Title: Birthdays
Author: DataAngel (TheNinth) (previously mickeylover303)
Pairing: gen
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters, they are public domain. Anything that resembles Sherlock BBC belongs of course to Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss and is theirs alone. The plot is mine. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is otherwise purely coincidental.
Summary: Birthdays, Sherlock figures, are for people with friends. People who like to be dragged out for drinks and dinners. People who enjoy the small talk and forced pleasantries of social interaction. People not like him.

***

Sherlock never tells anyone when his birthday is. His parents know, obviously. And Mycroft.

It was Mycroft who taught him that birthdays are meaningless. "What did you do other than be born? Mummy did all the hard work. She lugged you around for nine months and went through the pains of delivery. All you had to do was breathe and scream your head off. And then torment me with your very existence."

Birthdays, Sherlock figures, are for people with friends. People who like to be dragged out for drinks and dinners. People who enjoy the small talk and forced pleasantries of social interaction. People not like him.

His parents had a birthday party for him the year he turned seven. They invited many of his classmates. Their parents dropped them off at one and picked them up at three and in-between they ate cake, ran around, spilled brightly-coloured drinks on carpets and furniture, and completely ignored Sherlock, who had climbed a tree and settled in with a good book. No one noticed he skipped his own party.

As an adult he found that one could get along with never mentioning a birthdate. It didn't come up in conversation. It wasn't verified on forms. No one asked for proof, so when pressed to fill it in he would give random dates, usually one or two months prior to the current date.

He seldom lied about the year unless a specific age range was required for access to something (although at thirteen he was disappointed to find he couldn't quite pass for eighteen, but by fourteen-and-a-half after a growth spurt, he had no trouble).

Molly, of course, had tried to find his birth date. Various forms and arrest records contained conflicting information. She asked Lestrade. He had shrugged and said "Not sure he's got one. For all I know he just showed up like that one day -- full grown and full of himself."

Sherlock never tells. John never asks. Randomly, however, John will drop a carefully wrapped package or a brightly-coloured envelope into Sherlock's lap. It's never just once a year. Sometimes it's several months apart. Sometimes it's only days apart. It's never a birthday present because birthdays are for people with friends and Sherlock's just got the one.

As he slides two complete sets of Pro-Arte violin strings from the envelope he knows it doesn't matter that it's one friend. It's the right one.

***