Work Text:
Sentimental Twaddle.
By Howlynn
Sherlock finally got out of Mycroft's endless meetings and headed to the morgue. It was his birthday, Molly would no doubt have a treat for him. He hoped for an adrenal gland with high concentrations of catecholamine secreted by a phaeochromocytoma but of course, who wouldn't hope for that? No matter what she had for him to take home, he would remember to say a polite thank you and ask after her annoying cat. John liked it when he used his people manners.
He was disappointed to discover that the morgue contained no Molly and no gift for his birthday.
No matter, his next stop was John. He took a taxi out to the Watson's wrapped up in his most charming version of pretending not to even know it was his birthday. John would buy him something rediculously sentimental and Mary probably made him biscuits if not a crusty loaf of her bread. He could almost taste the Marmite and butter melting in the yeasty wonder. He knocked on the door for a rather long time, but got no answer.
( Where are you? I require you at your flat?SH)
*Sorry Sherlock. Not today. Working a double shift*
( Where is Mary?SH)
*She has her baby class today*
(She is a nurse. She doesn't need a baby class.SH)
*It is set up by the midwives. Everyone takes them*
(Didn't she bake me bread?SH)
*Why would she do that? Did she say she was going to for some reason? *
(Forget it. Another time.SH)
*Cheers. Really hammered. Talk to you in a few days.*
Sherlock stopped his chin from wobbling as he stomped up the pavement. John forgot. It didn't matter. Birthdays were stupid sentimental twaddle and his were always ruined by something.
His spirits picked up as he thought of Gomer. He would remember and no doubt have a juicy case for him as a surprise. That would be something he could sink his teeth into. Maybe have dinner after.
The yard was like a care home. People were sat about watching telly and, ugh, flirting with coworkers. Lestrade's office was dark. Donovan's desk was empty. In fact there was nobody of any interest here. He was informed they had all taken time off. Amateurs...crime does not wait for convenience. Except there seemed to have been an overall lull in the criminal element.
By now it was getting dark outside and Sherlock was thrice let down.
With a sigh he decided to just head home and let Mrs. Hudson ply him with tea and fussy baked goods. That always made her happy.
He opened the door to Baker street and inhaled deeply then frowned. There was no vaporised cooking odor present. There were no delicious smells of caramelised sugar products. There was no Mrs. Hudson at all.
Dejectedly he climbed the stairs. He had faked not caring about his birthday for so long that they all finally believed him.
He sat down in his chair, in the dark and felt extremely lonely. He protected John, put up with his never ending society of commercialised celebratory rituals and here he was, alone and unwanted. Wasn't the passage of 39 to 40 supposed to be one of those big birthdays? Not that anyone cared.
He picked up his phone and considered Billy. Why was he not high again? People and their caring lark or something, obviously a very important reason to stay clean. Everyone sitting around showing off their grand need for his sobriety tonight. He licked his lips and thumbed the number.
Mycroft's three point gait could be heard taking each step with quiet caution. Sherlock sighed, considered faking his own death, considered not faking it and realised he would not have time to leave a witty note and sighed again as he saw the top of his brothers head appear in the landing.
Mycroft handed him a small, perfectly wrapped package with an elaborate bow on it.
"What is this for?" Sherlock looked shockingly confused.
"Don't you have it figured out by now?" Mycroft tutted at him.
" Of course I know what it is, scarf...expensive. What is it for?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Happy Birthday, Brother mine."
Sherlock looked exasperated and mumbled, "Oh. That. Hmpfff."
"Unwrap your gift and put it on. I am taking you to dinner. Mummy came down on the train," He explained with a stab of the tip of his umbrella on one of Sherlock's escaped crickets.
"Stop killing my house guests," Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft looked pained as he smirked and replied, " Keep your bugs to yourself then."
"Should take your own advice, Mycroft. My bedroom? Really?"
"Ahh, yes. No loss. Most boring room in the flat."
"Shut up." Sherlock divested the box of its contents and examined the butter soft navy and grey angora.
Mycroft smiled and his eyes twinkled as he asked, "I do hope that will do, little brother?"
Sherlock blushed. "It is fine. Are we leaving now?" He questioned briskly.
Mycroft motioned toward the door.
Sherlock hurried forward then just as he made it to the door he stopped. Turning slightly he said, "It is very nice. I like it. Thank...you?"
Mycroft's eyebrows shot up then furrowed. He removed his phone from his pocket and ordered, " We will be needing a drugs test kit. Yes, for after will do."
They drove up to a glitzy affair in the Marylebone Road and Sherlock rolled his eyes, boring.
His first hint that all was not quite right was when Mycroft did not consult the maître d'hôtel. He led them through the center seating area and up the stairs.
"Oh...God. Please tell me you did not-"
"SURPRISE!!!!" A room full of people shouted. His first instinct was to call them all idiots.
He looked around the room of smiling happy people and it dawned on him that for the first time in his life, he had actual people who liked him enough to take time out of their busy lives just for him.
He searched the room and landed on the person who had organised this silly do.
Sherlock saw John looking so hopeful, and he smiled. John grinned and looked a bit sheepish and shrugged, obviously tremendously pleased that he had pulled this off. Sherlock threw his head back and laughed.
"Well done, John. Well done, indeed."
The end.