Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Homes, Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson or anything in their apartment. That honor goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do however, own the plot (such as it may be) of this story.

I returned from my brief absence from 221b Baker Street – upon some mundane errand which I have long since forgotten – to be greeted by the sight of my flat-mate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, seated on the floor of our sitting-room, surrounded by a veritable mess of papers. It appeared as if a storm had passed through the room during the short time I had been gone – there were papers everywhere; strewn upon couch and arm-chairs, spread out upon the remains of breakfast at our table – some were even drifting dangerously close to the fireplace, where they risked being burnt up and thereby lost forever. In the middle of it all sat Holmes, surrounded by unstable stacks of paper and small piles of various trinkets and other odds and ends one kept around to remember the bygone days of one's past. For a moment, I paused in the doorway, silenced by the sight of my good friend, surrounded by this mess, singing to himself in a surprisingly rich baritone as he rummaged through a large chest which sat before him and which I had never seen before.

"Holmes, what have you been doing?" I cried, exasperated. How was one supposed to cross from one side of the room to the other without treading on papers? Did he expect me to walk on air?

"Watson," he said, breaking off his song but not looking up from whatever it was he had been doing, "today is the sixth of January, is it not?"

"Well – yes, Holmes, but you haven't answered my question. What is all this mess about?" I was still talking to him from the doorway, for although it would have been his own fault if I had trod on some of his papers to reach him, I had no desire to anger my closest friend, especially when he appeared to be in a mood which I had never encountered on him before – at least, not at a time when he had no cases currently at hand.

But my care was for naught as, with a sharp exclamation of "hah!" Sherlock Holmes stood and, triumphantly waving a paper above his head, strode toward me in that long-legged manner he has, crumpling many of his own papers underfoot. With a theatrical flourish, he held the paper out to me, and after a curious glance into his face – which was as inscrutable as ever except for the glint of mischief in his eyes – I took it from him.

My eyes widened in shock as I took in the importance of the half-sheet of paper I held in my hand. I directed another inquiring glance into my friend's face, and he nodded to assure me that it was the real thing.

I held in my hand the birth certificate of my long-time companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It read:

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

born 6 January 1854

to parents Violet and Siger Holmes

So that was the meaning of the mess covering our sitting-room! After ten years of friendship, Holmes had finally revealed to me his birthday. Although most people could do so without the mess, Holmes was not – by any stretch of the imagination – 'most people,' I reasoned to myself.

"Why?" I asked him.

"Why?" he repeated my question, a quizzical expression joining the mischievous one he still bore. "My dear Watson, for years you have lamented my reticence to discuss my family and my past."

I harrumphed at that. I had not known he had a brother until we had been acquainted for seven years.

"Reticence indeed!" I muttered.

Holmes smiled at that. "I am merely giving you what you wanted, old fellow." He scrutinized my astonished face for some moments before a roar of laughter escaped him.

"Don't worry, Watson! I shall clean up this mess before Mrs. Hudson finds it!"

I watched him as he moved about the room – singing again – and bending down to pick up papers just before he could step on them.

"Happy Birthday, Holmes."

A/N: I actually got the idea for this from a dialogue I had to write for French class! Please drop me a line, even if it's just to say you've read it.