It was Sherlock's birthday. But he didn't care, of course; it didn't matter to him whether he was 27 or 72. All that mattered to him was his work, and he'd start worrying about trivial things such as age when he felt that his work was being affected by it.
John walked into the living room of 221B after a night of disturbed sleep.
"Honestly, Sherlock, do you really have to play Bach at quarter to 5 in the morning? I've hardly slept at all!" Sherlock shrugged in response to his flat-mate's complaints and carried on loading the pistol he had in his hands. "And what are you doing with that?" Sherlock raised the gun in answer, and shot at the face that he had painted on the wall some time ago. John flinched and covered his ears with his hands.
"Does that answer your question?" asked Sherlock, throwing the gun down.
"Bloody hell, you can't just-!" John stopped himself from shouting, shook his head and changed the subject. "Anyway, happy birthday, Sherlock."
"Is it?" Sherlock retorted, standing and pacing around the living room. He stopped at the window and sighed.
"What's wrong?" asked John, sitting down in his usual armchair.
"I'm bored, John! I haven't had a case in over two days. I wouldn't even turn down a missing rabbit right now!" John smiled as he remembered Bluebell, but his smile quickly faded as he remembered the fear he had felt in Baskerville. He picked up his laptop.
"I'll check the website for any cases, if you like?" Sherlock threw himself childishly on the sofa as John spoke.
"No point, I already did that," he replied, mumbling into the cold leather.
"But my laptop has a pass- Oh whatever. You've got to stop doing that, Sherlock!" John closed his laptop and placed it back on the table next to him. Sherlock rolled over and smiled to himself, eyes closed. "I'll go put the kettle on, shall I?" No reply. John sighed and walked towards the kitchen when Sherlock's phone made a familiar sound.
"Really, Sherlock?" John walked over to Sherlock's coat, expecting to find it in one of the pockets and rolled his eyes when he found that it wasn't there. He realised that it was, in fact, in his jacket pocket. The one Sherlock was wearing. "Oh, get it yourself." he muttered, and left the room again. Sherlock sighed, sat up with what seemed like great difficulty and fished for his phone. Pulling his knees into his chest, he entered his password and read the text.
"John!" he yelled, standing up on the couch with the excitement obvious in his voice. "John, come quick! We have a case!" The ex-army doctor walked obediently into the living room.
"We do?" he asked, reaching for his jacket that was strewn over the back of his chair.
"We do! Molly just text me. Four bodies have been found, all within five miles of the Globe Theatre. Completely unrelated causes of death, but they were all found with a copy of Hamlet on their person!" John watched, amused, as Sherlock dashed around the room picking up his coat, scarf and notebook. As it was his birthday, he humored the detective's enthusiasm.
"To the morgue, then?"
"To the morgue!" Sherlock echoed, pointing to the door and causing John to laugh slightly. He thought it was quite entertaining that Sherlock had just sounded exactly like one of the many heroes he claimed not to be. The detective ran out of the room, and John swiftly followed, still smiling to himself.