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“No, no, go away! Get out!” I woke, as I so often do, to the sound of my beloved grumpily shooing someone out of our flat. I got out of bed, pulled on my dressing gown, and crept into the hallway to have a look at what was going on.
“Ohhh Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson sounded in better humour than I’d have been to be herded unceremoniously back through a doorway with a loaded tea tray in my arms.
“No! Go away! Leave the tea but take the rest of it.” Sherlock grabbed a tea cup off the tray and nearly blundered into me as I stepped into the sitting room. “Now see, you’ve waked John with your nonsense!”
Mrs Hudson giggled unperturbed into her shoulder, “Oh don’t be such a baby!”
“You’re the one shouting,” I reminded Sherlock, tapping him on the hip. “Want to tell me why?”
“I wasn’t shouting; don’t exaggerate!”
Mrs Hudson began, “It’s his-” Sherlock dropped his tea cup, and it broke in half at our feet. “Sherlock!”
“Whoopsie!” sang Sherlock. “Mind fetching the broom? John and I are barefoot. I’ll take that.” He reached for the tea tray, and as he put his hands on it, I finally looked down at it. Among the tea things was a sweet little bud vase with a tiny bunch of petunias from Mrs Hudson’s window box and a fairy cake with pink icing and a blue candle stuck in it.
I grinned at Sherlock, “Today is your birthday?”
Sherlock scowled, “I have no birthday.”
Mrs Hudson snorted, “Isn’t he just the picture of a Capricorn?” Sherlock sighed and turned to set the tea tray on a side table and swirled off toward the bedroom, his dressing gown fluttering around him.
I cleared up the broken tea cup and carried the tea tray back downstairs behind Mrs Hudson before I went after Sherlock. In our bedroom, I found him curled under the blankets with only the moppy ginger top of his head stuck out on his pillow.
I sat down next to Sherlock on the bed and rubbed his hair quietly for a moment, “So how old are you today, gorgeous?”
Sherlock sighed heavily and did not emerge from the blankets, “Thirty-three.”
“Thirty-three!” I laughed, “You’re an infant!”
Sherlock huffed and poked his head out to glare, “I knew you’d say that!”
“God, six years older than you. I’m nearly forty. You’ll be running off with someone prettier.”
Sherlock hissed and pulled the blankets over his head again, hiding his hair this time, “Stop being stupid, John!”
“Sorry lovely, only teasing,” I kissed the top of his head through the blanket, but Sherlock didn’t answer. “I’m sorry, really. I’ll stop. You’ll never be shot of me.”
Sherlock leaned back toward me a bit, “That’s still stupid.”
I reached under the blanket and took up rubbing his hair again, “So why am I only now finding out when your birthday is? Apart from my annoying tendency to tease you about things you can’t help.”
Sherlock leaned into my hand on his hair for a moment, then shrugged, “Got to seem a bit pointless bringing it up. Before you, I mean. And then I. Rather didn’t want to try that particular experiment with you.”
“You thought I wouldn’t care about your birthday?!”
“I didn’t want to test it.” I hugged Sherlock through the blankets until his head popped out of the top, “Hello John.”
“I love you.”
Sherlock kissed me. “Well I know that now.”
“I wish you had known before, too.”
He kissed me again, “I do know when I’m being stupid, John.”
I rubbed his shoulder, “You’re not being stupid.”
“Feels stupid,” Sherlock dropped his head onto my shoulder, and I rubbed a bit harder.
“So what do we want to do on a special occasion like today, mm? Won’t you let me fuss over you?” I kissed his hair and gently pulled one of his curls to set it bouncing.
“Can it involve you doing that to my hair, whatever it is?” Sherlock’s breath was warm on my shoulder.
I rubbed down his back, “Of course. Shall we get some breakfast in you first? I’ll do your favourite.”
Sherlock raised his head, “Have I got a favourite breakfast?”
I kissed him, “Mmyeah, leaning on my powers of observation and deduction, I’d say your favourite breakfast is egg in a hole and too much coffee.”
“I suppose you’re right. Except there isn’t any such thing as too much coffee, John.”
“Ask me a hard one. And yes, there is. Excessive consumption of caffeine can cause psychotic breaks.”
“I shall bear that in mind.” Sherlock slumped forward again to rest his head on my shoulder, “Fiddle with my hair.” He dug his chin into my shoulder for bossy emphasis.
I obeyed, “I like this. Here I’m being nice, and I get ordered about for my trouble.”
Sherlock gave my neck a stubbly kiss in a sort of apology, “Well, John. It is my birthday.”
…
I’m trying to have a little surprise thing for Sherlock’s birthday tonight around 8 at The Hummingbird. Can you come?
Sorry for the late notice. I only just found out it’s today.
How’d you only just find out?
Mx
It’s a long story. Can you come?
Yeah, I can come. Can I bring Janine?
Mx
You’re a rubbish boyfriend.
Mx
Really helpful, thanks.
Bring Janine, sure.
The Hummingbird? Is that a pub?
-DI Lestrade-
No, it’s a cake shop.
Oooh, I love their cakes! I’ll see you there! Happy birthday to Sherlock x
~Molly~
See you there, John!
M. Stamford, MD
Why a cake shop instead of a pub?
-DI Lestrade-
Because he hates pubs and his sweet tooth is visible from space. Are you coming?
Of course. Should I bring a gift?
-DI Lestrade-
If you like, I suppose. Hadn’t thought.
Sherlock’s not really a present person.
Mx
Right, thanks Mary, I’ve got it under control.
This is what’s been buzzing like a nest of hornets. John Watson, you do realise this number is classified?
M
How do you expect me to just know that without telling me?
Are you coming to the party?
I’m afraid I’ve an unbreakable commitment.
M
Oh sweetheart, don’t be that way.
-DI Lestrade-
Greg! Somehow it escaped me that you were in here.
M
Are you two sweethearts? Won’t Sherlock be chuffed.
Thank you, Greg for freeing that particular cat from that particular bag.
M
We’re among friends! And it just popped out.
-DI Lestrade-
How flattering.
M
Greg, you can get him to the party, can’t you?
I expect so.
-DI Lestrade-
I’ll go anywhere that gets me out of this clown car of a conversation.
M
Brilliant! That’s everyone, then, counting Mrs Hudson. See you all tonight.
…
“So what do we like first? Breakfast in bed?”
“Oh John, there’s really no need for all this.”
“Is so! It’s your birthday.”
“Mmm, I happen to know your birthday is just round the corner, month after next. Is this meant as an illustration of the appropriate and expected festivities?”
“Look, Darcy. I dnno if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit fond of you. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to try and show you a good time today.”
“Oh go on, then. Only I hate sitting here being patient while you’re up and doing things.”
“Well, come out with me while I make it, and then we’ll get back in bed and eat it.”
“John, you’re a genius.”
“Oooh, I’m keeping you.”
…
“I wish I had an instrument,” John remarks, wiping toast crumbs from his mouth as we adjourn to the sitting room after breakfast.
“Oh?” John with an instrument. There’s an idea. “What sort?”
“Not much bothered about that. Only I wish I could,” John clears his throat and begins again in a silly posh voice (approximation of me)(try and look stern but I shall burst into laughter if he carries on too long), “Stretch out on the sofa and let me see if I can smooth the crease from your brow.”
Press my lips together a moment to try and swallow my smile, “I don’t do that.”
“At least once a week you do it, actually. It’s lovely.” We beam at each other for a moment (reciprocity! What a thing!). “Erm. I’ve just thought of something,” John breaks our soppy silence, his face sliding into seriousness under the remnants of his smile. “I do have a little something for you, actually. Wait here a moment. I’ll go and fetch it.”
“All right.”
John pats my knee, then rises from the sofa and disappears upstairs. He returns to the sitting room a few minutes later with a flattish rectangular parcel wrapped in dusty star print wrapping paper (handprints in the dust where he’s tried to wipe it off)(bless him)(everything John does fills me with affection; it’s almost embarrassing, except he feels the same)(bless him). John sinks onto the sofa next to me and holds the parcel out. It rattles softly as I take it.
Try not to deduce it (I don’t want to know; I want to discover), “No card.”
“No, I.” John clears his throat, “Couldn’t write one. Anyway. This is quite old. You’ve probably noticed.”
“Bit dusty,” I allow.
“Not all that old, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose. But from a while back. A lot has happened. Since then.” He waits a beat for me to interrupt. I don’t. “It was a bit after Cluedo. I thought we might have a bit more success with this. No way to cheat, ha. Then erm. Irene Adler happened and well.” I permit myself an eyeroll at this juncture, and John smiles ruefully. “Well I never got to give it to you before, anyhow. And this seems like the moment. Happy birthday, Sherlock. Many happy returns.”
Lean forward and kiss him, “Likewise, John.” Tear off the paper to find the board game Operation underneath.
John smiles hopefully when I look at him, “Get it? Since you gave me Cluedo, I thought as I doctor, I could. Ha. I know it’s a bit stupid.”
“It’s perfect,” kiss him again. “I can’t wait to beat you.”
“Pop pop!,” Mrs Hudson is, as seemingly ever, at our door. “Are you decent?”
I only roll my eyes, but John laughs, “Are we ever decent? Come on in Mrs Hudson.”
Mrs Hudson enters holding a little green box tied with a bit of yellow ribbon, “Just popped round to see if you still want your birthday present. Mind if you chase me out again, you can’t have it. Though you could certainly do with a bit of soothing.”
“Sorry,” comes out a rather churlish mutter. Clear my throat, “Sorry about that. It was stupid.” Come over and give her a hug and a kiss, and she smiles fondly and gives me a mum-ish slap on the bum (can see John looking soppy over her shoulder), “All right, dear. Now I’ll be late for the hairdresser, so I’ve got to pop off or she’ll let the cold water run down my back.” She hands over the box and looks at John (simpering rather)(should be annoying but it’s quite lovely), “Don’t let him eat too much of it, will you? It makes him so sleepy, and it is a shame to sleep through your birthday.”
John makes a sort of half frown half smile face furrow of bemusement, “Okay.” John watches her out of the room, then turns to me, “What was that about?” Hand John the box. He tears away the ribbon and opens it, “A biscuit?”
Cough, “It’s a erm. Cannabis biscuit.”
John raises his eyebrows, “Really?”
“You don’t approve.”
“Well that depends,” John sort of waggles his eyebrows, “Do I get some?”
…
“Yeah, I’m definitely feeling it now,” John looks about him, as if for environmental evidence of his intoxication.
“You’re only saying that because you’re losing.”
“I’m not losing; you’re cheating.” John chins his hand, “Your go, anyway.” His mouth keeps slipping back and forth between tilting up on one side and tilting up on both sides. Lovely.
“You’ve told me yourself that it’s impossible to cheat at Operation.” Find John’s socked foot under the table with mine and press it.
John grins, “You pull silly faces and make me giggle and then I can’t hold the tweezers steady. Cheat.” John puts his other foot briefly on top of mine, then slips it up my trouser leg to rub at my ankle. Makes me shiver (lose the thread of my thoughts)(ridiculous).
“You’re pulling faces at me right this minute, John.”
“Mmmn,” John muffles his glowing smile in his shirt cuff, “I’m not making faces at you. I’m only thinking. It’s a thinking face.”
“Thinking? Dangerous habit.”
“Isn’t it, just.”
John’s foot is really a surprising ways up my trouser leg, “What were you thinking of, John?”
“Mm, can’t you deduce it?, “ John wets his lips.
“I can make an attempt. Investigate.”
“Ah, investigate. You do that. Give us a shout, if you want some help. You know I love to help you investigate. Though if you’re feeling leisurely instead of business-like, we might make a game of it.”
Wet my lips, “A game, John?” Swallow. Trying not to shut my eyes. John is rubbing little circles on my ankle (looks so placid and innocent, too)(distracting)(he’s all distracting, everything is distracting). “Twenty questions?”
John raises an eyebrow, “Twenty?” He clicks his tongue, “Awful lot of questions for the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ten questions. Five.”
John smiles, “You really haven’t deduced it yet? You really need to ask?” Between us, the static cracks. I shake my head. “Thought not, you beautiful genius, you. Shall we put a pin in this?” John gestures to the game. I nod. “Brilliant.” John withdraws his foot from my trouser leg and rises (adjusts himself)(smirks when he sees me looking). “Come on now, gorgeous. Quick march.”
We adjourn to our bedroom in nearly perfect unison.
…
“John?” Mmf didn’t mean to fall asleep. Awake now, and John isn’t with me. “John?” Sit up and rub my hair.
There’s a flush from the next room, and John appears momentarily in the bathroom doorway, “Just washing.” He returns after a few seconds and flops onto the bed next to me.
Throw the blankets over him and pluck at his undershirt, “I want this off. I’ll keep you warm.”
John laughs good-naturedly, “That’s generous of you.” He tugs the shirt off anyway, folds it, and tucks it under his pillow (he’s so prim)(why’s that hot?)(work it out later). Apply myself to John’s chest at once and lean up to kiss his jaw. John kisses me on the mouth, “Hullo carrots.”
Snort (turns into a giggle), “Hello parsnips.”
John laughs, “Carrots and parsnips?”
Can’t stop giggling (John is looking at me such a way)(makes me shiver), “Because I’m ginger, and you’re-”
“Squat and blonde,” John supplies, still smiling. “I do get it.”
“I like you squat.” Kiss him (well giggle on his mouth anyhow), “You’re perfect.”
“Mmm, you are.” John hugs me to him and rubs my hair.
Sigh and shut my eyes, “John, that feels splendid.”
“Yeah?” John rubs a little more firmly. Groan softly into his chest (he likes that sort of thing). “So lovely.”
“So John.”
“How is thirty-three going?”
Can’t answer for a moment because John is twining one of my curls round his finger, and it’s too lovely, “You’re trying to make me gush, John Watson. I’ll do it you know, and then where will you be?”
John kisses the top of my head, “I really don’t think I’d mind.” John gives my bottom a thoughtful sort of squeeze (mm!), “So you’d say you’re having a nice day?”
“Beautiful day, John. Perfect. Well. Although,” open my eyes and look up at him.
“Although?”
“I haven’t had any cake yet, John, and that’s the whole reason I was even born in the first place.”
John laughs, “Well. We can certainly do something about that, can’t we.”
…
As we alighted from our cab in front of The Hummingbird, Molly Hooper’s was pulling up behind us. I mentally gathered explanations (Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences) as Molly turned towards us, looking as nervous as I felt.
“Oh, hello Molly,” Sherlock stopped short, his arms half extended for a hug, “You are pregnant!”
I nudged Sherlock with my elbow, “Bit rude, Sherlock.”
“Some people say hello and things,” Molly stepped forward to accept the hug, and Sherlock pecked her on the cheek.
“I didn’t know,” Sherlock waved in her general direction, “Anything!”
Molly laughed, “When two lesbians love each other very much...”
Sherlock tried not to grin, “Hilarious. I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”
Molly beamed and held up her left hand to show us her wedding band, “A year married in April. Her name's Stella; she's a copper, like Greg. You'd like her. I’ll introduce you some time.”
“Congratulations!” Sherlock and I said together.
“Thanks!” Molly gave me a hug, then glanced at The Hummingbird.
I opened my mouth but Sherlock spoke before I could, “Will you come and have a piece of cake with us? It’s” Sherlock coughed, but continued resolutely, “my birthday today.”
Molly nodded, avoiding my eye, “Yeah, I think I can.”
Sherlock linked arms with me, “I can’t believe I didn’t deduce any of this ages ago. Is this what being happy’s like? Less clever? Fewer opinions?”
I smiled and opened the door of the bakery, “That sounds relaxing.”
Sherlock waited for Molly to walk ahead of him into the bakery before he started to answer, but his reply was drowned in the little chorus of cheers that greeted us as we entered the cake shop. Sherlock went very still, and I worried for a moment that I’d made a mistake in arranging it all.
But he reached back for my hand and pressed it when he caught it, looking round for me, “Thank you, John.”
I pressed back, “It was my pleasure!” We approached the table, and Sherlock lingered at the head of it, where there was a big white cake on a platter, studded with gold candles. He glanced back at me shyly, and I grinned at him. “Yeah, it’s definitely yours, but if you like, you can sit down and cut it and let us all have some.” Sherlock grinned back and rolled his eyes, but sat down and smiled round at his friends. The seat nearest Sherlock’s was occupied by Mary, but she kissed him on the cheek, then stood up and squeezed herself onto the adjacent chair with a pretty brunette lady who threw an arm about her shoulder to brace her. I sat down next to Sherlock, “Anyone got a light?”
“Ooh, I have,” Greg passed up his cigarette lighter.
I lit the candles on Sherlock’s cake. “Do you wish?”
Sherlock smiled at me, “Less so than formerly.” He blew out the candles, and our friends clapped.
Mary cupped her hands round her mouth, “Speech!”
Sherlock rose and cleared his throat, “Thank you for not singing. Let’s eat cake.” Everyone laughed, and Sherlock resumed his seat and cut into the cake, “Oh, it’s pretty on the inside. Rainbow cake. Can I eat that, John? Or is it cannibalism?”
I laughed, “Yeah, it’s all right for you to eat gay cake, Sherlock. Don’t worry; I’ve checked with the committee.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do without you, John.” Down the other end of the table, Greg opened a bottle of champagne and glasses were passed up the table while the cake went down. Soon we all had a drink and a slice, and Sherlock was leaning against me, his knee pressed to mine under the table.
Presently from the opposite end of the table, Mycroft tapped his glass, “Now that we all have our refreshments, I believe as Sherlock’s elder brother, it is my office to amuse the company with some mildly embarrassing anecdotes about the birthday boy.”
I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Sherlock, but he only groaned good-humouredly, “Go on then, and don’t forget you’re far from the only one with anecdotes.”
Mycroft smiled eloquently and tapped a finger to his chin, “Let’s see, so much to choose from. Ah. Something topical. For Sherlock’s tenth birthday he and our father had arranged to drive into town and visit a museum, but unfortunately at the last minute, our father was called away on business. He attempted to reschedule with Sherlock, overlooking of course, that Sherlock was not in the habit of accepting rainchecks and didn’t intend to take it up.”
Sherlock interrupted with atmospheric peevishness, “The National Maritime Museum had a temporary exhibit on Barbarossa. It was urgent.”
“What do you all suppose he did?” Mycroft paused and looked round expectantly.
“Pitched a wobbly?” Mary suggested.
“Broke something!” said Mrs Hudson.
“Ah, Sherlock is more pragmatic than you give him credit for. He took our mother’s car, yes right out of the garage, and set off to have his outing alone. He got nearly to the highway before he was picked up by the police. Very indignant he was at being interrupted, too.”
“I still maintain that Mycroft was only jealous because I learnt to drive before he did.”
“Actually, I still don’t know how to drive.” Everyone laughed.
Sherlock sagged toward me again and kissed my cheek, “John. Thank you.”
I turned my head to catch him on the mouth. “People love you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock squeezed my hand, “Well. Apparently!”