AN: hello everyone again!

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Thank you, thank you, thank you!

During the early morning of January 6th John was peacefully sleeping in his bed, when he heard a well-known baritone voice in his dreams.

"John!"

Good, he said to himself intimately, another dream about Sherlock. But the vision remained black. For a while he tried to understand what that had been, when he felt something moving on the bed and then pressing on his lying body.

"John!"

A more than confused John opened his eyes. In the darkness of the room, lightened only by the feeble light coming from the street below, he saw the clear shape of Sherlock Holmes. The young man was literally sitting on John's tights and was looking at him with his deep blue eyes. He thought he was hallucinating and closed his eyes to go back to sleep. Still, he felt hands grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

"John! Wake up, we've got a case!"

John reopened his eyes, eventually understanding that it wasn't either a dream or a hallucination. Sherlock was really sitting on him on the bed and was shaking him by his shoulders. He felt a thrill echoing through his whole body, but managed to sound firm and logical despite the situation he was in.

"Sher-Sherlock! For the hell's sake! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I thought I made myself clear, John. We've got a case!", he shouted excitedly "I sent you some messages but you didn't answer me, so I came in!"

John lazily moved a bit, trying to free himself from the young man's pressure on his body. He swallowed when he felt his groin softly stroking Sherlock's leg. He thanked a whole bunch of gods and goddesses for the room was dark enough to hide his cheeks turned pink. Yet he still managed to somehow maintain his composure.

"Obviously I didn't answer your goddamn messages! It's the middle of the night!", he said after giving a glance at the window.

"Don't be ridiculous! It's four a.m.! It's almost dawn!", Sherlock pointed out.

"I was sleeping! In my flat!", he yelled at the young man, desperately trying to hide the slight tremor in his voice.

"Sleeping is boring.", Sherlock smirked "A case, John, a case! So get up and get dressed, I'll be waiting for you outside!"

And the young man removed his body from John's bed, leaving John both happy and sad for the loss. He grunted a sigh and got up, yawning hard. Four a.m., Sherlock in his flat, Sherlock on him. And the year had just begun. He sighed a second time and quickly grabbed his clothes. Despite his desire to be as quick as possible, he was still half asleep and each movement was accompanied by a yawn. When finally completely dressed, he went to the bathroom and splashed some freezing water on his face to wake himself up. He then grabbed his coat, took his mobile from the pocket and gave a quick glance to it. Seven messages from Sherlock.

We've got a case. It does seem very interesting. – SH.

Why aren't you answering me? – SH.

You always answer me in a matter of seconds. – SH.

Are you sleeping? – SH.

You can't be sleeping. We've got a case! –SH.

Coming to get you, get dressed. –SH.

Entering your flat, don't be alarmed. –SH.

John shook his head and smiled. Only Sherlock could do something like that. He rushed downstairs. A cab was already waiting for him with Sherlock inside. He got into it and the young man smiled at him as soon as he positioned on the seat. John's stomach filled with roaring butterflies in less than a second. He smiled back with an idiotic expression on his face. He tried to focus back, desperately trying to forget the scene of Sherlock's body over his own, finding it harder than he thought. For every time he looked at Sherlock, he saw him in that same position. He blushed red to his ear tips and thanked again whatever god existed because he was hidden by the night.

He swallowed and cleared his throat.

"What have we got?", he asked, trying to sound perfectly firm.

Sherlock grinned widely.

"Quadruple, John, quadruple murder in a locked room!", he grinned wider.

John shook his head in disbelief. Quadruple murder and to Sherlock looked like a Christmas present.

"Sherlock, it's a quadruple murder and you're…overexcited!"

"Shouldn't I be?", asked the young man, confused.

"Well, no. It's not, ahem, decent."

"Decent? Dull. It's a quadruple murder in a locked room, John. A dream! The best birthday present I've ever had!"

John shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't do anything, so he gave up all together.

"Where to?"

"Richmond. Lestrade had texted me two hours ago. And we are already late because you were sleeping!"

John rolled his eyes. Everything was so absurd. He was still feeling his cheeks burning with redness, but the normality of their taxi conversation made John feel more at ease as the time passed by. It was still Sherlock and him. He could think about his unreciprocated love another time, now he had no time for that. He just enjoyed the feeling of adrenaline starting to run through his body.

Sherlock smirked at him.

"And you tell me about decency.", he remarked "Look at you. You're a bottle of adrenaline ready to explode."

John giggled. It was a carefree, heart-warming giggle which spontaneously came out from his heart, which let all his anxiousness disappear. Sherlock started to giggle too. Soon the cab was filled with soft burst of laughter, chuckles and giggles. The cab halted in front of a very luxurious property. John and Sherlock regained their composure and got off the taxi. A bunch of police cars were parked in the big garden and the DI Lestrade was waiting for them leaning on one of them.

"Here you are!", the policeman said to Sherlock, before turning to John and giving him an inquiring look "Good morning, John."

"Sorry for the delay. I had a hitch.", Sherlock cut short "Show me."

The DI guided them through the hall and the corridor to the dining room. Sat on four chairs there were four bodies. The sight was rather disgusting. John had seen worse in Afghanistan, but he had never thought that London could give him such things. There was blood everywhere: on the table cloth, on the food on the table, on the chair, on the floor, on the ceiling even. The four people had been, at a first glance, hit with a knife in various parts of their bodies with such a violence that their clothes were almost non-existent anymore. Sherlock, impassive, looked at it.

"Here it is.", stated Lestrade bitterly.

"What do you know?", enquired Sherlock.

"Only the evidence. The bodies had been discovered at two a.m. by a watcher that does patrols around this neighbourhood. He told us that he had heard some screams coming from inside the house. When he got in, he found the dining room door locked from the inside and had to break in by force. He then called us. The bodies are those of Annabelle, the mother, Frank, the father, and Tom and Keith Fielding, their sons. According to the guardian, they had just returned at midnight from a two week holiday in Paris. There's no sign of housebreaking and there are no other people in the house, the servants having being discarded until tomorrow morning. As I said, the door was locked from the inside and the windows were closed too."

"Is this all?", asked Sherlock.

"Yes. God help me on this."

Sherlock began to move around the table with his usual scrutinising look. John approached, knowing the young man would have asked him his perspective. He looked at the bodies. There were cuts everywhere on the front, very deep cuts. There were cuts on the table cloth too. But there were no cuts on the back of the bodies and there were no cuts on their hands nor their legs or feet.

"Dead for huge blood loss.", he said.

Sherlock nodded and kept on pacing around the table, slowly showing a smile.

"Lestrade!", he said abruptly "There couldn't have been a better birthday present!"

The DI huffed and rolled his eyes.

"For god's sake, Sherlock! It's a crime scene!"

John looked at young man. Hadn't he already said that it was a 'birthday present'? He turned to Lestrade and approached to him, leaving Sherlock mumbling while leaning on a body.

"Birthday present?", he asked the DI.

"Oh yes. Today is his birthday.", the man answered.

"Really?"

"Yes. He doesn't care much, anyway."

"And…", he asked, rather astonished "…have you organised this for his birthday?"

The DI furrowed and said, shocked:

"For Christ's sake, no! I'm a policeman! It's not like that I go around and kill people for him!"

John blushed red.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry.", he apologised swiftly.

"Not that I haven't thought about it sometimes…", Lestrade continued in a smirk.

It was John's turn to be shocked.

"When he's bored, really bored, he gets annoying. And sometimes it was just a nightmare. He called at every hour of the day and of the night, pleading for a case, so much that once or twice I prayed for someone to kill somebody…", he explained.

John smiled understandingly. He knew how Sherlock could be. He knew that too well, having just had a meeting with him at 4 a.m. in his room on his bed. Just the swift thought of it sent shivers down his spine. John quickly changed topic, returning on Sherlock's birthday.

"Doesn't he celebrate his birthday with his family?"

In the meanwhile the young man was touching the sides of the long dining table, kneeling under it.

"Family? What family? The nearest relative is his brother."

John nodded.

"Mycroft.", he said.

"Yes…how do you…?"

"Long story."

"Then I think you have seen how the two of them get…along."

John thought about their brief encounter months before. If that were getting along with a brother, John and his sister would be the perfect example of family bliss.

"And his parents died when he was fifteen.", concluded Lestrade.

John swallowed the information and was ready to ask something else when Sherlock shouted.

"Found it!"

Both John and the DI turned to the young man.

"Found what?" they said in unison.

"How they had been killed.", Sherlock simply remarked "Very ingenious system. Brilliant murderer. Very clever!"

"Sherlock…", threated John, teasingly.

The young man huffed.

"Come here and see!"

John and Lestrade went closer. Sherlock lifted the table cloth up and showed the two men some small horizontal cuts through the wood.

"There are sharp blades into them, you can see it if you look carefully. With the help of some light, you can see the gleaming silver colour of steel."

And he pointed his mobile phone torch towards them. In the rear of the cut John saw a glimpse of silver.

"Wow.", he said.

"There's a sophisticated mechanism that, command given, makes them spring out. They had just to sit here and eat. Then the killer had just to wait and press a button and…bang! Family dead.", he continued "The assassin with the remote should have been very close for it to work…"

"In the garden, maybe?", suggested Lestrade.

"No, no. Nearer. In this room.", and he knelt down.

John and the DI knelt too and looked where Sherlock was looking.

"See?", and he pointed to a minuscule black spot, hidden under the table "This is the receiver. It's very sensitive and it has got a maximum range of four metres. So the killer must have been in the room."

"But the room was locked from the inside. How could he have gone out?", inquired the DI.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No idea.", he said "I need to think. Think, Sherlock. Think!"

He closed his eyes and started to mutter something barely audible. John observed, completely fascinated. That young man would have been the death of him. Seriously. Eyes closed, in the middle of the room, black curls falling on his forehead, John swallowed as his thoughts went back in a snap to an hour earlier, when those black curls were…on him. God, he was on a crime scene and he was thinking of…he sighed and struggled to regain his focus once more.

Two minutes later Sherlock opened his eyes wide shut in delight. He had got something.

"There!", he said indicating a wall.

"There what?", was, once again, the unison question of John and Lestrade.

"The wall.", he continued "There's a …"

And he approached to it, touching it in some precise points. Click. A door opened out of nowhere, leaving John agape. A secret passage.

"…secret passage.", concluded the young man, grinning wryly.

"Wow.", repeated John.

"You're becoming monotonous.", teased Sherlock "And your vocabulary is proving to be quite poor."

"Yeah. Sorry. It was amazing.", John smiled.

Lestrade couldn't help but giving a puzzled look to the both of them.

"So a secrete passage.", the DI remarked.

"Yes, the killer must have hidden here, waiting for the victims to return from their holiday. This suggests that he or she is someone who has got a deep knowledge of the owners' routine and that knew about this secret passage. I bet it will take us outside."

The three men entered in it and exited right at the back of the house.

"As I was saying,", Sherlock went on "I'd say the assassin is probably someone who has worked here for a long time. We need to question every servant that works or worked here."

"We will have to wait until morning comes.", said Lestrade. "It's still six a.m."

John yawned as the sun started to appear at the horizon, filling the January air with his pale yellowish light.

They spent the whole day at Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Sherlock interrogating suspects, John half-asleep on a chair in a corridor. He drank three cups of coffee to keep himself awake. Servants, housemaids, gardeners passed. Midday arrived and John ate an insipid sandwich he bought from a vending machine. Finally, at four p.m., Sherlock announced:

"Got him!", he shouted in delight "It was the previous butler. Lestrade is going to take him into custody."

John saw the DI running outside with a group of other police officers.

"Aren't you going with them?", John inquired.

"No point in that. The killer has no idea that we are on his heels. He thought that he had done the perfect crime.", Sherlock smirked.

"There exist no perfect crime for Sherlock Holmes.", John found himself answering, almost unconsciously.

Sherlock froze on the spot, astonished. It took John two seconds to realise what he had just said and felt a bit embarrassed. Yet he added:

"And I mean it."

Sherlock smiled openly. Not one of those usual smirks and grins, but a bright satisfied smile. John's heart warmed inside his chest and smiled back, evidently blushing. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Instead he asked:

"Mind a walk?"

John's brain stopped working properly. The answer was obviously yes, but for some strange reason he seemed unable to pronounce the word. He ended up in nodding, blushing redder and redder.

"Well, let's go then!", Sherlock said.

And the two men exited Scotland Yard and started walking aimlessly around the city.

They stayed in silence for a while. John couldn't keep his eyes off the young man, but was trying to be careful enough to not be that blatant. He observed his features one more time. The sunset light gave his black curls golden reflexes and his porcelain skin almost glittered at the touch of the winter sun. As they walked side by side there was a continuous but accidental brush of John's arm with Sherlock's, each brush sending shivers down John's spine. He could've walked like that forever, blessed with Sherlock's presence by his side.

"How did you discover who the killer was?", asked John abruptly, breaking the silence.

Sherlock smirked.

"It was quite easy, in the end. I had thought it would've been a more difficult case. Anyway, we interrogated the staff twice. Everyone seemed to love the owners and said that there had been no clashes at all between them and the family. But…a housekeeper let slip out that some people had been fired in the past. One of these people proved to be the old butler. He was accused to have stolen some jewels and fired soon after. Due to this blot on his career, he couldn't find a proper job anymore and he thus decided to kill them for revenge. He asked for help to his brother, who's an electrician, to build that mechanism and waited for the right time. He was sure that nobody would have noticed the cuts in the table and had planned to remove the receiver the following day."

John smiled.

"Unluckily for him, you stepped on the stage."

"Yes. Quite right.", Sherlock smirked wryly.

They kept on walking in silence for some other time. John remembered that it was Sherlock's birthday all of a sudden. He stayed in a pensive mood for a while, thinking about what should he say or do. Ten minutes of thinking later, he gathered all his strengths.

"And…", he said, clearing his throat "happy birthday."

Sherlock turned his head to him and fixed his aquamarine eyes into John's. John almost passed out.

"Thank you.", the young man answered calmly "I don't quite like birthdays, though."

"Can I invite you for a beer? Not for the birthday. For having solved the case.", John found himself asking, not knowing how the hell it had escaped his lips.

He waited for a negative answer. He waited for that 'no' that would have broken his heart into pieces.

"Yes, gladly.", replied the young man.

John heard the answer but didn't understand it. It was a no, he was sure it had been a no. Yet he had heard a yes. No, it was impossible. It was his mind playing with him. Obviously it was. Sherlock had said no and he had heard a yes.

"S-sorry?", he muttered in shock.

"Oh, John. As always, don't make me state the obvious one more time. I said 'yes'.", he said smiling.

John's head went blank in less than one second. He tried to rationalise, instead of listening to his hormones that were making his skin tickle like he was a bloody teenager at his first date. He was going out with Sherlock. Not on a case. He was going out with him to a pub. It was a date. John's heart started pounding so fast in his chest that he thought that Sherlock beside him could hear that.

They found a little cosy pub in a street nearby and entered. John couldn't still quite believe what was happening. They sat down at a table in a rather dark corner of the place. John sat on the chair, Sherlock leaned languidly on the sofa. No, actually he didn't do that 'languidly', but John's brain was cataloguing every small gesture in a different (and quite erotic) way in that moment. The way Sherlock removed his coat, the way he removed his scarf, the way he put his hands on the table, the way he looked around with his eyes. Everything was, in John's opinion, mind-blowing and he had to restrain himself from the urge to stretch his own hand and take Sherlock's one. Like that night on the armchair. He suddenly remembered the soft brush of Sherlock's lips on his and had to eat back a gasping sound.

"Two beers. A Cantillon and a Guinness Special Export.", the young man addressed to the waiter.

John came back to Earth, looking a bit dazed. Sherlock noticed and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. I was…", he cleared his throat "…thinking."

Then he realised that Sherlock had just ordered his favourite beer.

"How can you possibly know about my favourite beer?"

The waiter came back with their glasses and put them on the table. John looked at Sherlock's glass. The beer he had chosen, of which John had never heard, was of a shining warm amber colour, deeply contrasting with his pale fingers. John wondered how that beer tasted, why Sherlock had chosen it, if there were memories connected with it. But Sherlock spoke and John was ripped out from his questions.

"I know what's your favourite beer like I know you've got a sister.", the young man smirked, while distractingly taking a sip.

Sherlock's rosy lips parted slightly and got a little damp, reflecting the light from the lamp on the wall behind him. John almost spitted his sip of beer both for the vision in front of his eyes and for the fact that Sherlock knew about his sister.

"And you've got a brother.", John somehow managed to tease.

Sherlock smirked at his sentence.

"And a very annoying one, I would say. It looks like we both don't like our siblings."

"How the hell do you know that too?"

"First thing first. The beer."

John stared agape.

"It's strong, dark and with a bittersweet liquorice taste. It's for a man that is either sure of his possibilities and unsure about himself. It fits your character, your way of being."

John felt the well-known sensation of being peeled deep to the bones.

"Anyway, I have to admit it was a good shot in the dark.", he grinned "About your sister. Your mobile phone told me. I noticed it's an expensive and posh one. Nothing you would've bought by your own. And it has got a name on it: Harriet. Your ex-wife? No, obviously, since you hate her you wouldn't have kept it. A family member? Yes. Mother? With that kind of phone? No. Sister then. Harriet is your sister. And an army doctor back from Afghanistan who spends the Christmas day alone and not with his sister? You don't get along at all."

John swallowed hard, overlooking the fact that Sherlock also knew about his lonely Christmas. He felt extremely embarrassed.

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I don't like my brother either!"

"Why?", asked John, while slowly sipping his beer.

"It's a rather long story. Let's say we have a different vision about life."

"How can you deduce all this things about people?", John asked.

It was a question he had had in mind for a long time.

"I observe.", replied Sherlock "Most of people just see what's around them. I take every piece of it and understand what's behind. Take the couple at your left, for example."

John slightly turned his head.

"What most people see is a young attractive female with her rather good-looking date. But I can read she's older than she looks and that she had just met the young man, who's totally unaware of her true age."

"How?", John inquired, always amazed.

Sherlock stopped for a second and took off his black jacket, revealing the purple shirt under it. It was tight. Too tight. John took a deep breath. He could almost trace the muscles, the skin, the…stop it. God, thought John, he was a grown up man with no shame, fantasising over a student. A pretty gorgeous student with whom he happened to be in love. Still he had to cool down.

"The way she moves and her hair. She's acting a part, you see? She's too theatrical in her movements, like an actress. And the hair. Young-looking styled at the moment, but under the appearance you can spot a very common and ordinary cut. She's thirty-something and pretends to be twenty."

"We could never know if it's the truth.", John teased.

"True. But you believe me."

John nodded. The beer inside his body was giving him some more courage.

"Yes, I do."

"I wonder why.", Sherlock said in an awkward tone.

"I don't know. It just…happens. And I saw you getting four, no, five criminals arrested. That does it for me."

"Yes, I guess it's a good proof."

And he started to giggle, John following immediately. And suddenly they were giggling so loud that some people turned to them. It felt so good and heart-warming that John wanted it to last forever. But, as all the good things do, it ceased.

John, a bit tipsy, stared directly at Sherlock, analysing his physical aspect after a beer. He seemed more relaxed. His icy eyes had a sparkle of happiness he had never seen in them. Even his way of sitting was different. It almost spoke of intimacy and trust.

"When did you start with the violin?", John asked, trying to distract himself from his thoughts once more.

"I started when I was six. My mother was a rather good violinist and she taught me. I hated it at first. I gave it up when I was twelve. Then I restarted when I was fifteen, as self-taught."

"You're one of the best I've ever heard."

Sherlock laughed out loud.

"You don't know a thing about classical music! I'm very far from being even good!"

"Well, I like your way of playing."

That had to be a weird statement even for Sherlock, because John noticed that his cheeks turned pink and he glanced down. John found himself smiling brighter at the sight of a slightly embarrassed Sherlock.

"And you?", the young man continued "Do you play any instrument?"

"Not really. I used to play the clarinet when I was at school. But it has been ages since then."

"I bet you were good at it.", he smiled "Your hands are good, so you must have been good."

John almost choked on his sip of beer. He felt his cheeks burning and he was sure that he was of the reddest red he had probably ever been. Sherlock smiled charmingly. Well, maybe John was imagining things, but he was rather sure that Sherlock had just charmingly smiled at him, like he was playing a game of seduction. Had the man not been Sherlock Holmes, he would have been certain of it. But maybe it was just his madly-in-love mind playing some other games.

They were both sipping their beer slowly, like they feared it to finish too soon. The Guinness John was drinking was almost warm and he was sure that Sherlock's one wasn't that cold anymore.

"Why chemistry?", John asked.

"Why the army?", Sherlock replied wryly.

"I've asked first."

"It fascinates me. You will know the essence of life if you study chemistry. It's like being a detective. You dig under the surface of things, you explore and discover their secrets. And it's useful when you're a consulting detective. Why the army, then?"

"You never surrender, do you?"

"Never.", the young man grinned.

"I can't really tell. I felt like I needed a change in my life back then. I was stuck. A monotonous job, the perfect, who turned out to be not so perfect, wife, a paved path until the old age. I wanted to do something. I had chosen medicine for the same reason. I wanted to feel…alive. Yes, that's probably the answer."

Sherlock smirked.

"The danger, John. You've chosen it because it was dangerous."

John nodded firmly.

"And yet you're a professor now…"

"I'm doing a favour to a friend."

"Quite the contrary, John. Quite the contrary. Stamford has done a big favour to you."

Had John been not in that situation, not that tipsy, he would have denied it strongly. But in that situation he knew it was the truth and he couldn't help but nodding one more time.

"As always, you're right."

He would have really never admitted it, but Mike had done him a big favour in giving him that job. If that hadn't happened, John couldn't imagine where he would have been now. Probably under a bridge drinking his sadness away. Instead, he was in a pub with a man he was in love with. And he wasn't even gay! He just happened to love a man called Sherlock Holmes. A student, a rational voice in the back of his head said. He didn't pay attention.

Five minutes later they had both finished their glass. They had spent one hour in that place. John paid for him and for Sherlock, and they stepped outside. It was dark, but not completely. On the horizon there were still stripes of a red sunset. A cold wind had started to blow and John chattered his teeth. Sherlock turned his collar up and buried his chin into the scarf. He looked more mysterious that way, since the eyes stood out more.

"I'm accompanying you home.", John immediately said, wanting their closeness to last for a while.

"Let's walk then."

John had thought that Sherlock would have hailed a taxi. Except that he didn't, and now they were walking side by side to Baker Street. It wasn't very far away, but far enough to enjoy the young man's company for some more time. They stayed silent during the whole walk, since it was too cold to speak without lips getting dry and without coughing for the freezing air reaching the throat.

When they finally reached Baker Street, John felt sad. It had been such a good evening he didn't want to part from Sherlock. Not when, for the first time, there had been a rather normal conversation between them. Not when John had still things to say. Not when he didn't want to leave at all.

They stopped in front of the door. Sherlock pulled off the scarf from his mouth.

"Thank you for the beer.", he said "It was a nice evening."

"Thank you too.", replied John "And happy birthday again."

Yet neither John nor Sherlock moved. John found himself staring at Sherlock's lips more than he intended to. And one moment before he was fifty centimetres away from the young man's face and two seconds later he was pressing his lips against Sherlock's. It was a light brush at first. A tentative, clumsy attempt. Sherlock didn't seem to move and John was almost ready to step back, when he felt the young man's lips slightly parting. John slowly slid his tongue in, doubting it was the reality. He felt the warm mouth of Sherlock, his wet tongue, his taste. He tasted of the beer he had just drunk, of cigarette, of tea and of mystery. Yes, mystery wasn't a taste, but Sherlock tasted of it. He began to move his tongue inside the other man's mouth and Sherlock reciprocated. The two tongues twisted, intertwined, sucked, explored, devoured. John wanted to taste more, wanted to get more, wanted everything from that kiss. It was thousand times better than the kisses he had shared with Sherlock in his dreams, for it was hotter, for it was stronger, for it was real. Sherlock's wet lips danced against John's. John's raised his hands and put them in those black, soft curls he had dreamed about for a long time, closing more and more the space between them. It was like being in heaven. The kiss became a seal of passion, almost carnivorous, lascivious.

Then it all stopped. Sherlock abruptly broke the kiss and looked at John in the eyes. It seemed to John that a cold veil had fallen once again on the young man. His aquamarine eyes were deadly freezing as he spoke.

"You were right, John.", he said in a deep, cold voice "This is wrong."

And he turned away, entering his flat and closing the door, leaving behind a more than a broken John.

AN pt.2:

Bits of explanations:

Sherlock's birthday: it is conventionally believed (there are people who did this kind of researches) that Sherlock Holmes's birthday is on 6th January, therefore I've decided to use this date as well.

Last note: I'm so sorry. Really.