Hello, loves!

I know, I know: majorly quick update. Since I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write next week I wanted to put this up just in case.

*Important message in end notes regarding the future of this story! Read it, please and thank you!*

Enjoy!

In all of his adult life, Sherlock has never bothered to remember anyone's birthdays. If by chance he accidentally overhears a date (Oh, I can't believe I'll be turning thirty-six on March twelfth!), he immediately deletes it and goes on with his day. Mycroft, Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson are not exempt from this. Never would he so much as humor the thought of throwing any of them some kind of celebration. Because, after all, why does a birthday require celebration? One does nothing worthy of acknowledgment by simply being born; that's like rewarding someone for breathing. Both are equally effortless and undeserving of an entire day's dedication.

However, as usual, John is the exception. John is the kind of wonderful, brilliant man that deserves to be celebrated each and every day for his vast reserves of patience, kindness, capacity for caring, sharp wit, and cleverness. However, since daily festivities in John's honor are a bit excessive, he at least deserves a celebration on the day he was born, because that is the day the universe gained something achingly significant and infinitely unique.

Perhaps a few months ago Sherlock wouldn't have seriously considered the thought of doing something special for John's birthday, but due to the fairly new realization that he indeed loves John, Sherlock has decided to begin taking some steps towards making such a thing known. Of course, that isn't to say he plans on writing amorous proclamations across the surface of a cake in strawberry cream, but he certainly hopes that this act of thoughtfulness will soften John for whenever he decides to confess his affections in the future.

Besides, Sherlock isn't that naïve; he knows theoretically how relationships ought to work-small, meaningless celebrations and all-so he's aware that making a fuss over one's partner's birthday is greatly appreciated. (And usually rewarded)

With that decided, the only question that remains is: what does one do to properly celebrate a birthday?

He doesn't bother searching his mind palace, already aware that such a quest will be in vain. Instead he turns to the only other resource aside from his own mind that boasts the ability to provide endless answers.

The internet.

And yes, it does feel a bit ridiculous to stoop over John's laptop – which is easy enough to hack; the password is predictably "Afghanistan", occasionally changed to "Bugger Off" whenever John suspects that Sherlock has been snooping – scrolling through page after page of birthday party ideas.

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, but John's chair looks more comfortable, so he leaps up, strides over, and proceeds to drape himself across it in a dramatic manner that he reserves only for when he is alone. His head lolls over the chair's right arm, his legs splayed recklessly over the left, and the warm laptop rests on his stomach. He cranes his neck and stares at the screen, his long fingers furiously typing into the search bar.

"How to celebrate one's flat mate's birthday in a manner that is genuine and simultaneously enjoyable, while also subtly hinting at love/fondness for said flat mate"

Unsurprisingly, that search does not yield a single result. With an annoyed huff of breath, he reenters something so vague and simple that it makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust: "Fun birthday ideas". Several colorful pages pop up, many of them decorated with clowns, cakes, and other forms of nauseatingly-cheery birthday paraphernalia. One site, aptly named 'party planning for dummies', includes a graphic depicting what to do and what not to do at a celebration. Sherlock skims it briefly, disgusted with the simple language, poor grammar, and obnoxious font (is that comic sans?).

He rolls his eyes and exits out once he glances over the latter part of tip number four, which assures that even if someone claims not to, they really do want their face shoved good-naturedly into a cake. The next site he clicks on is titled rather eye-catchingly: "Birthday Fun for You and Your Man"

The phrasing is somewhat off-putting, but it's the first result he's seen that suggest something more than a child's birthday party or a friendly get-together. That isn't to say Sherlock doesn't want this to be a friendly occasion, he's simply searching for a bit more than that. With a hopeful breath he clicks on the link and opens the page.

"Oh my," Sherlock mutters, more than a bit thrown off by the image of a scantily-clad woman that immediately pops up at the top of the page. In hot-pink bubble letters reads:

"Step #1: Buy a sexy outfit he won't be able to resist. Don't worry about how it looks too much though, you're bound to be in your birthday suit by the end of the night anyway!"

He blinks.

Curiosity prompts him to scroll down to the bottom of the page, partially in hope that a later tip will cover something less female-specific. (For example: he doesn't have breasts at his disposal, rendering tips three through eight useless)

Unfortunately, the last bubblegum-pink column does not discuss gender nonspecific romantic gestures, nor does it expand upon how one properly celebrates a loved one. Instead it focuses on a rather explicit 'favor' one can perform for their partner, along with a very detailed graphic and even a few reviews from readers. As he exits out, cheeks uncomfortably warm, he decides that at the very least the site deserves credit for being extremely thorough.

Weary and more than a bit discouraged, he clicks on another random link, not even bothering to glance at the title.

It is right as the page is loading that Sherlock hears three sharp knocks on his door, each separated by precisely two seconds. It takes even less time for Sherlock to deduce that it is either Mycroft or mummy on the other side of the door, given that both of them have a manner of knocking that suggest money, power, and a sensitivity of the hands. (Which, in unabashed honesty, is to say that Mycroft has the fragile physicality of an old woman: a fact that Sherlock will always find deeply amusing).

Sherlock takes his time heading to the door, making sure his footfalls are loud enough for Mycroft to hear, just so he knows that the delay is completely intentional. Once he swings open the door, he immediately snaps, "What?"

Mycroft stares back, face pinched into his customary 'pleased to see you in a perfunctory sort of way' smile, umbrella propped faithfully at his side. He glances at Sherlock's attire, distaste written clearly across his face. "Really, brother? It's nearly two in the afternoon and you couldn't bother with a decent shirt and a proper pair of trousers?"

Sherlock doesn't care that he is currently donning one of John's old cotton t-shirts (which he swiped weeks ago and John still hasn't noticed) and a dress robe. He doesn't care that his hair is a complete wreck of tangled curls and wild, black waves that would rival the chaos of any bird's nest. If anything, this subtle defiance against Mycroft's notions of "proper attire" makes staying in sweatpants all day worth it.

"No, brother, I couldn't," Sherlock replies, succinctly. "Now I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to reprimand my wardrobe choices, so why not get on with it?"

"A proper host invites his guest in before demanding answers," informs Mycroft, primly.

Sherlock smiles sardonically. "And since when have I been 'proper' to any degree, brother?"

Mycroft sighs, world-weary as ever, and invites himself in as Sherlock loses interest and turns to walk back inside.

Sherlock immediately strolls into the kitchen and returns with the previously untouched plate of chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up this morning. Sherlock sets the plate on the coffee table and takes a generous amount simply for the sake of taunting Mycroft. He picks through the armful of treats, pops one into his mouth, and then questions, "And how's the diet, brother?"

Mycroft regards him with saccharine disdain. "Ah, yes, quite splendid, Sherlock, thank you ever so much for asking."

"Your jacket's buttons beg to differ," he remarks, licking the powdered sugar from his right thumb.

"My tailor is on a vacation and his replacement is rather incompetent."

"Mm, yes I'm sure" Sherlock replies airily, biting into another biscuit with feigned relish. "These are quite delicious."

Mycroft only glares.

Sherlock looks unconcerned and saunters over to John's chair, this time seated in a normal fashion, where he reopens the laptop and continues his research. Sherlock doesn't care if it's rude to carry on as if he's alone; Mycroft obviously came here to tell him something and Sherlock will not bother with Smalltalk just to get him to reveal his purpose.

Minutes tick by in silence. Mycroft wanders about the sitting room, umbrella swinging absently at his side, eyes roving unhurriedly throughout the flat. Sherlock can practically see the deductions forming behind that cool expression of his, but he quickly decides that he doesn't care and glances away.

Out of nowhere, Mycroft begins to chuckle heartily into the silence. Sherlock rips his gaze away from the laptop to stare at his brother in shock, because he has only heard Mycroft laugh genuinely like this about five times in his life, and most of those instances are so old that if it weren't for his superb memory, he'd hardly be able to recall them.

"Something amusing?" he asks warily, because it is quite possible his brother has lost his mind.

Mycroft shakes his head, a dumbfounded smile lingering on his lips. A few chuckles stumble out as he attempts half-heartedly to recompose himself. "Oh, Sherlock," he says with a sigh, now gazing about the flat in wonder. "Sherlock I never thought this would happen to you, but it has. Good god, it has."

"What? What are you talking about? What has happened to me?" He demands.

Mycroft glances at him out the corner of his eye and smirks. Purposely not answering, he leans down and plucks a single biscuit from the platter.

"Oh, but your diet," Sherlock reminds, in mock concern.

"Yes, well," he says, lightly, seating himself on the sofa with an air of luxuriousness. "You seem to be indulging yourself around here so I thought I might do so as well," he bites into a corner of the biscuit, eyebrow raised.

"And what is that," Sherlock bites out, "supposed to mean?" Because Mycroft is clearly not talking about the biscuits.

"Oh, nothing much, brother," Mycroft assures around a dainty mouthful, "It's just, well, you've begun wearing his t-shirts now, you're currently seated in his chair, and you're also browsing through his laptop. Frankly, it would not surprise me to find a shrine dedicated to him in your room somewhere. Perhaps a covert notebook in which you catalogue his every facial expression? Or an album of him in various candid scenarios?" Mycroft smirks. "Really, brother, it could not be more obvious if you wrote it across your forehead."

"Shut-" but before the phrase is even out of his mouth, Mycroft says: "You're in love with John," like an indisputable fact.

And it sounds so simple, so confidently phrased, and so true, that he can't bring himself to deny it. And what's the point, anyway? Mycroft has clearly already figured it out.

"Yes," Sherlock admits, shortly.

Mycroft looks satisfied. "Well, brother mine, this happens to be the exact topic that I wished to discuss with you today, so I suppose this is an excellent segue," Mycroft announces, as he continues nibbling at the edges of the biscuit. "I was wondering what you plan on doing about your – condition."

Sherlock scoffs and shakes his head. "Really, Mycroft? Condition? You make it sound as though I'm ill."

"In a way you are, Sherlock," Mycroft muses. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way love tends to turn even the sharpest of minds to rubbish? That isn't to say the same will become of you, of course, but you must proceed with caution nonetheless."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and snaps the laptop shut so he can glare at Mycroft easier. "You think because of my feelings for John I will become simple?"

"Mm, perhaps not simple per se, but definitely less logical. Oh, and most certainly not as level-headed as you consider yourself currently."

"Mycroft, stop. Do you really believe I can't keep my own mind intact just because I care for someone?" Sherlock scowls indignantly, "Because I can, brother, and I most certainly will."

Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, clearly fighting the urge to retort. After a moment, his frustrated expression dissipates with practiced ease and his untroubled, bland smile returns. "Do you plan on sharing any of this with John?"

It's a reasonable question, so Sherlock forces himself to bite back the urge to automatically glare in response. In truth, he hasn't pondered the question too deeply himself, because it always brings an unpleasant sinking feeling to his chest. He takes a deep breath and pointedly glances away. "I'm undecided."

Mycroft, adept as always, catches the unspoken 'what should I do?' and doesn't hesitate to respond, "I've never been one to sugar-coat things for you, Sherlock, and I will not do so now. John has been announcing his sexuality to the world as long as I've known him, and whenever he hasn't said it with his words, he's shown it through the constant stream of women coming to and from this flat. However, my deductions lead me to believe that perhaps his constant reaffirmations are due to a sense of self-uncertainty, which indeed gives his claims of "not gay" a bit more leeway," Mycroft pauses to gauge Sherlock's reaction so far, finding that it is predictably blank. He takes in a breath and continues, "Unfortunately, sometimes it is that lingering sense of doubt that causes people – but statistically more often, men – to force possible feelings down even further in denial. Which means that John is just as likely to embrace the idea as he is to completely shy away from it."

There is a long beat of silence that follows Mycroft's last statement. Mycroft stares at Sherlock who is deliberately looking out the window, features assembled into an impression of disinterest. Mycroft, ever-observant, notices the telltale twitch of his fingers, which betrays that Sherlock's true feelings.

"Sherlock."

"I know, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, eyes still fixed unseeingly at the window. "I know I don't have a chance in hell, there's no need to reiterate."

"That is not what I said." Mycroft purses his lips and takes a moment to consider his next words. "Sherlock, I only mean to prepare you for the worst situation. And if I am to be completely honest, John does care about you. Immensely, in fact. I won't pretend to be an expert in the world of emotion, but I can say with utmost certainty that you are just as important to John as he is to you,"

Sherlock blinks once, twice, and finally breaks away from the window to meet his brother's gaze. "Yes?" He asks, uncertainty and hope spilling reluctantly into his voice.

"Yes," Mycroft replies, confidently.

Sherlock nods, though more to himself than his brother, and returns his gaze to the window with a new air of satisfaction. Mycroft, sensing his point has been made, rises from the couch and gathers his umbrella.

Sherlock doesn't walk him to the door or anything as polite, but instead thanks him in an abstract, Sherlockian way that few are granted and even less appreciate. "Your visit was…not wasted, Mycroft. And perhaps you have lost a bit of weight."

Mycroft doesn't say 'you're welcome' because that would mean acknowledging that it was a 'thank you' in the first place, which Sherlock will most definitely not appreciate, so Mycroft only inclines his head slightly. He turns to leave, umbrella swinging absently at his side.

"Sherlock," says Mycroft over his shoulder, almost like an afterthought. "Do be careful, yes? Keep your reason intact."

Sherlock smiles crookedly at that. "I would, brother, but it appears that this loving lark is quite resistant to logic," he lifts his gaze and something genuine sparkles in his eyes, something subtle but achingly bright, and Mycroft has never seen anything like it before in Sherlock. If he didn't know better, he'd call it happiness.

"Caring may not be an advantage, Mycroft, but I am discovering that it is certainly no burden."

. . .

Exactly twenty-four hours after Mycroft's visit, Sherlock finally has the sense to ask Mrs. Hudson for advice. She wastes no time in telling him that a simple cake and birthday dinner will be perfectly sufficient. Apparently such a celebration is both romantic and comfortable, which she assures him is something John would appreciate.

Plans solidified, the only task that remains is getting John out of the flat long enough for Sherlock to cook up a birthday cake. Mrs. Hudson has kindly taken it upon herself to handle the preparation of dinner and the (tasteful and few!) decorations.

Sherlock wakens the day of John's birthday with a clear strategy and the kind of single-minded determination that usually only accompanies a particularly fascinating case. He tosses the sheets away, leaps out of bed, and dashes from his room like an eager child bounding towards presents on Christmas day. He has exactly fourteen seamless reasons for John to leave the flat for the several hours that he requires, and he is positively bursting to use one.

"John," he calls, as he sweeps into the kitchen. Sherlock is just about to begin his onslaught of rapidly-spoken brilliance, when his eyes land on a rather peculiar sight: John is not in the kitchen as he usually is, groggily making tea in his robe and slippers with sleep-mussed hair. Instead he is standing before the mirror in the sitting room, adjusting the collar of his sports jacket and muttering several different versions of "Hello, Laura" under his breath.

It does not take a consulting detective to deduce what all of this means. Unconsciously, Sherlock's shoulder slump and the eagerness seeps from his eyes. He knows he should be pleased: obviously no cunning will be necessary because John is going to leave the flat of his own accord. However, he's going to be with a woman and his mates in a place that is not the flat and with people that are not Sherlock. And that is a bit not good.

Stupid, blasted, bloody Laura.

"Morning," says John, absently. He fiddles with his tie until he deems it sufficiently straight. "I made you some toast and a cup of tea about thirty minutes ago for breakfast; they're sitting in the microwave."

"Well then I certainly cannot eat any of it, that's where I was storing a very toxic petri dish of—"

John glances away from his reflection to give Sherlock a knowing look. "Of Alternaria-riddled tomato slime? Yes, I know. You told me about all of your mold cultures last Tuesday. Naturally, I moved it to the oven and disinfected the microwave before putting your breakfast in there."

"Oh. Yes, well, that's…acceptable," he mumbles, at loss.

But it's actually far more than just 'acceptable'—it's bloody wonderful. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and fights the urge to grab John and pull him into an embrace, because John remembered that the moldy tomato goo wasn't just moldy tomato goo and he was careful about putting it somewhere wise, which is infinitely more than he can usually ask of an ordinary person (though to be fair, John is anything but ordinary).

"I'm sure you've gathered as much, but I'll be going out today. Mike and the lads are taking me to a football game and then a bit of pub-hopping later on," John brushes back a stray gray-blonde hair. "Anyway, Laura may be coming as well, so it's important that I look my best. What do you think?" John turns and faces Sherlock with an expectant brow.

John, for once, is not wearing one of his awful jumpers, which Sherlock finds disappointing. Of course, that is not to say the sports jacket and dark slacks he is currently wearing are not flattering; quite the contrary. He looks bloody gorgeous as usual, with those sparkling blue eyes that have turned dark-navy from the reflection of his jacket, that smartly-styled, gray-blonde hair, and those pleasantly shaped lips that are currently curved into a half-smile. Not to mention how incredibly appealing it is to see John's small, strong frame wrapped up in formal attire, which is such a rarity that the sight in and of itself is a treat. Sherlock is struck with the urge to place his hands on either side of John's face and pull him close into a kiss, so John can feel each word as Sherlock whispers, "You look exquisite," against the delicious swell of his bottom lip.

"Do I have something on my face?" John asks, self-consciously.

Sherlock blinks and realizes that he's been staring at John with a blank expression for an entire minute. "You look fine. Good…great—passable, I mean," he manages.

John looks amused and a bit confused, but seems content to let it go. He readjusts the collar of his jacket one final time. "They invited you as well, but I said you had some familial obligations to attend to, so don't worry," he smiles, "I had a feeling you wouldn't fancy a football game or pub setting. We'll do something when I get home tonight; who knows, maybe you'll finally be up for those Bond movies I'm always telling you about."

The idea that John knows him so well makes his heart positively sing. Sherlock much prefers when it's just the two of them rather than some busy, loud crowd of strangers and acquaintances, and he is immeasurably grateful that John is aware of it.

Then, Sherlock realizes something.

"John, I've noticed you've purposefully omitted the reason for all of this celebration. Why?" Sherlock doesn't really need an answer, he knows it's because John thinks he forgot and doesn't want him to feel bad, but part of him is still curious.

John blinks and looks somewhat sheepish. "Well, I didn't know if you realized it's my birthday, and I didn't want it to seem like I was throwing all of this in your face to make you feel guilty for not doing something," he sighs and steps forward, "I just want you to know that I don't care about parties, okay? I'm really only going to this bloody thing to humor my mates. I'll consider whatever simple, comfortable thing we end up doing later the perfect way to spend my birthday, alright?" He grips the sides of Sherlock's arms in emphasis.

Sherlock nods and keeps a cool expression, all the while trying not to focus on the sensation of John's warm, strong fingertips pressing into his bicep.

Sherlock's knee-jerk reaction to John's kind understanding is to attempt to please him even more by admitting that he did remember and has indeed planned something. But just as the words are about to leave his lips, he remembers a particular tip Mrs. Hudson gave him: he must pretend that he has nothing planned, so that when the cake and dinner are finally revealed, John will enjoy them even more out of surprise. With this in mind, he says: "You are correct, I haven't prepared anything. Either way, happy birthday, John,"

John grins and brushes an affectionate hand through the curls hanging against Sherlock's forehead in a gesture that could be interpreted as a friendly hair-ruffle, if it wasn't for the fact that John's hand then drops a few inches lower along his cheekbone in-what certainly feels like-a caress. The touch lasts mere seconds before John's hand finds its way back to his side. "You're fantastic, you know?" John beams at him once more before brushing by and heading for the door.

"I'll phone you when I'm on my way back, yeah?"

The door closes and Sherlock numbly raises his hand to his flushed face, fingertips fluttering absently over his now-sacred cheekbone.

"Sherlock, are you sure you don't want my help with the cake?" Mrs. Hudson asks, as she hands over the rest of the ingredients. They are standing in the threshold of her flat, Sherlock's arms overflowing with baked goods, while Mrs. Hudson eyes him concernedly.

"Yes, I'm quite sure, Mrs. Hudson. You're already preparing the dinner, I couldn't ask for more than that. Also, I'd like to do this bit myself. I'm not entirely sure why I am so insistent on that, but I suppose I shall chalk it up to sentiment."

She smiles in understanding, and places a stick of butter on the growing mound of food in Sherlock's arms, "Yes, dear, it is sentiment. Though I will admit that you are correct in your insistence: the best cakes are often made with a few drops of love."

He frowns and glances down at the items worriedly, "A few drops of 'love'? Is that the name of some type of extract or oil, because if so you appear to have forgotten it—"

A look of amused endearment passes over Mrs. Hudson's face and she shakes her head, "Oh, Sherlock, I don't mean it literally. I only meant that the best birthday cakes – or any cakes in general, really – are the ones made with love in mind. Your John is going to be so pleased to see it once it's done," she beams at him once more, before stepping back inside her flat. "Ring me if you find that you need any help, dear!"

"Yes, I will. Thank you again for the recipe, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls from over his shoulder as he walks away.

When he returns to his flat he quickly recognizes that there is a slight problem. Well, actually there a few slight problems, namely the lack of clean cooking space and the significant amount of unhygienic items currently boiling/melting/sitting on the stove and inside the oven.

Sherlock drops the ingredients unceremoniously to the floor, which is ironically the only sanitary area in the entire kitchen. He plucks his mobile from his pocket and briefly considers phoning Mycroft to send someone over to clean his disastrous kitchen, but quickly decides he'd rather not waste his last few shreds of dignity on something so frivolous.

Instead, he sets his features into something like grim acceptance, grabs the unused sponge from the cabinet, and begins the horrendously tedious task of cleaning. Of course, he isn't quite sure what 'cleaning' entails, so he sort of just sweeps everything that isn't poisonous, deadly, or 'something that was once within an animal' into the corner to be dealt with later. He wipes over the surface of the dining room table with the sponge, but a chunk of it immediately gets torn off in a mysterious sticky puddle. Annoyed, he stalks over to the sink, wets the sponge, and returns to the table with renewed determination. He will get this bloody table clean. However, after about ten minutes of fruitless scrubbing, he realizes that even if he soaked the entire thing in ammonia, toxic residue would still dapple its surface. In other words: it's a lost cause. Sherlock turns it on its side and pushes it against the wall.

The oven and microwave are a bit easier, because he can use common household products to disinfect them rather than the heavy-duty acids the table requires. As he swipes a soapy dishrag along the exterior of the microwave, he hums the tune to "Happy Birthday" under his breath. Earlier today, he was forced to YouTube it, since he deleted the song from his mind palace ages ago. Now, memory renewed, he focuses on perfecting the pitches and tones of the song in preparation for tonight. He continues singing softly as he scrubs the dried plasma from the stovetop. All is well until his voice falters on the "to you" bit. He freezes and his eyes widen. He immediately drops the rag and dashes into the sitting room to phone Mrs. Hudson.

"Hel—"

"Mrs. Hudson I need you to tell me which pitch I am incorrectly singing on the first verse of the "Happy Birthday" song because I fear I am using F-minor when in reality the tune demands C-minor and—"

"Sherlock!" She cries, "Dear, why are you putting yourself in such a tizzy over this?"

"Because, Mrs. Hudson, this must go perfectly! Remember what I told you last week?" He demands, not caring in the slightest that he sounds desperate.

"Yes, dear," she says patiently, "You said you are in love with John and you want this little celebration to show him that. I understand how much you want this to be perfect, and it will be, whether or not you sing the correct pitches in his birthday song. John will adore anything you do, Sherlock. You're fine."

By the time she has finished talking, he feels decidedly calmer than before. He takes a deep breath. Yes, Mrs. Hudson does have a point, John will probably like the party regardless of his singing abilities. John is sentimental like that.

"Okay. Yes, you're right. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She chuckles warmly. "Alright now get back to cleaning that kitchen, young man! I've seen the state of it and you have some work to do."

Relieved, he sets the phone down and strides back into the kitchen.

As he is finishing up the last of the dirty dishes, it occurs to him that his earlier actions have just proved Mycroft's warning about 'love turning smart men simple' correct. Prior to 'being in love', he would have never so much as humored the idea of panicking over something as inconsequential as an incorrect pitch in a song. He certainly wouldn't have phoned his Landlady about it.

And yet, here he is.

He supposes love is just one of those annoying things that demands endless struggle and sacrifice and in return offers a very small bit of something wonderful. Putting the ridiculousness of it aside, he stands by what he told Mycroft: love is no burden.

And speaking of burdens, it is now time to remove the layer of coagulated blood from the crisper.

As Sherlock mixes in another cup of flour, he scoffs to himself at all those that have claimed baking is a challenge. Ha! It's just chemistry with food instead of deadly compounds, plus one doesn't even need to figure out how much of each ingredient to add since the instructions are already created by someone else! To make it any easier would be an insult to mankind's collective intelligence.

Sherlock recalls watching his mother cook as a child: she was the kind of person that shone brightest in the kitchen; it was where she truly came to life. She would hum a tune and spin on her heel and dance her way over to the cupboards, using salt shakers as maracas and the broom as her partner. She often attempted to share her love for food with Sherlock, but it was to no avail since his interests were in deductions, data, and chemical compounds, not whipped meringue and saffron-dusted Bouillabaisse. Mycroft on the other hand completely immersed himself in cooking—and eating, Sherlock notes—up until the age of fourteen, when their father died. Sherlock had just turned seven at the time. He remembers strangers in dark clothing milling through their house, mumbling words of condolence to his mother and casting looks of pity and him and Mycroft. Some of them even had the gall to pat his head and say things like, "Atticus is going away for a little while, Sherlock" as if he were a simple fool that didn't understand the concept and finality of death.

Sherlock's memories of Atticus are sparse and a bit blurred around the edges due to the short time that he had known him, but Sherlock knows without doubt that he cared for him greatly. Atticus had always been a very intelligent, quiet man that spoke only when he felt something truly needed to be said; which of course was not to say he did not have a large capacity to love, because he did. He never said those three words to any of them, but he always showed it by tasting one of his wife's dishes and then beaming as if it were gold, or playing a lengthy chess game with Mycroft in the peaceful firelight of the drawing room, or sitting on Sherlock's bed and patiently listening to him explain each step of his experiment. That is why Sherlock adored his father so much: he didn't need to talk endlessly in order to say something.

Sherlock decided long ago that he'd like to achieve that silent grace someday. He hopes that he too can learn the art of saying I love you without bothering with actual words. In fact, that is what the desired effect of this cake is: to show John how he feels without verbally saying it. Sherlock supposes this is as good a start as any.

With the batter now thoroughly mixed and fluffy, he moves on to the icing. Mrs. Hudson warned him that making icing from scratch is very difficult—even for her—because it often comes out either too watery or too thick. She'd handed him a tin of a store bought brand and given him a meaningful look. "Here, this'll do just fine, Sherlock. No need to bother with making it from scratch."

Hm.

Sherlock looks at the tin for a few seconds and then immediately sweeps it off the counter. If she really did not want him making his own, she should not have made it sound like such a tantalizing challenge.

Besides, how difficult can it be to make some sodding icing?

. . .

Very difficult, as it turns out.

It isn't until he is surrounded by several bowls filled with frostings of varying viscosities—half of which are gummed in his hair—that he admits to himself perhaps Mrs. Hudson had a point.

Just as she predicted, each batch of icing is either too runny or too clotted, and whenever Sherlock attempts to thicken them with flour or thin them with water, they just become terrible, lumpy messes. After a quick survey of each, Bowl Number Three most resembles edible material so he decides to put his remaining efforts into salvaging it.

At the moment it is a rather unpleasant bile-green color, from when he added food dye in hopes of making the sludge more visibly appealing. Annoyed, he lifts the small bottle of coloring and glares at the label; "Bright Spring-Green" his arse.

He is just about to add another spoonful of salt to the mixture, when his mobile buzzes. His fingers are sticky and stained green, but it hardly matters since the rest of him is too, so he pats down the pockets of his expensive trousers heedless of the mess. Unfortunately, it turns out he has left his phone on top of the microwave, which means abandoning Bowl Number Three for a moment. Reluctantly, he hastily mixes in the salt and then dashes to his mobile which is still buzzing rather insistently, signifying that it is a call rather than text.

"Hello?" he asks, the screen sticking unpleasantly to his sugar-coated cheek.

"Sherlock!" John shouts. It is very loud in the background-voices, shouting, the occasional cheer and holler-so Sherlock suspects he is at a pub. "Listen, I'm heading home in a bit, do you need anything from the shops? I'm stopping there on—"

Panicked, Sherlock cuts him off, eyes wildly darting around disastrous kitchen scene. "John. Listen to me: do not come home yet."

"…Why not?" John asks, warily.

"Because I am…I am—I'm—uh—just…" Any words would be great right now, any words at all. "Experimenting!" He exclaims, relieved to have chosen something believable. "Yes, yes the flat is in a dreadful state,"—not a lie—"and you really shouldn't come back just yet. Go to more pubs, take your time at Tesco. Whatever. Just don't come home yet."

John groans. "Sherlock. What. Have. You. Done. To. My. Flat."

Sherlock decides against pointing out that technically it's their flat. He clears his throat and makes his voice sound as calm and collected as possible. "It will be utterly spotless when you return, John, I guarantee it. Let's see, it's five right now, so…yes, you can return at exactly half past eight."

"Three and half hours, Sherlock?" John asks, his voice taking on that shrill pitch it gets when he's becoming agitated. "What could you have possible done to—actually, I don't want to know." He lets out a long breath that Sherlock suspects is for the sake of lowering his towering blood pressure. "Fine—fine, I'll see you then."

"Yes. Bye, John!" Sherlock says, brightly. He hangs up and then lets his arm fall limply to his side. That was a bloody close one. It would have rather ruined the surprise if John came home and found globs of butter on the ceiling and green icing covering every horizontal surface.

When he returns to his place at the counter he finds that a terrible fate has befallen Bowl Number Three, if the swamp-colored chunks floating through it like glaciers are any indication. Apparently adding more salt was not the best plan. With a world weary sigh, he dumps the concoction into the disposal, knowing full well the sink will become clogged and useless within the week because of it. He must remember to comb the phonebook for a good plumber.

With as much dignity as the situation allows, he stoops down and plucks the store brand icing from the floor. He glares at it and mutters, "This'll do."

If it were not inanimate, Sherlock imagines that it would look quite smug.

"Candles?"

"Yes, dear."

"But not the single ones, right? You got the generic six pack, correct? Because John will feel old if we use thirty-eight candles on his cake."

"I bought the six-pack, dear."

"What if he doesn't like the cake?"

"He will."

"What if he is upset by the color of balloons—you know he did once frown at a woman wearing all yellow…perhaps that signifies his distaste for the color? God, I'm a fool, he's going to hate this because yellow is his least favorite color."

"It isn't and he won't, dear."

"What if he is allergic to something in the food?"

Mrs. Hudson gives him a patient smile and grips his hand. "Sherlock. First of all, I doubt he has an allergy you are unaware of. Secondly, there is no need to worry! The cake came out lovely, the kitchen is spotless, and dinner will be more than satisfactory. As for the balloons, I'm sure John will not mind that they're yellow; in fact, I believe we once discussed our fondness for the color when I asked him which shade my sister should paint her bathroom. Everything will go wonderfully, dear. Stop fretting."

Sherlock nods and relaxes fractionally. The two of them are currently sitting at the kitchen table—Mrs. Hudson had the good idea of layering a few decorative runners over it to cover the acid stains— surrounded by yellow balloons and blue streamers, with John's birthday dinner spread out before them like a feast. Mrs. Hudson certainly has outdone herself. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson has also insisted that it will not be a proper surprise party unless they wear cheap, cardboard cones—er, party hats—and wait in the dark for John's arrival.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the table. "Are you sure we need the lights off? This feels more like an ambush than a party."

"Of course! Shouting 'surprise' and flicking on the lights is nearly the best part!"

Sherlock begins shaking his leg impatiently. He pulls out his mobile and glances at the time. It's three minutes past eight-thirty. John should've walked through the door one hundred and eighty seconds ago.

Sent at: 8:33pm

John, come home at once. Right now. Right this second. SH

Then, so as not to arouse suspicion:

Sent at: 8:34pm

Not that there's anything here for you, of course. Just a regular dull night at Baker Street. No rush. SH

He places his phone face down on the table and demonstrates remarkable patience for the entirety of a minute.

Sent at: 8:35pm

I take that back. Do rush. SH

Sherlock is just about to insist they leave the flat and track down John themselves since this is taking far too long, when he hears the sound of the doorknob jiggling. Mrs. Hudson giggles and whispers "On the count of three. One…two…"

The door creaks open. "Three!"

Sherlock jumps from his seat so quickly his knees knock the underside of the table. He hastily recovers and scrambles to turn on the light. "Surprise! Happy—"

But the words die on his lips the instance he registers the sight before him. John and some woman are intertwined like vines, clearly just caught in the middle of a snog—red lips, flushed faces, guilty expressions—and apparently under the impression that they were going to have the flat to themselves.

The sound of his heartbeat pounds in his ears. He is dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson saying "Oh dear."

The woman disentangles herself and looks bewilderedly at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, then back at John. "Er—who are these people, John?"

"My…my flat mate and my landlady," he says slowly. He clears his throat and straightens his jacket. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, this is Laura. My girlfriend."

A blinding surge of anger and dejection slam into Sherlock like a truck. Is it possible for emotions to translate into physical pain? Because if so, that might explain the sudden ache in his chest.

When no explanation is forthcoming, John looks to Sherlock, wordlessly asking for an answer. Sherlock pointedly looks down at the mishmash of runners on the table. John blinks uncomprehendingly at the scene before him, eyes finally settling on Sherlock's crooked party hat. Genuinely confused, he asks, "What is this?"

Mrs. Hudson clears her throat. "Sherlock planned a—"

"No." Sherlock interrupts. He looks back up at John with a mask of indifference firmly in place. Dully, he says, "It is nothing." He turns slowly on his heel and meets Mrs. Hudson's wide-eyed, sympathetic expression without as much as a blink. With great deliberation, he pulls the party hat from his head and sets it carefully on the table. He doesn't care, he isn't upset. He most certainly is not hurt. If his eyes look especially glossy, it's because of allergies, alright?

He mutters, "Good night," and begins to head in the direction of his room, when he feels John's hand close around his forearm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you don't just get to stalk off to your room. Please explain what all of this is, Sherlock."

Laura stands a few feet back, looking extremely uncomfortable. "John, maybe I should go…"

Sherlock looks at her over John's head and feels something inside him suddenly snap. "Yes! Perhaps you should! There's no doubt those designer heels you shoplifted yesterday are starting to grow a bit uncomfortable, better run back to your dodgy flat and take them off!"

She blinks twice then immediately flees from the flat. John calls her name and follows after her. Mrs. Hudson rises from her chair and places a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm going to let you two have it out, alright dear? Call me or knock on my door if you need anything."

Sherlock says nothing, he just keeps his eyes fixated on the floor, his body as stiff as a statue.

Mrs. Hudson sighs. "Don't worry dear, everything will be alright. To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long. When John comes back up, just remember that you're both human and misunderstandings come with the territory. Don't look so down, dear, things will work out." She kisses his cheek and then leaves the flat.

Sherlock does not move a single inch until John comes thundering back up the stairs five minutes later, muttering and cursing like a sailor.

He storms inside and stops when he is ten inches before Sherlock. "Sherlock, why the hell did you just do that?"

Sherlock grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Hm? She did nothing and you completely snapped at her!"

John's anger sparks Sherlock's like a cinder in a field of hay. Something hot and fiery boils in Sherlock's stomach and his heart slams into his ribs even more painfully than before. "Why the hell did you bring her here, John? Why didn't you just come home at eight-thirty like I asked—by yourself? Now you've gone and ruined it!"

"Wha—what do you mean I've ruined it!? I wasn't even aware there was an "it" to be ruined—"

"That's rather the point of a surprise party, John!" Sherlock cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"You didn't say…you…" The anger saps from John's tone as he registers Sherlock's words. There is a very long pause in which John soundlessly opens and closes his mouth and Sherlock clenches his jaw. When John speaks again, he sounds more stunned than anything. "Sherlock, I thought you were just going to work on an experiment all night since you said that's what you'd been occupied with all day. I…I didn't think you had planned anything. I brought Laura because she's always complaining that we don't spend enough time together and I figured just having a night in watching telly or something would be nice."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, more for the sake of hugging himself than looking defiant. "John, you said you were going to free up your night for the two of us. I even rented those ridiculous James Bond movies to watch later."

John raises his eyebrows and his features immediately soften. "Really?"

Sherlock purses his lips and stares at the ceiling, rocking on his heels. "Yes. Really."

John swallows and looks around the kitchen, finally noticing the balloons in the corner, the haphazard streamers hanging from the light above the kitchen table, the spread of food, and the cake decorated with six blue candles. "You did this," John says weakly. "You planned a whole surprise party for me and I just ruined it."

Sherlock just shrugs, eyes stubbornly fixated on floor.

But when John speaks again, he sounds so utterly distressed that Sherlock almost wants to be the one comforting John, rather than the other way around. "I am so, so sorry, Sherlock. I just…I had no idea. I wouldn't have brought Laura if I knew you were planning something. This is incredible, it's really bloody incredible. I don't know what else to say." John rubs the back of his neck and meets Sherlock's gaze, looking painfully apologetic. "I've made an arse of myself, haven't I?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Yes, yes I have, and I am very sorry. This was extremely thoughtful. Thank you."

Sherlock has already been persuaded out of his bad mood by the time John finishes talking, but his sprits soar even higher when John closes the distance between them with an embrace. It isn't quite like their hugs in the past—which have been few and far between—because instead of John gruffly patting his back and then releasing him, John squeezes their bodies flush together and nestles his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock vaguely recalls a saying about gift horse's mouths and decides not to question this. Instead of hugging John around the shoulders, he boldly encircles John's waist and pulls him close. The smell of cinnamon tickles Sherlock's nose. It seems to go on for several blissful decades before John finally pulls away, grinning.

"So, you baked a cake, did you?" John asks, eyeing the spread of food with a smile. "Never pegged you as a cook, but judging by how delicious that looks, I suppose I was wrong."

Sherlock glows under the praise and modestly replies, "It came out fairly well, I admit."

John pulls out a chair and sits down. When Sherlock doesn't immediately join him, he rolls his eyes. "Come on you great git, I don't plan to tuck in while you just watch." He stops grinning as a thought occurs to him, "Actually, I'm going to pop over to Mrs. Hudson's first and apologize, then invite her over. This meal looks absolutely mouthwatering and she definitely deserves to take part in it. Be back in a mo'!"

After John leaves, Sherlock pulls out a chair and practically melts into it, his bones and blood thrumming like plucked violin strings. The memory of John wrapped in his arms is still so vivid that he can practically feel John's hair brushing the underside of his chin, the smell of cinnamon shrouding his senses like a pleasant fog. He decides against pondering John's relationship with Laura because such a complex subject requires far more deliberation and thought than he is currently willing to give. Besides, it is rather telling that of the two of them, John flocked to Sherlock—despite being angry with him—instead of his allegedly adoring girlfriend. Additionally, John is rather opposed to kleptomaniacs, so it's only a matter of time before that moral conflict crops up.

Feeling slightly reassured, Sherlock begins to cut John a slice of cake.

He's fine, things are going to be just fine. Laura will evaporate into the air like so many others before her and John will once again happily spend all of his time with Sherlock. John has had many girlfriends in the past that have come and gone along with the seasons and passing holidays, so why should this one be any different? Sherlock thinks back to Mrs. Hudson words from earlier: "To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long." Perhaps it's only because he desperately wants it to be true, but Sherlock can't help but notice that all of the facts certainly do point to this conclusion.

And besides: when has Mrs. Hudson ever been wrong?

IMPORTANT MESSAGE:

Hey guys! So, first I'll thank anyone who has commented/criticized because you've honestly been what's kept me so focused on this story. However, I have a request for the rest of you lovely readers: share your thoughts on the story! As an author it's very helpful to know if the readers like the direction things are going or have suggestions/constructive criticism they'd like to offer.

And to be honest, I'm figuring this story out as I go, so I am very open to suggestions.

So from now on, please help me out by answering some (if not all) of these Q's:

-Would you guys prefer frequent updates but shorter chapters or less frequent updates with longer chapters (what I'm currently doing)?

-Any particular scenes/tropes you'd like to see? (For example: "Caretaker!John scene where Sherlock is hurt" or, I don't know, "John finds out about Sherlock's passion for dancing—Johnlock slow dance ensues" or something like that. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but the input would be tremendously helpful.

-Any character interactions you'd like to see? I already plan on some more Sherlolly friendship scenes and plenty of Mycroft/Sherlock interactions. (For example: " John and Harry, Lestrade and Mycroft, Mycroft and John" etc etc etc

-Side ships you'd like to see? (I'm not partial to anything right now, so I'm very open to suggestions. Obviously Johnlock is the main ship, so pick something else! :) Example: Mystrade, Lestrolly, Molly/OC, Mycroft/OC etc

-What do you like about this story (whether it is the plot, my writing style, the characterizations, etc, criticize away) and what do you think I can improve on? (tbh the latter half of this question is way more important! Concrit is necessary for improvement!)

Side note: Just fyi I plan on really drawing this story out—don't worry Johnlock is still endgame—because to me, the journey is the best part, not the destination. :)

Though, I can tell you that there may or may not be a particularly interesting scene coming up soon-ish. *coughcoughJohnlockkisscough*

Okay, thank you so much! Until next time, darlings! X0X0