A/N Hey! This is just a little H/C birthday themed 5 +1. No slash intended but slash can be read into whatever, so it depends on who you guys ship really :)
Got the idea for a birthday themed 5 +1 because it is my friend's birthday today! So happy birthday Lawliet! If anyone is kind enough to review, be sure to add in a birthday message to my friend emloha since I kinda wrote this fic for her birthday. Hehe, yeah, I guess I'm the kind of sadist to give our favourite character the H/C treatment and then deliver it in a birthday fic. Man I'm sick :P
Anyway: Disclaimer- I did order a gift wrapped Benedict Cumberbatch in the mail but it hasn't arrived yet :( Sorry L. Guess neither of us own Sherlock now *cries*
Anywhos, happy birthday L, hope it's a great day (guh…remembers Just Dance 2… *sobs quietly in shame*) and I hope everyone enjoys the fic!
On Sherlock's fifth birthday, his father had come home drunk. Sherlock hadn't been on the receiving end it was true, but Sherlock listened in as Mycroft attempted to stop him from hitting mother. Sherlock listened through the thin walls at the shouting and then, all of a sudden, the resounding slap that echoed through the rooms, causing Sherlock to jump. Indignation filled him and he ran into the room, practically throwing himself between father and Mycroft, despite his small age. Father had snarled at him for that and delivered a hit so hard he ended falling onto the floor, his head spinning. Mycroft was shouting again and mother was crying and Sherlock sat in stunned silence as the rest of the world faded around him and his cheek stung as he sat on the floor, willing it all away.
Sherlock turned around and was greeted by the spotty, 15-year-old police man wannabe Robert Anderson. Sherlock felt something sink inside him as he tried to straighten his back a little more so as not to look as scared as he felt.
"Hello Anderson" Sherlock said, giving a silent prayer in gratitude that his voice hadn't wavered over the sentence, still managing to retain his usual blasé, cocky demeanour, despite the fact that he was now faced with Anderson and two other boys around his age. Sherlock recognised the girl stood hovering nearby as Sally Donovan, one of Anderson's group. Sherlock couldn't remember if it had been Anderson or Donovan that had first nicknamed him as "freak".
"Heard it was your birthday" Anderson said, giving a stupid grin at his two goons.
"Really? That's nice." Sherlock stated simply. He really could not be bothered with Anderson today, whether it was his birthday or not. "Now, do you actually have something to say to me or do you just want to inform me about the date?"
"That's real funny Sherlock" Anderson sneered, "I was just wondering if you'd got birthday beats today, that's all". The two guys laughed and Sally looked up to watch the situation. Sherlock felt his face involuntarily drain of colour and Anderson snorted with a short spark of cruel laughter.
"Just a thought," Anderson sneered.
"Yes well," Sherlock snapped, irritation beginning to gnaw at his patience, "Keep your thoughts to yourself". Sherlock turned to leave and that was when he heard the furious snarl from Anderson and a moment later, something barrelled into his back, sending him sprawling on the floor with a surprised yelp, grazing his knee. Hissing in pain, he looked up and saw Anderson looking triumphantly over him. Sherlock growled and narrowed his eyes but Anderson advanced on him, looking down at Sherlock menacingly as he lay on the floor, his knee bleeding, trying as best he could not to show Anderson that he was actually really very scared. He flinched a little as Anderson raised his foot as if to kick him but then a voice rang out from a bit away and he stopped.
"Anderson" Sally Donovan hissed, "Teacher's coming, scram!" Anderson nodded and gave a glare at Sherlock.
"Happy Birthday Freak" Anderson snarled and then walked away nonchalantly, flanked by his two cronies and Sally. Seeing the teacher walking over, Sherlock gave a grunt of dismay and got up, dusting himself down before going off in the other direction. The last thing he wanted was for Mycroft to find out he'd been pushed over at school, especially by Anderson.
Sherlock sulkily entered the dining hall. This was not how he was wanting to spend his birthday, especially when there was talks of a cannibal down in the main town that only came out at night. He hated the university dining hall. Not that he didn't hate all dining halls, restaurants or pretty much any place with people in it. Actually, no, he didn't mind the places themselves, he just hated the people. Sighing, he walked in slowly, gritting his teeth. Normally he would go out to eat, or just not eat at all, but today he had no money and although he would prefer to not eat at all, his professor had told him that if Sherlock didn't eat something this week then he would kick him off the course and he'd be spending his birthday week trying to explain to his brother why he no longer studied at the university. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was serious, but he was pretty sure that his brother had something to do with it.
The place was packed with people, blue trays filled with plates of food milling around, the food on them reflecting the usual social groups that held them. The footballers had their plates filled with carbs, the geeks had platters filled with well balanced, well-chosen food, the pretty group of girls' plates filled with diet foods and lacking any form of carbohydrates or fats. Sherlock observed all of this as he went inside. What he did not observe was the group of boys sat at a table very close to his right. He also didn't hear through the noise of the diner, Sebastian Moran, a student on his floor of rooms in the university housing.
"Hey, Hey Sherlock!" he shouted, but Sherlock didn't hear him.
"God he's weird" said a guy to Moran's left.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"You actually share a floor with this guy?" said the guy on his right.
"Yeah, he just stays in his room all the time" Moran said. Looking around, he grinned at his audience of boys at the table. "Tell you what'll be funny," he smirked, "Watch".
Moran got up and nonchalantly crossed over to where Sherlock was stood, observing the scene, and just beginning to move off to the dinner queue, despite how worthless he believed queuing to be. Grinning, Moran turned back to his friends and stuck a leg out, tripping Sherlock. Sherlock gave a surprised yelp and landing awkwardly on the floor, jarring his hand as it impacted.
"Hey!" Sherlock snarled, standing up almost immediately, his face flushing red a little as he pushed in front of Moran. Moran help up his hands in mock surrender and grinned.
"Oops" Moran giggled and Sherlock felt anger broil up inside him. He was just about to speak when a voice came behind him.
"Is there a problem boys?" the professor said, looking at them suspiciously. Moran was quick to shake his head.
"Oh no sir" he said, giving a stupid grin at his friends at the table. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"And you?" The professor questioned him. Sherlock glared at him in annoyance. Then, finally:
Sherlock never told anyone about the fourth time, it was too embarrassing. Sherlock had only just bought a new flat and already it was dirty, cluttered beyond recognition from when he had first bought it.
It was his twenty second birthday and he had been chasing down a jewel thief who had the most extraordinary wall climbing skills and had spent the past hour chasing him full pelt through the cold London streets and by the time he stumbled into the cold, empty flat, he could barely stand. Legs shaking from fatigue he turned on the light, only to find the bulb had been broke ever since he'd moved in and he groaned with disgust and exhaustion.
Carefully he made his way around the boxes stacked from his arrival at the start of the week, trying to find his way in the dark flat. Something struck his knee and he cried out in the darkness, trying to find something to grab onto but his knees gave way as he realised they were too tired to keep his weight any longer. He gave a yell but he hit the ground, collapsing in a heap on the carpet. Groaning, he coughed and rolled over, whimpering a little in the pitch black. Trying to supress any more whimpers he screwed up his eyes. Two minutes later however, Sherlock was crying in the darkness for the first time in years and he didn't get up from the floor until sunlight began to crack through the chapped windows.
The next time it happened was during a case. Sherlock regularly ignored his birthdays and although he never quite forgot them, he was usually on a case when it came to the day. The building Sherlock was in was old and decrepit, the echoes bouncing from the walls eerily. Sherlock trod carefully as he crept through the house. The man hiding in one of these rooms was who Sherlock believed to be part of a secret smuggling organisation, and also the key to finding his employers. Carefully, Sherlock crept under the rotting doorframe into another room, his dismay building as it appeared empty.
Snarling in frustration he was about to go check the other rooms when something hard hit the back of his head and Sherlock didn't have time to yell before he connected hard with the floor. Sherlock couldn't stop a scream as he felt his shoulder snap under the hard impact against the wooden floorboards and he gasped in air as he felt the wind leave him. He gave a small cry of pain and clutched at his broken shoulder bone, gasps pulling themselves from his throat as he craned his neck, looking up at the man who now stood in front of him. He craned his neck but couldn't see the man's face without wincing in agony.
"Sorry Mr Holmes, but this will be your one and only warning. Back off" the faceless voice said from in front of him and Sherlock growled in pain as the man gave a short chuckle and left the room.
Sherlock stayed there for almost an hour, cradling his arm, thinking things through. Crying out in pain, he got up and began the long walk home. Only after he had got back to his flat did he call Mycroft to send someone for his shoulder. When his brother eventually did come, Sherlock had clung onto his brother for the first time in over 20 years, at the least, and had allowed himself to be soothed, clutching his throbbing, newly set limb. That was the last time Sherlock remembered crying in front of his brother.
"Come on John!" Sherlock cried as he ran through the streets, sirens blazing as the police were following him after the trail of a serial killer. He grinned. John was lagging behind, as usual and Sherlock could imagine him rolling his eyes at him. It was Sherlock's birthday again and, he noticed, he was on a case again. But what he hadn't expected was that there was someone watching his back now. He grinned. Best. Birthday. Ever. He saw the man they were following round a corner and Sherlock sped up, his long coat billowing as he flew around the corner, straight into a waiting fist. Recoiling, Sherlock stumbled backwards and felt the man's foot hook his left leg, pulling. Sherlock yelped and lost his balance, falling backwards, bracing himself for the impact against the cold, hard concrete. But it never came. A pair of strong, affectionate arms threaded themselves around his chest, stopping his fall before he hit the ground, squeezing a little in a comforting manner and Sherlock realised that is he'd have had the choice, he'd have stayed there all night.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he looked up and saw John's blue eyes locked murderously on the serial killer. Oh dear, Sherlock thought, my mother hen is not pleased. He looked across as police sirens filled the air and Lestraude hurried past, flanked by two other officers to arrest the killer. Good job too, Sherlock thought, or else my blogger here may have killed someone himself. Allowing John to help him stand up, he dusted himself down a little, but John had stopped most of Sherlock's coat from touching the dirty London pavement. John was looking closely at his face, studying it intently for swelling from where he had been punched and nodded, satisfied, when he found none.
"You okay?" he asked. Sherlock smiled and nodded.
"Why of course," Sherlock said, "We have apprehended the criminal, my blogger caught me in the nick of time and I owe us a Chinese"
John laughed. "Yeah, Chinese is on me. A little birdie told me that it was your birthday today, I got you a present and everything. I'll give you it when we get to the restaurant."
Sherlock growled. "Was that birdie Mycroft shaped?" he asked, making John laugh.
"Might have been" he agreed, "But it's a good job I asked or you wouldn't have told me you daft thing. How was I supposed to buy you dinner on your birthday if I didn't know the date? Or buy a present for that matter?"
Sherlock watched John's annoyance with fascination and gave himself a small smile as they set off to find the Chinese. "I think I got all my presents at once" he muttered. He looked over at John and smiled.
A/N Aw.. Happy Birthday/UnBirthday everyone!