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Sherlock Holmes reads the paper once every day and once every evening. It is imperative that the day begin and end like this, a routine he has set for himself. Anything else can change, but not that. Once in the morning and once at night, he must read the paper. It’s that simple.
The paper prints that day’s date in the upper right corner, every day. Today’s date is January 29th. Sherlock knows this because yesterday’s date was the 28th, because last Wednesday’s date was the 25th. Sherlock knows this because it is an anniversary.
It was exactly one year ago that Sherlock met the recently-wounded, ex-army doctor John Watson with the help of the ever-so cheerful Mike Stamford, in a tiny lab where Sherlock conducted experiments, mostly to his own satisfaction and occasionally to help cases.
Three hundred and sixty five days Sherlock has spoken to, listened to, not listened to, took the tea from, attempted to make the tea for, texted to and from, ignored, annoyed, taken things from, rolled his eyes at, and wondered where in the hell he would be without John.
Sherlock supposed this is a special day. Well, at first he supposed. But he thought about it from the time that he noticed it in his mental calendar on Wednesday to now that it was, in fact, a special day. If nothing else, it was the day that John’s limp disappeared, for the most part. If not that, then it was the day that Sherlock gained a flatmate willingly, not like at the University when it was forced upon you like medicine, and Sherlock was often the very worst kind of medicine, Cherry red liquid that made you gag when you smelled it and threw up when you got a better taste of it.
If nothing else, it was the day Sherlock found a partner in his work. A partner who (mostly) willingly ran beside, and sometimes steps after him. A partner who helped with the tedious research, who cancelled his dates to protect him. A man with a heart so big it’s okay that Sherlock didn’t have one, because John made up for it. A man who saved his life, more than once, and threw his on the line for Sherlock’s.
Well now, that’s getting a bit…sappy. A bit out of character, Sherlock thinks. But besides the point. January 29th was certainly a day to be celebrated. He was sure John felt the same.
How does one celebrate an anniversary of this sort? Sherlock Holmes never had an anniversary with anyone he actually cared to remember. Even Lestrade didn’t take notes on when they worked their first case. And either way for that, Sherlock was very, very coked up when He arrived at the crime scene, sporting blood on his lip and a wavering stance. He barely remembers that whole year.
And the only other anniversary Sherlock has to remember is his own, the anniversary of his birth. Half the time, that is a day he’d like to never have happened.
Except now, because if he was never born, he would have never met John.
Sherlock sighed. These emotions are getting the best of him.
***
8:43 am
It was now the 29th, and Sherlock woke up very early. Not for any particular reason, he thinks, but he supposed there was some sort of anxiousness involved with the day. He felt lazy, though, so for the first hour of the morning before John woke he lied across the entire sofa, arm draped over the edge and leg hooked over the back, reading the paper with slow eyes.
9:52 am
Sherlock heard a soft sound from John’s room-John shifting in his bed. Sherlock knew this meant he would wake soon; he always shifted and turned around ten to fifteen minutes before he fully woke up.
Sherlock stood and slowly maneuvered to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. This was not a usual occurrence in 221B; John made the tea every morning. Sherlock only made the tea a few times since they moved in together. But, of course, this day was different.
Sherlock grabbed bread and put it in the toaster, and went into the fridge. He should have planned before, but luckily a half used jar of blackberry jam sat on the bottom shelf of the door. He checked the date. Still good as well, thankfully. He searched for a butter knife-where the hell did they keep those, anyway? - And opened the jar. A few minutes later, and the tea was poured, toast covered (sloppily) in jam. He took them to the table, setting them in the usual place, and grabbed his own tea and paper, sitting down.
10:13 am
“Morning,” John yawns and pads into the kitchen automatically, searching. Sherlock’s eyes rise from the paper and he looks to John, smiling behind a headline.
“Where’s my- oh.” John notices his cup on the table and moves to get it, stopping when he sees the plate of toast. Sherlock holds his breath and flips the paper over, watching for his reaction, eyebrows raised. John licks his lips, confused. “What’s all this, then?” He looks up at Sherlock, looking genuinely surprised.
Sherlock blinks once and lets his face resume its neutral expression. He goes back to the paper, but watches with his eyes. “I made it for myself; didn’t want it anymore.”
John rolled his eyes and sat down. “Well, thanks a lot. Glad to know I am a good backup for your breakfast.”
Sherlock huffed. Well then.
John blew over the top of the tea mug in front of him, picking it up. “Gotta go in soon. New patients today.”
“I called you in,” Sherlock says casually, waiting for another reaction.
“You…what? Why?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
John just keeps staring at him with his eyebrows furrowed, making Sherlock turn back to the paper. John takes another sip of the tea and picks the toast up. “Is there a case, or something?” he asks, biting a bit off the toast. “Are we doing anything today?”
Sherlock avoids his eyes.
“Nothing important, apparently.”
3:09 pm
“Lestrade texted. Double murder near the Southwark Bridge.” Sherlock slips his dressing gown off and grabs his coat.
John stands and goes for his coat too, on the back of the chair. “I could have gotten at least a few hours of work in, Sherlock, before now.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And?”
“And so there was no point in you calling me in, just to sit around the house.”
Sherlock looked at him. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”
John laughed. “Sherlock, we spent 2 hours trying to get you to figure out how Cluedo even works because you decided the rulebook was “lacking in the” something or other.”
“John, the rulebook didn’t even tell you what to-“
“Doesn’t matter, we are never playing that again.” John puts the coat on and they walk to the front door.”
“So you didn’t like it?” Sherlock looks confused.
“What, you getting frustrated at a game? Why did you even suggest we play it?”
“It’s supposed to be fun.”
“I could have gotten two new patients!”
“Is that prospect more interesting than playing a game with me?” Sherlock snaps back.
“It’s a game, Sherlock, we could play it any day!”
Sherlock sets his jaw and turns to call a cab.
“Any day, right.”
6:26 pm
“That was a waste,” John says as they leave the café.
“Hardly a waste,” Sherlock replies quickly, with attitude.
John looks at him. “Are you serious? He didn’t even come into the café, you said he would.”
“So I made a mistake.” Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s a waste of time.”
“So it helped the case then? You could deduce something from, say, a napkin of the café? Or the barista?” John chuckles.
“No.”
“Then what-“ but Sherlock interrupts him.
“Honestly John, you could shut up at any time now. We’ve spent the afternoon together, we aren’t injured, or dead, no one’s chasing after us, it’s lovely outside, and I just bought you a very expensive coffee. Is that so horrible?” Sherlock avoids John’s eyes, making his disappointment with irritation. John watched him silently, swallowing every three seconds. After three street crossings of silence, John finally speaks.
“I didn’t mean…you know.” Sherlock doesn’t reply. “You’re not a waste of time, I mean. That’s not what I meant.”
The corners of Sherlock lips quirk, because that’s the nicest thing John’s said all day. But he doesn’t smile. They continue walking, John looking down and with no response from Sherlock.
6:54 pm
Sherlock looks at his watch.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” John says.
“I thought we could go to dinner.” Sherlock replies simply.
“As if we had anything in the house to eat anyway.” John laughs.
Sherlock huffs. “There’s bread and Jam,” he tries.
“Ah. Well in that case, we should definitely eat at home.” John laughs again. “It has to be cheap, though, takeaway. Rent’s due.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Takeaway, huh.”
“Sherlock.”
“I’d much prefer a sit-down place, John, we’ve been walking-“
“For what, twenty minutes? Come on, Sherlock, don’t be picky for once.”
Sherlock huffs again and the keep walking.
“I’d like to go to dinner with you, not order Chinese food that I’ll pick at with chopsticks and wait for you to finish.”
“As if you won’t pick at your food if you’re sitting in a booth.” John says, grinning. Sherlock says nothing.
“Why?” John asks.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to go to dinner with me?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Sherlock smirks.
“That’s why I asked-“
“Fine, we will go to Angelo’s. We’re only two streets away.”
7:12 pm
“The lights are off,” John says as they approach the door. “It looks closed.” Sherlock only walks ahead of him to open the door, and John rolls his eyes and follows. Once inside, he stops.
There’s no one in the restaurant at all. The lights are off except for a few lamps. Sherlock moves to sit in the usual place, slipping his coat off. John automatically follows.
There is a small candle in the middle of the table, and John looks at it weirdly.
“No, this isn’t a date,” Sherlock says. He adjusts the fork in front of him, switches it to the right of the knife.
John smiles. “I wondered.”
“I know.” Angelo appears suddenly, beaming. John orders the usual; Sherlock an actual meal for once.
“You rented the whole place?” John doesn’t understand.
“I paid him the difference for the business he’d lose. It’s Sunday night, so, not much.”
“Sherlock, I don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
But Angelo brings two glasses of red wine, and Sherlock takes a drink. He taps his fingers on the table when Angelo starts talking. “Should’ve seen my face when Sherlock called. So sweet, didn’t think he’d remember-“
Sherlock cuts him off. “Make sure my chicken isn’t dry, Angelo,” he snarls, but then regains composure. Angelo nods and smiles at them before leaving again.
“Sherlock, what is all this for?” John looks at him.
“Nothing,” Sherlock replies, taking another drink. A very large one. It burned as he let it slide down his throat.
“Sherlock, seriously-“
“It’s not important, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and taps the table again, looking toward the kitchen. John shifts nervously and it’s silent for a long time. Finally, finally Angelo reappears with the plates, setting them on the table. He leaves and…silence again. John puts a forkful of pasta in his mouth, watching Sherlock.
Sherlock cuts a small piece of chicken and puts it in his mouth, chewing slowly. When he swallows he says the first thing that comes out of his mouth. “How was your day?” Stupid, Stupid.
John snorts, almost inhaling his pasta. “You were with me all day.”
“I still don’t know how it was. How do you feel about it?
“How do I feel about it?” John looks at him. “I dunno…I guess, It was fine. No,” John pauses. “It was good, a good day.”
“Sherlock smiles a bit. “Really?”
“Mhm-hmm.” John puts another forkful in his mouth. Sherlock takes a drink and finishes of the glass, cutting into his chicken again.
“You seem nervous, or…something. Whatever that is.” Jon eyes the glass as Angelo comes and refills it, then caps John’s. “You’ll be a bit tipsy if you down another. Eat more.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, a staple move. “I’m fine,” he says simply.
“Alright, alright. Well, how did you enjoy your day, then? Since you asked me.”
Sherlock smiled a little. “I enjoyed it.”
“Good, that’s…that’s good.” John took another bite.
Sherlock did too, and swallowed. “It was nice, spending today with you.”
John stopped chewing and swallowed immediately, involuntarily. He looked at Sherlock, clearing his throat.
“You…thanks.” He smiled. “I liked it too. And missing work was nice, for once.”
“I am much more interesting than work, surely,” Sherlock deadpans.
“Always.” John replies, and it was Sherlock’s turn to stop eating for a moment. John revels in his speechlessness.
But soon, Sherlock is recovered. “Do you remember the first time we ate here?”
“That’s a stupid question,” John says.
“Is it, really?” Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat, and John raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Of course I remember.”
Sherlock nods once. “Ah.” And John makes a face. “Why?”
“No reason, I was just thinking about it.”
“I thought this wasn’t a date. You’re getting a bit…reflective, for this not being a date.” Sherlock sighs and takes yet another drink, hiccupping as he does from drinking too fast. John chuckles at the sight. Sherlock looks at him. “Just thinking, is all. Nothing of importance.”
Angelo comes then, and as usually Sherlock has barely anything eaten anything from the plate but lets it be taken anyway. John didn’t finish, but was full from the wine and what he did eat.
And then Angelo said something that made John choke on his wine, and Sherlock groan.
“Happy Anniversary, boys,” and with a huge grin Angelo shuffles away. Sherlock takes a large swig of the wine, avoiding John’s eyes. John just sits there looking into his glass.
“Anniversary.”
Sherlock says nothing still, and Angelo’s comes back, keys and bottle in hand. He sets the bottle on the table. “I’ll let you lock up, and you can finish this off.” He winks, making John blush and Sherlock clear his throat.
“Yes, thank you, Angelo.” And with that Angelo leaves, still grinning. John watches him go and turns to Sherlock.
“Anniversary?” he repeats, watching the other man and raising his eyebrows.
“Do you remember when we met?” Sherlock asks suddenly. John replies quickly in irritation now.
“I already answered that, Sherlock. Jesus, do you even listen to me-”
“Do you remember when we met, John?” The emphasis on the ‘when’ makes an undeniable mark on Sherlock’s feeling toward the situation, and he turns and looks into John’s eyes. John stares back for a minute, and then looks off, thinking.
“Oh, fuck.”
Sherlock chuckles and drinks more of the wine, undeniably tipsy now. He reaches for the bottle but John stops him by grabbing it first. “We met a year ago, today.” Sherlock leans forward, setting his chin on the table and looking up at John.
“Yes.” He nods a little. John smiles at him, partly because of the way Sherlock looked, partly because he felt terrible. “Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry.” Sherlock shrugs a little, nonchalantly. But John shakes his head.
“I didn’t think you’d take notice of anything like that,” he says. “It’s not like we’re together.” But Sherlock laughs then, halfway between a scoff and a giggle.
“Would it matter if we were? It’s all the same. Your relationships-“
“Hey now, don’t even go there.” John warns. “I think that’s enough wine for now.” But Sherlock takes the bottle from him, mostly in spite but he pours some more in his glass to prove the point.
“I am fine. And anyway,” he snarls, “You relationships aren’t working because you keep putting my needs before theirs. Obviously a relationship with me would be more fitting of your time, and you’d waste much less
time trying to call a girl after you’ve yet again left her sitting alone somewhere because I sent a text that was much more interesting.” He takes a drink and smiles smugly.
“We are not in a relationship, Sherlock.”
“Yes we are.” He sounds just like Irene Adler when he says it.
“We’re not a couple.”
“Yes you are.”
“But it’s not like-“
“No, it’s not like a “normal” relationship; there’s no sex and I have no interest in that. And you keep saying you’re not gay, quite annoyingly.” John takes a drink from his own glass now. “But we are in a relationship, more or less.”
“You’re my best mate, Sherlock. But the ‘relationship’ label puts a different spin on that.”
“Yes, but like I said, it’s the same thing.” He draws out each and every letter S of the sentence, relaxing back into the booth.
“I’m sorry I forgot-“
“You didn’t even think about it.” And he doesn’t say it angrily, or as a martyr would, but just as a fact, because that’s what it is. Then there’s silence in the restaurant, more than before; and John is staring at Sherlock, Sherlock at the ceiling.
“I’m getting a bit drunk,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, as if John doesn’t know. He slides lower into the booth.
“I said you should have eaten more.”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
“Sherlock, are you telling me I should just give up on the idea of sex with women?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am just saying you should stop trying to pursue the aspect of having sex with them and then staying with them.”
“Look, are we really entertaining the insane idea that you have basically been my boyfriend for the better part of a year without me even knowing?” John turns to him. “Because if we are, let me just say you aren’t very good at it.”
“I don’t like showing affection,” Sherlock makes an excuse.
“Or being nice, in general.”
“I rented a restaurant, and you didn’t even remember why I did!” Sherlock argues, head swaying a bit.
“I’m talking about every day-No, wait, it doesn’t matter. We are not a couple.” John scoots a bit closer to Sherlock, in case he tips over, or something. “And while I am happy for the nice day we had, you need to realize that.”
Sherlock scoffs. “John, it’s all the same.”
“No it isn’t!
Sherlock giggle-scoffs again. “I am going to drink the rest of the wine. Just to warn you.”
“You’re on your fourth, isn’t that good enough?”
“No, I fancy being pissed.” And Sherlock pours the remaining wine into his glass, filling it halfway. He downs it fairly quickly. “You have to help me home,” he tells John. John sighs. “Yeah, yeah. How about now?”
Sherlock nods slowly, his head feeling larger than the rest of his body.
The walk home is a long one, mostly because of Sherlock. He is a giggly drunk, John realizes, laughing at little things that normally would irritate Sherlock. He towers over John’s body as John supports him, walking.
They get to 221B and Sherlock throws his coat on the floor, parading up the stairs. John sits on the sofa, watching him as he fumbles with his shoelaces. He looks up at John helplessly, which makes John laugh.
“Come here,” he says, and Sherlock collapses at the opposite end of the sofa, tossing his feet into John’s lap. The shoes come off and Sherlock settles back, closing his eyes. John looks at him.
“Thank you for the dinner,” he says, and Sherlock sits up, grinning like an idiot. “And the nice day, too. I am sorry I didn’t think about the anniversary of us meeting.”
Sherlock shakes his head violently and John tries not to laugh at him, at the whole damned situation. “Only I would forget things like Birthdays, and remember silly days like this.”
“It’s not a silly day, it’s important. Where would I live if I hadn’t met you?”
“Somewhere cleaner.”
“Yes, that’s true. But Sherlock…” And Sherlock was looking at the ceiling now, humming to himself. John figured it was okay to talk. “About earlier…”
“You know I am at least partially right.” Sherlock states. John doesn’t reply, but doesn’t move when Sherlock turns around and lies down, and sets his head on the outside of John’s leg. John relaxes into the sofa and looks down at him.
“Yes, you were right. I think. It’s all so…complicated.”
“Yes.” Sherlock closes his eyes. “But no different than before other than the fact you are knowledgeable of it.”
John nods and sets his left arm on the back of the sofa. After a few minutes he realizes his right hand, his fingers, are threading through Sherlock’s curl. The one big one in the front; the one that always bounces. John laughs. “This is all quite ridiculous, you realize.” He looks to see Sherlock’s reaction.
“No. I think it was a rather nice anniversary.” Sherlock’s voice drawls out now, the temptation of sleep setting in. John closes his eyes too, and smiles a bit.
“Yeah, me too. And it’s all thanks to you, hah.” He laughs at the irony of it all.
“Mmm, just remind me of this in the morning, I feel I may forget.”
“I’d never let you forget.”