A/N: SO this is my first story ever, and the first time using this site, I hope I've done it correctly, and if you find spelling mistakes, please tell me! I've been actually worked hard with it, and I got someone to read it before I posted it, but since English is not my first language there can still be mistakes.
Please enjoy!
Sherlock sat silently in the living room, the cake was all ready on the table with eight lit candles on the top, almost burned out, and a party hat on his head. The young boy had waited for hours, sometimes whispering prayers for someone to come, but no one ever did. His brother, Mycroft, was at a interview for a job, his father at work and his mother probably in the saloon, getting her hair done.
It had been hours, and after the first 60 minutes, Sherlock had almost started crying. He had felt so alone where he sat, hopefully waiting for someone to show up. To surprise him with smiles and laughter, maybe even singing for him. During the second hour, he had curled his legs up in the chair, he had warped his arms around them and starred at the door. As the third hour went by, he started to think about why they didn't come. He had always known that the other kids wasn't particularly found of him. But he still hoped that someone would show up, if just was for the cake. Childish, really. He should have known that they wouldn't come.
Sherlock was about to slide down on the floor, taking his party hat off, when the door opened slowly and a blond boy peeked trough it. His breath was heavy and his hair was a mess. The deduction was easy, 'He ran,' Sherlock thought, and he felt lighter. Happier. This boy, John Watson had been running for his sake.
"Sorry I'm late. My parents isn't home and my babysitter didn't want to take the bus with me, so I had to take it on my own. But then I got on the wrong bus, and I ended up on the other side of London so I had to find another bus and-" He couldn't finish as Sherlock suddenly gave him a tight hug, surprising both of them.
"It's okay," Sherlock mumbled, letting John go. John's eyes swept across the room.
"Did they go all ready?" he asked, and Sherlock turned his head away.
"They never came," he mumbled, turning his back against John and curling his hands into balls before he slowly walked to the table, turned around to look at John. "Cake?" he asked, forcing a smile on his face. John bit his lip, and nodded a bit. Walking up to him and grabbing two of the paper plates, smiling a bit at Sherlock.
"I'm sorry I was late," he once again said. "I really wanted to make it in time."
"It's okay," Sherlock quietly answered, placing a piece of the cake on one of the plates, slowly cutting a small piece placing on the other plate. "I didn't really expect anyone to come anyway, this was mildly surprising actually."
John bit his lip a bit, tasting the cake. "I think it's mean of the other people picking on you," he said. "I've tried to tell them to stop, but they won't listening." Sherlock's eyes slowly looked up from the plate, facing John.
"That's um, kind of you," he said, his voice low. "...Thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for!" John answered, grinning as he reached for his pocket, pulling out a double folded piece for paper in an rather alarming shade of pink. "I didn't have the time to get you a present, but I made this. Pink was the only colour I found. I would have gotten a blue one, but I couldn't find so. Yeah. I hope you like it."
Sherlock slowly took the card from the blond boy's hand. Unfolding it and reading. The drawing, was the first ting drawing Sherlock's attention. The drawing, was poorly done, as Mycroft would have said, clearly done in a hurry. But it was of him, smiling up to the real Sherlock, with John by his side. Over them, the words "Happy Birthday Sherlock" was written with a yellow crayon. Under the drawing John had written, this also clearly done in a hurry, "You're nice, I hope we can be friends".
The fact that someone had actually made time to do something like this for him, even if it was done in a hurry, was more than Sherlock could imagine someone do for him. Not even his own family had made time for him on his birthday. But there he was. John was standing there right in front of him, eating cake and smiling, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Sherlock felt a kind of happiness he have not felt ever.