Disclaimer: MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAVE SOME FEELS! So, I'm gonna take a page out of BBC's book and ruin Christmas. I saw the mini-sode, cried my eyes out, cursed Moffat and Gatiss to Tartarus and Hell and every other bad place I could think of, before apologizing profusely and saying no, I didn't want Metatron to eat their hearts. I basically fangirled for 30 minutes, even though the thing was seven minutes long. So, I hope you all enjoy this. I don't own anything except this story.

"Sorry I couldn't be here for your actual birthday," Sherlock began. "But don't worry, I'll be with you very soon. Many happy returns. Many happy birthdays John. I really would be lost without you." The video ended, and John turned to where Sherlock was sitting on the couch. He looked… nervous? That was the only way to describe the combination of his lower lip caught between his teeth, the uncertainty in his eyes, the slight fidgetiness.

"This is my birthday present?" He asked. Sherlock nodded.

"In addition to the essay," he added. John sighed and rolled his eyes. He would toss that essay into the fire next chance he got.

"Didn't spend too much time on it, I hope?" He said casually, getting up to make himself some tea. Sherlock got up as well to pop the disc out.

"Oh, barely any," he said with an airy wave of his hand. Liar, he thought to himself. He had spent a fair ten minutes with Lestrade, trying to make the stupid birthday present perfect. John was his blogger after all, and deserved something special. When he turned around, he was surprised to see John standing right behind him.

"Well, thank you," he said. "It was lovely."

"Was it?" Sherlock asked, slightly shocked. What was lovely about a few simple words? Sherlock supposed it was sentiment, that defect John seemed so partial to. Then again, the fact that Sherlock had done this proved that he was capable of sentiment too. At least a little bit.

"Yes," John replied. "This shows me you aren't an arrogant dick all of the time." Sherlock laughed, and John smiled. Then, on pure impulse, he threw his arms around Sherlock's middle and hugged him. The consulting detective stiffened for a moment, before winding his long arms around John and embracing him as well.

"Thank you Sherlock," John whispered into his flat mate's chest. Sherlock simply pressed his lips ever so slightly against John's hair.

"Happy birthday, John Watson," he responded.

XXX

John had almost thought, foolishly, that when he opened the door, it would be Sherlock, making good on his recorded promise to see him again very soon. This version was different from the one Sherlock had given him, but it was still very much the same. Why? Because it was Sherlock, and this was simply how he was, even when he was trying to be nice. But it wasn't Sherlock at the door. It was only Lestrade, who had apparently forgotten his phone. John sighed, and blinked back tears. He wished that, just as he had after the first message, he could give Sherlock a hug, if only to know for certain that he was still alive, and not the cold body he had been for two years.