The good doctor was, at this point, in no mood to celebrate anything or anyone, much less his stupid, intractable, impossible flatmate whom everyone was insistent on feting in their most disreputable way. "I hate you so much," John muttered as he walked upstairs and into the flat proper, barely registering the colorful streamers someone like Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully tacked up along the wall.

"Is that any way to greet the man whose birthday it is today?" Sherlock sniffed, from somewhere out of sight. "You should be in a better mood, even if my brother did give you a ride home."

The sandy-haired man made a face, which he was sure Sherlock could sense, but didn't much care. Tired and weary, he felt the need for a cup of tea rather than hand over his flatmate's gift from Molly, so that's what he did first. He felt himself relax as the kettle whistled, and he poured the hot water into the teapot. He could hear Sherlock moving restlessly about the flat, but he didn't care, he was having tea first. After about a minute, he poured himself a cup of tea, and closed his eyes, as if wishing the day's odd events would wash away with the scent of brewed caffeine. Nope, not working. Oh well, he thought, sipping his tea, and counting down when Sherlock would give in and storm into the kitchen in bedrobe and slippers. Three, two, -

"Right, fine," Sherlock was practically in his face, his light blue eyes staring sharply at him, inspecting him under a curly mop of dark hair. "Well, you've had a busy day at the surgery, short as it was."

"Quite right," John said mildly, not bothering to elaborate.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed under his light brown eyebrows, and John could almost swear he saw sparks flying off his friend's dark curly hair. Almost, not quite. One of these days, however, Sherlock might work himself into a tear and pace around enough to get static electricity, but until that time, poetic license must be made. "Mm, Lestrade, Donovan, pity Anderson wasn't there, too," the taller man murmured.

John nodded. "Go on." He took another good swallow of tea as deductions from observations leapt to his flatmate's mind, transferring it to his face and his movement.

"A bunch of snifflers – you have washed your hands properly, correct?" Sherlock added, stepping back, and John rolled his eyes. "Right. Wait. What?"

He leaned close to John, then sniffed. "The woman? She was there and not here?" he stared hard, then yanked down the collar.

John felt himself blushing, even though he knows he shouldn't. Fidgeting, he handed over the mobile. "She really should have saved me the trouble and come here instead," he said.

"Fine," Sherlock repeated, not really paying attention now that his focus was on the sweat on his flatmate's collar. "Moriarty, too? And repeating his little bomb vest thing, how boring."

The doctor nodded. "Honestly, they should just stick to leaving messages on our blogs."

"Well, they did that, too," Sherlock sniffed. "Happy birthday," he pitched his voice higher, "love, Molly. Oh, it's your birthday, then? Happy bday from Harry." His voice went a little deeper but younger and geekier, "Happy bday from your biggest fan Jacob Sowersby. No, I'm his biggest fan. Happy birthday, Sherlock Holmes. theimprobableone. Biggest birthday wishes, C Melas." He lowered his voice, but not by much for the next few, "Happy birthday, Sherlock! Mike Stamford. Happy birthday, mate! Bill Murray. I'm sure you and John enjoyed my gift, anonymous." He shot a look at John, who shrugged. "That last was probably Moriarty."

"Probably?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Most likely," Sherlock glowered.

"Yoo-hoo, happy birthday, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up from the stairs. John turned to see their landlady, done up like she's out for a date in a festive blue dress, quickly ran to help her with the cake, which was lit up with a single candle. "Oh, do cheer up, Sherlock, it's your birthday," she clucked.

"I can't help that," he said, but dutifully pasted on a smile and blew out the candle. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

The elderly lady beamed. "Oh, it's not a problem," she said, "I saw John come in looking so tired, I knew he'd forgotten to bring up the cake." While she sent a wink towards John when Sherlock's back was turned, nobody doubted that Sherlock knew and smirked at them anyways. "By the way, what's that?" she pointed at the container by John's feet.

"Oh, this? It's from Molly," John said lightly, and handed it over to Sherlock.

The tall man raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. "Something organic," he murmured, "and yet not." When he opened it, there was a slight "whoosh" and Sherlock's eyebrows nearly came off with the blue flames that erupted from within. "Hang on – Molly gave this?" he asked.

Now John's cheered up, and his grin is from ear to ear. "Yep," he said, folding his arms as he watched the frozen fingertips blaze merrily from the mini-icebox, just as promised. "Hand of Glory, just for you. Happy birthday, Sherlock."

His flatmate seemed to be re-evaluating his estimation of the awkward mortician. "Well," he said at last, "she does have some brains under all that hair."

The doctor rolled his eyes, while their landlady clucked again and wondered aloud, "What are young ladies up to these days?"

Then Sherlock smiled at him. "Would you like a picture of this for your blog?"

"Of course," John grinned, and Sherlock worked to arrange the hand so it looked like it was his coming out of the robe's sleeve. "Say cheese."

"Bratwurst," Sherlock deadpanned, and as Mrs. Hudson snorted, John got in a couple of shots on his mobile phone. "Actually, why don't we just send this to Molly?"

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows, but smiled a little. Yeah, once in a while, Sherlock could be human. "All right."

Then Sherlock looked musingly at the hand, whose glowing fingertips were fading to a dull waxy finish. "And send a copy to me, too. I think it should be my personal wallpaper."

Of course. Why share it with the world when you can keep it to yourself? John doesn't say this out loud, but he knows Sherlock knows he's thinking it. His tongue sticks out a bit as he sends copies over to Molly and Sherlock, not realizing he's doing so. And yeah, he's keeping this. It looks too funny, like his flatmate's some kind of mad magician. He doesn't realize there's a smile on his face as he scolds, "I hope you put an end to this nonsense, because this is not happening next year. Got that?"

"Nonsense? You mean people giving you extra attention, all because of little old me?" Sherlock batted his eyes, and John made a face. "Come on, it was fun, wasn't it? Or would you rather be chasing clues left and right for a birthday gift at the end?" he says with a devilish grin.

"Neither," John said with a straight face, "in fact, all I want is a nice quiet celebration, a bit of tea, some cake, just like this. And to see your hair actually on fire. That's all."

Now Sherlock's eyebrows go up, and before long, they're both cracking up, with Mrs. Hudson shaking her head, but giggling also.

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, SHERLOCK!