Teenlock - Tumblr Posts
Sherlock never cared much for his own birthdays anymore.
There had been a time where he had run down the stairs on the mornings of the 6th of January to find his mother already at work in the kitchen and his father bright-eyed and with a wide smile as he pretended not to remember his youngest’s birthday. Mycroft would always be down later, ruffling Sherlock’s hair as his brother’s interest was completely absorbed by whatever gift his parents had gotten him - he knew Mycroft would have left his own gift on Sherlock’s pillow.
After Mycroft left for uni, the birthdays had never felt quite the same anymore and Sherlock’s enthusiasm lessened each passing years until it was his time to go to uni. By that time he had stopped celebrating completely.
The months and years sort of blended together after he discovered cocaine and it wasn’t until he was left shaking and vomiting in a dingy alleyway somewhere that he spotted the date on a discarded newspaper.
6th January 2006.
To this day he still didn’t know exactly why he chose that night to call his brother and ask for help.
That next year he was so deeply involved in solving a gruesome triple murder that he didn’t even notice he was another year older until January had passed in its entirety. And so he drifted on. Constantly alternating between boredom, craving the high only cocaine could give him - but never giving in - and chasing the high the cases would provide him for as long as possible.
Lestrade had chastised him once, after one to many close call with the wrong end of a knife, that Sherlock might well be in the danger of having celebrated his last birthday already and to be honest, Sherlock hadn’t been able to care less. His last birthday had been the 6th of this month, 2010. His parents had sent a card, Mycroft had stayed silent. Lestrade didn’t even know. Sherlock decided it was alright.
A few weeks later, he suddenly found himself with a friend.
John Watson’s appearance in his life was like a breath of fresh air after staying underwater too long. A sudden burst of light after crawling around with your head down. And with John came the undying loyalty Sherlock never thought he’d deserve.
They bickered, they went on cases, they laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks, they had take-away and saved each other. Over and over again in so many ways.
When John had noticed the card his mother had send him in 2011, he seemed properly ashamed of himself for never asking Sherlock’s birthday. ‘Next year,’ he promised after Sherlock ensured it was quite alright. ‘Next year.’
Next year Sherlock found himself dead.
During those years there was no time to think of birthdays. Or Christmases. Or any other day to be honest. Sherlock was often reminded of the days he spent in search of cocaine - the days and months and years all blended together until he found his head being lifted by his brother, announcing to him he could go home.
That next birthday was forgotten - again - by both John and Sherlock. John was too busy with the preparations for his wedding and Sherlock was too busy trying to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the mere thought of John standing in front of an altar. Without him.
The pain felt as Mary shot him in the chest was nothing compared to the pain he had felt when John had said ‘I do’ to another. Sherlock severely doubted he would live to see his next birthday at all.
But he did. Despite being shot, despite having killed, despite accepting his death sentence - because, honestly, what was the point of even trying to stay and fight? - despite Moriarty’s and Mary’s attempts, he found himself alive on the 6th of January 2015.
Tea was waiting for him in the kitchen of 221B - Sherlock still had remind himself every morning that John was back - and he could hear the agonisingly slow typing of his flatmate. He made his way to the living room, cup of tea in hand.
‘You still haven’t given up that blog?’ Good morning, John.
‘If you stop reading, I’ll give up writing.’ Morning, Sherlock.
Sherlock huffed and took a careful sip of his tea. That was when he saw it. The envelope addressed to him in his mother’s handwriting. Next to John’s laptop.
John followed his gaze. ‘Came this morning.’
‘The woman never gives up,’ Sherlock muttered. He moved in to grab the envelope - read it before tossing it away like he always did - but something in John’s gaze stopped him.
‘I didn’t get you a gift,’ he admitted. ‘With all that has happened, it sort of sl…’
‘Yes.’ Sherlock didn’t want him to finish that sentence for some reason. Next year, he told himself. He would fight for next year.
John rose from his seat them, moving closer to him. Sherlock could barely stand looking at John from up close. The brightness of his eyes was near blinding and there wasn’t a single line on that face that Sherlock’s didn’t want to touch. He wanted to kiss the angry bruise on John’s temple - courtesy of Mary - taste those slightly chapped lips for himself.
Something must have shown on his face, because John suddenly takes a deep breath. Steeling himself; Sherlock has seen him do it before. Gently, John takes the cup of tea from Sherlock’s hand and he feels like his heart is going to burst. He doesn’t dare to hope, but he does anyway and he fails to catch John’s muttered ‘please don’t let me be wrong’ over the roaring in his ears and then John’s lips are on his own.
The kiss is slow. Soft. A perfect mirror for all the years it took for them to get here. Sherlock isn’t aware that he is holding on to John’s jumper until the older man wraps him arms around him to pull him closer, deepening the kiss at the same time. But it is still slow, as if they have all the time in the world and perhaps, Sherlock thinks as they pull away gasping, they do now. Finally.
‘Happy birthday, Sherlock.’
Yes, Sherlock thinks and he smiles. Yes it is.
