It was almost summer and Hamish could hardly wait for the season to change. The winter had been too long; he felt cramped and Will felt itchy. School was boring, the city heavy. Will had muddled through a month of biweekly counselling sessions. His nightmares had become a nightly affair, each more frightening than the last. They had both taken to sleeping in the lounge; Papa's knee was too tetchy to run up the stairs that often. Their fathers had spent a great deal of time in long, whispered conversations with Uncle Mycroft. Perhaps they were discussing the Do, now only a few months away. Perhaps it was something darker. Regardless, it made Hamish suspicious and Dad furious. They needed a break: the tree house in Gloucestershire and closeness and time with Uncle Sherr. Uncle Sherr. Especially him. The only certain remedy to Papa's worry and Dad's constant frown. All stories and warmth and easy sturdiness. A shy balloon of hope inflated in his chest. Uncle Sherr would make things easier. He would make them all right. Hamish stepped toward his and Will's usual afterschool meeting place and his optimism dissipated.

He had grown so used to Will's 'episodes' (as his counsellor delicately referred to them) that he could recognise them in an instant. Will was having one now; even from across the schoolyard he could spot the signs. He sat curled tight, his back pressing into the brick wall behind his classroom, white-knuckled and trembling. And there, to Hamish's horror, was Harley Jameson, barrelling across the patchy garden with a sneer on his lips, his loyal gang in tow.

Hamish ran, tripping, across the grass, Jameson's jeering shout scratching at his ears.

'Woofter Watson! You cryin' again?'

Will's voice then, soft, broken, terrified. 'No-'

'Must be the fifth time today, eh, lads? You break a nail or summat?'

'Please, Jameson, don't-'

'Or what? You'll cry for your camp daddy? Make him come over and try'n' roger me?' His attendants guffawed, nasal and ear splitting.

'Leave him alone!' Jameson spun around, his mean, beady eyes narrowing with malice and glee.

'Oh look, poof! Your bummer brother's comin' to save you!' Will's gaze found him then, pleading. It would have been better if they'd been angry. 'You comin' to kiss him better?'

His chest ached. Will lay in a heap, terrified and trying desperately not to cry. Jameson's broad mouth stretched in a brutish grin, his body looming over Will. Hot anger billowed up in Hamish, a kind of fury that had grown familiar in the past few months. It didn't matter that Jameson was the biggest and meanest boy at school, that he had a gang of four including Tommy the Tank and Mad Miggs. It didn't matter that Hamish was especially small for his age and at least a stone underweight. 'Jameson,' he said, voice low and cool. Will looked up, his eyes expectant. His tone had been too similar to Papa's right before a row. 'I said leave him alone.'

'Or what?' he sneered. 'You goin' to stop me, midge?' He shoved Hamish down, closer to his brother. Will's eyes flashed a warning. 'Go on and kiss him better, bummer. Only kiss his barmy arse will ever get!'

In the years to come, Hamish wouldn't be able to say how it had happened. One minute he was staring into Jameson's fat, evil face, contemplating the likelihood of a surviving strain of Homo neanderthalensis thriving and mating in central London. Then he blinked, and Jameson was on his knees, howling like an animal as blood poured from his nose. His gang circled him in shock. Logistically speaking, there was only one viable candidate for his assailant, and the blood splattered artfully across Hamish's cuff spoke volumes. However, Hamish had no recollection of it happening at all. He stood there, dumbfounded, his sluggish mind wobbling to determine the cause of this carnage. But Will was on his feet, yanking Hamish after him as he raced across the schoolyard. He didn't stop for air until they were halfway to Baker Street.

'Mish!' He was gasping, his hands on his knees. Hamish worried for his asthma and started searching his pockets for a spare inhalator. Will grabbed his wandering hand. 'Mish, that was- Mish!'

He abandoned his search and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 'I- I don't- What just happened?'

'Bloody brilliant just happened! Did Papa teach you that?'

'No! Of course not!'

'I wish he had! Then he could've taught me.'

Hamish's heart thrashed against his chest. His rump found the ground for fear of falling. 'He's going to kill me. I'm dead. He'll massacre me on Monday.'

'No, he won't. He'll be too scared. Was it Uncle Greg? He always teaches you the dead useful stuff.'

'He'll kill me, Will!'

Will touched his cheeks, his eyes and grin almost manic. Hamish couldn't help but admit that he was glad to see his smile, even like this. 'Then you'll die a hero's death. And everyone will know it.' He patted him. 'Let's get home. Dad'll fret.'

They jogged the remaining distance to Baker Street, and Hamish's pulse finally slowed. Will unlocked the door and they dashed up the stairs, sharing a dazed grin as they opened the door. It immediately fell as their father turned to them.

'William.'

He swallowed. 'Dad.'

He stepped to the desk. He set his mobile beside the open laptop. It gleamed like a knife in the afternoon sun that snuck between the curtains.

'The school just rang me.'

Will's fingers twitched. He knew Dad saw them move. 'Interesting.'

'They said you were fighting.'

Will licked his lips. 'Not accurate.'

Bright eyes narrowed. They were silver today. They were always silver at times like this. 'Explain.'

His stomach twisted, plummeted. He waffled for an explanation, unable to determine if Dad was angry or pleased; his poker face was legendary. He took a breath, but Hamish stepped forward. He looked so small in his too-big jumper. Dad towered over him even from halfway across the room. 'It was me, actually.' His voice didn't waver. For the thousandth time since their return from hospital, Will decided his brother was the bravest person alive.

Their father's eyes flicked between the two of them, assessing, examining, reading the last half hour like the daily obituaries. Hamish forced his chin up, unashamed, meeting his father's gaze when it returned to him. He nodded at last, walking past as he headed to the kitchen. His large hand gently tousled Hamish's curls as he passed.

'Well done, you,' he growled.

Will nearly burst with joy.

By the time John arrived home from surgery, the afternoon's drama was all but forgotten. The boys sat at the table, quietly completing their schoolwork. Sherlock stood at the stove, putting the finishing touches on their supper. It was a tranquil sight, outwardly comforting, beautifully domestic. John felt his hackles rise.

'…What's going on?' The boys looked up in tandem, careful to not glance at each other. Sherlock turned with a bemused smile and raised eyebrows. John rolled his eyes. 'Right. I don't want to know. What's on tonight?'

'Curry.'

'Brilliant. I'm starved.'

St Mary's called a week later when they heard no report of Hamish Watson-Holmes's parents making a plan for their son's reprimand. It was their poor luck that the parent they contacted was John Watson, spending a rare afternoon home alone. After calmly listening to an account of the prior week's malfeasance and forming a few logical and – as luck would have it – accurate theories as to the causes of the event in question, he informed the headmistress that if the Jamesons wished to pursue the matter further, they had his address and tea was at half four. Something in his tone, however, suggested that it might be best to put the matter to rest entirely. She made a note in her file that the issue was resolved. She also drew out a cigarette from the pack she forgot to banish from her handbag and headed for the staff lot. After a call like that, she thought she deserved it.