Summary: John moves in.
Age 9
"Sherlock!" John stumbles on the top few steps of the staircase, almost dropping the large cardboard box. He looks up to see Hamish sat on the next flight of stairs, his small face peering in between the bannister poles, "would you forgive me if I killed him, Hamish?"
Hamish giggles and shuffles down a few steps, "I can help?"
"No, too heavy. This is the last one for now anyway, I just want him to know the threat is still there," John winks, making Hamish laugh again.
"Where is his majesty anyway?"
"Unpacking."
John turns and marches into the living room, growling, "Sherlock."
He finds the man in question rifling through one of John's boxes.
"I've barely got the last box through the door and you're already going through my stuff?"
He stretches out on the sofa and begins flicking through the pages of a recent medical journal. John sighs and throws himself into the armchair he'd claimed as his, Hamish opposite him in the more angular chair.
"Will you and dad be sharing a room?" Hamish shuffles the toes of his shoes, only just reaching the floor.
"You just want to stay in the bedroom upstairs, don't you?"
"Of course he does, John," Sherlock says, turning a page, "he 'called' it apparently. Would you be opposed to my room? Mrs Hudson will allow us to rent another if you want it."
"That depends doesn't it? Do you snore?"
Sherlock frowns at him, "do I snore?"
"Well? Answer the question or I'll go talk to Mrs Hudson."
"How can I know if I snore, John? I'm asleep when it happens—"
"He doesn't," Hamish cuts in, hugging his knees, "the last flat was small and my room was next to dad's. He doesn't snore."
"Thank you Hamish," John nods, "I suppose you will get to keep the big room upstairs then."
Hamish grins.