Fic- The Game is On Challenge Entry
John hadn’t really been expecting anything for his birthday.
The people at work didn’t know, Harry couldn’t remember her own and Sherlock- well, Sherlock clearly didn’t care.
And yet, John couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment as his birthday came and went with not a word from the consulting detective. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock didn’t know. At this point, Sherlock had probably deduced that he had been in love with his primary school teacher, Ms. Wilshire. But if he did know, he wasn’t letting on and business had continued as usual.
John had continued as usual as well. If there was one thing John was good at, it was pretending that everything was fine.
But it still hurt. A little.
~
“Hello?”
John’s voice echoed up the stairs, in that peculiar way that only ever occurred when 221B was completely empty. There were no sounds coming from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and the only light was the dim hallway light, flickering slightly. He’d have to change the bulb later.
He climbed the stairs into the semi-dark, the steps creaking below him. Each creak poked at the something that had been building up in John’s chest since last week. It had been slowly growing- a ball of pressure that felt like it was suffocating him. And with it came regular twinges in his leg, causing him to grip suddenly at his desk, or fall into his chair without warning. John knew what that meant, but chose to ignore it, swallowing down the lump and getting back up again. He ignored the quiet in his head and the tremor in his hand and he now ignored the darkness as well.
He reached the top of the steps, limping ever-so-slightly and turned his key in the lock. The door swung open to an empty flat and John didn’t even bother turning on the light. He made his way to his chair and collapsed into it. He couldn’t even find the will to make tea. That fact lit a warning signal in John’s brain, but he pushed it away.
Everything is fine, John Watson told himself, sitting in the empty darkness.
~
He must have dozed off at some point, and John startled awake with a crick in his shoulder. Something felt strange- the hairs at the back of his neck prickled, and Soldier John was immediately alert.
There- again. There was a noise coming from the cupboard in the hall.
John got up and silently made his way to his desk. He took out his keys and unlocked the drawer, removing his gun. Then, without a sound, he crossed the room to the hall and stopped before the door of the cupboard.
Light was peeking through the crack and John listened for a moment.
A small whiny noise and something like a snuffle came from inside. Frowning, John slowly turned the handle and opened the door, only to be met with a large and festively wrapped box with a removable lid. There were holes punched in the sides and a note had been left on top. He picked up the plain piece of paper.
John,
Happy Birthday, belated.
Sherlock
John could feel the lump dissipating from his chest, to be replaced with one of quite a different sort in his throat. He knelt down next to the box and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, snuggled in one of his old jumpers, was a tiny little bull-pup, fast asleep. It snuffled again, burrowing more deeply into the jumper, and John could just make out the name ‘Gladstone’ on the collar.
Careful not to wake the pup, John pulled the box out of the cupboard and settled down, with his back to the wall, on the floor next to it.
~
When Sherlock returned half an hour later, he found the two of them fast asleep, John’s service revolver on the floor, forgotten.