Description: A ficlet for Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday.
John was alerted to Sherlock's entrance with the slam of a door and Mrs. Hudson's usual "Sherlock, don't slam my door, dear." He walked into the living room with his laptop in his hands, seeing his flatmate fall back onto the couch. Sherlock folded his hands on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. John sat down, writing a new blog post about their latest case.
"Happy birthday, Sherlock," he remarked casually as he typed, not looking up from the screen.
Sherlock snapped his head towards John and furrowed his brow. "Who told you?"
"Mycroft called."
"Ahh." Sherlock laid his head back in its place, dark curls bouncing and sliding off his forehead.
"You alright, then?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" His friend replied arrogantly, giving him a questioning look.
"I dunno, Sherlock, does getting older bother you?" John was still looking at the screen, trying to keep the questions light.
"John, you're adorable. Naturally it wouldn't." Sherlock replied, condescension dripping from his tone. He seemed tense, though, at least to John. However, John let the subject drop, pushing himself up to make tea. It was a testament to their friendship that John didn't even exclaim at the bag of fingers he found next to the milk.
John went out for lunch, as Sherlock wasn't hungry. He brought back a slice of cake for the detective anyway, hoping to cheer him up. There hadn't been any good cases for Sherlock in a while, which was a terrible thing, he supposed, for a man like him. Being bored on his birthday - John found it a shame. He caught himself wishing there was a murderous criminal mastermind out there right now, making trouble so Sherlock would have something to do. When he opened the door, Sherlock was in the same position as that morning. John placed the takeout container on the table beside him and laid a fork from the kitchen drawer next to it. Sherlock jolts up in that sharp but graceful manner he has, turning to the box curiously. He peeks inside and then closes it up again.
"Thank you, John," the genius says awkwardly.
His friend smiles. "It's nothing."
After a brief moment of silence, the telly muted in front of them, John continues conversationally, "How old are you, then?" Sherlock tilts his chin and fixes a clear stare on him before giving his attention to the program on the screen. John rolls his eyes and exits to his room, leaving Sherlock alone. He was clearly in one of his moods.
It approached evening, John lying on his bed on his laptop for a few hours. He rose to make dinner, knowing Sherlock wouldn't have eaten anything. He was surprised to find his mate sitting up, his head in his hands, the cake box open and holding only crumbs. The pose was so very un-Sherlock that John was startled into silence. Sherlock looked up.
"I'm thirty seven, John. Thirty seven. Forty is approaching."
John stuttered, at a loss for words. He fumbled around in his mind, coming up only with a disbelieving, "You're worried about getting old?"
Sherlock frowned. "It's a perfectly logical concern. As I age, I will no longer be able to function quite as... Nimbly." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, not John. The doctor sighed and looked down at his leg. Sherlock was not vain, anxious, or anything else that would cause him to worry about something like aging. And yet, John understood.
"Listen, Sherlock," he said quietly. "You're always going to be the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes." His friend drew in a slow, steady breath and nodded. They sat, side by side in companionable silence, for a long while.
