Summary: Hamish gets in a fight with a bully.

Age 13

Hamish tries to tip toe into the flat and up to his room as quietly as he can. He avoids slamming the front door, misses the creaky step and is halfway up the final flight of stairs when Sherlock clears his throat from the living room door. John is standing behind him, 'concerned parent' almost written across his face.

"Why are you late home?" Sherlock demands, folding his arms.

"Um," Hamish pauses, "a lot of the trains were off, so I decided to walk home."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "the truth."

Hamish chews his lip, "I stayed back at school to help with some stuff?"

"Hamish."

He groans and hoists his backpack higher onto his shoulder, "he was asking for it."

"Asking for what?"

He grumbles and holds up his hand, palm facing inwards, revealing cuts and bruises and dried blood.

John clicks his fingers at the armchair, "sit. I'm cleaning that up and then you're going to tell us what happened."

Hamish bushes past Sherlock and trudges to the chair while John fetches his medical kit. He throws his bag to the floor and slouches, hanging his hand over the arm of the chair. Sherlock perches opposite him and stares. Hamish groans.

"Don't even start," he grumbles sliding further down the chair.

Sherlock tucks his hands under his chin, "I wasn't going to say anything. I can already see that you let your pride get the best of you. Again. What was it this time?"

John returns to see Hamish roll his eyes. He crouches beside the chair and opens his kit. He takes out the necessary and begins cleaning up Hamish's hand.

"Just tell us what happened," John says, applying antiseptic cream and plasters, "we'd rather hear it from you than from your head teacher."

Hamish purses his lips and toes his shoes off, buying time.

"Like I said, he was asking for it."

"So a kid in your class came up to and asked you to punch him?" John scoffs, "I'll believe that when I see it."

"I was leaving school and this older kid was shouting at another kid. I recognised him from one of my classes and we've talked a few times. I went and asked him what he thought he was doing picking on someone younger than him and he hit me, so I hit back. I turned out to be the better fighter and he legged it. End of story."

John sighs, "anything else? Or was it just your hand?"

Hamish shuffles uncomfortably, "he was a lot bigger than me and knocked me over. I grazed my head." He lifts his fringe to reveal an angry looking graze close to his temple.

John sighs and finds the cream again. Hamish winces when he rubs it on, "it stings," he complains.

"Then don't pick fights with bullies. Keep your hair off that." John picks up his things and takes them to the bathroom to clean up.

Sherlock remains silent, not having moved or spoken a word during John's doctoring.

"You can tell me off now," Hamish grumbles, "ground me or whatever. It was my fault."

Sherlock raises his head, "you think I should ground you?"

"Well, yeah," Hamish frowns, "I beat a kid up and came home with a bloody hand and face. Isn't it what most parents would do if their son did that?"

"Most likely. Go on then, if you were the parent in this situation, what would your punishment be?"

"If this is some kind of trick-"

"No. Tell me."

"Fine," Hamish sighs and tucks his feet underneath himself, "I'd probably ground myself for a few weeks. Maybe take away my phone or games consoles. Something that would piss me off-"

"Language."

"-annoy me so I know not to do it again."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up.

"One week then. You barely go out anyway, so there isn't much point. You're thirteen; I doubt punishing you will do much to alter your behaviour now. But I or John will contact your school for giving you the idiotic idea that you felt you had to stand up for him."

"And get a teacher next time," John interjects, returning to the room. He perches on the arm of Sherlock's chair, "maybe I can teach you some self-defence if something like this happens in the future, and then you can look after yourself and then find someone older to help you." John smiles warmly.

"Fine," Hamish mumbles, cradling his hand.

John stands again, "go do whatever homework you have tonight while I start dinner. We're having roast, and Sherlock is going to help."

Sherlock pulls a face but drags himself into the kitchen, pausing to ruffle Hamish's hair. John shakes his head and follows after shooing Hamish up the stairs to his room.