Cups of Tea (Sherlock, John, G)
KINK MEME FILL NUMBER 2: Cups of Tea
Prompt: They're on a case and Lestrade casually wishes John; "Happy birthday."
Sherlock is stunned that he had no idea.
John isn't angry at him or anything though because that's Sherlock and he wouldn't have expected him to store something as pointless as a birthday in his 'hard drive'.
Sherlock still feels like a crap friend and spends the rest of the day making it up to him. Probably overdoing things a bit.
Original fill here.
Word count: 3,400
Rating: G
Summary: In which Sherlock is a bit out of his depth.
Warnings: THE FLUFFIEST FLUFF TO EVER FLUFF
Notes: all the awards to stjolan for the transcendently wonderful, mind-bogglingly fitting, heart-breakingly gorgeous, tears-inducingly beautiful, adjective-defyingly perfect, clothes-rendingly emotional title. Ilu.
Cups of Tea
Sherlock was tapping his fingers against his mouth, hovering over the corpse of the young woman sprawled over the car park asphalt, eliminating one of the tracks of thoughts unfolding in his mind as he accumulated the data - no, not a hit and run, her money's been taken but her jewelry's still on, when the soft, irrelevant hum of Lestrade and John chatting behind his back suddenly broke through his focus.
“Oh, and happy birthday, by the way,” Lestrade said, and there was a wide grin in his voice, and Sherlock was to his feet and turned around before he knew it, to find a similar grin on John's face.
“Ta, mate,” John said easily, accepting the mately shoulder clap from Lestrade.
“It's your birthday?” Sherlock said, almost in spite of himself, and he hadn't given himself enough time to drain his voice of the note of genuine surprise.
John and the D.I. looked at him, neutrally, mild.
“Well, yeah,” John said, undisturbed.
Sherlock stared at him. Of course he'd noticed John getting an exorbitant, unusual number of texts, but Harry sometimes went a bit overboard when she was either very drunk or very sober, and he also thought it not entirely impossible that John had maybe finally cracked and started dating a sixteen-year-old. And yes, John had been in a fairly good mood for the hour, but he'd had three cups of coffee, and anyway, Sherlock had given up to try to understand the nuances of John's mood in the morning a long time ago, because there was no system in it whatsoever.
“Well, why -” he began, almost defensively, then wasn't sure what he wanted to say. “Why didn't you tell me?” he reprised, lamely.
John grinned. “I need to tell you that it's my birthday? That's not quite how it works, Sherlock.”
Sherlock noted the quirk of amusement around Lestrade's mouth. “How did you know, then?” he said therefore, because it was somehow not acceptable that Lestrade knew about this and Sherlock didn't.
“Facebook,” the D.I. said with a shrug. “Though I've actually got it programmed into my phone since that murder case with the birthdate brands.” He shared a smile with John, and Sherlock frowned. There had, indeed, been a victim with the same birthdate as John, he now recalled, and John had pointed it out. But he hadn't stored it away, of course, because it hadn't been... relevant. Oh.
He stood watching them awkwardly, until Lestrade raised his eyebrows and with a small chuckle turned away to go talk to the officer waiting in the car.
“You okay?” John asked, still smiling that smile that he'd given to Lestrade.
Sherlock scowled lightly. “Evidently I'm okay,” he said.
John looked at him mildly. “I don't really care about my birthday one way or the other, Sherlock. I don't need you to remember it.”
For an insane moment Sherlock felt the urge to say that he had remembered, but that he'd just been pretending not to - to do, um, something, but his brain stopped him before he could, obviously, because even if he could construct a convincing story, which he could, John actually wasn't an idiot, especially not when it came to the way Sherlock navigated social conduct.
“All right,” he therefore said, wondering if he should apologise, because John was rather fond of apologies, and he was slightly surprised to find that he was, in fact, a bit sorry. He filed it away, because there were lots of other times when sorry was a lot more pressing, and saying it too often took away its power, and there were times when he felt it much more, either way. He turned round and looked back at the body, refocusing on the tilt of the girl's head on the asphalt stained even darker with her blood.
Thirty seconds later, he called over to Lestrade, and explained why the murderer was in all likelihood her father or another male family member.
*
“So have you got plans?” he asked John in the cab.
“Hmm?” John said, typing out a reply to presumably another happy birthday text.
“For tonight. Your birthday.” Sherlock rolled his eyes privately.
“Oh,” John responded, pressing his thumb to the phone in the 'send' command, and looked mild and content when he looked at Sherlock, “maybe a pint with Mike or Greg. I dunno.”
“No... party?” Sherlock said, unable to repress the scorn in his voice.
John chuckled. “Not unless you have a surprise party planned.”
And when his phone beeped again, and he took his eyes away from Sherlock, Sherlock was glad for it, because his brain was tugging on his sleeve with maybe you should have a surprise party planned, but that couldn't be right, John would probably think he had a brain tumour if he did something like that, but why had he said it if...?
He blinked to himself a couple of times, and when John looked at him, once more with that mild warmth that suggested that he was really in a very good mood, Sherlock smiled at him almost on impulse and the way John returned it, with a distinct surprise on his face, made the slight discomfort in him twinge even more.
*
“Going out for a bit,” he mumbled back at home, as John settled himself into the couch with the newspaper.
“All right,” his friend hummed, unconcerned, and Sherlock all but fled down the stairs.
Okay, so, he said to himself, as he beat his way down the street, birthdays. He recalled with a sudden, unexpected pang that John had bought him an exquisite set of lenses for his microscope for his birthday five months ago, and how that had improved his entire day - because he didn't actually enjoy having random people who usually scowled at him telling him to have a good day, and he was having a perfectly good day, thank you, until every idiot working for the Met or stupid people on John's blog took it as their duty to let him know that they were thinking of him. The density of brain waves thinking about him was taking away his own ability to think; and then he and John had come home to Mrs. Hudson with his favourite cake, the one with the lemon zest, and John had just handed him the package in an unguarded moment, when Mrs. Hudson was fussing over cutting the pieces to the right size, and it had just had brown paper and a piece of string. John had responded to his eye roll with a grin and had said that he wasn't that bad at deduction, either, at times, and then Sherlock had had to agree, because he hadn't told John that two of his lenses had cracked in the past three weeks, and it was a set of beauty, and before he'd known it he'd gone upstairs with them to go test them out. When he returned back downstairs, having remembered that he was supposed to be having cake with them, John and Mrs. Hudson had been companionably settled in front of the telly, and John had waved him away, saying that they were much better off with him studying the mice cadavers that were stored in the fridge than trying to ruin their programme. So he'd said thank you to John, for all of it, receiving a wide grin in return, and bounded back up the stairs with a plate of lemon zest cake in his hand. It had been quite satisfactory. If he was honest it had been brilliant.
And now he had just forgotten to store John's birthday into his mental calendar. He didn't just not get him anything, but he hadn't remembered. And John was John and was probably completely sincere when he said it didn't matter, but it should have mattered, really, because when he emerged from his case mania or insomnia Sherlock sometimes realised how trying it had to be at times for John to stick with him, but John never even showed the slightest hint of contemplating leaving Baker Street, and it would have been a good way... a very acceptable way... to tell him that it was appreciated.
He walked, his mind hurtling forward. There were several good gifts that he could think of to get John, actually - it wasn't hard to deduce how much John would love the master box set of the old Doctor Who DVDs (though Sherlock wasn't sure he'd survive that, himself) or an updated edition of Il Cucchiaio d'Argento, since his was falling apart on his favourite recipes (and that Sherlock would definitely survive, because John's chicken parmesan was so delicious he sometimes even ate it during cases, and most of John's experiments drawn from The Silver Spoon were quite successful) or a year-long subscription to go see Arsenal play (that would be good, then he wouldn't hog the telly anymore every time they played) or an e-reader so he could take as many terrible crime novels with him on trips as he wanted (also good, then he wouldn't try to slip his novels into Sherlock's luggage anymore when he didn't have enough room). All would have been good gifts. Very good gifts. But he could hardly go out and buy a cookbook or an e-reader and come back with it now, could he? Now that John knew that he hadn't remembered? That would probably be worse.
He fretted for a long while, then decided to just head back. There was nothing he could buy to make it better, so he supposed he'd just have to try to make the rest of John's birthday as pleasant as he could.
*
He came home, went into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on and then thumbed through Il Cucchiaio d'Argento until it fell open the well-worn page of melanzane alla parmigiana. Sherlock had seen him make it several times. Cooking was just pedestrian chemistry, anyway. It really couldn't be that hard. He wrote down the ingredients on a list and tucked it into his trouser pocket.
Then he made John some tea, letting the bag steep for exactly the right amount of time and measuring out the exact quantity of milk he knew John enjoyed, and went over to hand it to him.
“Oh,” John said, jerking out of his newspaper-reading reverie, “thanks.”
“Happy birthday,” Sherlock said, before he could help it.
John froze with the cup halfway to his mouth. Then he grinned. “Is this tea your birthday gift to me?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock said, rapidly. “Just. Happy birthday.”
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, looking far more amused than Sherlock would like, and then took a sip. “Hmm,” he hummed, “that's a good cuppa.”
Sherlock felt oddly pleased with himself at that. “I'm - um - I'm going to the shops,” he then announced.
John half-frowned. “I told you, it's all right. I don't need you to get me anything.”
“No, no,” Sherlock deflected, “for food.”
John frowned fully. “You're going out to buy food?”
“Do try to keep up, John,” Sherlock said, then mentally kicked himself, because he was trying to be nice to John.
“All right, knock yourself out,” John said, looking between mirth and confusion.
*
When he hauled the bags full of aubergine and tomatoes and garlic and the impulsively bought three bottles of Italian wine through the door, John was eating cake with Mrs. Hudson. John's favourite; the one with the blueberries.
“We saved you a slice, dear,” Mrs. Hudson beamed when he came in.
“I'm fine,” he said, then remembered, again, that he was trying to make John's birthday pleasant, so he dumped the bags in the corner, making sure no aubergine peeked out, and took a seat. The cake was good, of course.
“Don't have too much,” he told John without thinking.
John raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because - you'll lose your appetite,” Sherlock said, cursing himself.
John smiled, the mild warmth and mirth there again. “What have you got planned, then?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Sherlock huffed.
“Okay,” John said, and took another bite, staining his lips purple with blueberry.
Mrs. Hudson looked at him and, in a twist of reality that he hadn't known could exist, winked at him.
*
He sent Lestrade a text:
Are you free tonight?
SH
and there was a longer stretch of no response than usual.
um. why?
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
To celebrate John's birthday
at our flat, of course.
SH
He had a moment of regret at inviting Lestrade when he received the
yeah of course! LOL I
thought you were making
a pass at me for a moment.
And he almost broke his phone sending the
Don't ever say something
like that to me again. Ever.
SH
He bounded down the stairs, stuck his head into Mrs. Hudson's flat, and hushedly told her that he'd be cooking for John, and her delight was a bit too loud, but she promised she'd come.
Stamford couldn't make it. Only too well. He was even more irritating than Lestrade when he'd had a drink.
*
John was rubbing at his shoulder halfway through the medical article he was reading on his laptop. Sherlock flopped down on the couch next to him.
“Want me to rub it?” Sherlock said, feeling his face growing a bit hotter.
John turned to him slowly, and the look of wary astonishment on his face was so magnified that Sherlock couldn't help the laugh bursting from his throat at it.
“My shoulder?” John squeaked, looking at Sherlock as though he was one of the rather more interesting aliens on Doctor Who.
“It's hurting. I can tell,” Sherlock said, because backing down now would only be more suspicious. “I'm good at muscle massages.” He didn't add the in theory, because really, there hadn't ever been anyone who had let him give them a muscle massage, but his knowledge of the human anatomy was top notch.
“Of course you are,” John said, still looking at Sherlock's face as though he expected something to sprout from his nose.
“So?” Sherlock urged, growing a little impatient.
“Um,” John said, “all right, I guess?”
Sherlock pressed his palm against the place where he knew the scar to be, first, feeling out how John responded to the pressure, and then he moved on to curling his hand around the muscle connecting John's shoulder to his neck, before rolling around the muscle on the back of his shoulder. John was silent; Sherlock could almost feel his smile.
“Okay,” he said, awkwardly, after a moment of pinching with a bit more harshness at the remaining knot at the point where John's collar bone was a hard boundary under his shirt, unteasing it. Then he took his hand away.
“You are good at that,” John said, mildly.
“Evidently,” Sherlock said.
“Though humility is still not your strongest suit.” John rolled his shoulder, then threw him a broad smile. “Thanks.”
Sherlock hummed in response, and retreated back into the kitchen, pleased with himself.
*
“Sherlock, I haven't even finished this one,” John protested, when Sherlock brought him another cup of tea.
“Ah, yes,” he said, putting it on the table. “I'll just leave it here, then.”
*
“Still haven't finished this one, Sherlock,” John said, eyes sparkling, five minutes later.
“Well, now you can choose which one you want next,” Sherlock said.
*
He was in the midst of texting Molly when it suddenly hit him with a burst of clarity that he was inviting people to dinner in their flat, and that he'd have to be there, too. What was he doing? He looked over at John, who was filling out a cross word puzzle, looking extremely peaceful and happy, and wondered for a short moment if maybe John didn't want to just watch some stupid programme tonight, and maybe he didn't want anyone to come over; he hadn't made any plans on his own, had he?
So he got to his feet, and walked over to where John was sitting, surrounded by tea cups.
“John,” he said, then cleared his throat, “I'm, um, I might have taken the liberty of presuming that you wanted a party tonight.” He waited, but John just looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you?” he added, a bit helplessly.
John laughed a little. “What kind of party?”
“Food,” Sherlock said, feeling ridiculously exposed. “And I've bought wine. And I might have invited Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Maybe Molly.”
John looked at him for a long while with a grin on his face, such a long while that Sherlock started to worry that he'd had an aneurysm. “You tosser,” John finally said, voice dancing with mirth, “that would be lovely.”
Sherlock breathed a small sigh of relief, and worked his phone out of his pocket to finish his text to Molly.
“Will you be here?” John suddenly said.
Sherlock faltered. Maybe John didn't want him around for the party. He remembered the Christmas party John had arranged and how pissed off he'd been at Sherlock talking about Harry and Lestrade's wife and humiliating Molly; Sherlock hadn't quite been able to explain what it had been about that evening that had set his teeth on edge so, but Irene Adler had had something to do with it, and John knew that, but he'd still been quite angry. “I -” he said.
But John cut in: “Because if you aren't, I'd rather you cancelled it and we have a normal night instead.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “No, I was intending on being here.”
“Good,” John said, and turned back to his cross word, looking pleased.
*
“Sherlock, seriously,” John said, exasperated now.
“What? You don't have a cup of blueberry tea yet, have you?” Sherlock defended the cup as he put it on the table with the others.
John was silent for a second. “No, I guess not,” he said, and sounded long-suffering, but when he looked at Sherlock he was smiling.
*
Lestrade was a bit drunk already, but he had an unexpectedly wonderful tenor, and he led everyone in a chorus of and he's a jolly good fellow, while Molly struggled with the cork on another bottle, this one not Italian; Lestrade had brought it. John looked flushed and happy, holding out his glass for her to fill.
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, urgently, catching her as she passed him in the kitchen, “I need you to call the take-out. The Chinese one down the street.”
“Why, dear, what's wrong with what you're making?” She looked a bit worried.
“I switched my liquid nitrogen with the vinegar in a moment of - ah - distraction,” Sherlock hissed.
She was silent for a second. Then said: “Oh dear,” and went down the stairs to go make the call.
Sherlock went back to the table once the singing had settled, because by God, there was a lot he was willing to do for John on his birthday, but sitting through that was expecting a bit too much. Molly was telling John about how she'd met her new boyfriend through a shared love of cats on the internet, and Lestrade saluted Sherlock with his glass, a bit red-faced, smily, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, and then just toasted back, though his glass was still empty.
John was laughing, and then Molly fell into a conversation about flights to Egypt with Lestrade, for some reason, and Mrs Hudson came back in, announced that the Chinese was here. John caught Sherlock's eye over the steaming bags of take-out being heaped on the table, and looked so knowing that Sherlock for a moment wanted to crawl under the table to escape that look. Then, John's face folded into such a grin, such an unbelievable grin of such happiness, that the corners of Sherlock's mouth started travelling upward on their own account, and John held out his glass, and Sherlock scrambled to fill his, and they clinked glasses over Molly struggling with the lid on the fu yung hay. John looked away from him, shaking his head a little in a way that Sherlock knew really meant yes, and then flicked his eyes back to him, and smiled again at their continued eye contact.
Sherlock took a sip of wine. It was German and cheap and quite horrible, and Molly's shrieks were annoying, and Lestrade was laughing far too loudly, and John was irritatingly tipsy, and really, all of it was quite brilliant.
Prompt: They're on a case and Lestrade casually wishes John; "Happy birthday."
Sherlock is stunned that he had no idea.
John isn't angry at him or anything though because that's Sherlock and he wouldn't have expected him to store something as pointless as a birthday in his 'hard drive'.
Sherlock still feels like a crap friend and spends the rest of the day making it up to him. Probably overdoing things a bit.
Original fill here.
Word count: 3,400
Rating: G
Summary: In which Sherlock is a bit out of his depth.
Warnings: THE FLUFFIEST FLUFF TO EVER FLUFF
Notes: all the awards to stjolan for the transcendently wonderful, mind-bogglingly fitting, heart-breakingly gorgeous, tears-inducingly beautiful, adjective-defyingly perfect, clothes-rendingly emotional title. Ilu.
Cups of Tea
Sherlock was tapping his fingers against his mouth, hovering over the corpse of the young woman sprawled over the car park asphalt, eliminating one of the tracks of thoughts unfolding in his mind as he accumulated the data - no, not a hit and run, her money's been taken but her jewelry's still on, when the soft, irrelevant hum of Lestrade and John chatting behind his back suddenly broke through his focus.
“Oh, and happy birthday, by the way,” Lestrade said, and there was a wide grin in his voice, and Sherlock was to his feet and turned around before he knew it, to find a similar grin on John's face.
“Ta, mate,” John said easily, accepting the mately shoulder clap from Lestrade.
“It's your birthday?” Sherlock said, almost in spite of himself, and he hadn't given himself enough time to drain his voice of the note of genuine surprise.
John and the D.I. looked at him, neutrally, mild.
“Well, yeah,” John said, undisturbed.
Sherlock stared at him. Of course he'd noticed John getting an exorbitant, unusual number of texts, but Harry sometimes went a bit overboard when she was either very drunk or very sober, and he also thought it not entirely impossible that John had maybe finally cracked and started dating a sixteen-year-old. And yes, John had been in a fairly good mood for the hour, but he'd had three cups of coffee, and anyway, Sherlock had given up to try to understand the nuances of John's mood in the morning a long time ago, because there was no system in it whatsoever.
“Well, why -” he began, almost defensively, then wasn't sure what he wanted to say. “Why didn't you tell me?” he reprised, lamely.
John grinned. “I need to tell you that it's my birthday? That's not quite how it works, Sherlock.”
Sherlock noted the quirk of amusement around Lestrade's mouth. “How did you know, then?” he said therefore, because it was somehow not acceptable that Lestrade knew about this and Sherlock didn't.
“Facebook,” the D.I. said with a shrug. “Though I've actually got it programmed into my phone since that murder case with the birthdate brands.” He shared a smile with John, and Sherlock frowned. There had, indeed, been a victim with the same birthdate as John, he now recalled, and John had pointed it out. But he hadn't stored it away, of course, because it hadn't been... relevant. Oh.
He stood watching them awkwardly, until Lestrade raised his eyebrows and with a small chuckle turned away to go talk to the officer waiting in the car.
“You okay?” John asked, still smiling that smile that he'd given to Lestrade.
Sherlock scowled lightly. “Evidently I'm okay,” he said.
John looked at him mildly. “I don't really care about my birthday one way or the other, Sherlock. I don't need you to remember it.”
For an insane moment Sherlock felt the urge to say that he had remembered, but that he'd just been pretending not to - to do, um, something, but his brain stopped him before he could, obviously, because even if he could construct a convincing story, which he could, John actually wasn't an idiot, especially not when it came to the way Sherlock navigated social conduct.
“All right,” he therefore said, wondering if he should apologise, because John was rather fond of apologies, and he was slightly surprised to find that he was, in fact, a bit sorry. He filed it away, because there were lots of other times when sorry was a lot more pressing, and saying it too often took away its power, and there were times when he felt it much more, either way. He turned round and looked back at the body, refocusing on the tilt of the girl's head on the asphalt stained even darker with her blood.
Thirty seconds later, he called over to Lestrade, and explained why the murderer was in all likelihood her father or another male family member.
*
“So have you got plans?” he asked John in the cab.
“Hmm?” John said, typing out a reply to presumably another happy birthday text.
“For tonight. Your birthday.” Sherlock rolled his eyes privately.
“Oh,” John responded, pressing his thumb to the phone in the 'send' command, and looked mild and content when he looked at Sherlock, “maybe a pint with Mike or Greg. I dunno.”
“No... party?” Sherlock said, unable to repress the scorn in his voice.
John chuckled. “Not unless you have a surprise party planned.”
And when his phone beeped again, and he took his eyes away from Sherlock, Sherlock was glad for it, because his brain was tugging on his sleeve with maybe you should have a surprise party planned, but that couldn't be right, John would probably think he had a brain tumour if he did something like that, but why had he said it if...?
He blinked to himself a couple of times, and when John looked at him, once more with that mild warmth that suggested that he was really in a very good mood, Sherlock smiled at him almost on impulse and the way John returned it, with a distinct surprise on his face, made the slight discomfort in him twinge even more.
*
“Going out for a bit,” he mumbled back at home, as John settled himself into the couch with the newspaper.
“All right,” his friend hummed, unconcerned, and Sherlock all but fled down the stairs.
Okay, so, he said to himself, as he beat his way down the street, birthdays. He recalled with a sudden, unexpected pang that John had bought him an exquisite set of lenses for his microscope for his birthday five months ago, and how that had improved his entire day - because he didn't actually enjoy having random people who usually scowled at him telling him to have a good day, and he was having a perfectly good day, thank you, until every idiot working for the Met or stupid people on John's blog took it as their duty to let him know that they were thinking of him. The density of brain waves thinking about him was taking away his own ability to think; and then he and John had come home to Mrs. Hudson with his favourite cake, the one with the lemon zest, and John had just handed him the package in an unguarded moment, when Mrs. Hudson was fussing over cutting the pieces to the right size, and it had just had brown paper and a piece of string. John had responded to his eye roll with a grin and had said that he wasn't that bad at deduction, either, at times, and then Sherlock had had to agree, because he hadn't told John that two of his lenses had cracked in the past three weeks, and it was a set of beauty, and before he'd known it he'd gone upstairs with them to go test them out. When he returned back downstairs, having remembered that he was supposed to be having cake with them, John and Mrs. Hudson had been companionably settled in front of the telly, and John had waved him away, saying that they were much better off with him studying the mice cadavers that were stored in the fridge than trying to ruin their programme. So he'd said thank you to John, for all of it, receiving a wide grin in return, and bounded back up the stairs with a plate of lemon zest cake in his hand. It had been quite satisfactory. If he was honest it had been brilliant.
And now he had just forgotten to store John's birthday into his mental calendar. He didn't just not get him anything, but he hadn't remembered. And John was John and was probably completely sincere when he said it didn't matter, but it should have mattered, really, because when he emerged from his case mania or insomnia Sherlock sometimes realised how trying it had to be at times for John to stick with him, but John never even showed the slightest hint of contemplating leaving Baker Street, and it would have been a good way... a very acceptable way... to tell him that it was appreciated.
He walked, his mind hurtling forward. There were several good gifts that he could think of to get John, actually - it wasn't hard to deduce how much John would love the master box set of the old Doctor Who DVDs (though Sherlock wasn't sure he'd survive that, himself) or an updated edition of Il Cucchiaio d'Argento, since his was falling apart on his favourite recipes (and that Sherlock would definitely survive, because John's chicken parmesan was so delicious he sometimes even ate it during cases, and most of John's experiments drawn from The Silver Spoon were quite successful) or a year-long subscription to go see Arsenal play (that would be good, then he wouldn't hog the telly anymore every time they played) or an e-reader so he could take as many terrible crime novels with him on trips as he wanted (also good, then he wouldn't try to slip his novels into Sherlock's luggage anymore when he didn't have enough room). All would have been good gifts. Very good gifts. But he could hardly go out and buy a cookbook or an e-reader and come back with it now, could he? Now that John knew that he hadn't remembered? That would probably be worse.
He fretted for a long while, then decided to just head back. There was nothing he could buy to make it better, so he supposed he'd just have to try to make the rest of John's birthday as pleasant as he could.
*
He came home, went into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on and then thumbed through Il Cucchiaio d'Argento until it fell open the well-worn page of melanzane alla parmigiana. Sherlock had seen him make it several times. Cooking was just pedestrian chemistry, anyway. It really couldn't be that hard. He wrote down the ingredients on a list and tucked it into his trouser pocket.
Then he made John some tea, letting the bag steep for exactly the right amount of time and measuring out the exact quantity of milk he knew John enjoyed, and went over to hand it to him.
“Oh,” John said, jerking out of his newspaper-reading reverie, “thanks.”
“Happy birthday,” Sherlock said, before he could help it.
John froze with the cup halfway to his mouth. Then he grinned. “Is this tea your birthday gift to me?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock said, rapidly. “Just. Happy birthday.”
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, looking far more amused than Sherlock would like, and then took a sip. “Hmm,” he hummed, “that's a good cuppa.”
Sherlock felt oddly pleased with himself at that. “I'm - um - I'm going to the shops,” he then announced.
John half-frowned. “I told you, it's all right. I don't need you to get me anything.”
“No, no,” Sherlock deflected, “for food.”
John frowned fully. “You're going out to buy food?”
“Do try to keep up, John,” Sherlock said, then mentally kicked himself, because he was trying to be nice to John.
“All right, knock yourself out,” John said, looking between mirth and confusion.
*
When he hauled the bags full of aubergine and tomatoes and garlic and the impulsively bought three bottles of Italian wine through the door, John was eating cake with Mrs. Hudson. John's favourite; the one with the blueberries.
“We saved you a slice, dear,” Mrs. Hudson beamed when he came in.
“I'm fine,” he said, then remembered, again, that he was trying to make John's birthday pleasant, so he dumped the bags in the corner, making sure no aubergine peeked out, and took a seat. The cake was good, of course.
“Don't have too much,” he told John without thinking.
John raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because - you'll lose your appetite,” Sherlock said, cursing himself.
John smiled, the mild warmth and mirth there again. “What have you got planned, then?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Sherlock huffed.
“Okay,” John said, and took another bite, staining his lips purple with blueberry.
Mrs. Hudson looked at him and, in a twist of reality that he hadn't known could exist, winked at him.
*
He sent Lestrade a text:
Are you free tonight?
SH
and there was a longer stretch of no response than usual.
um. why?
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
To celebrate John's birthday
at our flat, of course.
SH
He had a moment of regret at inviting Lestrade when he received the
yeah of course! LOL I
thought you were making
a pass at me for a moment.
And he almost broke his phone sending the
Don't ever say something
like that to me again. Ever.
SH
He bounded down the stairs, stuck his head into Mrs. Hudson's flat, and hushedly told her that he'd be cooking for John, and her delight was a bit too loud, but she promised she'd come.
Stamford couldn't make it. Only too well. He was even more irritating than Lestrade when he'd had a drink.
*
John was rubbing at his shoulder halfway through the medical article he was reading on his laptop. Sherlock flopped down on the couch next to him.
“Want me to rub it?” Sherlock said, feeling his face growing a bit hotter.
John turned to him slowly, and the look of wary astonishment on his face was so magnified that Sherlock couldn't help the laugh bursting from his throat at it.
“My shoulder?” John squeaked, looking at Sherlock as though he was one of the rather more interesting aliens on Doctor Who.
“It's hurting. I can tell,” Sherlock said, because backing down now would only be more suspicious. “I'm good at muscle massages.” He didn't add the in theory, because really, there hadn't ever been anyone who had let him give them a muscle massage, but his knowledge of the human anatomy was top notch.
“Of course you are,” John said, still looking at Sherlock's face as though he expected something to sprout from his nose.
“So?” Sherlock urged, growing a little impatient.
“Um,” John said, “all right, I guess?”
Sherlock pressed his palm against the place where he knew the scar to be, first, feeling out how John responded to the pressure, and then he moved on to curling his hand around the muscle connecting John's shoulder to his neck, before rolling around the muscle on the back of his shoulder. John was silent; Sherlock could almost feel his smile.
“Okay,” he said, awkwardly, after a moment of pinching with a bit more harshness at the remaining knot at the point where John's collar bone was a hard boundary under his shirt, unteasing it. Then he took his hand away.
“You are good at that,” John said, mildly.
“Evidently,” Sherlock said.
“Though humility is still not your strongest suit.” John rolled his shoulder, then threw him a broad smile. “Thanks.”
Sherlock hummed in response, and retreated back into the kitchen, pleased with himself.
*
“Sherlock, I haven't even finished this one,” John protested, when Sherlock brought him another cup of tea.
“Ah, yes,” he said, putting it on the table. “I'll just leave it here, then.”
*
“Still haven't finished this one, Sherlock,” John said, eyes sparkling, five minutes later.
“Well, now you can choose which one you want next,” Sherlock said.
*
He was in the midst of texting Molly when it suddenly hit him with a burst of clarity that he was inviting people to dinner in their flat, and that he'd have to be there, too. What was he doing? He looked over at John, who was filling out a cross word puzzle, looking extremely peaceful and happy, and wondered for a short moment if maybe John didn't want to just watch some stupid programme tonight, and maybe he didn't want anyone to come over; he hadn't made any plans on his own, had he?
So he got to his feet, and walked over to where John was sitting, surrounded by tea cups.
“John,” he said, then cleared his throat, “I'm, um, I might have taken the liberty of presuming that you wanted a party tonight.” He waited, but John just looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you?” he added, a bit helplessly.
John laughed a little. “What kind of party?”
“Food,” Sherlock said, feeling ridiculously exposed. “And I've bought wine. And I might have invited Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Maybe Molly.”
John looked at him for a long while with a grin on his face, such a long while that Sherlock started to worry that he'd had an aneurysm. “You tosser,” John finally said, voice dancing with mirth, “that would be lovely.”
Sherlock breathed a small sigh of relief, and worked his phone out of his pocket to finish his text to Molly.
“Will you be here?” John suddenly said.
Sherlock faltered. Maybe John didn't want him around for the party. He remembered the Christmas party John had arranged and how pissed off he'd been at Sherlock talking about Harry and Lestrade's wife and humiliating Molly; Sherlock hadn't quite been able to explain what it had been about that evening that had set his teeth on edge so, but Irene Adler had had something to do with it, and John knew that, but he'd still been quite angry. “I -” he said.
But John cut in: “Because if you aren't, I'd rather you cancelled it and we have a normal night instead.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “No, I was intending on being here.”
“Good,” John said, and turned back to his cross word, looking pleased.
*
“Sherlock, seriously,” John said, exasperated now.
“What? You don't have a cup of blueberry tea yet, have you?” Sherlock defended the cup as he put it on the table with the others.
John was silent for a second. “No, I guess not,” he said, and sounded long-suffering, but when he looked at Sherlock he was smiling.
*
Lestrade was a bit drunk already, but he had an unexpectedly wonderful tenor, and he led everyone in a chorus of and he's a jolly good fellow, while Molly struggled with the cork on another bottle, this one not Italian; Lestrade had brought it. John looked flushed and happy, holding out his glass for her to fill.
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, urgently, catching her as she passed him in the kitchen, “I need you to call the take-out. The Chinese one down the street.”
“Why, dear, what's wrong with what you're making?” She looked a bit worried.
“I switched my liquid nitrogen with the vinegar in a moment of - ah - distraction,” Sherlock hissed.
She was silent for a second. Then said: “Oh dear,” and went down the stairs to go make the call.
Sherlock went back to the table once the singing had settled, because by God, there was a lot he was willing to do for John on his birthday, but sitting through that was expecting a bit too much. Molly was telling John about how she'd met her new boyfriend through a shared love of cats on the internet, and Lestrade saluted Sherlock with his glass, a bit red-faced, smily, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, and then just toasted back, though his glass was still empty.
John was laughing, and then Molly fell into a conversation about flights to Egypt with Lestrade, for some reason, and Mrs Hudson came back in, announced that the Chinese was here. John caught Sherlock's eye over the steaming bags of take-out being heaped on the table, and looked so knowing that Sherlock for a moment wanted to crawl under the table to escape that look. Then, John's face folded into such a grin, such an unbelievable grin of such happiness, that the corners of Sherlock's mouth started travelling upward on their own account, and John held out his glass, and Sherlock scrambled to fill his, and they clinked glasses over Molly struggling with the lid on the fu yung hay. John looked away from him, shaking his head a little in a way that Sherlock knew really meant yes, and then flicked his eyes back to him, and smiled again at their continued eye contact.
Sherlock took a sip of wine. It was German and cheap and quite horrible, and Molly's shrieks were annoying, and Lestrade was laughing far too loudly, and John was irritatingly tipsy, and really, all of it was quite brilliant.