When John arrives on Baker Street, precisely on seven, he is greeted by Sherlock Holmes climbing out of a taxi. He knocks on the door of 221 and stands back.

"Mr Holmes," he says in greeting, holding out his hand.

He smiles, "Sherlock, please."

"This is a prime spot, must be expensive."

"Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour or two. Couple of years back her husband was sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to help out."

John gapes, "you stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock grins lopsidedly, "oh no, I ensured it."

As if on cue, the door opens and an elderly woman steps out, "Sherlock!" She pulls him into a tight hug and waves them both inside.

Sherlock shows John up the stairs and into the living room of flat b. John nods in approval, "this could be very nice. Very nice, indeed."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," Sherlock agrees.

They overlap each other;

"so we should get some of this rubbish cleaned up, oh."

"so I went straight ahead and moved in, oh."

They stare at each other awkwardly for a beat, until Sherlock coughs and quickly moves to the table, picking up papers and books on his way, "well obviously, I can, um, straighten up a bit."

As Sherlock moves around the room John looks at the mantle, "that's a skull."

"Friend of ours. Well, I say friend."

"You said that yesterday. "Our" "We". Who's we?"

"Ah," Sherlock starts, removing his scarf, ""We" are my son and I. He will be living here too."

John nods, "right. You have a son?"

"Yes. His name is Hamish, he's downstairs with Mrs Hudson right now. She looks after him for me when I work." Sherlock swallows loudly, "he isn't a bother. He's very quiet for a nine year old. He will happily sit in one place all day and read, so he won't get in your way at all. Rarely has tantrums. Very shy."

"That's fine," John says, "I would have preferred to know earlier, but that's completely fine with me."

Sherlock nods and smiles, "so, it's okay that he'll live here too?"

"Of course, I have no problems with children."

"Oh, speaking of," Sherlock mumbles, cocking his head towards the small footsteps quickly making their way up the stairs.

"Dad, look!" A small boy with a mess of mousey brown hair and a lopsided smile reminiscent of Sherlock's bursts through the door, "Mrs Hudson let me have a cupca-"

The boy comes to an abrupt stop when he spots John. He carefully steps around the boxes on the floor and stands behind Sherlock's leg, holding it tightly with one arm. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John beats him to it by carefully leaning on his cane and crouching down, holding a hand out.

"Hi. My name's John," he smiles, "I'm gonna be living here with you and your dad, I'll help him to pay the rent."

Hamish looks up at Sherlock curiously, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod. The boy nervously licks his lips and steps forward to shake John's hand.

"I'm Hamish Scott Holmes. I'm nine and a half years old."

"Hamish? All the best people are called Hamish," John winks, "it's my middle name."

Hamish grins and turns his head back to Sherlock, "I like him. He can live with us."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks, "excellent. Now, why don't you go help Mrs Hudson make some tea? Don't eat too many cakes."

Hamish nods, his hair falling over his eyes, and sprints to the door. He stops and points at John, commanding, "stay."

Another smile creeps onto John's face and he nods. Obviously satisfactory to Hamish, the boy grins and runs down the stairs. John stands with a groan, resting his hand on his leg.

A moment later, Hamish reappears with another cupcake, Mrs Hudson close behind carrying a tray of mugs and biscuits.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing another," she says, smiling at them both.

"Of course we'll be needing another," John replies looking at Sherlock, who smirks at him.

"Oh don't worry, dear. There's all sorts 'round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones."

John looks at Sherlock again, who has elected to ignore John in favour of rifling through a box.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson says disapprovingly, ushering Hamish into the kitchen, "the mess you've made."

Sherlock looks at her wide eyed as Hamish giggles and settles into a chair.

John throws himself into a big armchair and pats his leg, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock smirks, "anything interesting?"

"Found your website, the science of deduction?"

"What did you think?"

John answers him with a look.

"Dad's really clever," Hamish says, walking into the living room, clinging to the tray of biscuits, "he solves crimes and helps Scotland Yard and always outsmarts the bad guys."

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock corrects, aimed towards John, "well, I can read your military career in your face, and your brother's drinking habits in your phone."

"How?"

Sherlock smirks and turns. He takes a biscuit from Hamish's plate, who pulls it closer to his chest and grumbles.

"What about these suicides, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson comes back into the room carrying a newspaper, "three exactly the same."

"No," Sherlock whispers, stepping up to the window, "four. There's been a fourth."

Loud footsteps make their way up the staircase, the owner seemingly taking them two at a time. A grey haired man enters the room looking slightly flustered.

"Where?" Sherlock demands.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. This one left a note. Will you come?"

Sherlock debates this for a second, "not in the police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," the man says, leaving the room almost as quickly as he entered.

Once he's gone, a grin breaks out on Sherlock's face, "yes! Brilliant!" He picks up his coat and ruffles Hamish's hair.

"Be good, Hamish. Mrs Hudson, I'll probably be late, might need some food," Sherlock says joyously, "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He leaves the room with a flourish of long coat and curly hair.

"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs Hudson tuts, "my husband was just the same. You rest that leg and I'll get you that cuppa. Hamish, could you go downstairs and get the Digestives for me?"

Hamish nods and runs down the stairs after Sherlock, though not quite as dramatically.

John sits for a moment, before suddenly bursting out with "damn my leg!"

Mrs Hudson jumps and turns, "I understand, dear. I've got a hip."

When Mrs Hudson leaves, John picks up the newspaper she'd left. He reads the headline, "Investigation into third suicide".

Suddenly, "you're a doctor," comes from the doorway.

John looks up, startled.

"You're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good? Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

John leaps from his seat with as much grace as he can with his cane and follows Sherlock's billowing coat down to the street and into a taxi.