“Morning,” mumbled John once he’d stumbled out of their bedroom. His sandy hair was a mess, limbs were practically sagging with exhaustion, and eyes unquestionably glazed over with dreary thoughts.
In response, Sherlock flicked on his blowtorch and continued to incinerate his experiment while a sloppy smirk cracked through one side of his plump lips. Upon further examination, John found that Sherlock was actually alighting a pair of lungs on fire instead of his usual fabric variances.
“Early birthday gift,” Sherlock explained once he noticed John eyeing them, “from Molly. Stopped down at Bart’s yesterday for the case. Solved it while you were at the pub. It was the security man, like I said. She spotted me and wouldn’t let me leave without them.” As Sherlock clarified the situation, his expression grew more and more innocent with each word, almost as if it excited him to be presented with such a desired organ. Which, after dwelling on the matter, it probably did.
John gulped. Maybe his plan wasn’t the best. Maybe Sherlock already deduced everything, even if John remembered to wipe the laptop’s history after researching. He was always like that. He’d even had known exactly what John had gotten him for Christmas before seeing the gifts. Was all this drafting even worth it if he knew?
While John busied himself with tea he thought it through. After all, if else failed, Mycroft did say he’d bring a cake over later in the evening. But both Sherlock and John had a suspicion that it wouldn’t arrive there full.
John slid tea over the counter to his scientist. He pulled out his phone, typed up a quick message, and sent it.
•••
Sherlock checked his mobile once the lungs were back in the freezer. ‘Happy Birthday. JW,’ it read.
•••
It took a good hour or so to get Sherlock out the door, dressed, and showered. He was fairly slow that day for a reason John couldn’t quite pick out. Regret? Distress? Anxiety?
John pursed his lips…no going back now. Sherlock wouldn’t let him live this one down for a while if he did.
When the cab pulled up to New Scotland Yard, Lestrade greeted them with a grin, “John said you’d be needing this.” He handed Sherlock a flash drive and then pocketed his fists.
“How’s my brother. Diet again?” Sherlock asked, following the D.I. inside. John was on their heels soon enough.
“He’s said to be baking you a cake for the occasion,” Lestrade replied, “How much of a diet do you expect him to be on?”
“Obviously not a good one.”
Greg’s eyebrow hitched up while all three men exited the lift. Once in Lestrade’s office, Sherlock sat down on the D.I.’s chair and plugged in the zip drive to the laptop. A code popped up onto the screen immediately.
It only took eight seconds for Sherlock to solve it.
‘Two suicides. One building apart. No connection found yet. Kensington.’
Sherlock slid his glance to John. “And now I know why you really didn’t go to the pub last night.”
John squinted and hummed, “Mmm?”
“No alcohol on your breath,” Sherlock replied and then jabbed a finger in Lestrade’s direction, “but you were out with him, demanding a decent case for my birthday. Where in Kensington exactly?”
•••
They ended the night at Angelo’s, precisely how they had ended many other special nights in their life together as friends. The case had gone well—lasted just long enough for it to be time to eat some sort of meal, if anything at all for Sherlock. Angelo greeted them with hugs and a candle on the table, as per usual. Once their hefty friend was back in the kitchen, preparing some sort of “birthday fettuccini” for both of them, Sherlock opened his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, eyes burning with a vivid enthusiasm John only got to see it a few times within his life, but he noted that the occurrences were growing by the year. The detective smiled, clasped John’s hand in his own, and added, “You’ve outdone yourself. Honestly. I wasn’t expecting anything seeing as you forgot entirely of the occasion last year. This was appreciated.”
John tilted his head to the side and allowed a nervous grin to slip through his lips. “You didn’t deduce anything about it beforehand?”
“I didn’t want to. I tried to stay out of the deductions as much as possible by busying myself with smaller cases and experiments throughout the week.”
“Next year you can have my cane, then.”
Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He gaped at John.
“You’re getting old,” the doctor explained through a stifled chuckle. “It was a joke. Sorry. Won’t try and be funny again.”
Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and then grinned like a drunken bloke. “Thank you.”
“Any time.”