Startled out of a deep sleep by a sudden heavy weight at the foot of his bed, John woke with a start and instinctively reached for his gun. Thankfully he noticed that it was Sherlock. Of course it was Sherlock. Who else would jump onto the end of a military man's bed, especially one dealing with post-traumatic stress?
"Good morning, Sherlock. Do you need something?" is what John meant to say. However, it came out sounding more like "Mmgfgh. Hng?" He rubbed his face, licked his lips, and tried again.
"Is something wrong? The sun's barely up." However, the look on Sherlock's face was not one of pain, or even the manic glee of a case. He looked excited. John found that more disconcerting than anything else.
"I may not find most societal norms logical, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let my best friend get away with ignoring his birthday." John sat up and took in the full picture of Sherlock perched like a kid at the end of his bed.
At John's feet lay a first edition of Gray's Anatomy with a ridiculous ribbon wrapped around it. Sherlock looked at the book and then looked up expectantly at John's face. "I know it's not exactly up to date, but I thought you might appreciate the novelty. Happy birthday!"