A/N: *coughs* don't suppose you guys would have any Mystrade ideas I could incorporate into this… *coughs* only if you don't the next chapter might be a while... :)
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock started at John's tone of voice. Straightening up, he shifted to stand nonchalantly in front of the refrigerator. "John. Er, hello."
The sharp smell of burned plastic did nothing to help the shoddy disguise's credibility. John set the shopping on the floor. "Let me see."
There was a few seconds of tense silence before Sherlock stepped aside, conceding defeat. John knelt down beside him. Somehow a bottle of acid resting on the bottom shelf had been knocked over, and now there was a fist-sized hole through the bottom of the refrigerator. If they were lucky, it would melt through the floor and into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen as well.
John stared at it in incredulous silence for a moment before regaining the gift of speech. "Well, I suppose that's that, then. Have you tried cleaning it up?"
"How do you clean up acid, John?"
"You're the one who brought the stuff into the flat in the first place!"
"I didn't think it would spill!" Sherlock responded petulantly.
"You know what - forget it." John stood up and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You can Google it. While you're at it, we need a new fridge. See if you can find a good price online."
Sherlock nodded and fled the situation. John found a rag in the cupboard, dipping it tentatively in the fizzing liquid and hissing as it stung his fingers. How did one clean up acid?
The door slammed from below, followed by the sound of small feet pounding up the steps and a nonhousekeeper shouting "Hamish, dear, do slow down!" John stood up just before the source of these noises barreled into the kitchen and made for his traditional snack of fish fingers and custard, only to observe that there was a slightly smoking hole and a disgruntled dad where the fish was meant to be. He stopped short, backpack floating halfway off his shoulders.
"The Riddle experiment fell over," he stated.
"Yes." John held the rag away from his body with two fingers. A few drops fell on the floor and sizzled.
Hamish tugged the rag out of John's hand with psyke, dangling it over the original test tube. "How do you clean up acid?"
"That's a very good question! Don't suppose you'd have an answer for that, would you, Sherlock?"
"This one comes with an ice machine!" called Sherlock from the living room.
Hamish frowned. "Is there fish?"
"Yeah, it's in one of those bags. Think we've still got some custard behind the pancreas. Your father's being unhelpful, could you help me with this right quick?"
Liquids were harder for Hamish to hold with his mind than solids - too much to keep track of - but together, they managed to lift the acid out of the hole and deposit it, bubbling sinisterly, back into the beaker. There was still a hole in the fridge, of course, psyke could only go so far. Hamish found his snack and went through the process of sorting through his backpack, making meticulous piles of important and unimportant, while still eating. Papers and textbooks floated through the air. He was enjoying school a lot more with Mr. Dillamond, but it still taxed his energy immensely.
"I think I found a good one, John," came Sherlock's voice. "It's £77 and it has a separate place I could use for experiments."
Interest piqued by this olive branch, John walked out of the kitchen to lean over Sherlock's shoulder. The fridge was silver, incongruously streamlined for a fridge, with a sizable separated compartment that might be conceivably designed to hold fruit. "Looks good. What's the shipping cost?"
The shipping cost turned out to be reasonable. Hamish meandered over to ensure that it fit his expectations - he felt he should be able to control some aspect of this unanticipated change, at least.
"Did you ever look up how to clean up acid?" asked John when the refrigerator was ordered and set to arrive on Tuesday.
Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously you get your psychokinetic alien child to put it back where it came from. That method's free, as well."
"Ah, but what if the tube had broken?" interjected Hamish.
"It didn't."
"But if it had."
"There is more than one beaker in the flat."
"True."
They were able to store the necessary foodstuffs (and the definitely-inedible-but-no-less-necessary-stuffs) in Mrs. Hudson's fridge downstairs until Tuesday. The latter took some persuading, but it was managed. Life was normal in a very loose sense of the word, but that in itself was ordinary.
Tuesday caught Hamish rather by surprise. One day he was performing his sorting ritual and surreptitiously consuming cookies in Mrs. Hudson's dining room, the next he was sitting at the top of the stairs to his room, one arm loosely wound around the bars, peering at the workmen hefting the heavy six-foot box into their flat. Experimentally, he tried to loosen their load a bit, and discovered he could. One cursed as, nearly giddy, Hamish dropped it on his toe. The Doctor would be excited. It had to weigh at least 250 pounds.
Hamish watched them remove the box and maneuver the shining new refrigerator in place. It was a big box. He could probably lie down in it. Hmm.
"Could you idiots be any louder, I'm trying to concentrate!"
Hamish smirked. Sherlock had locked himself in his and Dad's room as soon as the truck had pulled up to 221, taking with him an armful of case notes and the skull. He didn't seem to be making much progress, as evidenced by his frequent shouts to be more quiet and inquiries about whether his lab was serviceable yet. (The table had been moved to the living room, and the numerous experiments were piled hazardously on the counters.)
"Ignore him," John sighed for the tenth time, supervising from the doorway to the living room. "Just...ignore him. I'm sorry about this."
"It's fine, sir. We've had worse," said one of the workers. "'Least he's not got parakeets free all over the place. Remember that one, Jack?"
The one evidently named Jack laughed. "'Ow could I forget? Me uniform's still got the stains! 'Ere, sir, we can just take this box for you, if ya like."
"What? Oh, sure. Go ahead."
Mind made up, Hamish sprung down the stairs to pull John down to his height. He whispered urgently into his ear for almost a minute, John's expression changing from confusion to comprehension to a smile. The workers waited patiently. They had encountered shy kids in their time, and didn't mind in the slightest. Better than parakeets in many respects.
John cleared his throat. "We'll keep the box. Thanks."
"Right. Pleasure workin' with ya. Tell yer 'usband 'e can rearrange his kitchen whenever." Jack tipped his hat and the workers filed out.
John and Hamish worked together to move the box from downstairs up to Hamish's room and lay it horizontally in a corner. Sherlock emerged at some point to help. He was surprisingly cheerful due to there being the proper number of people in the flat, and a slew of cases he had managed to solve despite distractions. He helped find unused pillows and blankets to pile in the box, and even rigged up a small reading light. A curtain was hung over the front, and Hamish spent a good amount of time deciding which books and snacks were necessary for his box.
By the time it was finished, the hideaway contained enough pillows to lie down on, two blankets, five books, pickles, some leftover cake, a large tin of peanuts, Goldfish crackers, a notebook and whiteboard, the necessary writing utensils, his Aslan, Cassie Bee and Little Smaug the Tremendous. He still slept with those three, and if it was considered immature, the ones considering had no business judging his sleeping process. Some of the others stood guard.
Hamish surveyed his handiwork proudly. Maybe he'd paint it later, it would be a good project for when he was bored.
"Impressive," said John when Hamish invited him to look inside. "So what are you planning on doing in here? Read, obviously, but maybe homework as well, or cases if you wanted? Are you going to sleep here?"
"Not on a regular basis," Hamish answered mildly. "It's kind of just an escape kit from the world." He grinned. "That's a good name for it, don't you think?"