A/N: This was inspired by the certificate hanging on the wall of Sherlock's bedroom in aSiB. Please review! Let me know what you think, I love feedback. Un-beta'd and un-Britpicked.

"Happy Birthday!"

"Mmghlm…"

"Astrid! Astrid you have to get up and open your presents!" Sherlock sounded suspiciously like a young child on Christmas morning.

"Go away and come back in an hour. It's five bloody AM." She didn't even bother checking the clock. She could feel how early it was.

"No, no, nonono, you have to get up!"

"Astrid, Sherlock has been absolutely beside himself about this gift for as long as my patience can tolerate. If you don't get out of bed this instant, I will pick your precious little arse up, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you into the living room." John's tone brooked no nonsense.

"Mmymddagggrru." She was face-down in her pillow.

"What was that?" John's voice was over-polite.

"I dare you."

John Watson has never turned down a dare in his life. Not when someone dared him to stick his tongue to a frozen flagpole, not when someone dared him to kiss a boy for the first time (a game of truth-or-dare in uni), not when his sister dared him to jump out of the tree and he broke his leg as a child, certainly not when he had been dared to eat a worm, and not when he had been dared to drink far more Irish car bombs than any healthy person should have. Never. So he did the only thing he could do to continue his streak: he picked Astrid up, (gently) flung her over his shoulder, carried her to the living room, and playfully threw her onto the couch.

"Ouch!" she said. Not hurt, of course, John had been too careful for that, but more in the spirit of the thing.

Sherlock had raced ahead of them and already had his package in hand. He shoved it in her lap and tried to muster a little dignity, but failed miserably. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

If she doesn't like it, I shudder to think how terrible the next few weeks will be, John thought to himself.

Astrid rubbed her eyes and glared daggers (of the collapsible stage variety, no real wounds intended) at John. "I can't believe you did that!"

"I told you I would. Now open the gift before Sherlock explodes."

She tore the wrapping paper off, finding her gift in a large white box, similar to the kind clothing is often put into when giftwrapped. She pulled the box apart to discover an outfit made of what seemed to be white, canvas-like material. Confused, she pulled it out and saw that it was a pair of pants and a top made to wrap around and then be tied. Of course they were the perfect size. Slowly, a realization dawned on her: "It's a gi!"

Sherlock positively grinned, something that hadn't been seen in quite a while. "Exactly!" He was proud that his daughter somehow recognized the uniform of a martial arts student, and even more so that she called it by the correct name.

"But…for what?" she asked, forehead wrinkled quizzically.

Sherlock's smile got even broader, which just seconds ago John would've deemed impossible, especially with his combined knowledge of the human anatomy and Sherlock. "I signed you up for a judo class. Once a week."

John held his breath. So far, so good, but this was the part that had him worried: Some girls like martial arts; some prefer other pursuits. Others were perfectly neutral on the subject. Which category did Astrid fall into?

He needn't have worried; Astrid nearly fell over the table in her excitement to hug Sherlock. "Thank you thank you thank you!" she squealed.

"Well, that answers that question," John remarked to no one in particular.

Sherlock looked a little confused as to what to do with the teenage girl wrapped around him, so he gingerly placed his arms around her and patted her on the back. John nodded encouragingly. "Shall I get my present, then?" he asked his still nonexistent conversational partner, picking up a smaller box.

Astrid disengaged herself from Sherlock's hug and picked up this gift. She opened it to find a box from Amazon; it was a Kindle.

"I figured, with the fact that the flat is crowded enough as it is, and you being the avid reader that you are, it was the best idea." Astrid smiled in response.

"It's perfect. Thank you." The unspoken exchange: I love it. I love you. I don't need to attack you with a hug to prove it.

I know. And I'm glad, I dunno if the table can withstand another assault.

"Glad you like it. Tea?" he asked both Sherlock and Astrid.

"Yes."

"Yes please."

"I'll just be a moment."

As John left the living room to grab the mugs he had set out and fill them with tea, Sherlock and Astrid looked at each other.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said, a little awkwardly.

"I love it! All of it," she replied emphatically. "How did you know I wanted to take judo?"

"I didn't, per se-"

"And that's the one and only time you'll probably ever hear him admit he didn't know something for certain," John interrupted, back with the tea.

Sherlock continued, a little peevishly, but taking the ribbing good-naturedly. "I just sort of hoped you'd enjoy learning it. It has certainly benefitted me, though one imagines that you would be taking a different career path." I certainly wouldn't want you in so much danger all the time. You're capable of so very many things. I'm sure you already have plans for the future that I'm not a bit involved in.

It was the first time Sherlock had spoken about a future with Astrid, aside from an immediate one. A slightly stunned silence fell as everyone (Sherlock included) realized this.

"Not that you lack the ability," Sherlock continued, realizing that his last comment might have caused offense. You'll be great at anything. It's possible you hate my job. I doubt you derive any pride in me from it. I certainly wouldn't want to force it on you, for you to feel like you have to carry on when I retire. If I live that long.

"Nonsense. Your job is very unique. I certainly wouldn't expect you to think I had any plans for following in your footsteps." At least not quite so soon. Give me time. I might fall in love with it. Unless you don't want me to? Are you trying to push me away? I've never expressed an inordinate amount of interest in it before. Does that hurt your feelings?

John pursed his lips. Well, this is nice and awkward, he thought. Everyone's trying so bloody hard not to offend anyone else. Silly, really. Just talk like regular people. Say what you mean to say. Words aren't that hard. A second part of him answered, Says the man unwilling to say all this out loud.

Because truly, if regular people who talk to each other and express their feelings normally do exist, they certainly do not maintain a residence at 221B Baker Street.