It's Sunday. Sherlock can tell because Mrs. Hudson left not two minutes ago to go to church, and there's barely any milk left in the fridge, and the café downstairs that would already be brimming with customers and forks clinking against plates at this time on any other day is completely silent. But, mainly, Sherlock can tell because John is sitting in his armchair, tea in hand, laptop resting on his knees while he scrolls through the news and 'What's Going On' emanates softly from the speakers.
Sherlock had once asked him why he liked that album in particular, back when he'd just moved in, and John had simply said, "It helps me think," while sipping piping hot Earl Grey tea.
"Not exactly one's first choice of music, though, is it?" Sherlock had said.
"What, do you listen to the top hits of the week?" had been John's sharp, yet indifferent, reply. And Sherlock had, in spite of himself, smiled.
Life with John was… different. Well, no, not really. Life before John had been different, but life with John… life with John was normal. Not that Sherlock was really the world's leading expert on "normal", but he'd known a good enough number of normal people that he figured he could make that assumption.
Sherlock had thought, back when Mike Stamford had first talked to him about the flat, that living with someone other than Mrs. Hudson would be bothersome, slow, and overall, a terrible burden. But living with John was nothing like that. A bit slow sometimes, maybe, but Sherlock cherished those moments too, though he would never admit it. And Christmas– Christmas was immensely pleasant. Theirs wasn't exactly traditional– well, they had a tree, a lovely little thing that they dressed in baubles and string lights and a usually crooked star– but there were no gifts and no typical Christmas dinners, just Mrs. Hudson fussing about in the kitchen, and John typing something on his blog, nestled in his armchair with the most ridiculous jumper pulled atop his shoulders, and Sherlock across from him, mostly reading. There'd be a steaming mug of hot cocoa in each of their grips too, of course, and the fire shrouding everything in a dim, orange glow. And sometimes Sherlock would look up from his book and see the tree in his peripheral vision, with no shiny gift wrap under its boughs, and then he'd look straight ahead at the back of the laptop and the light it cast onto his flatmate's face, and he'd go back to his book, smiling. Not all gifts came topped with a bow.
Living with John meant a small bit of yelling about the body parts in the fridge, sharing a tube of toothpaste that alternated between spearmint and lemon because they could never agree on a flavour, going through bandages at record speed because Sherlock kept forgetting to put the violin anywhere but the ground, incessant arguing over who should be the one to buy the groceries, and shouting matches about the use of guns in the flat. But living with John also meant having someone slightly less idiotic than Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson by his side, soothing conversations when one of them was having trouble sleeping, no longer relying on nicotine patches because John stopped letting him use them, being forced to eat every five hours or so because John wouldn't let him starve, and, above all, having a friend. And Sundays with John meant tranquil mornings with soft music floating through the room and the faintest scent of bergamot lingering in the air.
"Oh, I moved your thumbs," John says over the rim of his cup as Sherlock walks into the kitchen.
"What? No, it's– that'll agitate the solution and the results will be completely– oh, never mind." John seems as bored as can be; there's no use in rambling on. "Wait, why did you move them? There's plenty of room in the fridge."
"Mmm, not enough for what I got." An audible drink of tea, and John is back to clicking away on his keyboard.
"What could you possibly have gotten that would take up an entire shelf?" Sherlock exclaims, pulling open the refrigerator door. There it is, on the second shelf: the answer to his question, decorated with swirling, pink fondant roses. "A cake?" he says in disbelief.
"Happy birthday," John says disinterestedly.
For once, it's Sherlock's turn to be stunned. "How?"
"You got a text from Irene Adler this morning, around 4:50."
"You heard that? You were awake?" The refrigerator starts beeping, so Sherlock pulls the cake onto the table and closes the door.
"You know, you really should change the alert. And yes, I was awake. How did you not see the light turned on? Or hear me making tea? Speaking of which." John sets the laptop down on his armchair, pauses the album, and joins Sherlock in the kitchen, making for the teapot with his cup in hand.
"Yes, alright, but how did you know it was my birthday?" He hasn't even touched the cake; he just keeps staring at the back of John's head as he pours tea.
"Well." John pauses to blow into his cup. "I haven't heard that sound except on bank holidays, which means she doesn't text you frequently, only on special occasions. Today isn't special at all to the best of my knowledge, so it's got to be your birthday." He looks up at Sherlock. "Funny how she knew before I did, though, don't you think?"
"Because you're an idiot, of course," Sherlock says quickly.
"Ah, and she's not. She's the only one who's not an idiot." It's not even a question, like he's already accepted it. "You like her back, then."
"No, no." Sherlock's hand comes up on instinct, waving random, meaningless patterns into the air. "That's not– no. I mean, clearly, you're better company. I'd much rather be your flatmate than hers. You're loads more interesting."
John sets his cup down and sighs, keeping his head down while a corner of his mouth lifts up. "Look, Sherlock, if you're trying to confess, I mean, I'm flattered, but it's–"
"No, no, no, no, no, no," Sherlock cuts in. "No. I'm not."
John nods curtly. "Alright. Cake, then."
Sherlock watches as John grabs a knife and moves the cake onto a large platter, then begins cutting it into pieces. When John slides him the biggest slice, Sherlock takes it wordlessly, not even bothering to get a fork. He just keeps staring at the cake on the platter, and the knife with white icing smeared across the blade, and John's cup of Earl Grey tea, still steaming. He can almost feel the awkwardness of their previous conversation weighing down on him, so he avoids looking at his… friend, trying to deduce why this is bothering him as much as it is.
John, for his part, is avoiding looking at Sherlock, though Sherlock is too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice. He cuts himself a thin slice, transfers it onto a plastic plate because he's not keen on doing the dishes, and brings it, along with a fork and his tea, back to his armchair.
Sherlock watches him for a few seconds, then gets up for a fork. He stuffs a hefty bit of cake into his mouth and chews slowly, while John's fork knocks against his plate and he presses the spacebar every other second. And every minute or so, he swallows some tea. And Sherlock realises: it's slow. It's unexciting. Some might even call it boring. But it's not for him, because he's spending time with someone who is, quite possibly, his favourite person. Sherlock eats some more of his cake and listens to John take a long drink of his tea, and he thinks back briefly, unwillingly, to their awkward conversation. John's fork comes into contact with the plate, and he types a little slower, only using one hand. Sherlock picks off the fondant and smoothes it into a heap on the edge of his plate. He'd been so quick to say no, it was almost a reflex. He studies the part of John's hair that he can see, portions off a bit of cake, and decides that some things are meant to be left unsaid.