Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes.
Teddy's tiptoeing left something to be desired. Sherlock had heard every footstep he'd taken since leaving the kitchen. Now, closer to his bedroom door, he could make out the other footfalls. Will and Della were better at stealthy movement. But of course, they couldn't go undetected.
This place had been his home for longer than their combined lifetimes; he knew every stutter and groan the structure could utter. He was himself responsible for more than a few of the blows to its integrity. For instance, there was a certain measure of give in the fourth floorboard from his door due to its once having a cannonball pounded onto it.
Attention to his surroundings aside, Sherlock would most definitely have been able to peg his visitors on the sound of their footsteps alone. Even at a more refined pace, Teddy stomped his way across the floor, slapping socks to wood and looking as if the slightest imbalance would knock him over.
In contrast, Della floated. Of all his children, it was his daughter who'd inherited his natural dancer's grace. She had the habit of skating across their floor in wool clad feet, often racing her brothers, but she somehow managed to make the game look like flight.
Will had what Molly had fondly dubbed "fidgety feet." Sherlock recognized this as another trait owed to his genes. The boy was always moving - tapping, pacing, wiggling his toes into every crevice in the floor, in the couch cushions, and when he was very small, into the space between his father's ribs.
The fourth set of footfalls, the empty pillow beside him, and the day's date all connected quickly in his brain. Sherlock smiled to himself, then squeezed his eyes shut as the door opened.
Only to have them spring open as Will called his bluff and took a flying leap into the bed to tackle him with a hug. Della helped lift her little brother into Sherlock's arms, and he maneuvered them all into a sitting position - Will still draped across his shoulders, Teddy in his lap, and Della tucking herself under his elbow.
He caught Molly's eye and smiled fondly. His wife laid their most durable tea tray (the only one allowed in direct contact with three rambunctious children) across the foot of the bed and sat down beside them.
At her encouraging nod, the children took turns presenting him with the items on the tray. There was tea and toast which he sampled and shared, feeling heartily that bedside crumbs were a small price to pay.
The tray held other items, each devoid of wrapping of any kind but bestowed with a special kind of pride. A new jar of fresh honey. A slate colored rock bearing the imprint of a fossilized leaf. A shiny pocket magnifying glass - replacement of one accidentally broken in his last case. He received each with the pomp and praise it deserved.
As the children scooted down to the end of the bed to devour the rest of the toast, Sherlock put an arm around Molly. She smiled up at him and gestured to the gifts between them. "What do you get for the man who has everything?"
Their shared gaze traveled back to where Will, Della, and Teddy were now examining the fossil with the glass.
He brushed a kiss across her temple, his voice lowering with conspiracy and emotion. "If I have everything, it is only because you have given it to me."
"Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes."
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