sobota
in
team_savvy
blow out all your candles
blow out all your candles
bbc sherlock, sherlock & john friendship
g
no warnings
617 words
this is a derivative fan-work, no profit is being made
for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic
The pain in John's shoulder wakes him up, and he blinks into the shadowy darkness. The sky was lightening, and a quick fumble for his phone tells him it's four-thirty in the morning. He sighs and sits up, rubbing his shoulder before sliding on his house slippers and stretching. His shoulder pops and he groans in soft satisfaction.
He makes his way down the stairs, skipping over the one in the middle that groans, but his politeness is for naught as Sherlock is awake, or hasn't slept, or any combination of the two.
"Morning," John mumbles. "Where'd you put the Deep Heat?"
"Next to the peas," Sherlock says. "What is the Latin name for ricin?"
"Ricinus communis," John replies, and pushes the tin of peas to the side and nods when he sees the Deep Heat. He rubs it into his shoulder and takes a deep sigh of relief.
"Is it really the thirteenth of April?" John asks when he spies a calendar pinned next to the refrigerator.
"All day," Sherlock mutters, scribbling something on a sheet of paper.
"Huh," John says and puts on the kettle.
+++
John hates working on his birthday, but April thirteenth is not a special day in anyone's calendar; it's barely even a special day in his. He's thirty-nine this year. His sister did not call, or text, and the post had been nothing but junk.
He sees some regular patients, and a little girl whose birthday is also the thirteenth of April, so he gives her a sugar-free lollipop and her choice of stickers, and her mother smiles gratefully at him. He winks at the girl. "It's my birthday too, as well," he says.
"Ah, you're a dear, working on your birthday," the mother says, and John smiles and thanks her.
+++
John's leg has been unsteady lately, and he has taken to keeping his cane at his office. Most days, he is able to ignore the pain, or keep it down to a dull throb, but psychosomatic doesn't mean fake and John's general ennui and sadness at being forgotten on his birthday is making it difficult to give all his attention to keeping his limp at bay.
He stands in the frozen foods aisle, contemplating the dim sum, and wonders if Sherlock would like to go out. He could pretend it was for his birthday.
Thai tonight. Need ink for a Bic refillable. Size four. SH
John hobbles out of the grocery and heads for a stationary shop. He might pick up something nice for himself.
+++
John stops in the doorway of the kitchen and opens his mouth, changes his mind, and closes it again. There is a birthday cake, a small box, and a card sitting on the island. The island, it must be said, looked at least moderately clean, as much as anything could be tidy or clean in 221B Baker Street.
"Is that...?"
"Well, it certainly isn't my birthday," Sherlock says. "You really think I would have forgotten?"
"Never told you," John replies.
"Not necessary." Sherlock waves a bored hand. "Mrs Hudson made the cake, she's very upset you didn't tell her."
John hands Sherlock his ink and goes to pick up the card. He opens it and finds a very nice card signed by Sherlock, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He sticks it onto the fridge and goes to open the box.
It's a new mug; a bright blue one with Chinese writing on one side. John laughs. "Thank you," he says softly, and Sherlock shrugs one shoulder easily.
"Cake?" John asks.
"You don't want dinner first?"
John starts a search for the cleanest knife he can find. "It's my birthday. Dessert first, then dinner."
bbc sherlock, sherlock & john friendship
g
no warnings
617 words
this is a derivative fan-work, no profit is being made
for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic
The pain in John's shoulder wakes him up, and he blinks into the shadowy darkness. The sky was lightening, and a quick fumble for his phone tells him it's four-thirty in the morning. He sighs and sits up, rubbing his shoulder before sliding on his house slippers and stretching. His shoulder pops and he groans in soft satisfaction.
He makes his way down the stairs, skipping over the one in the middle that groans, but his politeness is for naught as Sherlock is awake, or hasn't slept, or any combination of the two.
"Morning," John mumbles. "Where'd you put the Deep Heat?"
"Next to the peas," Sherlock says. "What is the Latin name for ricin?"
"Ricinus communis," John replies, and pushes the tin of peas to the side and nods when he sees the Deep Heat. He rubs it into his shoulder and takes a deep sigh of relief.
"Is it really the thirteenth of April?" John asks when he spies a calendar pinned next to the refrigerator.
"All day," Sherlock mutters, scribbling something on a sheet of paper.
"Huh," John says and puts on the kettle.
+++
John hates working on his birthday, but April thirteenth is not a special day in anyone's calendar; it's barely even a special day in his. He's thirty-nine this year. His sister did not call, or text, and the post had been nothing but junk.
He sees some regular patients, and a little girl whose birthday is also the thirteenth of April, so he gives her a sugar-free lollipop and her choice of stickers, and her mother smiles gratefully at him. He winks at the girl. "It's my birthday too, as well," he says.
"Ah, you're a dear, working on your birthday," the mother says, and John smiles and thanks her.
+++
John's leg has been unsteady lately, and he has taken to keeping his cane at his office. Most days, he is able to ignore the pain, or keep it down to a dull throb, but psychosomatic doesn't mean fake and John's general ennui and sadness at being forgotten on his birthday is making it difficult to give all his attention to keeping his limp at bay.
He stands in the frozen foods aisle, contemplating the dim sum, and wonders if Sherlock would like to go out. He could pretend it was for his birthday.
Thai tonight. Need ink for a Bic refillable. Size four. SH
John hobbles out of the grocery and heads for a stationary shop. He might pick up something nice for himself.
+++
John stops in the doorway of the kitchen and opens his mouth, changes his mind, and closes it again. There is a birthday cake, a small box, and a card sitting on the island. The island, it must be said, looked at least moderately clean, as much as anything could be tidy or clean in 221B Baker Street.
"Is that...?"
"Well, it certainly isn't my birthday," Sherlock says. "You really think I would have forgotten?"
"Never told you," John replies.
"Not necessary." Sherlock waves a bored hand. "Mrs Hudson made the cake, she's very upset you didn't tell her."
John hands Sherlock his ink and goes to pick up the card. He opens it and finds a very nice card signed by Sherlock, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He sticks it onto the fridge and goes to open the box.
It's a new mug; a bright blue one with Chinese writing on one side. John laughs. "Thank you," he says softly, and Sherlock shrugs one shoulder easily.
"Cake?" John asks.
"You don't want dinner first?"
John starts a search for the cleanest knife he can find. "It's my birthday. Dessert first, then dinner."