It was just as well that Mrs Holmes prepared a spectacular Christmas dinner, and fed them more than sufficiently from the leftovers for a week or so afterwards, because they were scarcely into 1940 when it was announced that food would begin to be rationed. The adults charged themselves with learning meticulously the regulations surrounding rationing. The children were a little bewildered, but stoically said that they would endure whatever must be done to help with the war effort.

It had once again slipped their minds that they were at war. It was an easy thing to forget, what with the lack of events. Mr Holmes read The Times in a desultory sort of fashion, so he could relate snippets about what was going on in other countries, but all they really needed to know was that the UK was still not yet affected. It was quiet. Too quiet, as Sherlock unhelpfully kept reminding them.

The day before they were due to go back to school, a parcel arrived addressed to Sherlock; he immediately recognised the writing on the label, and so, ignoring the curiosity of the others, he raced upstairs to open it in his room.

Even though he recognised the writing, he was astonished to find that Mycroft had sent him this. It was a box of food – sweets, a sugary cake, a bottle of ginger beer, two pots of jam and a few other oddments. He could only guess that it had been sent before rationing came into force. There was a letter, hurriedly written, underneath one of the jam jars, which read thus:

Sherlock – share these with the others. Take them to school if you like. Hope you enjoy them. Merry belated Christmas. Mycroft.

He was astounded and touched in equal measure, emotions he hadn't really believed himself capable of until now. He was immensely glad that the others weren't with him. He felt as if he might cry. Perhaps he didn't understand why he felt like that – he never would – but it reassured him somewhat both to know that Mycroft hadn't forgotten about him, and that neither of them had a heart composed entirely of stone.

A few minutes later he had cleared his head of any lingering sentimentality, and went to show John the food.

'We'll have a feast!' said John with a grin.

'We ought to let Harry take some,' Sherlock conceded, 'but other than that... you know I don't eat all that much. Have what you like.'

'Oh, no, it's your food,' John replied, though he knew full well that Sherlock would take weeks to eat all of this, even if he tried his very hardest. 'Shall we make a start on them, or save them for school?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'Only, I was thinking – it's your birthday soon, isn't it?'

At this Sherlock started. He presumed that his parents must have informed John of this fact. He certainly wouldn't have mentioned it.

'The 6th,' he murmured.

This happened to be the day after they started back at school, and John had evidently made a good note of that fact. 'We should have a midnight feast.'

'That's not allowed,' said Sherlock at once, furrowing his brow.

'And when did breaking the rules ever bother you?' countered John with a grin. 'Anyway, I bet even if Mrs H did find out, she would make an exception for you.'

Sherlock didn't seem to be able to voice any more exceptions, but still seemed very hesitant.

'What is it?' asked John.

'Nothing,' said Sherlock. He stood and clutched the box to his chest. 'I'll pack this. We'll have a midnight feast on the 6th. Our dormy, I presume?'

John nodded.

'Just me, you and William?'

'Unless you want to invite anyone else.'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Then we'll have a midnight feast,' said John, clapping his hands in delight; and Sherlock, regaining the expression of perplexity that was so common on his face these days, left the room without a further word.

Harry was packed off on the train later that evening, with a bag of sweets, a slab of cake and one of the jars of jam. Her goodbye was perhaps tearful, but she didn't seem quite as nervous to be going off to boarding school as she had last term. Evidently she was rather enjoying it. The same, indeed, could be said of John, who had settled in very well and felt as if he had been to Sherlock's school all of his life.

The only thing Harry regretted was being unable to attend the midnight feast. She had heard about it, of course, and thought it a splendid idea; she wished Sherlock and very happy birthday for the 6th, and good luck with the feast. John wondered if they would need it. He was confident that it would go swimmingly.

Therefore on the evening of the 6th, John set an alarm clock to go off just before midnight, and placed it under his pillow. In his wardrobe was a stack of things that would be eaten that night – some of Mycroft's presents, and a few other oddments provided by Mrs Holmes, or bought from the village near the school. William, too, was excited for the feast. Sherlock didn't seem to react much to the idea of it.

When John's alarm went off, he quickly stifled it with his pillow and turned it off. William and Sherlock were awoken, but, hopefully, nobody in the neighbouring dormitories had heard it. John went and lit a little lamp that Sherlock had brought, and in this semi-darkness they began to prepare a feast fit for a king.

John kept his eyes on his clock, and at the stroke of midnight clapped Sherlock on the back and wished him a happy birthday. William did likewise, grinning. Sherlock looked a bit bewildered.

The food went down very quickly. The cake was marvellous, light and at a perfect level of sweetness; the ginger beer was also of a very fine variety, and Sherlock found himself wondering how Mycroft had got hold of all of these things. He supposed that they must pay him well at his place.

They ended with a number of the sweets, and had to stop each other from taking too many, lest they feel ill in the morning. When the meal was finished, John tidied everything away neatly, and swept up the crumbs that he could see in the half-light; a thrill still ran through him, and he wished the feast could have gone on for longer. Food seemed to taste twice as good eaten against the rules at the dead of night.

'Happy birthday, Sherlock,' he said again, putting his arm round his friend's shoulders.

Sherlock did not reply, but John was not worried by this. It was Sherlock's wont to be silent, especially when some emotion was bubbling inside of him.

The celebrations were thus concluded for the night, and they determined to sing to Sherlock at lunchtime the next day, just for added embarrassment; with everything cleared up, therefore, they went back to bed and tried to get some sleep.

Sherlock's "birthday proper" dawned bright and clear, and with the lingering smell of cake in the dormitory that John hoped nobody would notice. It was a Sunday, and so they were up later than usual; they had decided that they would give Sherlock his presents after chapel, and so they did not rush to get ready. They had, however, agreed that they would take a slice of cake to Mrs H, who they all knew deserved it, and so John went to wrap up one of the slices in a napkin; it was as he turned that he noticed Sherlock standing completely still by his bed.

He had his back to John; his arms were positioned as if he was buttoning his jacket, but his whole self was still, and his head was bowed slightly.

'Sherlock?' asked John in concern.

Sherlock started, and turned round. He assumed a neutral, almost bored expression, but he could not hide the slight redness that surrounded his eyes.

'Sherlock, have you been –'

'No,' said Sherlock stubbornly, and fastened the top button of his jacket. He made to leave the dormitory – William already had – but John put his hand on his shoulder.

'What's wrong?' asked John.

'Nothing,' said Sherlock.

'Sherlock, if you didn't enjoy the midnight feast – I'm sorry.'

Sherlock looked directly at John for the first time in this conversation. His gaze was unwavering, and made John shudder a little.

'On the contrary,' said Sherlock. 'Nobody has ever done anything like that for me before... John, thank you.'

His voice was so frank, so honest, that it took John completely by surprise, and he thought of replying only when Sherlock had left the dormitory and gone out of sight.

A small smile came onto John's face. 'You're very welcome, my friend,' he murmured, and followed.