John hated weekends. Weekends were for people who were insanely busy all week, and who begged for the relief of lie-in, and pints at the pub. For John, the weeks dragged so slowly that by the weekend he had had enough, thank you very much! Besides, the weekend meant more people; shoppers, tourists, people living their lives. It got on his nerves.

It had been several months since he'd last seen his friend Sherlock. Several long months in which John had managed to pick himself up and begin to feel like a human being once more. He was trying. God, he was trying.

It was a dreary Saturday morning and John found himself in the queue at Costa Coffee, waiting with adequate patience. He scanned the room as he stood there, allowing the warmth and aroma from the cafe to surround him. Eventually he reached the front of the queue, and a young man with messy blonde hair served him with a smile.

As John absent-mindedly handed over his cash, the young man grinned and shook his head.

"You're John Watson, right?" the barista said. John stood, eyes blinking in confusion, the money still held out between them. Who was this dishevelled youth who knew his name? John eyed him suspiciously.

"Uh...yes. Yes I am."

The young man smiled and shook his head.

"You don't need to pay," he explained. "A man came in earlier. He gave me some money for your coffee and said it was on him."

John realised that his mouth hung open, and words suddenly came to him.

"Uh, this man, was he tall? Dark hair? Pale? Rude?" The barista laughed at this.

"Yes, that's right. It's a bit odd really. But, hey! Free coffee for you!" He seemed really pleased to be involved with this random act of kindness. John smiled politely and accepted the coffee. As he began to turn, the young man called him back.

"Hey, wait! I almost forgot. He gave me this to give to you." John was handed a paper napkin, folded over haphazardly. John smiled his thanks again, and left the cafe at a pace, feeling his cheeks heat up. Once outside, he unopened the napkin with difficulty, trying not to spill his coffee. Inside, in familiar handwriting, were written two words:

Happy Birthday!

John laughed, and looked down the street. He wasn't there.


John made his way to Regent's park, and sat heavily down on a bench. The temperature had dropped and, sure enough, light rain began to fall. John remained there, staring intently at his birthday message from his closest friend. As the rain fell heavier, he placed the napkin in his coat pocket and gave it a tap of reassurance with his hand. His phone began to ring, and John pulled it out with a huff. Harry. He shoved it back in his pocket, still ringing, and watched the rain fall. John was waiting. He knew he wouldn't come.

John tried to recall his previous birthday but found that he couldn't. Where had he spent it? Who with? He supposed it didn't really matter. It was just a day. It had probably rained. He recalled his mother telling him throughout his life that it had rained when he was born. He hadn't really understood the point of telling him this. It was England after all, and it rained more often than not. But to John, it was almost as if his mother had written him off as a melancholy child from that day forth. He forced a smile on his face to make a point. He was a man, alone on a bench, in the rain, on his birthday...with a smile on his face. Weirdo!

John considered phoning his friend Bill, or going to the cinema or perhaps Nandos. Maybe he'd go to a bar, and drink a pint and then another. It was his birthday after all. But then he remembered that he'd promised Mrs Hudson he'd watch The X Factor with her, and he was beginning to get soaked through to the skin, so he stood slowly from the damp bench and shuffled his way back to the warmth of 221b.

As the door shut with a bang behind him, John stood in a brief silence before he heard a shrill voice from the hallway.

"John, the carpet! For goodness sake!" Mrs Hudson chastised. John cringed and kicked off his shoes, glad Mrs Hudson had bustled out of sight as they hit the wall paper with a thud. She came back swiftly with a towel, and John rubbed at his wet hair. The bottoms of his trousers were soaked through, and they left wet marks on the carpet. He made his way with a strange tip-toed walk, to the bottom of the stair case.

"What do you want for your tea?" she was asking him, picking up his wet shoes. He gave a sullen shrug.

"I'm not really that hungry."

"That's a shame. I've baked you a cake." He noticed a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," he mumbled quietly, and pulled her in to a hug.

"Soggy!" she exclaimed and he smiled internally, pleased with himself. "Your sister phoned," she called after him as he headed up the stairs.

"Oh," he replied in disinterest. He frowned as he walked away.

"What have you got a face on for?"

"I haven't. I'm fine. Sorry," he mumbled as he walked away, leaving her in the hall.

John took off his sodden coat and hung it on the back of the living room door. He took a few steps away from it and then turned back, reaching into the pocket to remove the damp paper napkin.

He thought of Sherlock, and wondered where he might be. Still in London, it seemed. John wondered if he was getting wet somewhere, wearing some highly fashionable but highly impractical coat. John smiled at the thought.

On the desk, John found the post, which Mrs Hudson had brought up and placed in a pile, in size order on the desk. It always made him smile. He flicked through the envelopes, recognising some of the hand writing, and quickly skipping the bills.

He crossed over to the windows, looking down on the rain-washed streets. Somewhere, underneath one of those large umbrellas could be Sherlock Holmes. John liked to think he'd knock abruptly on the door, dripping all over the carpet and getting told off just had John had done. He'd rush up the stairs in his impatient nature and rant away with his usual flair:

John, put the fire on, it's freezing in here!
John, I'll have a tea if you're making one.
John, can I borrow your phone?

...I missed you, John.

John remembered the last few words Sherlock Holmes had said to him, in that very living room in the cold of the night. John also remembered punching him hard in the face. He did regret that now. He should have pulled him into a hug, screamed at him incoherently, and been so relieved to see his best friend alive again. But he hadn't been. He had been angry. John was still angry even now.

A thud from behind him made him physically jump. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, John's shoes by her feet.

"Honestly, John. What's gotten in to you today?" She walked to his side and pulled the curtains closed.

"Nothing." He wanted to tell her. Should he? "I'm sulking," he lied. "I'm getting old."

"If you're old, then what am I?" she laughed, sitting herself down onto the sofa and thumbing on the television with the remote.

"You...are perfect," he said, throwing himself down beside her and giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Did I hear you mention cake?"

She laughed and lifted herself off the sofa.

"Just this once, because it's your birthday."

They sat watching the shocking display of Saturday night television and tucking into a large piece of chocolate cake. Mrs Hudson seemed to hesitate several times over unspoken words. Eventually, she plucked up the courage, taking John's hand in hers.

"It's ok to miss him today. I miss him too."

A huge weight formed in John's stomach. He should tell her, he knew he should. Every day that passed made it harder for him to tell her the truth. But he had to, one day. What if Sherlock came back? What if he didn't?

"I miss him every day," John replied quietly. He picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen, where he stood frozen with guilt. He was a terrible, terrible person. And Sherlock had made him this way. John took the folded note out of his pocket, and looked at it one more time. He scrunched his eyes up and took a deep breath.

"John?"

His eyes flew open as he heard his name called from the other room.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

The napkin was screwed up and pushed hurriedly into the bin.

Mrs Hudson was smiling at the television, and didn't see John's look of anguish as he sat back down beside her.

"You know, Love," she said to him, eyes still on the screen, "he'd never have remembered it was your birthday."

John swallowed hard.

"Yeah...yeah, you're probably right."

That night, John tried hard to sleep as the rain lashed against his window. He rolled over, and blinked in the darkness, at the crumpled napkin on his bedside table.