlock shuddered, face wrinkling in disgust.
With a small sigh the consulting detective rearranged his position on the sofa and quietly watched the people in his flat, here to celebrate his birth. Why? Such a foolish tradition, celebrating the emergence of an infant from a womb, as though it were some great achievement rather than basic nature.
Mrs Hudson was animatedly regaling Mary with some sort of story while the younger woman nodded and smiled at all the right moments, subtly shooting anxious glances towards John. He was still barely speaking to her but she was doing a valiant effort at keeping up appearances. She was a good actress, Sherlock thought darkly, before shaking his head slightly. Not the time nor the place to think about that, he reminded himself. It wouldn't do to cause a row right now, not when John looked so happy and carefree, laughing at something Lestrade had said.
John was wearing a pale blue shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned and rolled back once, revealing an inch or two of forearm, tendons flexing lightly as he adjusted his grip on the beer he was holding. He and Lestrade were now uproariously laughing at their conversation, Molly standing beside them giggling and snickering furtively into her wine, a soft blush covering her cheeks. An inappropriate joke, then. Naturally.
The only real surprise in this whole 'surprise party' had been the arrival of Mycroft, shadowed closely by Anthea, striding in twenty minutes ago and looking thoroughly out of place. Sherlock had been momentarily stunned before quickly noting the exchanged glance between his brother and John, coupled with the smug smirk of Anthea, deducing that John had threatened or blackmailed Mycroft into making an appearance. Impressive, he thought, convincing the British Government to socialise with the peasants.
Sherlock felt a slight shift on the sofa and glanced to his left, noting that Anthea had settled herself primly onto a cushion and was feverishly tapping away at her Blackberry. Nothing different to usual except… yes, she wasn't actually focussed at all; her fingers were tapping at random, not typing anything legible, while her eyes flickered subtly towards Mycroft. A quick glance at Mycroft revealed that the British Government himself was scowling at Lestrade, who was now flirting with Molly.
Good grief, Sherlock sighed to himself. Human error. What an absurdly cliché love triangle this was turning out to be.
"Why don't you just tell him?" he asked quietly, seeing Anthea's fingers freeze on the phone. "Can't hurt."
Not that he really cared but it would be amusing to see his brother spluttering and fumbling around a woman attempting to woo him. After a moment of silence Anthea responded, nearly sending him toppling off the couch in surprise.
"And why don't you tell him?" she nodded pointedly at John, who was now smirking at Lestrade's poor attempt at flirting and Molly's obvious awkwardness.
"I…" Sherlock was the one left spluttering and fumbling, utterly speechless. Tell John? Tell John what, exactly? "I have no idea what you're babbling about, nor do I care to consider it any further. You've been spending too much time with my brother and his madness is rubbing off on you."
"Oh don't try to deflect it," Anthea chuckled darkly, shaking her head in wry amusement. "Honestly, you Holmes boys are just the same. Both children in the bodies of men. I've spent long enough with your brother to know how to read you both, so don't you dare bring up my affections without expecting to have your own thrown back in your face, Sherlock."
That shut him up. Only one other woman had managed to leave Sherlock Holmes lost for words and that was Irene Adler. "Hmm," he mused, deep in thought. "I can see why my brother keeps you around. You're very perceptive."
"I have to be, to keep up with him."
"Indeed."
Neither spoke for some time, choosing instead to watch Mycroft's failed attempt to blend into the wallpaper while Mrs Hudson tried to feed him little cheese tarts. Sherlock's eyes soon drifted towards John once again, taking in the way his eyes almost glittered as he laughed under the golden glow of the lights. He had a small flake of pastry from one of Mrs Hudson's pies just above the corner of his mouth and didn't seem to have noticed yet. Sherlock longed to brush it away, yearning for that small amount of contact.
He sensed Anthea watching him and valiantly tried to ignore it. Damn her. He had spent so long trying to crush the feelings that blossomed in his chest whenever he looked at John and she was able to read him like an open book. There should be a new law: nobody was allowed to spend more than ten hours a week with a Holmes, lest they learn how to read them.
"Well?" her voice was soft, gently interrupting his reverie and not drawing any attention from the other guests. "You didn't really answer my question. Why don't you tell him?"
Sherlock glanced at Anthea; she was still pretending to be absorbed in her phone but he could tell she was watching him from the corner of her eye.
"You didn't answer my same question," he countered and she smirked. "I suppose there's no point in my denying it to you and, as you work for my brother, I know you're not going to tell the world. I… The reason…"
He took a deep breath. After living a life of concealing his emotions and being so utterly repressed in this department it was very difficult to voice his feelings on the situation.
"He has a wife and is expecting a child. I could never destroy that for him."
"Liar," Anthea rolled her eyes and Sherlock frowned. "That's an excuse, not a reason. I think, Sherlock Holmes, you and I are the same in that regard. We'd rather go without their love than go without them at all."
Sherlock was once again reduced to a silent state as he absorbed her words. He had never really paid much attention to Mycroft's PA but it suddenly occurred to him that he had underestimated her. She was fiercely loyal, highly intelligent, quick-witted and valiant, refusing to let her feelings get in the way of her duties.
"One question," Sherlock spoke with a frown. "What the hell do you see in Mycroft?"
Anthea giggled suddenly, causing the others to glance at the pair on the sofa. Mycroft frowned, but they all went back to their conversations, allowing the young woman to answer Sherlock.
"When you spend enough time with someone you still see their faults, but you begin to discover their virtues. Mycroft is… he cares about you so much and he works terribly hard to keep you safe and keep England safe. He dedicates his life to the continued survival of our nation. He's everything to me."
Sherlock felt mildly ill; he had never expected anyone to speak in such glowing terms of endearment towards his brother but her words were spoken with such emphatic truth that they were almost familiar. It took the detective mere seconds to deduce that the familiarity was due to him feeling the exact emotions towards one John Watson.
Any response he may have come up with was dashed away by Mrs Hudson's call of "Hoo hoo! Time for birthday cake!"
Sherlock groaned, Mycroft's eyes glimmered hopefully, Anthea giggled at Mycroft, John smiled at Sherlock, Sherlock grimaced at John, and everyone else smiled happily, oblivious to the silent agonies of unrequited love surrounding them.
As they gathered around the cake on the table everyone broke into a horribly out of tune rendition of Happy Birthday, Mrs Hudson rapidly lighting the candles. Glancing up Sherlock saw John directly opposite him on the other side of the table, eyes reflecting the flames of the candles, gazing deeply, meaningfully, meeting the detective's stare. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with temperature. He was missing something; John was trying to communicate something to him but what?
Suddenly the tune ended and the small group applauded, breaking the spell that had seemingly been cast over Sherlock's body. Shaking slightly he managed to blow out the candles, offering more of a grimace than a smile to his fellow partygoers and retreated back into a corner. John opened his mouth as though about to say something but relented, turning away to select a slice of cake.
Anthea had joined him again but she chose not to speak this time, instead nibbling on a strawberry half-heartedly while eyeing Mycroft. The elder Holmes was rapidly consuming a portion of cake, shooting subtle glances at Lestrade between bites.
"For heaven's sake," Sherlock muttered, getting to his feet. He couldn't bare the atmosphere in the flat; all these unspoken thoughts and feelings, being crushed and buried, tucked away and hidden… He was desperate to announce it all to the room in one great sweeping deduction but was afraid he would be unable to stop himself in time and inadvertently reveal his own feelings to John and that simply would not do.
"Sherlock?" John frowned as he saw the detective grabbing his coat.
"I just need to pop out for a moment. Need some fresh air. Won't be a minute."
Without another word he was dashing down the stairs, failing to see the worried glances from everyone but Anthea, who watched him with a small frown. As he stepped out onto Baker Street Sherlock took a deep breath of cold London air, huffing it out into a misty cloud around his face. There was something relaxing and reassuring about the smell of London; a mix of petrol fumes, cigarettes and cold concrete. Familiar. Promising.
He heard the footsteps coming down the stairs, along the entry, the door opening, the door closing, the hesitant shuffle, and then there was a hand resting on his shoulder.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, uncertain. "You okay?"
"Fine, John," he replied, a blatant lie, but John understood.
"Right. D'you want me to leave you or shall I stay?"
Somehow that question felt deeper, heavier, than the words suggested. He wasn't certain how to answer but John just smiled.
"Yeah, I know that feeling too," he said, stepping closer to Sherlock and shoving his hands into his pockets. They were so close that the clouds of their breath misted together, creating a beautiful fog for a nanosecond before it dissipated.
Sherlock knew what was about to happen a mere instant before it actually occurred; when he replayed it later in his mind he couldn't pinpoint what exactly had led him to deduce it but he didn't dare believe it to be instinct or intuition.
All he knew what that the air seemed to freeze, his breathing seemed to stop, the whole of time itself seemed to cease in passing and he knew, he knew, what John was about to do. And then it was happening; the doctor leaned forward, the detective met him halfway and their lips met. It was soft, chaste, and it lasted an indeterminate amount of time but was likely only seconds.
John's breath came out in another misty huff and his voice shook as he whispered, "Happy birthday, Sherlock." Then he was gone, the door closing, footsteps retreating back up to 221b.
The rest of the night passed by in a blur, most of it insubstantial in his memory, except the moment when everyone was heading off home. John avoided his gaze as he and Mary departed and Anthea gave him a knowing glance, her eyes tinted dark with understanding.
"I know," she whispered as she walked past. "The hurting gets easier after a while. You become sort of numb."
And then he was alone again. Naturally.