Ahaha. Wrote this short story like, a year ago or so. Anyway, now you guys get to be subjected to the horror. Oh, the humanity! Anyway, read it. Review it. REVIEW IT. Sherlock Holmes isn't mine in the least bit.

"Curse this dreary London weather!" Dr. John Watson exclaimed angrily, as he hurried down the cobblestone streets, a parcel in hand, in the direction of 221B Baker Street. The rain that poured down caused water to run into the streets, soaking his clothes from top hat to pant sleeve. Watson, in an uncharacteristic move, had forgotten his umbrella despite his usual demeanor - worried, and always prepared for the worst eventuality. And now he cursed himself for it.

Time was of the essence, and Watson narrowly evaded collisions with passers-by on his left, right, and anyone in the general area as he trotted briskly, resisting the urge to break into a run. This garnered no small amount of dirty looks from said passers-by, but this time, Watson had no time for apologies. He was in too much of a hurry to deliver the parcel.

The package in question had been long awaited, and it was to Watson's greatest chagrin that it took so long for him to receive it in the first place. After all, he was the type of person who wanted everything planned out and prepared months, or at least a couple weeks before the event itself. It had cost him a good deal of money, but he thought that it would be worth it.

The event? His dear friend, Sherlock Holmes' birthday, of course. Even if the chances of Holmes actually remembering his birthday were slim indeed, Watson still wanted to do something to commemorate this day, something that at least other people would regard as important, for his best friend. Watson was probably more aware of this day than anyone else, even the birthday-celebrator himself. And he really hoped Holmes would be home, at the very least, to get the present. And that was why he was hurrying. Hopefully, no clients would be making surprise visits today.

Upon arriving at the residence at long last, he saw the light on upstairs, and breathed a sigh of relief. Giving himself a second to breathe, he checked the present, making sure everything was in order, from the meticulously scrawled "To Holmes" on the tag (Watson actually spent a long time making sure the print looked good, yet that it didn't look like it was thought out too much), to the plain paper it was wrapped with. Watson was aware how Holmes found unnecessary pomp distasteful. He stuffed the present in his jacket, so Holmes wouldn't see it, and he opened the door with his key.

Upon entering, he was greeted by Holmes, who was sitting at the table, plucking at his violin. "Why, hello there Watson! Did anyone tell you that you are completely soaked?"

In his nervousness, Watson was startled by the sudden greeting. It was notoriously hard to hide things from Holmes. Trying to act indifferent as usual, he rolled his eyes and replied, "Why yes, Holmes! Your skills never cease to amaze one such as myself. For your information, I had not expected it to rain when I left, hence, I did not bring an umbrella with me."

"And for your information Watson, the sky looked absolutely tempestuous when you ran out of the house in a hurry. Or did you not notice somehow?"

"Very amusing, Holmes. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to find a change of clothes, because I am sopping wet."

"What's in the package?"

"...What package? I...I don't know what you are talking about." Watson shrugged, hoping to give the impression of genuinely not knowing.

"Don't play dumb with me, Watson." Sherlock was a hard man to fool.

"I assure you, I would never dream of it. ...But I really don't know what you are talking about."

"It's in your jacket. I can see it from here. Give it up, now."

"Okay, okay. All in due time...and it would be bad if I stayed in this clothes until I caught cold, wouldn't it?"

"Nonsense. There is nothing modern medicine can't do these days. And I was always such a fan of blood-letting, too. The point is, a cold won't kill you. So now that you mention it..." and with that, he casually strolled over to the staircase, went up two steps, and sat down. "If you want your dry clothes, you're just going to have to show me the thing."

"Damn it all, Holmes, you infuriate me so much. Just let me change, and I'll show you the damn thing then."

"Language, Watson. Why so defensive? Is it a trinket for your secret lover? Your reddening earlobes seem to testify that is the case."

"Oh, how did you know? Wrong, Sherlock. My ears are turning red because my impatience at your antics is turning into anger."

"Yep, it's definitely for your secret lover. So, who is she? When do I get to meet her? Or perhaps it's a he? Planning on getting married? You can't hide anything from me, y'know."

At this point, Watson's patience tank was running low - even though years of living with Holmes had increased his reserve greatly, there was an end to it, and that end was in sight. He swore, and attempted to run up the stairs while Holmes was taunting him, managing to squeeze past Holmes in the stairway (not without some resistance, and a small scuffle made up of Holmes trying to grab Watson's feet) and turn into his room, deftly locking the door.

"Christ." Watson slumped down to the floor and tossed the present on the bed. After he'd changed his dry clothes, he turned around to fetch the present and properly present it to Holmes, but as he did so...who should it be, but none other than Sherlock Holmes sitting on the bed, examining the modest-looking parcel with a curious expression on his face. "So it was for me, in the end?"

"Yes, Holmes, it was." Watson admitted, defeated.

"...But...why? It's not some sort of bomb, is it? You haven't finally decided to do away with me, have you? I apologize for the violin-playing in the early hours of the morning, if that's what did it." The more he talked, the more he seemed to convince himself it really was a bomb, and that Watson had indeed gotten annoyed at him enough to try and assassinate him. Watson thought it was only fair to calm poor Holmes down.

"No, Holmes, I continue to tolerate all your albeit annoying habits, and assure you that I'm not planning on getting rid of you anytime soon. You want to know what this is for? Happy birthday, Sherlock!"

"...Really now? Oh yes! That's right. It is my birthday today, isn't it?"

"Yes, I figured you would forget. So? Open it already."

And with that, Holmes carefully undid the string that tied the wrapping paper together, and revealed a box. Inside the box, was a shiny new pipe.

This was another instance in which Watson witnessed one of Holmes' rare bouts of laughter, and eventually he admitted, embarrassed and flustered, "Why, this is actually quite sweet of you, Watson. I thank you."

And Watson blushed.

(The end, thanks for reading, now...REVIEW. Love! :D)