Age: 10
"What?" Sherlock snaps into his mobile, "how and when did this happen?...Where is he?...I'll be there in ten minutes, try not to make any more idiotic decisions before I arrive."
John looks up from his newspaper, "everything alright?"
Sherlock growls, his arms half in his coat, "Hamish has been taken to the hospital."
"Seriously?" John stands and unhooks his coat from the door, "I thought he was in school?"
"He was. They were playing football in PE, they won't tell me any more until I get there."
Sherlock storms down the stairs and by the time John has caught up, Sherlock has already hailed a cab and climbed in, giving the address to the cabbie. The cab pulls away from the curb after John is settled safely and joins the traffic. Sherlock leans forwards and snaps, "quickly," at the driver.
John catches the driver's eye in the rear view mirror and hopes he can convey an apology.
They arrive at the hospital within ten minutes, half the time it would usually have taken in the usual traffic. Sherlock flies out of the taxi straight away, leaving John to pay.
"Sorry about him," he says to the driver as he hands the money over, "we got a call from his son's school that he'd hurt himself and he can get a bit… protective over him."
"That's alright, mate," the cabbie smiles, "got a few kids myself and I'd be the same in that situation. Hope he's alright."
"Thanks," John says as he climbs out of the taxi and follows Sherlock. He finds him in the reception area speaking rapidly with a man in a shorts and a hoodie, onlookers watching them warily.
"We thought it was just sprained," he hears the teacher explain, "we didn't realise it was actually broken until after the lesson was finished and he went to the nurse."
John watches Sherlock's face and steps in before he can say something offensive to the man's intelligence, "is he bandaged up now? We just want to see him, make sure he's alright."
The teacher nods, "this way," and shows the pair to a small room where they see the small boy sat on the bed looking bored out of his mind.
Hamish immediately perks up and grins at them as they walk in. He holds his arm up, "I got a blue one!"
John shakes his head, "Hamish. How did this happen? Football is a no contact sport."
"Tell that to Josh," he snorts, "he doesn't understand the rules so he just runs around and knocks people over. He ran straight into me and fell on top of me and my arm got twisted funny underneath me."
Sherlock growls and leaves the room, presumably to find the doctor in charge.
John sighs, "why didn't you tell your teacher that your arm hurt?"
"I tried to tell them," Hamish shrugs and picks at a loose thread on his tie, "but they told me not to be such a baby and that it was just a sprain."
"You know your body best, Mish. You're the only person who knows if something is wrong. You should have been more forceful about it."
"I know," Hamish swings his legs, "I wanted to finish the game, but I'll make sure to tell the teacher next time."
"There'd better not be a next time, especially if you don't want your dad to threaten one of your teachers. He almost threw his phone at the wall when they called."
Hamish giggles as Sherlock storms back into the small room, "morons, all of them. I would have preferred you to put that cast on him, John. At least then I would know it will heal correctly." He pauses, "what colour is that, Hamish?"
"It's the same colour as your scarf." He smiles, obviously proud of himself.
A small smiles creeps onto Sherlock's face, "it will have to do."
[][][]
The taxi ride home is quiet. Sherlock occasionally has to swat Hamish's hand away from his cast, stopping him from picking at little threads.
"Why don't you go take your uniform off?" John suggests when they enter the flat, "put something more comfortable on."
Hamish nods and starts up the stairs to his room, "John? Could I have a hot chocolate?"
John rolls his eyes, "alright. Why don't we have a movie night tonight? You need to rest up if you want your arm to heal properly."
John laughs when Hamish grins and runs up the rest of the steps. He laughs even more when he turns to see Sherlock pulling a face at him.
"And you have to sit through whatever film he chooses too, Sherlock, doctor's orders."
Hamish barks a laugh from upstairs and Sherlock groans as he goes to hang up his coat, "why did we allow him to play football?"
"Hey, he's your kid," John chuckles, flicking on the kettle.
"Yes, John. And you are a bad influence on him. I told him such sports were ridiculous. Tennis is far safer."
Sherlock leans against the counter and folds his arms, pouting at John. John rolls his eyes at him and leans forward to press a chaste kiss against Sherlock's lips.
"Well, if this has put him off football, he can always try out another sport, can't he?"
"He can do whatever he wants. The only sport I'm opposed to him taking part in is fencing, I'd rather he wasn't given something long, sharp and pointy."
"They do use dull blades for practise, Sherlock. A kid's class wouldn't be allowed to have anything potentially harmful." John starts pouring their drinks. Tea for himself and Sherlock. Hot chocolate (with extra cream) for Hamish.
"You've seen him trip over his own feet, John."
John chuckles, "fine. We'll find something. If the school doesn't have any decent sports he can join another club, maybe? Art or music or something?"
They hear a snort from the bottom of the stairs, "I can barely draw stick people and my music teacher suggested that 'maybe Hamish isn't suited for an instrument'." Hamish rounds the corner holding his Lord of the Rings boxset and eyes his hot chocolate. He bounds to John, careful of his arm, and takes it from him, finding a spoon to eat the cream.
"We'll have a look at what else your school offers, and if there's nothing you like we can look around the area for you," Sherlock says, taking his mug from John.
Hamish contemplates this for a moment, "I think I want to try tennis or gymnastics next."
"As you wish," Sherlock smiles.