Chapter Two

I remember well that day that I went out with Sherlock Holmes for the first time after he got off of the plane.

I must say that it most likely will pain me to recall all of the events, but I think it will also make me stronger.

We were walking through a park, it doesn't matter which one.  Sherlock was still restless from the Moriarty/Ricoletti case.  (Just watch TAB cause I won't explain Thomas Ricoletti and his abominable wife) Sherlock and I sat down on a bench, which was very unusual for us.  If Moriarty was really back, I would have expected Sherlock to want to be confined to his thoughts to figure out the case, much like any other case.  Instead, he wanted to do this.

It was very silent, and I hated the sound of all that were were not saying.  So much has been going on, lately. I decided to be the one to first make noise.

"So, Moriarty is.... alive?" It was not what I intended, but it worked.

He turned his head slightly.  "No, as I had said before, Moriarty is dead."

"But then, how is he back?"

"I don't know."  Sherlock stared into the distance, and didn't sound like he was going to talk anymore.

As time moved on, we finally went back to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's flat.   I had lived here, before, with Sherlock, but when I married Mary, I moved out.

As we walked in through the door, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was waiting for us.  "Go upstairs, dears," was what she said.  I looked back at Sherlock, and I could tell he was suspicious, too.  We gingerly walked every step, and I listened to the slight creaking.  It was too quiet.

When we got to them top, the lights were off, as we left them.  Sherlock stretched out his arm towards the switch.  I braced myself, but I didn't know why.  Sherlock turned the lights on.

"SURPRISE!"

I was almost knocked off my feet.  Sherlock hadn't flinched, but his eyes were wide.  There were many guests: Mary, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Srg. Donovan, Anderson, even Sherlock's parents sat on the couch, glasses of champagne in their hands.  And, of course, Mycroft sat in the corner, a disgusted look on his face.  There were also banners that said in bright letters,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHERLOCK

"What is this?" Sherlock asked.  I was surprised to hear that he barely had a voice.  "Why are you here?"

I read the bold letters, and my mouth opened a bit.  It was true that I never knew when Sherlock's birthday was.  It had been at least four years since we had first met, maybe five.  I also didn't know exactly how old Sherlock even was.

Everyone in the room was smiling up at Sherlock's passive face, except me and Mycroft.  Sherlock asked again, "What are all of you doing in my flat?"

"Happy birthday, Sherlock!" Greg shouted happily.  "Come here, have a drink!" Lots of other guests yelled their agreements.

Sherlock remained where he was.  I think he was in shock.

"Happy birthday," Mrs. Hudson said as she squeezed past us and into the party.

Sherlock took one step forward, and stopped again.  "It's not my birthday," he said slowly.

"Yes, it is, brother dear.  Learn to accept it." Mycroft's voice rose from the corner.  "You have friends now, and they want to celebrate.  Isn't that nice?" He said it as to mock him.

Sherlock then made his way over to his older brother.  "And I expect that you have leaked the date, since I certainly haven't."

Mycroft smiled.  "My mistake."

Sherlock turned on his heel and went to the front of the room.  "Now, there has been a great misunderstanding," he began.  "Today is not my birthday, nor will any other date in the future be.  Thank you, good bye."

My heart sank along with everyone else's as their happy cheery smiles turned into frowns.  "But Sherlock," his mother said.  "We only want to celebrate! This year is you big 4-0!"

"Shut up," Sherlock grunted through his teeth.  His parents sank low in their seats.

"Forty?" I asked with much curiosity.  "You're seriously forty.  I thought you were younger..."

"Shut up."  Sherlock left, and he went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

I sighed, and every guest sighed, too.  "Welp, What do you say, John? Should we leave?" I heard Donovan ask.  "If Freak won't let us, I say we scatter."

"No!" I found myself yelling.  "It's another decade in Sherlock's life! We have to find out why he hates birthdays...."

Mycroft snorted in the background.  I looked in his direction, but couldn't see him because he was hidden by people.  "Mycroft? Why don't you tell us why Sherlock hates birthdays?"

Mycroft snorted once more.  "He doesn't hate birthdays, he hates attention.  Attention is what he's getting right now.  He doesn't like parties, never have.  He hates gifts, and too many happy people in one room.  We share that, by the way," Mycroft added with his signature, well, "Mycroft" face.  "Sherlock doesn't enjoy the thought of not being young anymore, that factor might play a little bit in this situation, since he has been informed that he is now forty years oold.  He didn't want to hear that."

"Well I'm older than that, what's the big deal?" I asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.  "Oh, I get it," I said, pointing my finger at him.  "You're just going to pull another mild, 'Oh Sherlock is weird, he's just odd, that's all.' Do you ever have any real reasons to help with?"

He shook his head, and took his place in the corner again.  I had had enough of this.  I went into Sherlock's bedroom.

I barged in without knocking, so you could expect the reaction Sherlock gave, or rather, the reaction I gave.  I found Sherlock's feet sticking out from under his bed.  His legs moved when he heard me enter, as if he was hiding something.

"What do you want? Go away."

"It's me, John," I told him.

Sherlock's legs moved once more.  "I know."  I stood there , and the scene got really awkward, really fast, if it could get even more.  Finally, Sherlock started to slip out from under the bed.  He stood, ruffled his curls, and stared at me.  "Why are you still here?"

"Everyone wants to you to come back and join the party," I said.  "It'll be fun."

Sherlock's lips quivered at the ends slightly.  "No, I think I'll stay in here."

There was a knock at the door.  "Guys? It's Mary."

"Come in," was what I had said, but Sherlock sputtered a "No go away!" after it was too late.

Mary sat on the bed, and look at us, who were still standing.  "You two should really come out here, now.  Mrs. Holmes is showing us how to do a perfect George Clooney impression."

I laughed at this.  "Come on Sherlock, for me?"

Sherlock looked up, and stared thoughtfully, but I think he knew he couldn't argue his way out.  "Fiiiiine."

I swear.  Sometimes he whines like a two-year-old girl.