John looks at the clock on the wall before glancing down at his watch, as if consulting a different source will somehow change the result. He is convinced that all the hypochondriacs in London decided to make an appointment, just to torment him.
Happy birthday to me, he thinks bitterly.
Later, when he opens the door of 221B, a horrific burning smell fills his nose. He heads towards the kitchen.
"Sherlock Holmes if you broke our oven again I swear to God-" John begins, before being stunned into silence.
"Baking was not the exact science I had anticipated," Sherlock says sulkily, standing beside a blackened and burnt cake.
"Why are you baking?" John asks, wondering if he's entered an alternate universe.
"There is an explanation for that if you'll give me a moment," Sherlock replies before rifling through a nearby drawer.
He emerges with a tea candle and a lighter. He lights the candle and places it in the center of the cake.
"Happy birthday, John."
"I- I thought you didn't believe in this sort of thing," John flounders.
"I don't. However, you seem to have the annoying habit of being the one exception to my rules."
John chuckles fondly, deciding that this is the best present he could have possibly received: the mental image of Sherlock Holmes trying to bake.