Chapter Text
John never usually liked his birthday. Being the centre of attention was not even in his radar, and if it happened it was not something he relished. However, this particular birthday he had been excited about for months. Summer had rushed past in a record blaze of heat that forced showering twice a day, and a whirl wind of cases, so far of which have all been solved. All of this was alongside his husband, Detective Sherlock William Scott Watson-Holmes. John knew Sherlock was planning something big for his forty-fourth birthday. Since January, Sherlock had continued to drop hints about it, much to John's satisfaction. Most prominently were the 'un-birthday cards' that would arrive on the eighth of every month from January. It would be a normal birthday card, usually sickeningly soppy, bearing the image of a puppy or a Disney character, one month it even had an audio message of Winnie the Pooh himself singing a happy birthday. What made them so called 'un-birthday' cards was that Sherlock would write the same message in every card.
Dear John Watson-Holmes,
Whilst it is not your birthday today, it will be soon. And what a birthday it will be.
With all my heart, Sherlock
That January card was met with understandable confusion, but with Sherlock's persistence of them being given on the exact date preceding the actual birthday in September, John began to be excited for their arrival, it created a count down for his actual birthday, making it seem like some utterly life changing event. So in August, the penultimate month, he never expected to get the final 'un-birthday' card as Sherlock was away on the eighth for a case involving Rhinos, but of course not only did a card come through the letter box, but a UPS van delivered a parcel. The card was the plainest so far, a small white unassuming thing, made with thick material rough at its edges so it irritated your finger tips. In Sherlock's trained hand across the front, Sherlock had written in Blue ink, Happy Un-Birthday. Once the card was opened the message read,
John the time is close, in which it can finally be said that it's the day of your birth. Inside the parcel is clues to what your celebration will hold. Let's see what you can deduce. I cannot wait.
With all my heart, Sherlock
A smile stretched cross John's ageing face and his eyes awoke in the wonder of Sherlock. What a man. To have gone to all this trouble to make John feel so irrevocably important. John took no care when unwrapping the contents, for he was delirious with child-like want of what lay inside. There was so much in the thin brown packaging that it spluttered all across the floor. First thing to note, was a long banner of connected bunting all of which beared the British flag. So the party would be irrevocably British. This is after all what the Brits displayed proudly after the winning of World War Two amongst its battered streets. What if it wasn't a party? Sherlock hated Parties. That is why for Sherlock's previous birthday, John had ensured it was just a meal between the two of them. Would Sherlock give that notion up for John? The bunting suggested so. Next was a tiny inch by inch novelty book on 'the best ales in Britain.' John did like an ale. A beer festival? Maybe Sherlock would take him to one. It was so un-Sherlock though. John shook his head to the idea. Well for now this told him there would at least be alcohol, always a must on a birthday. Next was an empty photo frame. Black and simple, not dissimilar to one of Sherlock's suits, however, on a more complicated level it held Sherlock suspended in its emptiness that provided a mystery that needed disproving. So photos would be taken. John was starting to feel slightly concerned at how un-Sherlock this all was. Sherlock hated having his photograph taken. Maybe they were going somewhere that was photogenic? That thought excited John greatly. Endless possibilities of serene places sieved through his thoughts. There was a locked padlock with no key, so it was secretive then. They were to be in private, a private party suited John fine. The last item was a rose, the red petals had been spray painted green and it smelt of chemicals rather than its natural perfume it would have once suggested. Roses where romantic. Maybe it was just going to be Sherlock and he? It didn't sit right with John. It was coloured green, so they would almost definitely be outside. Why spray the rose green? John began to think back about any potential significance green may have played throughout the time they'd known one another. He hit a blank. Maybe he was thinking about it too much. So far the things had been seemingly simple in their message. After a while in thought John decided that maybe keeping the rose as a surprise was a good thing after all.
Today was the day. John's forty-fourth birthday, September the Eighth was finally here. John awoke with a contented sigh for his cheek lay rested on Sherlock's rising and falling chest, in which his smooth heart beat could be distinctively heard resounding throughout his chest cavity, meaning that Sherlock was very much alive and here for such a day. John had awoken before Sherlock and he savoured the few quiet seconds for the clearly manic day which apparently lay ahead. John lay content for a good fifteen minutes, but he decided that unfortunately he'd have to move due to his nagging bladder. He knew he shouldn't have had two cups of tea immediately before going to bed. As he began to move however, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Johns shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh no you're not birthday boy" he said in tired boldness before placing a light kiss on his forehead. John giggled at his playfulness, "Sherlock I'm going to piss my pants!" Sherlock began to giggle back and only pulled him closer, "I don't care, in sickness and in health John, that is what marriage demands, you can't leave I'm afraid, I forbid it!" John laughed and then stopped himself because he really thought he was going to urinate in their bed on his bloody birthday. He felt Sherlock shake beneath him in his deep mutual snicker. "Sherlock I'm serious! I need to pee!" John began to wrestle himself away but Sherlock persisted and then to top it all off Sherlock began to sing loudly and dramatically elongated every word "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to John!" John got himself free and picked up his pillow and threw it at Sherlock's head which meant that he finally got away. John loved this child like play and his birthday so far had got to the perfect start. He hoped his seventieth birthday would start exactly the same.
Whilst John washed his hands, bladder now empty, he looked himself in the mirror and smiled a big wide grin. He dipped his head shyly at his own excited manner. It was his birthday.
As John began to open the door he heard Sherlock yell "wait, no wait John! Stay there." John froze, his reaction to Sherlock's instruction were fast due to the years of cases they'd ventured together. So he stood and waited. Then in just a loud enough tone Sherlock said, "come in now." Sherlock, now wearing his blue silk robe in comparison to the nakedness of the night had his arms splayed open. He bit his lower lip nervously, what if this wasn't right? What if John didn't want this. There in their bedroom, was a nineteen sixty-six Triumph Bonneville motorbike. Seven Hundred cc, it was the bike that meant business. John had wanted one of these since he was sixteen. John stood in shock under the door frame, wearing nothing but his lucky red pants. It was perfect. Its body was blood red and cobra black, the word 'Triumph' was written in bright eye catching yellow, the engine was polished silver and the mechanics alone where making John feel woozy. There was space for two people and the exhaust pipe was ginormous. John imagined the noise it must make. He could see him and Sherlock roaring through London painting the town red. John remained in limbo at the place between the bathroom and the bedroom, not quite in or out of both. Together his stance and face unchanged, jaw dropped and hands facing the bike, as if his movement might eradicate this moment some how. Sherlock however, in the silence, had begun to panic, he clasped his hands together at chest height and began a speedy babble, "you don't like it do you? Oh god! I thought this wasn't right, a bit much, I mean we must take risks but maybe.. Oh John I'm so sorry I wanted this day to be perfect..." John interrupted almost angry at how Sherlock could read him so wrong, "Don't like it?!! Are you kidding me?! This is the best thing that has ever been given to me! Sherlock it's perfect, you're perfect. How the fuck did you know?!" John quickly went through in his mind at any point they may have talked about motorcycles but he drew a blank, Sherlock answered for him now fully relieved he hadn't in fact cocked up, his entire body had now relaxed and he spoke with all the confidence the world could possibly provide. "The Bear Biker, remember that case?" Now John remembered.
A man found dead in the middle of a wheat field with no apparent way of him to either have got there or reason to be there. It transpired that he was riding on the back of a two seater triumph, fell off and fatally banged his head, his secret gay-lover had been driving, in a panic he simply left him there in fear of being outed to the whole biking community. They had nothing to worry about in that department, however the tyre marks matched perfectly to the patterning of the newly turned over ground. Sherlock deduced that the only tyres light enough and with the capability to go smoothly over such an earth most likely belonged to a triumph, old, sturdy and reliable. There was only one Triumph in that town and it belonged to the now outed lover. John whistled as the bike was taken by police for evidential purposes, instead of black and red it was a dark orange with a glittered shine. Sherlock had asked him, 'you like it?' and John had replied with 'if I had the money, that's the bike I'd have.' Now in the present John asked "How the bloody hell did you remember that?! That was" John paused for thought, "four years ago!" Sherlock smiled, that was enough for John to finally walk over to his husband. On the way to one another Sherlock said, "I'd never delete anything about you John." They embraced, behind the bike closer to the door to the kitchen than the one to the en suite. John kissed Sherlock on the mouth with all the thanks in the world. Mid-kiss John had a thought and pulled away, "how the fuck did you get it up those stairs in the time it took me to urinate?!" Sherlock giggled, he knew John would have such a question. "Never lose your curiosity John." Sherlock re-enterd the kiss, but John genuinely wanted to know, so he pulled away again and spoke playfully, "I will never touch your mouth to mine as long as I live if you don't tell me how you got that bike into our bedroom." Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, the audacity of it. Their eyes reconnected once more, "well with those demands I'll tell you every cinching detail, since seven this morning five of my homeless network have been waiting out side the front door with the bike under a sheet." John laughed and Sherlock continued. "The bike has been kept in Mycroft's garage for the past six weeks, and when you went up to the toilet the first thing I did was text them the code 'Triumph.'" John now laughed so hard that he had to rest his head on the detectives shoulder to keep him upright, he was married to the most ridiculous man. But the best man. After they'd calmed down, John whispered a "thank you" before their lips touched once more.
Breakfast was brought up by a very delightful Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock greeted her with a friendly "good morning Hudders" and John gave her a merry kiss upon the cheek. It was John's favourite, a full English cooked by the best chef he knew. Whilst John was cutting a sausage and Mrs. Hudson was taking a bite of toast, Sherlock stood and left the pair in mild confusion. Sherlock walked straight to the fridge, which to John's knowledge had only contained an immeasurable amount of petri dishes containing various forms of saliva for the previous fortnight. However, on Sherlock spinning and returning to the table it was obvious that it was thankfully a bottle of 'Bucks Fizz.' They all gasped at the pop of its opening and then, the Orange Juice and Champagne sloshed comically into mugs that held tea only minutes before, they shared a happy cheers and sipped, followed with a choir of "mmms" at how pleasant the beverage was. John said "thank you" to them both for the eighteenth time today. It was yet to reach half past nine. Once plates were clean, Mrs. Hudson produced a tiny white box with red ribbon and John said a "oh you didn't have to" before Mrs. Hudson persuaded him otherwise with a shake of the head and a cheerful "happy birthday." John unwrapped it and Sherlock watched pleasantly as the whole scene unravelled before him. Two of his favourite people were about to share a moment he'd been planning for months. John placed the ribbon gently on the table and lifted the lid off the small curious box as daintily as possible. He lifted out a single key, attached to a keyring shaped like a small magnifying glass. He shot a confused look in both his breakfast companions direction. Mrs. Hudson said with the excitement of a Disney Princess, "the triumph." John let out a gasp. This was the key to that beautiful bike. He jumped up, kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and then Sherlock on the lips, quickly noted he tasted like orange and alcohol, and then ran to the bedroom. Insuring it was on it's stand, he placed the key in the ignition. Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson giggled as they could hear both the roar of the aged engine and the audible child like delight that buttered out of John's mouth.
Sherlock texted the homeless network an apt second message saying, "ATM" which means, All Things Motorcycle, they came in their drove and Sherlock thanked them with an expensive fifty quid each after they collectively carried the bike down the stairs (which proved stressful to both Mrs. Hudson and John, one wishing for the walls safety and one for the bikes.) John felt amazing as he climbed aboard the front of the triumph. He couldn't believe this was his. He hadn't ridden a bike for maybe five years, but the skill hadn't left him. Although it was September, the day was warm from the Indian Summer London had been experiencing, and as Sherlock walked out the door of 221b having just said a farewell to Mrs. Hudson, John guffawed at how good his husband looked. He had black Ray Ban shades on and a similar dark green pair sticking out his charcoal suit pocket. It was too hot for the Belstaff today, so just the suit with a crisp white shirt; a seductive three buttons open. Just the way John liked it. In his hands Sherlock held two helmets, one black monochrome, simple and stylish for himself and one a shiny crisp white for John. John revved the engine on Sherlock's approach making Sherlock laugh. Sherlock threw John the white helmet, which John caught and then popped on. Without using his hands Sherlock climbed aboard the back seat and simultaneously placed his own helmet atop his head. Now safely both on, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctors waist. The contact made John feel the coolest he'd ever felt. To top it all off before they drove away Sherlock passed John the dark green Ray Bans from his pocket. John giggled in his helmet, he lifted the clear visor and popped them on. Sherlock now placed his arms perfectly interlinked with his husbands torso, and John dropped his visor down once more and just like that they're off. In a jet of noise they darted around the streets of London, both John and Sherlock were having the time of their lives; grinning from ear to ear. What a day for a birthday. And the day had barely begun.
John's birthday arrived amidst a case. So John spent most of his day darting around attempting to solve the case he'd planned to call 'The Serial Vicar' for the ever popular blog. Any opportunity of travel meant something excellent though, and that was that he could use the Triumph. He loved that bike, and he loved the man more who gave it to him. At around seven in the evening, after a particularly hectic day Sherlock had to leave John's side. He claimed that he needed to go back to one of the murder scenes, but John hoped it was something to do with his birthday. A little white lie never hurt no body after all. They shared a quick kiss and Sherlock wished John the millionth "happy birthday" with a twinkle in his eye, as Sherlock walked away John watched him, and admittedly stared momentarily at Sherlock's behind before being shaken back into the room, of which apparently the whole of Scotland Yard had been staring at them. John couldn't give two shits. This was the best day of his life. Around half an hour later, and with no text from Sherlock, John took it upon himself to leave the investigation team. He received several "have a nice birthday evening" from familiar faces, to which he said thanks, but all he could think about was what Sherlock may have in store. He could live in hope right? He left through the swivel doors and almost immediately climbed aboard the Triumph. John put his helmet on, and slid Sherlocks precariously onto the handlebars. Its start up noise that ripped the air would never cease to sound incredible. The sound rippled up John's spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 221b sat homely in the darkening night and the air was much colder than this morning. With the triumph parked outside, and helmets in hand, John entered his home and shouted Sherlock's name all the way up the stairs. There was no reply. John felt a niggling in his stomach, the same he had on his way to a new case, there was a mystery to be had here. What lay on their living room table was another parcel, not dissimilar to the one he's received before, except this was bigger. Just like a month to the day, John ripped it open with sheer eagerness. Inside where forty-four sprayed green roses. Forty four bleeding roses. Forty four roses for a forty four year old man. John couldn't believe eyes. They went everywhere. So the green rose was important to figure out then. On closer inspection there were what looked like burn marks in some of them. Sharp brown lines that criss crossed against one another. On even closer inspection, where John had the roses practically touching his eyes, he noticed that they were numbered. Near the top of the stem, underneath a single petal, there were numbers, from one to forty four. John began to excitedly order them once the discovery had been made. A word began to make itself out of the patterned scorch lines.
Climb to Prim
Prim? Prim meant improper. Climb to improper? That didn't make sense. John knelt on the floor completely befuddled by the perfectly aligned green flowers. 'Come on John think think think.' John crossed his arms and sucked in his top lip to help him think. Prim Prim Prim Prim Prim. What was Prim. 'Why a rose?' He thought. 'Why a green rose more importantly? Is that more importantly?' Rose Prim. Then it all came together all at once. Primrose Hill. It was an open park in London. Sprayed green for a green open space. So the Rose was for romance. The longer that time went on the more that John discovered Sherlock was an absolute sucker. It had a steep hill with a viewpoint at its peak of the whole of London's skyline. Name an iconic London building, you'll be able to see it from the top of that hill. And just like that, John grabbed one of the roses, threw on his jacket and bolted down the stairs leaving the door to 221b blissfully open. Besides it was only Mrs. Hudson who would be able to go through that open door, and she was there practically every day anyway.
The Triumph did him proud. Frankly from Baker Street he could have walked, but the bike looked at him and he couldn't resist, crumbling to its temptations. He was at the gates of Primrose hill in all of six minutes. One problem though. The park was locked close. Of course it was, it was nearing eight o'clock. Then John remembered, the padlock in the August parcel. It really was private. Sherlock Holmes had rented out Primrose Hill. How on earth had he managed that? It undoubtedly would have had something to do with Mycroft. This was proven true when John could see a bright light beaming towards the night sky from the peak. It's origin was blocked by a collection of trees. John couldn't believe the extent Sherlock had gone to. Actually he could. A month ago he thought this all very un-Sherlock, but the drama and sexiness of it all, Bucks fizz at breakfast, a motorbike that roared and a private hill with the night London skyline. Very Sherlock. And thank god it was. He needed to up his game for Sherlocks birthday next year. So how does he get in? He had no key, there was no break in the fence. Then he remembered the burnt message. Climb to Prim. Climb the fence. This was becoming more and more Sherlock by the second. So that is exactly what John did. First he flung his helmet over the fence, and it landed with a light pat upon the Grass. Then putting the green rose inbetween his teeth, he finally began his ascent. He placed one foot on the first Horizontal bar and heaved himself up. Using his hands he grabbed the highest and final horizontal bar and proceeded to steady himself to place his right foot upon it. On carefully pulling himself upright he swung his left foot and placed it on the other side of the fence. Now he was precariously close to hitting his nether regions upon the dull tops of the bars that supposedly acted as a deterrent. He needed to act fast here. Placing his hands tight around the bar, currently at an awkward angle, he swung the right foot to meet with the left, before manipulating his now dangling body so that it faced towards the street rather than the hill. Then just like that, still rose between his teeth, he let go of the bar and dropped softly onto the ground. He brushed off his jacket, more out of accomplishment rather than need. He hadn't even broken into a sweat. 'Not bad for a forty four year old,' he thought. Now it was time to ascend the hill. He held the rose in his left hand, his helmet in his right and butterflies rippling in his belly. What if he'd got it all wrong. What if this was some other private event? Self-doubt was John's worst enemy. He walked with a wicked determination, ignoring all those uncontrollable thoughts that never seemed to want to leave, no matter how much he tried to force them.
On rearing to the top, he saw a sight that would stay with him until his dying day. It was a teepee. Sherlock Holmes had had someone build a teepee on the very top of Primrose hill. The beam of light was shooting out of the opening at the top, and it's white light melded into the dark blue as if in greeting, which was beginning to show it's full cosmological potential. It was silent, whoever lay inside the tent, they were waiting in hush. Before entering the tent, John turned round to face the London skyline. He had frequented Primrose Hill several times before, but always during the day. It was even more breathtaking at night. John began to laugh, hysterically laugh. He had never felt so grateful in all his life. What a day. What a fucking day, and his actual birthday celebration had not even begun yet. He hoped there would be some food. As he watched the distant Big Ben bell chime, his stomach rumbled in unison. There had to at least be cake, surely. On the left he could see, the Olympic Park way back at the horizon, next was the financial district; canary wharf with the Gherkin in its full alien shape. Alongside it was a new build, known emphatically as the 'walkie-talkie.' St. Paul's sat enshrouded by the sky-scapers, and the thought that it was once the highest build in London until recently, demonstrated the real change cities had fast become. To encapsulate that, the present tallest building in London, the Shard sat just to the right of the ancient Cathedral. The BT Tower, the Big Ben and the houses of Parliament at Westminster could only just be seen, the London Eye was particularly catching, and from so far away it seemed to not be spinning at all. The ghost of battersea power station stood devoured by cranes that marked domestic progress. The only thing John couldn't see that sprung to mind was the O2 Arena that sat down the river in Greenwich. It was a good night to be alive. John's laughter at how fantastical his life had become had apparently made a bit of a stir inside the teepee. As he walked to enter he could clearly hear Sherlock's manic voice saying as quiet as possible, "he's figured it out, he's here, everyone ready?" John certainly felt ready, especially to see the man that voice was attached to. With another deep breath, he pushed the piece of material using the arm still holding his helmet. He was met with a bellow of an expected song of "Happy Birthday." It was horrendously out of tune but the voices rose to the roof of the teepee as if like the light, they desperately wanted to also meet the stars. There was in fact british bunting wrapped all around the tent walls, small fire lights sat on the cushioned floor encased safely in glass lamps. It provided some magic to the already native tent. There was a small table with a few humble gifts and several bottles of various ales sat on the table, as well as a huge bottle of Champagne. John immediately caught eyes with Sherlock, he held both the rose and his helmet in the air, and Sherlock had to practically stop his singing for the giggle that forced its way out of his throat. He did not remember ever being as happy as he felt as of right now. And it was all because of John. His Doctor, his soldier, his blogger, his colleague, his best friend, his lover, his husband. Every side mattered. And now he was standing in a teepee opposite him, with a shit-eating grin, a helmet for his Triumph and a rose. Sherlock had wanted to see this since January. He could not wait to plan Johns next birthday.
As the song came to its end, John finally processed who had attended such an evening of shenanigans, there was Mrs. Hudson, his Sister Harry, Harry's girlfriend, whose name completely evaded him, Molly Hooper, another boyfriend of hers, this one called Jack (amazing how they always managed to resemble his husband,) and finally Mycroft and his darling Detective Inspector Lestrade. What a wonderful bunch of people, John thought. As the song finally ended, to Johns self-admitting relief, he chuckled like a school kid, which in turn made the whole teepee laugh. "Well I have to say what a frankly fucking ridiculous evening this is set to be," everyone laughed some more, "but I have to say, after I figured it out," John held the rose sky high and continued, "I am beyond happy to meet you all at the peak of this hill. I would like to thank Sherlock here for providing me with the greatest birthday I believe in all of London's history" there was a collective snicker and an element of awe at John's words, now John spoke to Sherlock and to Sherlock alone, "Sherlock you are without doubt the most unbelievable human my world could have asked for, I have no idea how you have pulled anything that has happened today off, frankly, if I had not have met you I can see my world being a much darker place," Sherlock dipped his head, his eyes welling and his cheeks reddened. There was a smattering of applause for Sherlock's efforts, and then John said to round it all off "now I have deduced that there is some alcohol to be had." There was a big cheer and with that the novelty Champagne was opened and a night of booze, food, cake, gifts, discussions and London at night was had. It was perfect. John learned amazing things about the people he loved and respected the most that night. One by one people had to leave and soon it was just Sherlock and John alone. John had not had much of a chance to actually speak to his husband and the first thing he did once Mycroft and Lestrade where down the hill was kiss Sherlock so passionately, that Sherlock thought he might actually faint. On separating Sherlock tried to keep it cool but utterly failed, his words became a series of slurs, and John knew Sherlock wasn't that drunk. They laughed at Sherlock's evidence at being completely bowled off his feet. It was charming and gave John butterflies right in the pit of his stomach, and made his heart beat like a hummingbird was trapped in his chest. They had the whole of London stretched out in front of them. The city that never sleeps was playing out before their eyes. They held each other close and watched the lights in silence for a while. Thanking and appreciating the city that had brought them together, and now bound them in another year of their lives. Sherlock then checked his watch without losing Johns valued touch and said, "John you have twenty-five minutes left of your birthday, what do you want to do?" John loosened by alcohol and sheer joy said flirtatiously, "I've got some ideas" before proceeding to pull Sherlock into the one night only private teepee of Primrose Hill.
