"He's fourteen years old, John, he'll be perfectly fine!" Sherlock reassured his husband for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. "We'll be home by 11-ish anyway. You're getting old now, my love. Can't handle late nights." he added mockingly.
John gave him a solid jab in the ribs with his elbow. "Watch who you're calling old." he said, mock-threateningly, "Mycroft is coming."
The two of them collapsed into giggles as the elder Holmes and his husband arrived at the table.
"What's so funny?" Greg asked, waving to a waiter for service as he held out the chair for Mycroft to sit. Mycroft acknowledged the gesture with an adoring smile that looked just this side of wonky, and John broke into a renewed bout of giggling.
"It's like having dinner with children." Mycroft quipped, sticking his tongue out at his brother who really wasn't trying very hard at all not to laugh.
The four of them enjoyed a long, leisurely grown-up dinner. They ate and drank and laughed and swapped memories and stories. It was just like old times.
Some considerable time (and several bottles of wine!) later, they all climbed out of the cab at Sherlock and John's home.
As the four of them wobbled precariously towards the front door, Hamish appeared, hands on hips.
"Where have you been?!"