Birthday

The door yawns opens and John bends to pick up the post.

His boots clomp up the wooden steps of the flat as he rifles through the crisp envelopes. Bills, bills and … how surprising, another bill.

Dropping the post onto the kitchen bench, he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

Tea. He needs tea.

Filling the kettle and setting it to boil, he peeks into the living room and wonders at the stillness of the flat. He's used to silence, but the complete serenity of the air within 221b has him wary.

The front door crashes open.

"John!" comes the shout.

Sherlock thumps up the stairs and halts on the landing, breathing hard. He strides into the kitchen, eyes alighting on John.

John sees the energy fizzing behind those eyes and smiles.

"Case?" John throws a brief rueful look at his empty mug.

Sherlock's lips quirk, "Coming?"

John nods and follows the detective.

They catch cabs, pick apart crime scenes, wait and pace and think. John thinks he loves this part just as much as the next.

Sherlock has his hurricane, lightning strike moment; they run and run and run.

Winding down, he sits in the back of an ambulance watching Sherlock show off and petulantly huff at the medics cleaning his grazed hands. John smiles.

He's had a fantastic birthday.