Chapter 2:

It had been a little over a month since Sherlock returned home. In the beginning it was particularly rough, and that was putting it delicately, but things were beginning to normalize again. John had the hardest time of it, obviously. Sherlock had known John wasn't dead in those eight months; he knew John was home, safe. Thankfully, Mycroft had kept the knowledge of Sherlock's survival to himself once he figured it out, maintaining the safety of John's ignorance Sherlock had intended. Sherlock thought everyone was better off with him gone. He was right on one count; it was safer that they didn't know he was alive. He was quite wrong when he thought it was better they thought him dead.

Every now and then he could still feel the ghost pain in his jaw from where John punched him when he first crossed the threshold into his old flat. He'd entered the flat with flowers and Mrs. Hudson had screamed upon seeing him. John came running downstairs, ready to fight. Sherlock got a fist to the face; John hit him so hard he'd actually been knocked out. He didn't know what he expected of their reunion, but that hadn't been it.

Sherlock had fulfilled John's graveside request. Don't be dead. He wasn't dead, and here he was.

Sherlock absently rubbed his still-aching jaw while lying on the couch. A month and a half. Now and then John still seemed surprised to walk into the living room and find him there in his chair or on the couch. It was as if John would forget that Sherlock was there, that he was alive, that Sherlock was finally back home, but it was getting better. Mrs. Hudson no longer cried every time she saw him. She wasn't even all that teary-eyed these last few days, and they were having conversations that didn't end in her sobbing.

With John it had been a journey of its own. The first few days of Sherlock's return, John hadn't even been there. After he'd knocked Sherlock out and screamed to his heart's content, he left and hadn't returned for two days. When he returned John had all but ignored Sherlock unless Sherlock tried to talk, then John would just punch him again and leave for a walk. Eventually, John started to make tea again, though he would leave a second cup ready, but unprepared, in the kitchen for Sherlock. A few days after that, he simply left the mug of tea steeping in the kitchen. "Tea's in the kitchen," he would say, tersely delivered and almost always not requiring Sherlock's answer. Then John would sit in his chair and refuse to look at him. It was better than silence.

In time, John started bringing Sherlock tea like he used to, but any conversations that did not end in Sherlock getting hit were always awkward and treading too lightly around the central issue. True to form, John entered the room, setting a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table by Sherlock's elbow. He had kept Sherlock's favorite cup, even after eight months of supposed death. In fact, he had kept nearly all of Sherlock's things. Many of them had been organized and tucked away, but they were still there, like they had been waiting for him to come home, just as John had.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, twitching an absent smile in John's direction. John gave a stiff nod before settling himself into his chair, still ever mindful of his psychosomatically dodgy leg. His walking stick leaned against the arm of the chair, ready to be used at any moment. The limp still lingered, coming and going. John's leg still pained him. Sherlock hated that bloody stick. It was a sign of defeat. He wanted to be rid of it.

"Case?" John asked shortly, raising an eyebrow at him as he picked up a newspaper and sipped at his tea.

Sherlock shook his head, roused from his thoughts. "No. The Yard still has me on probation. Simply thinking."

John scoffed. "Well, that's always dangerous. Don't get lost in there, alright?"

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself.

"No promises. It's been quite some time since I've cleared out the dust in my mind palace," Sherlock informed John with a laugh, and John gave a clipped chuckle, shaking his head. Sherlock knew John thought it was a ridiculous concept; it was why he said it. He liked making John laugh. One might say he was a bit fixated on it, given the knowledge of how much pain he had caused his closest friend in the world.

Sherlock swept up from the couch, unfolding his body with a boneless grace unnatural in a man with such long limbs. He grabbed his cup of tea and sauntered over to the window, blowing gently on the steaming liquid. "Anything interesting in the papers?"

"You mean any nice deaths for you to dissect? Nothing too special, social worker stabbed to death." Sherlock heard the paper ruffle and could feel John's eyes on his back. This was the only way he'd been able to stand being case-less lately. He exercised his mind via newspapers; hardly satisfying.

"Probably an angry parent who wanted their child back," he murmured, dismissing the suspicion as he sipped his tea and pulled aside the curtain to look down at the street. John read him the obituaries, but the social worker was the only one he could classify as murder. A few accidents, a suicide, some disease or age related. His brain was going to rot at this pace, but he wasn't going to complain. He had made that mistake once and only once, and learned quickly not to do it again. If he complained about being bored John got this strained look in his eye; a look that asked 'isn't it good enough that you're here alive' and wrenched at his innards.

Sherlock hated that look. He wanted to avoid it at all costs. It was good to be alive, so very good, he thought with a shudder. It was better to make John happy.

John returned to his paper quietly, likely looking at the sport section or other such thing. Sherlock turned to regard him, studying him. His posture was seemingly casual but there was tension in his shoulders and back, like that of a man who expected things to suddenly take a horrible turn; a man who was, in fact, prepared for such a turn of events, because he was so used to it. It wasn't paranoia, it was a simple fact of his existence, and Sherlock found within himself a profoundly strong desire to relieve John of that sense.

"You birthday's in a few days," Sherlock stated bluntly, crossing to sit in his chair across from John's. John looked up, his surprise clear on his features as he folded his newspaper shut and leaned forward.

"Yeah, it is. I'm surprised you know that. I thought you didn't do birthdays?" John asked, that incredulous smirk twisting the left hand corner of his mouth.

"I don't 'do' my birthday John, that doesn't mean I don't pay attention to others. I merely don't see the point in my celebrating the day I was expelled from my mother's womb." Sherlock sipped his tea again, smiling to himself. "Besides, if there was any one birthday I ought to pay attention to, it would be yours." John let out a huff of disbelieving laughter and Sherlock chuckled into his tea, looking ceiling-ward.

"Don't tell Mycroft I said that, though, he'll have a fit because I never 'remember' his or Mummy's birthdays," he did his best impression of an innocent face, which was spoiled with a wry smile. "But that's not the matter at hand. We should do something for yours." John snorted in laughter now and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, confused as to how that was funny.

"Sherlock Holmes. You won't eat, you won't sleep, but you want to celebrate a birthday that isn't yours. I don't think I'll ever fully understand what goes on inside your head, you nutter." John smiled at him and Sherlock couldn't help but return the grin. He definitely liked John-happy. It was so much better than John-upset or John-stressed. John-happy made life feel normal again. John-happy kept Sherlock from feeling like a ghost in his own home.

"So what do you propose we do?" John continued, rubbing absent-mindedly at his aching leg, as if Sherlock were going to suggest some mad-dash across London. The idea was indeed a delightful one in Sherlock's mind, after having been cooped up for so long, but it was a thought best saved for another time.

"Lovely as Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson are, I think any more time spent holed up in here will drive us both mad. I think a day out would be good, and we can find plenty of things to do around London. I know of an excellent Thai restaurant not too far from here, and the owner owes me a favor." The two men grinned at each other. This was life as normal, or at least as close to truly normal as it had become after eight months of Sherlock being 'dead', and a month and a half of him suddenly being alive.

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," John remarked and leaned back, opening his newspaper once again.

Sherlock returned to his tea, turning his focus to the corner of the ceiling above the telly and returning to his thoughts. A month and a half back at Baker Street.

He had missed this.

Two days later, John came downstairs, bleary-eyed and worn. He limped into the living room and jumped as he saw Sherlock standing at the window. He knew it was stupid, but there were a lot of times that he didn't remember that Sherlock was alive, and home. However, John considered these mornings far better than the ones when he woke up, terrified that Sherlock was dead for good this time, or that him coming back was all a delusion. Those mornings, John usually ran down the stairs as fast as he could, only calming when he saw Sherlock.

John put the kettle on and rested his head against the cabinet for a moment. He glanced at his flatmate and then closed his eyes. John honestly hadn't known what he wanted when Sherlock came back-he had just been so angry. Of course, Sherlock had explained Moriarty's plan, and why he had to jump, and the generalities of what he had been doing for eight months; but it still pissed John off. John had lost seven months of his life after Sherlock jumped. He had very few memories until the end of January, when his family had forcibly pulled John, kicking and screaming, into the present. And to know now that it was all a lie, that all the effort and help had been for nothing, well. That still got John nice and pissed off if he thought about it too much.

He made them both tea and stuffed the newspaper under his arm. John passed Sherlock his cup and sat down in his chair with a groan, it seemed that both his shoulder and his leg were going to complain at him today. He tried very hard not to use his walking stick in the flat; it was mostly due to the way that Sherlock glared at the thing as if it was a personal affront. But John still needed it if he was going for a walk or out to Tesco's, and no matter how many poisonous looks Sherlock leveled at it, the cane was going to have to stay for now. "Morning," John said, unfolding the newspaper. "Still thinking?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. There just seems to be plenty to think about lately," Sherlock replied. John didn't have to see him to know that he was drinking some of his tea. John thought that Sherlock was still adjusting to life back to two-two-one-b sometimes. He could tell, when Sherlock would narrow his eyes at John or when Sherlock tilted his head back just a fraction, that the detective was surprised. It had taken him a while to settle back into a routine and stop looking as if someone was going to attack at any moment (though to be fair, that was John's fault just as much as it was Sherlock's). At the same time, Sherlock was almost tender around John, waiting for him before they left the flat and occasionally paying for cabs, as if he could make up for jumping. John couldn't, and didn't, want to explain it, because he knew deep down that Sherlock's absence had changed them both. They more or less had to relearn each other.

"Did you actually get any sleep last night?" John asked, skimming through the international reports. He frowned as he read about some car bombings in Afghanistan, but none of the casualties were people he knew by name.

"An hour or two, I think. Tried. Too many thoughts," Sherlock mumbled a bit into his teacup.

John looked up and offered Sherlock a small smile. "Doesn't that massive brain of yours ever shut up?" he joked, already knowing the answer.

"No, never. A curse sometimes, really. Anything interesting in the papers for me to feast my 'massive brain' on?"

John flipped to the back of the paper, humming as he skimmed. "Funeral for a teenager who was killed by a cab...old granny found dead in her bed..." John summarized as Sherlock scoffed at each one. "Professor at Anglia Ruskin University was found dead in his office."

Sherlock perked up a bit at that one. "Really? Shame. Which one? Do they say cause of death?"

"Hang on," John replied, reading the rest of the article. "Senior Lecturer David Hughes, and...no. They don't."

His flatmate's eyes lit up when John finished reading. He darted over behind John to read the article himself, leaning forward over John's shoulder. He shook his head. Sherlock was wearing the we-both-know-what's-going-on-here face, which always managed to make John angry and raise his blood pressure a few degrees.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Oh that's clever," Sherlock exclaimed, reaching over to grab the paper.

"What's so clever?" John asked, gritting his teeth.

"This! It's obviously murder. Mysterious undisclosed circumstances surrounding the death of a notable professor? Shame he had to die, really. I liked his work. I was looking forward to attending one of his lectures, but really, a professor murdered in his own office. Brilliant," Sherlock said.

John leaned his head on his hand as he watched his flatmate pace back and forth. "And how do you know all this?" Sherlock stopped, looking at John and not saying a word. John shook his head. "The face, Sherlock! The we-both-know-what's-going-on-here-face. You know how much I hate it and you've done it twice in the past minute."

Something passed over the taller man's face-embarrassment?-before smoothing out again. "Professor Hughes was a notable figure in the educational community," Sherlock started. John was glad that he was starting off from the beginning because he had never heard of this professor until today. "He travelled between universities to deliver lectures, he had made some incredible advancements in his field, and he's headlined local papers. Then the only notice they give his death is 'died in his office'? It screams that there is something they're not saying. He didn't die of natural causes, or they would have simply put that. Died in his sleep, passed away due to illness, standard every day deaths are nothing to hide, but murder...Murder is something worth shying from, especially a murder you don't understand," Sherlock finished in an admiring whisper.

John pursed his lips and sighed. "Has it occured to you-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, looking down at the paper again.

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

"You were going to suggest that I am simply inventing a crime where there isn't one, because it has been one and a half months since I had a case. That is technically false; I haven't really had a real case for nine and a half months." Sherlock paused, giving John a look out of the corner of his eye. They both knew exactly which case he meant. "But your sentiment is the same. I am not inventing a murder here, I am simply seeing what everyone else refuses to."

"Right," John mumbled, rubbing his face. He clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. How could Sherlock get so thoroughly under John's skin? Honestly, the posh git thought he knew everything, which was obviously just untrue. "Right," John repeated, levering himself out of his chair. "I'm going upstairs," he said, walking over and pulling the paper out of Sherlock's hands. He took everything but the obituaries page, which he passed back to his flatmate. He shook his head slightly, then turned and walked away.

"John," Sherlock started.

"Don't bother," John cut him off, making the dismissal snap over his shoulder. He grabbed his tea and limped back upstairs, leaving Sherlock to his deductions.

He had already made a mess of things, Sherlock knew. He wasn't particularly sure how he had upset John, but he knew he had, and that was all that mattered. Sherlock never had been good with people's emotions. Motives he could understand, but the complexity of others' feelings often eluded him after spending most of his time blocking out his own. He sighed, settling himself in his chair with the obituaries in his hand. He read the entry several times over, trying to deduce more information out of it than it could reasonably provide, merely so he felt justified in his actions, but it was useless. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was murder. A newspaper would tell him little else; he needed a crime scene, or at the very least a case file, neither of which he was likely to get anytime soon.

John hardly came down for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Sherlock's eyes snapped open to stare at his ceiling. The night of consideration hadn't done anything at all to clarify the mess he'd made, but that entire train of thought had come to a halt when the sun rose. It was John's birthday. Sherlock hadn't forgotten. Not even a delightfully suspicious murder would distract him from the fact.

This was far too important of an occasion, in light of recent events.

He rose, washed and dressed, quickly making his way out to the kitchen. John wouldn't be up yet, or at least he wouldn't have managed to pad down the stairs to start on breakfast yet. It was the perfect opportunity.

Turning on the kettle he pulled two clean mugs from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag in each and added one spoonful of sugar to John's cup, a spoonful and a splash of milk to his own. He rarely made tea, but of course the consulting detective knew exactly how his flatmate took his. Setting the mugs on the cleared kitchen table, Sherlock turned his attention to the fridge, attempting to find something he could scrounge together for breakfast. Another talent of his, cooking, but something he rarely bothered to do. He hardly ate often enough to warrant such a thing, and what he ate was hardly a concern so long as it kept him functional.

Pulling out eggs, butter, bread and sliced cheese, Sherlock placed a pan on the stove and set to raiding the spice cabinet when he heard John's bare feet on the stairs, moments before the still-half-asleep doctor made his way into the kitchen.

"Made tea," Sherlock informed John over his shoulder, the confusion palpable on the air. "And I'm making eggs in a basket. Any preference on how you want yours?"

"You made tea...and you're making breakfast?" John asked, disbelieving, sounding as if the sight before him was merely a manufactured result of his still-sleepy brain. "Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?"

Sherlock smirked over his shoulder. "John, don't be an idiot. Just because I don't cook doesn't mean I can't. This is your day, it should be a good one." He nodded his head at the steaming cup on the table.

"Sit, drink, wake up," Sherlock teased with a smile, "Happy birthday, John."

"Thanks," John said, returning the smile and sitting at the table. He took a sip of his tea and hummed appreciatively. "Breakfast and tea made by Sherlock Holmes himself. That's better than my two previous birthdays combined already."

Sherlock cut a hole through the bread and buttered the pan. "I should hope so. Given the last two birthdays I was present for, breakfast courtesy of a Holmes is probably like ambrosia." The joke was slightly uncomfortable, bringing back memories he wasn't sure he wanted to visit then. He cracked an egg into the pan and turned to face John once more while it began to cook. "And this is only the beginning. My plan is to make this birthday all but erase the last two; you certainly deserve it."

"Well, if you want it to happen, no doubt it will," John responded lightly, letting silence fall for a few seconds before clearing his throat uncomfortably. Sherlock turned back to the stove to finish cooking, and he could feel John staring at him. He heard John open his mouth as if to say something else, but remained quiet, leaving his thoughts a mystery.

Sherlock laid a piece of cheese on top of the bread-and-egg to melt, sprinkling it over with a bit of salt, pepper and garlic. When the whole thing had suitably cooked together, Sherlock scooped it out with a spatula and set it on a plate which he then set in front of John.

"Here, give that a try, let me know what you think and I'll make more." He flashed a miniscule smile, turning back to the stove. There had been too many dark days between them, but this day would not be one of them. John Watson was going to have a good day, Sherlock was going to make sure of it.

"S'good," John informed him after taking a bite and Sherlock smiled, pleased.

"Glad you like it," he muttered, setting up to make another one. "How many do you want?"

"None, not until you have some, too," John insisted, cutting himself another bite. "It's my birthday, Sherlock, you have to listen to me."

Sherlock feigned a large sigh. "I should have expected that, Dr. Watson," he remarked, but consented, aiming to make the next one for himself. This time he tossed the egg back and forth between the shells until the whites separated and poured that into the hole in the toast. The rest of the process he repeated quickly; cook, flip, cheese, seasoning, serve.

Turning the heat off on the stove, he grabbed his plate and his cup of tea and sat himself on the other side of the kitchen table making a face at John that clearly asked if he was happy. The two men shared a laugh and Sherlock picked his up off the plate, taking a bite of the toast without thought of a fork or knife.

The two men ate their breakfast in pleasant silence, reveling in the rare Holmesian meal. When they were finished Sherlock stood, stacking their dishes. "You should go get dressed, I'll finish up here. We have a long day ahead of us." Sherlock flashed a devilish grin that could make any man but a certain army doctor cringe with concern and rushed John off. A good morning to a great day. His plan was already off on a good foot.

John quickly took a shower and shaved, then dressed in durable jeans and his favorite jumper, the one with navy blue and light blue stripes. He deliberated for a moment, but brought his walking stick downstairs with him. Sherlock was in his prayer pose on the couch, but the second John came back into the room, Sherlock was getting up and pulling on his coat.

John followed suit, grabbing his old green jacket. "So, where are we going?" John asked curiously.

"Right now? Wherever you wish," Sherlock answered, levelling a withering glance at the cane in John's hand before letting his face smoothe into indifference.

John broke into a smile. "Really?" he asked, which earned him the 'do-you-really-want-me-to-repeat-myself?' look from the taller man. "Would you mind the British Museum?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, examining John like he had suddenly been replaced by an android.

"I actually like history, contrary to whatever deductions you made," John said, leading the way out of the flat and towards the tube station. "Plus, I haven't seen the Rosetta Stone." John had expected Sherlock to protest the tube, but he had that look across his face, the one that said Sherlock was dealing with something he hadn't quite expected. John was sure the silence was a temporary thing, so he reveled in it.

They spent the rest of the morning getting lost in the British Museum. Sherlock stayed by John's side even though he sighed through some of the exhibits, obviously less than impressed by the exhibit on taboo from the Pacific Islands, but becoming incredibly excited by the exhibit on time and how various peoples have measured it. Sherlock disappeared while John was examining the Rosetta Stone and reappeared while John was looking at the Standard of Ur with tea for the pair of them. John enjoyed listening to Sherlock deduce the Lindow Man and sprout more facts and observations about Michelangelo's drawings than the tour guide nearby.

For lunch, Sherlock made good on his promise and took John to the Thai restaurant he had mentioned a few days before. John's kai phat kraphao was very good, just the right amount of spice; and Sherlock said his khao khluk kapi was more than satisfactory. Just as they were leaving the restaurant, John's mobile rang.

"Hello?" he answered, starting to walk towards the library. A chorus of 'happy birthday' greeted him. He could pull out his mother's high soprano, his father's deep baritone, Emma's warm alto, Thomas's shaky tenor, and his nieces' tinny voices. John laughed when they finished, "Very good, thank you!"

"Dear!" his mother snatched the phone first. "How are you? How has your birthday been so far? I can't believe you're thirty one this year!" John answered all of his mother's questions, and talked to each of his family members in turn. He had just finished saying goodbye to his niece as the library came into view.

"I didn't know you had a niece," Sherlock remarked mildly as John slid his mobile back into his pocket.

"I've three, actually," John answered. It felt nice to correct Sherlock, even when he was being pleasant.

"Mother, father, older brother-Thomas?-who is married to Emma? So they have the three girls, then. After Thomas, then Harry, you, and a younger brother?" Sherlock deduced, allowing the inflection of questions to creep in for once.

"Spot on. Mike is my younger brother, by the way," John said, slipping into the library. "Allison, Leah, and Charlotte are my nieces."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You weren't this close with them before," he noted.

"Yeah, I wasn't," John responded. Sherlock stopped for a moment before following. John knew he was opening his mouth to ask, but John cut him off. "Just don't. Not today."

John's word was law today. Sherlock shut his mouth and merely hummed as John looked at the book selection. He took his time picking out a few books, picking out a biography of Churchill and a few different mystery books, which Sherlock scoffed at. When they left, Sherlock suggested they get some takeaway and rent a movie, since John was 'always complaining about how pop-culturally deficient' Sherlock was. John agreed, and sent Sherlock to get them takeaway as he picked out a film. He decided to go for The Italian Job, since he knew that Sherlock had never seen it. Halfway through checkout, John got a text:

Just dropped off what you wanted, look in the fridge for an actual present from yours truly.-GL

John smiled and texted back his thanks. He was unsurprised when Sherlock was waiting for him outside the shop; they walked home together in an easy silence. Sherlock paused when they got to their flat, frowning. John smiled a little to himself as he lead the way up to their room, noting the four stacked cardboard boxes with approval. Sherlock swirled into the room soon after him, stopping and looking at the boxes with confusion.

"My birthday present from Greg," John explained, hanging up his coat. "Cold cases for you."

"Cold cases for me? How on earth is that a present for you? That's like Christmas for me, Lestrade must be confused. Are you sure he knows it's your birthday?"

John smiled at his flatmate. "It's a present because you getting distracted usually means peace and quiet for me. So that's Greg's real gift," John responded, walking over to the fridge. He opened it up and found Greg's other present: a six pack of lager. He nabbed one and popped off the cap, only to find Sherlock looking at the boxes with something akin to amusement.

"After Professor Hughes, I'm surprised you want me to have cases," Sherlock commented.

John shrugged as he set up the DVD. "Solving old cases I don't mind, you pulling cases out of nowhere is a different matter," he explained. Hearing a noise from Sherlock, he cut the taller man off. "No, no more of this, it's still my birthday. Now shut up and watch some Michael Caine."

They both settled on the couch to watch. John was thoroughly enjoying himself between the film and reminding Sherlock that he had to keep quiet. They made it halfway through the film before Sherlock fell asleep, his head lolling to one side until it hit John's shoulder. John kept himself very still, not wanting Sherlock to wake up. When he was sure that his flatmate was out, John tilted his head and let it rest against Sherlock's for the rest of the film.

Once it ended, John shifted slightly, turning slowly to frame Sherlock's face with his hands. "Sherlock." He used the tone that would get through any haze Sherlock was in. "You have to wake up long enough to get to bed."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, so John murmured encouragement as he slowly straightened Sherlock's head, knowing that his flatmate's neck would be hurting from the position it had been in. When those stunning blue-for-the-moment eyes opened partway, John tugged Sherlock up to standing and helped to manhandle him to his bedroom. Once Sherlock was laying down, John removed his shoes and socks before pulling the duvet over Sherlock.

"Thank you for a lovely birthday, Sherlock," John whispered before slipping out of the room and upstairs.