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John Watson really had no idea what to expect on the morning of his birthday. With a relatively small family whom he didn’t exactly get along with, a limited number of friends that were actually back in London and a practically non-existent extended family, he was rather used to receiving only a handful of presents and maybe a night out at the pub with a couple of mates. But not much beyond that.
And he severely doubted that his frankly rather mad flatmate would even know that it was his birthday.
As always, his alarm woke him at 7, causing him to reach out, hit it until it shut up, open his eyes, glare at the light leaking through his blinds, stretch, yawn, sit up, get out of bed and potter downstairs to the kitchen. For once John didn’t bother getting dressed – it was his birthday for goodness sake, so he figured he would be able to get away with it just this once.
(Besides, Sherlock spent half his time hanging around the flat in his pyjamas and dressing gown.)
John yawned again as he reached for the kettle, noticing a square, yellow post-it note on it as he did so. Odd. Sherlock wasn’t really one to leave notes for John – he much preferred to text. Nevertheless, John quickly read the short note, which mentioned (briefly) that Sherlock was going to be out for an unspecified amount of time, there was no point trying to reach him, and would John please leave the liver in the fridge alone? The doctor huffed as he read the last bit of the note and quickly opened the fridge door, before wincing and quickly shutting it again. Yeah, that was definitely a liver. A human one, by the looks of it.
He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips, before returning to the construction of his breakfast – despite it being his birthday he still stuck to his standard toast-and-jam-and-tea, deciding he would rather not risk trying to make anything using food from the fridge. Breakfast prepared, he wandered back into the lounge, snatched up a paper and sat himself down at the table, starting to much on a slice of toast.
About half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
John glanced up, faintly hearing the now-familiar sounds of Mrs Hudson opening the door and talking to whoever it was outside, fully expecting it to be a client or a police officer or a taxi driver arrived to take them off to yet another crime scene.
“Boys! There’s someone here to see you! I’m sending him up!”
Client then.
John sat up straighter, pushed his plate and mug of tea to one side and quickly snatched up a notepad and pen –the normal procedure in these circumstances (where Sherlock was out but John was at home and there was a potential client) was to have John note down a brief outline of the possible case and the clients number, for if Sherlock decided to take the case.
He was still fumbling around when he heard the slow, steady footsteps on the stairs slow and then stop.
“I’ll be with you in just one minute,” he called over his shoulder, desperately rummaging around in the untidy stacks of books and paper for a pen that actually worked.
“May I come in?” The clients voice was oddly familiar, causing John to pause for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, turning around with a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other, giving a short nod.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he replied, quickly looking over the man. He was tall, and seemed to be dressed almost as a police officer or a security guard of some sort, the flat hat pulled down over his face, effectively masking his features. The man’s hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood with an air of what could almost be ease around him, as if he had been here before.
“I’ve been sent here to give you a message, and a …gift,” the man continued, his tone low, almost rumbling. John frowned a little at this – he still remembered Moriarty.
“O…kay. And what is this message, exactly?”
The man raised his head, revealing a face John knew only too well.
“Sherlock…?” he said softly, confusion wrapping around his voice. Sherlock didn’t say anything, instead striding forwards as an infectious grin crossed his face, not slowing or stopping until he was right in front of John, almost towering over the shorter man.
The grin still on his face, he gently rested one hand on John’s shoulder and leaned forwards, his lips brushing softly against the corners of John’s mouth as he whispered:
“Kissogram for John Watson.”