Sherlock walked up the stairs to 221B at 4am on March 2nd, covered in rain and dirt. John would kill him; he was still getting over his sickness, and chasing criminal masterminds alone probably wasn't considered ample treatment; his chest already felt compressed and his arms were heavy.

He paused at the living room door, knowing John would be sitting in his chair with that you're-so-dead-you-have-no-idea look on his face. They hadn't talked much in the last few days; Mycroft had been over every day since his birthday as punishment, and John was still upset that Sherlock had injected himself with the flu in order to get out of a birthday celebration (though Sherlock didn't see why it was such a big deal).

Opening the door with a sigh, Sherlock flipped on the light and jumped. John was indeed sitting in his chair, scowling, but behind him sat Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson.

He tried to run but John was up and grabbing his ear before he knew it. "Look at you," he was mumbling. "You still have a fever, 'Lock." He dragged Sherlock into the kitchen and sat him down, wetting a towel and wiping mud off his face. "Really? This is how you come home? And look, you've dragged dirt all over Mrs. Hudson's carpet."

Sherlock glanced at his guests. All three were staring. "I caught them, though."

"Yes, and I'm sure all the criminals nice and clean in their jail cells." John sighed and removed Sherlock's shoes. "Do you have any idea what time it is? We've been waiting since ten. You could have called."

"Why are they here?"

"You know why."

"Make them leave."

"No, Sherlock, we're doing this."

"I'm still sick."

John's eyebrows perked up. "Oh? I didn't think sick people did what you did tonight. Now go change into something presentable. We already ate, but there's still cake."

"I don't like—"

"I wasn't asking."

Sherlock retreated into his room as John returned to his chair. Lestrade was staring. "Amazing," the inspector said. How did you train him so well?"

"What?" John rubbed his temples. Maybe this was a bad idea. He was trying to be nice—to make Sherlock's birthday special, even if it was a few days late—but it was as difficult as leaving Mycroft and Sherlock in the same room for more than two minutes.

"How do you get Sherlock to listen to you like that?" Lestrade laughed to himself and leaned back against the couch. "I can't get him to do anything. No one can."

"You think he listens to me? Look at what he did tonight. I have no control over him."

Mrs. Hudson found herself tidying up the coffee table and stopped herself. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, John. Just yesterday I tried to get him to eat some soup while you were at work. He refused; said he wouldn't eat anything unless his doctor made him."

John began to reply but stopped himself when Sherlock came in. The detective sat down and tried to suppress a cough; John draped the old orange shock blanket over him as he went to the kitchen to grab cake.

Everyone accepted the dessert except, of course, Sherlock. John sat next to him and leaned into his ear. "Just try to have fun, please. They're here for you," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded with a few coughs and shivered. "Fine. I just don't feel well."

"Don't play that game again. You've been running around all night."

"And I admit I shouldn't have." Sherlock wrapped the blanket closer and stood. "I'm going to lie down for a moment." He began walking away, but John grabbed the back of his belt and dragged him back on the couch.

"Jawwwn," Sherlock whined. "Please, I don't feel well at all." He shook his head, leaning it into John's chest in a coughing fit.

"Oh, just let him sleep," Mrs. Hudson said. "He's obviously not enjoying himself. Look at the poor dear; he's miserable." She took the plates from Molly and Lestrade. "Come on, dearies. We'll finish these downstairs while John gets Sherlock into bed."

John muttered his goodbyes and moved Sherlock's face from his chest. He was covered in sweat. "Is it just your chest?"

"Stomach." Sherlock stretched himself over the couch and let his head rest in John's lap. "Make it go away."

John laughed and absentmindedly played with Sherlock's curls. "It doesn't work that way. You were getting better, but you just had to go out tonight. I'd imagine you'll be bedridden for a few more days." Sherlock groaned as John pulled a blanket over him. "Stop. It'll be fine."

"No more birthdays."

"No more birthdays." John sighed and let himself relax into the couch. "How about we make a deal? You don't inject yourself anymore, and I don't throw any more parties. But you have to accept one present."

John grabbed a small box from the coffee table and placed it in front of Sherlock's face. The detective wrapped his hands around it and stared, confused. "I already opened my present. The key."

"Yeah, well, that didn't work out. I thought I'd try again."

Sherlock slowly unwrapped the gift with shaking hands. The box was empty. "I don't understand."

John grinned. "I've hidden Mycroft's key. It might be in the flat; I may have given it to Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or Greg. You'll have to deduce. Three attempts. If you find it by the end of the week, you can throw it away. If you don't, Mycroft gets it back."

Sherlock tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down. "No, no. Rest. The game starts in the morning. I'll make breakfast and you can interrogate me for a few hours before you start looking. We'll take it slow. You have time to get better. Alright?

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. It was…a nice thought." He snuggled into a fetal position. "But it's on Lestrade's key chain."

"How—"

"I know what that key looks like. There's a distinctive chip on the upper right corner. He had them out earlier." Sherlock stretched once more and groaned. "Really, John, you ought to know that my deduction skills don't waver, sickness or heath." He coughed uncontrollably and sighed. "But thank you. As far as sentiment goes, it was lovely."

John moved Sherlock's head to face his own. "Good try. That key's a replicate. You have two more attempts." He patted the detective and stood. "Come, Sherlock. Have more faith in me."

Sherlock moved into fetal position and grinned, secretly grateful for a real challenge. And for birthdays.