Work Text:
Sherlock's Birthday
The day began as any other. Sherlock had overslept, rolled himself from his bed onto the floor, then slept some more. When at last he was on his feet and actively moving through his room, it was already quite close to noon. What day of the week was it, even? His mind struggled through the steps. Monday had already passed; he’d watched Mikotoba set off to work after the weekend’s end and he’d hated it. Wednesday had passed; the milk man had already delivered their dairy for the week. Wasn’t it already a new weekend again? Hadn’t Mikotoba said something about that? Yesterday’s newspaper, the one with the fascinating article about the Abbey Grange, had been marked with Saturday January 5th.
Yes, today was Sunday, then. Elementary.
He yawned widely. Following that, he slung on his robe to fend off the chill and ran his fingers through tangled hair. Several more minutes were spent observing people out in the street. That man walked with a stiff limp- he’d been kicked in the shin by someone, hadn’t he? The woman over there had a new coat, given to her by her adoring husband. A street urchin darted past their house, chased by the man who’d just been robbed of his wallet. All uninteresting and common folks, really.
Would there be any cases today?
He headed out into the hallway and came to an abrupt stop. There was a scrap of paper lying on the floor, just before his door. Slightly yellowed parchment- unfamiliar- cheap paper- black ink- familiar handwriting- Leisurely pace-
Mikotoba
.
‘
Across the hall
’ was all the paper said. Sherlock’s gaze took in the door before him. A frown, then he opened it and entered the bathroom. No one was there. However, that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything of note. Another scrap of paper invaded Sherlock’s senses immediately. It’d been strapped to a bottle of eau de cologne, which stood on the shelf just above the sink. New cologne? He couldn’t remember seeing it bef- ah yes, full.
‘
Please clean yourself up properly. Next step, wardrobe.
’
Now enthralled by the mystery, Sherlock followed the instructions as they were given. He washed up, shaved and rubbed some of the cologne into the corners where his jawbone met the sides of his neck. It smelled very nice. Violet and bergamot. Mikotoba was truly honed in on his tastes, wasn’t he? How very convenient and how very heartwarming.
He rushed back to his bedroom and tore open the wardrobe. One particular set of clothing had been hung front and center to catch his attention. His nicest waistcoat, rarely worn. The jacket he had once worn to a gathering at the Van Zieks mansion, along with the pants to match. A pristine white shirt and a dark red tie- a striking combination, like blood on snow. Even clean socks were included. Sherlock took the hanger from the wardrobe to see if there was anything behind it, but alas, the other clothes were untouched and unimportant. Laying the attire out on his bed, he spotted another scrap of paper, this one poking out from the chest pocket of the jacket.
‘Don this, please. I will meet you in the suite.’
The plot thickened even further. Sherlock didn’t understand why Mikotoba was playing such games with him, but was more than willing to play along. His partner would never set him up for disappointment. As asked, he changed into his finest outfit. Mikotoba had laundered it beforehand, he noticed. The fabric of the socks was softer than usual and the shirt smelled of soap. Sherlock always smelled the exact same soap on Mikotoba’s shirts. It soothed him.
Eager to get to the bottom of this, Sherlock entered 221B’s living area and instantly, his eyes widened. An elaborate lunch was set up on the coffee table- he could smell most of the dishes and spices. Mikotoba was on the settee, the newspaper in his hands being lowered lightly now that Sherlock was in the room. There was a kind smile, a twinkle in Mikotoba’s eyes, some sort of expectation.
Yesterday was January 5th, Sherlock’s brain reminded him, and only now did he realize what that meant for today.
“Happy birthday, partner.”