Sherlock wondered what to do about Mary's birthday.
His own birthday that January had passed by without his noticing it. It was only days later, when he received a belated greeting card from Molly, busy with her important new job in Edinburgh, that he realized he was a year older and that the little cake Mrs. Hudson had presented him with earlier that week had been meant to be a birthday cake. When Mary had been alive . . . . Well, it didn't bear thinking about, did it? Mary always made a great fuss over Sherlock's birthday, with presents and a special dinner and a cake with his favourite buttercream icing. He wasn't sure he wanted a birthday without Mary.
John's birthday, a few days after the aborted-Ritz incident, had also gone by without any notice, other than his wan observation that it had been on that day six years earlier that they had thrown their engagement party. Sherlock had half expected John to disappear on that day, but they had been immersed in a difficult and particularly enjoyable murder case; and John seemed determined to throw off his "brooding" persona. Mary would never have put up with brooding.
But Mary's own birthday could not go by unacknowledged. Sherlock could not have borne that, and he was certain that neither could John. Not to celebrate the fact of her existence would have felt entirely wrong. But what to do?
Before that day arrived, though, another important day of commemoration must be dealt with. John and Mary's sixth wedding anniversary was an easy day to plan for. Naturally, John disappeared, and naturally, Sherlock followed him to Regent's Park, the site of their wedding ceremony and picnic-reception. What the detective had not bargained for was the thoughtfulness of their friends. John's other commemorative days had been of private events that only he (and his genius flatmate) would know about. But everyone knew when and where the wedding had taken place. When Sherlock arrived at Regent's Park, having given John his hour (so he thought) of solitude, he found Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson already there, sitting with John on a bench and sharing a bottle of Champaign.
"There you are," John had said, almost cheerfully. "We were wondering when you'd turn up."
Lestrade had laughed heartily. "You wondered if Mary would ever turn up, on the big day," he remembered. "You thought she'd wised up at the last minute and decided not to go through with it."
"And then, there she was!" John smiled, his eyes looking far away. "She looked like a perfect angel in that white dress, and her hair done up just so." He chuckled. "And then she was kicking off her shoes and running after the pickpockets, just behind us, hairpins flying! What force of nature she was!"
"It was a beautiful ceremony," Mrs. Hudson quavered, dabbing at her eyes with a wadded handkerchief. "Oh, but that cake! We worked ever so hard on it; it was beautiful. And then, there it was, in bits all over the stairway. But Mary just laughed! 'Never mind, dear,' she told me. 'It's just a cake. It's our marriage that's important—the wedding's just for fun.'"
"It was fun, wasn't it?" John mused. "Wouldn't most women be furious over the pickpocket incident? But Mary called it 'entertainment.'"
The friends had reminisced for a bit longer and then had gone back to their lives. Lestrade had pulled Sherlock aside, however, as John wandered on ahead with his motherly landlady. "Well done, helping John deal with this," he said quietly. "I've been worried about him, but I know he's in good hands with you sticking by his side through it all."
Sherlock was a bit bewildered, being praised for doing what seemed the logical thing to do. "Where else would I be?" he wondered. "But helping him helps me, so it's far from selfless on my part."
Their friends and the time that had passed had helped that day ease by without the pain past commemorations had brought. But Mary's birthday. What to do?
On the day in question, he had expected John to disappear again. But instead, he found his flatmate sitting at the desk with several photo albums. All the pictures he had of Mary and their life together had been gathered into those few slim volumes. Mary had kept up with them herself for the most part; the few pictures she had not had time to place into the albums before she died John was now carefully pasting onto the pages and writing captions in his scrawling, doctor's hand.
Sherlock considered whether he should leave his friend alone or join him. Finally, he gave in to his own desires for once and asked, "May I see?" John agreed eagerly, wanting to share his memories with his friend, and Sherlock was relieved that he had chosen the correct option.
John moved to the couch, and they sat side by side, looking at the pictures and few other bits of memorabilia that Mary had chosen to include, remembering. They laughed a bit. They cried as well. Mary had been gone for nine months, and it already seemed like a lifetime since she had been with them. Talking about her brought her back to them, and now instead of being unbearably painful, it was sweet and healing.
"I'm so afraid of forgetting," John admitted softly. "I want to remember everything. The sound of her laughter. What her hair smelled like. The feel of her head on my shoulder. How she looked when she was sleeping. I used to love watching her sleep. Pictures help, but they can't capture those things."
Sherlock nodded. There were things he wanted to remember about Mary as well. The fond exasperation in her voice when she spoke to him sometimes ("Good lord, Sweetheart!" she would say to him. He had loved it when she did that.) The way she always understood what he meant, even when he said the opposite. ("Don't be such a worrier," he would complain to her when she fussed over him. "I love you, too," she would reply.)
John closed the last album and gently stroked the cover. "All the pictures I have of Mary were taken after I met her," he told his friend. "I know so little about her life from before we were together. She would tell me bits and pieces when things came up, but she really didn't like talking about her past. And I thought," he stopped, struggling to contain his emotions. "I thought, you know, we'd have . . . a lifetime to . . . to talk about things at her own pace. Now there are things about her I will never know."
Sherlock felt a strange combination of sorrow for his friend and elation for a decision well-made. "I have something for you," he said. "A birthday present."
John looked at him in amazement. "A birthday present?" He watched the detective leave the room and come back with a package wrapped in plain, brown paper. "What is it?"
His hands shook as he tore off the paper. Inside was a framed copy of Mary's birth certificate, tangible proof of her existence. "This is . . . this is amazing," John whispered, tears in his eyes. "Thank you."
"It is I who should be thanking you," Sherlock murmured, "for bringing her into my life. I will always be grateful for that."
John smiled through his tears. "Yeah. Me, too," he said.