and it might sound stupid, but the saddest thing about growing up

[acclimatized]

WHO: john watson (acclimatized) and sherlock holmes (deductives)
WHERE: in their new flat.
WHEN: sunday, the 6th of january.
WARNINGS: sherlock holmes.
SUMMARY: it's sherlock's birthday! john has decided to order chinese and even tried his hand at baking a cake for the occasion. bros being bros.
FORMAT: tagger's choice.

Cooking is much like chemistry. Unfortunately, John had never taken advantage of the equipment set up and dominating most of the kitchen space. When he first moved in with Sherlock Holmes, he had actually tried to clean everything up and move it away from the food.

But through a few passive aggressive remarks and glares from his flatmate, he had learned to leave Sherlock's little home-grown chemistry set alone and gave up, although he did decorate a few things with hanging ornaments and tinsel around Christmas. He got a kick out it and it spruced up the kitchen nicely.

Living in a city, it was easy to order food or go out to eat. John could recognize and treat myocardial infarction, but actually cooking something for himself? He was out of his depth and Mrs. Hudson wasn't downstairs to save his skin this time either.

At least he couldn't cock up the Chinese – he was still waiting on them to deliver the food. For now, he was monitoring the process of the cake baking in the oven, hoping he'd read the instructions on the back of the cake mixture right.

They had been through a lot since coming here, so he at least owed Sherlock this.

Comments

[deductives]

Sherlock hadn't really thought much about his birthday. It's entirely likely, that until he noticed the date on his phone, he'd forgotten it entirely. He usually didn't pay it any mind, but with the date being different from home, his mental calendar had yet to catch up in some ways. Personal remembrances were the last to convert.

So, instead of lying around and demanding people to cater to his whims, which was his impression of most birthdays, Sherlock was out in the city, researching for a minor case he'd picked up involving suspicious bird deaths in Brooklyn. Unlike many of his cases, it necessitated him being out in the day, which John was doubtlessly taking advantage of.

Of course, he didn't really consider how John might be taking advantage until the smell of sweets wafts down the hallway of their new flat. It was a nice upgrade from the MAC, earned with the proceeds of John's clinic work and Sherlock's few cases so far. Still, he didn't remember it smelling like that, though the wood finish on most of their furniture was new and had a pleasant scent.

Sherlock finally opened the front door, no longer just hypothesizing and determined to get to the root of this little domestic mystery.

[acclimatized]

John was gambling on Sherlock being out for most of the day when he put this plan into motion. He enjoyed accompanying Sherlock on his cases, but flapping around after birds in Brooklyn on a Sunday afternoon was something he was not willing to do, even if he hadn't had an ulterior motive to staying behind today.

Besides, John still had a backlog of more interesting things to update about – like how he still had a string of bad luck, what with the sound of the front door being opened sooner than he expected. In one fluid motion, he threw the cake mixture package into the pedal bin next to the fridge, and then turned on his heel to close the door to the kitchen.

[deductives]

Sherlock eyes his friend suspiciously when they close doors behind them in unison. He pulls his scarf loose and sniffs the air again, but the smell was no longer as strong. Could have been from another flat?

"Did you go to the bakery down the street?" he calls out, stepping slowly into the living room. Nothing seemed particularly out of place.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to know that pigeons in the city aren't carrying a deadly virus, so far as I can tell." Foolish for his clients to preemptively assume that, anyway.

[acclimatized]

"... Nooo?" Keeping his back against the door and one hand on the handle, John levels him with a coy look and shrugs his shoulders. It's not technically a lie, since he is trying to bake the bloody thing himself. He had given the cake one final, fleeting look before coming out in the living room, and figured it would be another fifteen minutes before it was done.

"I'm chuffed to bits." John says flatly, though the corner of his lips twitching into a smile betrays his amusement about the whole thing. "Well, it's definitely good news if you're a bird... or you live in Brooklyn."

[deductives]

Sherlock's eyes only narrow at John, but he shrugs off his coat before sitting in his new armchair. No longer leather, but as long as he can curl up his legs and hands into his typical thinking position, it would do.

"Well, there's something baking on this floor." He's luckily distracted by John's comments on his case. "West Nile is a favorite among media scare tactics in America. At the very least I've saved us all from hearing about it for weeks on end when some old woman without heating dies from the flu with a crow outside her window."

[acclimatized]

There is something disapproving in John's gaze as he watches Sherlock plant himself in the armchair and make that remark, lets his comment slide with a sigh of exasperation. He moves away from the kitchen, flexing his hands at his side.

"Didn't pick up any milk, then?"

[deductives]

Sherlock notices John's discontent with that remark, but just shrugs. It hadn't actually happened. Not yet, at least. His shoulders stay hunched when John brings up milk. It was his turn, but hadn't John just bought a gallon?

"...It was still half full this morning." This situation called for optimism. "How much tea did you have after I left?"

[acclimatized]

"Oi, don't judge me." John turns away from the window and waves a finger at Sherlock. He is rapidly thinking how he can drive him out the flat for a little longer and tries a surefire method. Despite Sherlock's complaining, he was getting better at buying the milk now.

"At least I actually drink it. You only use it to grow blimming bacteria." He crosses his arms over his chest and bounces on his feet. "Sooo... yeah, we need some more."

[deductives]

It's fairly obvious that John is trying to get him out of the flat for the time being. He knows it has something to do with that smell, and Sherlock just rolls his eyes. If John picked up another girlfriend while they hadn't been living together, he'd catch on to her eventually.

"Fine." He almost makes to somersault out of his chair, but stands normally and grabs his coat. He's quiet until he gets to the door.

"I hope you preheated the oven first."

[acclimatized]

Despite the attitude from Sherlock, John is secretly thrilled when he stands, but makes sure to keep his face impassive and drifts back toward the kitchen. He's bolstered by his success of pulling the wool over his eyes... up until the moment when Sherlock speaks again.

"I don't know what..." He stops himself mid sentence, submitting to defeat with a slump of his shoulders. "... oh, forget it then. I tried!" Opening the door, he disappears back into the kitchen and floods the room with the sweet smell of cake.

[deductives]

Sherlock wraps his scarf on again and watches John retreat back into the kitchen. He furrows his brow at the strong reaction.

"If you have a date you need to impress, you can just say it outright. I'll be back in an hour."

[acclimatized]

John opens his mouth to deny any such attempt, and then closes his mouth again. Firstly, why would he and secondly, maybe he can actually salvage this shambles of an attempt to restore some normalcy. Not that they've ever been normal, but it’s the thought that counts.

"... Yes." He drawls cryptically from the door and waves him away with a spatula. "See you then."

[deductives]

Sherlock scoffs and heads out the door. Once in the elevator to the lobby, however, he frowns. John was typically discreet about his more short term dalliances, but he wonders briefly if he's missing something.

He pushes that doubt aside and begins towards the corner deli he knows is on the opposite side of their new neighborhood. He eats up time that way, and also browses a few of the local shops, if only to ingratiate himself with locals to an extent.

Fifty five minutes later, he's back at the door, plastic bag in hand.

"I hope I don't have to knock." Perhaps they should reestablish the doorknob notice system.

[acclimatized]

And John used the extra fifty-five minutes productively. Though admittedly, he did spent some time questioning whether he should have just ordered from the bakery down the road, while a good portion of it was spent icing the cake and picking up the delivery from the door.

"No, you're good." He calls from the kitchen. Though the cake, sitting on the table amidst laboratory equipment, pales in comparison to what Mrs. Hudson can rustle up in an afternoon, his attempt turned out better than he was expecting. It's not completely flat.

"You can come in now, if you want."

[deductives]

The smell of baking now mingles with a far more familiar scent of take away. Sherlock can't hear anyone else in the flat, which is a relief, if not a confusing one. He opens the door and still enters cautiously.

When he takes off his coat and enters the kitchen, his miscalculations slowly start to dawn on him. It was January, yes, and--

"...John?"

[acclimatized]

"Happy Birthday." Not for the first time today, John wishes he had a camera ready. Having photographic evidence of Sherlock Holmes chasing birds and looking dumbfounded over a cake would have made fantastic blackmail material. Well, he can make do with the punch of satisfaction in seeing he managed to fool the detective.

[deductives]

Birthday? Sherlock remembered Christmas passing, possibly New Year, but had it been a week since then already? Or had so little time passed? He takes out his communicator and checks the date. Indeed, January 6th. He'd been caught up in his work and the move, so holidays hadn't cushioned him like they normally did. That and the shift in dates from home didn't help matters.

Either way, Sherlock rarely made much of a to-do about his birthday-- just another day. But to see John go out of his way for something so trivial as this, and for him, it allows Sherlock's cynicism to soften. He's easy to please when things almost seem normal again.

"Ah. Dim sum. Your taste has improved." Of course, he knows John ordered it because it was Sherlock's favorite. Sherlock still isn't easily able to express gratitude, even when he feels it.

[acclimatized]

"Oh, cheers!" John retorts, his tone bone dry. Deciding what food to order was an easy choice to make. When Sherlock cracked a case and finally agreed to eat something, he usually elected for Chinese food. It's only right he should indulge the younger man on his birthday, even if this is a sobering occasion; he had been writing a eulogy two months ago.

He pushes a sigh through his nose. Alternate dimensions and different timelines was something he was still having trouble wrapping his head around. "Got a couple of beers in the fridge, if you want one."

[deductives]

Sherlock looks down at his shoes in a rare show of genuine bashfulness. He's fully aware of the situation's irony.

"Yes. If you can stomach the American stuff."

He looks at the cake. It's a little bit sad but entirely sincere in its presentation. A strange surge in his chest makes Sherlock sigh as well; he feels like a fool. Only someone used to being around him or extremely observant might recognize the slight tinge of pink crawling up his neck. Sometimes, only when flattered, Sherlock Holmes can have the emotional display of a prepubescent girl.

"John, you... didn't have to do this."

[acclimatized]

With his back to Sherlock, John doesn't notice his friend is blushing until he turns around, a bottle of beer in each hand. Amusement flickers across his face and pulls up on his lips, before his expression settles into one of complete earnestness.

"I wanted to. It's not much, what with the deposit and the move and..." John shrugs, deciding to leave out the cheque he wrote for the landlord of the MAC. Relations between the natives and the imports were tense enough without him exacerbating it by ruining properly and bolting. It gave him peace of mind, even if the cost burned a hole in his pocket.

"I owe you, okay?"

[deductives]

Things like that were what made John and Sherlock a good team; he would have left without so much as a notification. He sits down at the table with his beer and pops the cap. The rough callouses from chemical burns and god knows what else on his fingers let him do it without flinching.

The only flicker across his face comes when John says that he owes Sherlock. The detective's gaze falls to the inside of his bottle at that. If anything, it's the opposite.

"You... don't owe me anything."

[acclimatized]

John lapses into an uncomfortable silence when he sees that look flash across Sherlock's face. After a moment of struggling to pop his own beer cap (shouldn't this be easier now, he thinks), he finally slides into the chair opposite and wets his lips thoughtfully.

"Preeeetty sure I'd still be picking splinters out of my hand." He remarks eventually, deciding to pursue that approach rather than flat out ask 'why are you giving me that face'.

"Don't argue with your doctor."