You got home to an empty flat after a long day of work.

It was your birthday, and at this point, you had honestly just assumed everyone had forgotten. Especially when you realized your boyfriend, Sherlock, was no where to be found in your shared flat.

Whatever.

You tried to shake it off, told yourself it wasn't a big deal and tried to occupy yourself with your phone, a book, TV. You even made yourself a cup of tea thinking that'd somehow help.

But nothing seemed to help. You turned the TV off, and went to pour out your unfinished tea when you heard steps coming up the stairs.

Sherlock walked in with a small brown box in his hands, he paused in front of the kitchen door and turned to look at you.

"What's wrong with it?"

He didn't gesture in any way, but you knew he was talking about the tea.

"Nothing. I'm just done with it. I'm going to bed."

"I'll take it." He held out one hand to take the tea. You both took your tea the same way, so you knew he wouldn't fuss over it. As you handed it to him, he handed over the box. "This is for you. Don't open it in front of me."

"Okay." You couldn't help but light up a little, though you tried to forget, still assuming everyone had forgotten.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "No one else remembered, did they?"

You shook your head no, and began fidgeting with the box.

"You thought I had forgotten, too?"

You nodded your head yes, this time tearing off a strand of tape, though the rest of it probably required a knife.

"Really, don't open that in front of me." He paused before he kissed your forehead, and went into the living room to drink his tea.

You went into your room, and quickly found a box cutter to cut away the tape.

Your heart skipped a beat when you lifted the lid. There was no extra packaging you had to tear away, instead it was right on top.

A binder.

Now you knew why Sherlock hadn't wanted you to open it in front of him.

You rushed to put it on, finding that it made you flatter than you expected it to.

You put several shirts on to see how they'd fit with the binder on (not at the same time), before choosing one and walking back out in it.

"Thank you."

"Hmm? Oh, you're welcome." Sherlock said, his face softening as you made your way towards him. He put his tea down on the table next to the chair and adjusted him legs so that you could climb into his lap comfortably.

He wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you against his chest. You looked at him and sighed. He loosened his grip.

"What, what's wrong?" He tilted your face up to his. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do you not like it? I can take it back."

"No, it's not that it's just—I don't know, it probably sounds stupid."

"Tell me."

You looked down. "I like it, but I'm not completely flat."

Sherlock kissed your forehead, and held you tighter again. "You're male to me. Anyone who doesn't see that is an idiot and not worth your time." He started running his fingers through your hair. "You're flat enough, and you're handsome, and you shouldn't let anyone tell you otherwise."

You nuzzled into his chest to hide his blush, and he was glad you couldn't see the rosy tint on his cheeks.

"Dinner?" You could feel his voice vibrating in his chest. You nodded and pushed yourself up. "Good." He smiled.

Once you got off, he rushed to the kitchen, and started cooking, completely forbidding you to enter just once.

You were sitting on the sofa when he finished, and carried out a plate of your favorite food, proud of himself because he had been practicing making it for weeks.