"David!" John called.
Sherlock stumbled into the room, eyes drooping slightly. He hadn't slept in a week because of a case, but instead he crashed the night after solving it. Normally, he wouldn't have been awake at this time, but John had gotten him up at the same time as David. Sherlock kissed John on his way to the couch as David came rushing into the room.
"Sorry! I couldn't find my other shoe," David apologized as he sat at the small table in the kitchen.
David had been living with the boys of 221B Baker Street for a few months now. He had settled in just fine and seemed to enjoy living there. Sherlock remembered how awkward it had felt for him when he had first moved in.
Sherlock had walked in to the building to find boxes in the flat. There weren't many, and at first glance, Sherlock had almost thought that they belonged to John. After a quick deduction, Sherlock quickly dismissed the ridiculous idea. He found John clearing out the room that used to belong to him.
"John?" Sherlock called with a hint of questioning in his voice. He had already formed an opinion of his own by this time, but he wanted confirmation.
John peeked out behind one of the boxes with a smile on his face. "I assume that you've already figured out what I'm doing and why, yes?" He looked gleeful, perhaps because of the blank look on Sherlock's face. "He should be here this afternoon, so if you don't mind, I'd greatly appreciate your help with this. It'd go a lot faster."
Sherlock resisted the urge to run over to John and hug him, instead opting for grabbing a box and helping slowly. "David, right?" Sherlock questioned even though he was positive he knew all there was to know about the child. He was nine years old; his father had died when he was a baby and the mother decided she couldn't handle raising him herself; he had been at that orphanage for as long as he could remember; he was rather small for his age, but made up for it in his attitude towards others, challenging anybody who asked for it; brown hair, brown eyes.
John looked at Sherlock like he was going to punch him. "Don't ask questions that you already know the answer to, Sherlock. And please, don't put any added pressure on him. He's still a child and the last thing he needs is to feel like we're going to kick him out at any moment." Now it was Sherlock's turn to shoot daggers at John with his eyes. If there was one thing Sherlock knew not to do, it was to make it seem like he would be unwanted or unwelcome in their home.
Later that day, David showed up at their flat. Sherlock was able to coax responses from him, acting like a natural parental figure. That night, David slept soundly in John's old room. It seemed like a match made in heaven; he fit in like a missing piece in a three-piece puzzle with John and Sherlock, and they wouldn't have had it any other way.
David gulped down his breakfast and grabbed his coat. "Okay, I'm ready!" The nine year old looked eagerly at John and Sherlock, ready to go to school. He ran out the door and down the stairs to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock and John looked at each other as they met in the doorway, touched lips and left the flat to follow their son.