dimity_blue | Sherlock fic - Starting Over. Part 1

Title: Starting Over
Author: Dimity Blue
Rating: Teens
Genre: gen, AU, kidfic
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Anthea, OCs
Word Count: 13,500 words
Disclaimer: Not mine

**Trigger warning: Past child abuse, violence, alcohol abuse**
**Warning: Contains a flashback scene**

Contains a few lines from the series.

Summary: "What do you mean 'Father had another son'?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes almost blazing as he glared at Mycroft from across the breakfast table.

"Just what I said, Sherlock." Mycroft put his cup back into its saucer. "Father had an affair approximately a year after Mummy died, and had another son. We have a brother."

"Mr. Conley." Mycroft smiled as he shook the solicitor's hand, though, inwardly, he was wishing the man hadn't asked for a meeting. Between Sherlock's latest experiment, the butler quitting, and Mycroft's need to attend to his own career, he really didn't have time for whatever issues Mr. Conley wanted to bring up.

"Mycroft...it's so good to see you. You're looking fit!"

Mycroft ignored the hint of condescension in the man's tone. Mr. Conley had been his father's solicitor, and Mycroft did not consider that they had any kind of a relationship at all - let alone one where Mr. Conley could give him dieting advice, as had happened in the past. "You had something to discuss with me," he prompted, hoping he could keep the meeting short.

"Ah. Hmm...yes." Mr. Conley sat down, waving a hand at the seat opposite. "It's rather a delicate matter, Mycroft. Your father, well, you know how difficult Sherlock is - always has been - and I don't think he wanted to upset him."

Taking a seat, Mycroft resigned himself to a longer meeting than he'd planned. Mr. Conley had always taken a long time to come to the point.

"You know how much I think of you and your brother, Mycroft - you're like sons to me, especially with your being orphaned so young. Sherlock, especially, needs a firm hand - we all know what a rascal he is. I remember the incident with my secretary, Mr. Pitt-Smith's deposit box and the stuffed haggis."

Mycroft did too, and had fond memories of Mr. Conley's horrified face as the haggis exploded all over his office. However, he didn't have time to listen to endless reminiscences, so: "Yes. And you wanted to see me because...?"

"Ah. Well. I didn't want to be the one to tell you, Mycroft, but your father felt it was better to have nothing to do with them - except providing for the boy financially, of course; your father was a very responsible man. And, of course, the way the trust fund is set up, I do get regular reports from the boy's school. Unfortunately, since the death of his mother, it seems things aren't going well, so I thought it best to tell you and let you decide what should be done."

"The boy?" Mycroft hoped this wasn't what he suspected.

"Yes, the boy!" Mr. Conley handed over a file. "His mother was killed in a drink-driving accident some months ago, since then he's stayed with his step-father, however, his school reports..."

As Mr. Conley droned on, never actually explaining a thing, Mycroft flipped open the file. Fortunately, it had been written by someone with a more concise style than Mr. Conley, and Mycroft was able to ascertain the facts easily. Point one: his father had had an affair with a Miss Joanne Watson. Point two: Miss Joanne Watson had subsequently given birth to a John Watson. Point three: Siger Holmes had provided handsomely for his third son, and the income from the trust fund was paid to John's guardian. Point four: John was currently living with his step-father, but his school attendance had become sporadic, to put it mildly. Mycroft mentally checked the dates and hid his sigh of relief. His father had not been unfaithful to his marriage, as the affair had taken place approximately a year after Violet Holmes's death.

His mind relieved, Mycroft turned his attention to John's latest school photo. Dark blue eyes met his, the gaze serious, the forced smile never reaching them. More importantly, however, was the faint edge of a bruise that was just in view above the shirt collar.

Mycroft closed the file. He did not imagine that Sherlock would take this news well, but leaving his eight-year-old half-brother in a possibly abusive situation was untenable. "Thank you, Mr. Conley." Mycroft rose, interrupting the solicitor mid-drivel. "I'll deal with the situation."

"Deal with?" Mr. Conley sat back, folding his hands over his waistcoat. "I don't know that there's anything to actually be done, as yet - I just thought you should be made aware -"

"Yes, I am aware, thank you." Mycroft held out his hand, forcing the solicitor to rise to his feet to shake it.

"Now, Mycroft, I'm much older than you are -"

Mycroft was aware of that too, and fully intended to have Mr. Conley firmly removed from any handling of his father's affairs - literal or not - immediately. "Goodbye, Mr. Conley."

~~~

"What do you mean 'Father had another son'?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes almost blazing as he glared at Mycroft from across the breakfast table.

"Just what I said, Sherlock." Mycroft put his cup back into its saucer. "Father had an affair approximately a year after Mummy died, and had another son. We have a brother."

"Half-brother," Sherlock corrected, his mouth tight.

"Half-brother. His name is John -"

"What a stupid name."

"- and he's eight years old."

Sherlock's restless movements stopped suddenly, then resumed. "What does he look like?"

Mycroft ignored the demanding tone and handed over the school photograph, waiting to see what Sherlock noticed.

"Why does he have a bruise on his neck?" Sherlock's gaze left the photograph and attempted to skewer Mycroft.

"I'm not positive, but it seems that John's step-father has had...difficulties since John's mother died."

"You think he's hitting him." Sherlock's tone was flat and Mycroft made sure to hide any hint of his triumph.

"It is, unfortunately, all too possible." Mycroft paused, then added, "I'll be visiting them this afternoon and will make up my mind then." He steepled his fingers together and gazed at Sherlock over them. "It may be necessary for me to remove John from the situation."

"Does Mrs. Hudson know?"

"Not as yet. I'll ask her to prepare one of the spare bedrooms." Mycroft stood and pushed his chair in. "You need not feel obliged to interact with John. As he's two years your junior, you may not find him particularly interesting."

"You took away that corpse I found."

Mycroft paused at the apparent non-sequitur. "People aren't allowed to keep corpses, Sherlock; we had to hand it over to the police. And John is not a corpse. I have every intention that he will not become one."

~~~

John looked up at the knock on the door. It couldn't be Tony back from the pub. Tony's knock was more of a thud that had the power to make John's heart stutter in fear, and it was far too early for him to have left the pub...unless he'd been thrown out. No, it was probably the truant officer again. Not that John could open the door to him, not with his face looking as it did; Tony had forgotten (or been too drunk to remember) his usual rule of no visible bruises and John's face had paid the price.

As the knock sounded again, John put his book to one side and crept down the stairs, slipping into the sitting room with the smallest amount of sound. Edging his way to the window, he pushed the edge of the curtain back a tiny bit and peered out. The bay window gave him a view of the door, and John gazed at the man's back, feeling confused. While the truant officer usually wore a suit, the rolled up umbrella was a new one on John, especially as it hadn't been raining. A movement caught his eye and he glanced over, long enough to note the sleek black car and the woman standing by it. She gave him a pointed look, and he shrank back, letting the curtain fall into place. The man knocked again, a heavier sound with a definite hint of 'we know you're in there' about it, and John's shoulders slumped as he trailed his way to the door.

He opened it slowly, wishing the safety chain still worked, but Tony had broken it in one of his drunken rages when John had left it on to check it was him before letting him in. Once the door was open about three inches, John looked around the edge of it, making sure to keep the bruised side of his face out of sight. His eyes opened wider at the sight of the man's waistcoat, a gold chain stretched across the front of it, and the thought crossed John's mind that they had to be on their way to a wedding or something and maybe they were lost. "Yes?"

The man smiled. "John Watson, I believe."

Not lost then. John had a sinking feeling the man was a social worker. Tony was going to be angry. "Uh, yes?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." The man paused, as if waiting for John to say something, then continued, "My father was Siger Holmes."

John frowned, thinking that was a weird way to introduce yourself, and what kind of name was Siger anyway? He hoped Mr. Holmes didn't want him to introduce himself like that, as John had no idea of his father's name, though he knew it wasn't Tony Harris and was quite glad of that fact. After another pause, John replied, "Hello."

Apparently that was the wrong answer as the man gave him a frown in return. "Do you know who Siger Holmes was?"

John thought about it. He was pretty sure they hadn't covered any Siger Holmes in school, and he definitely wasn't a footballer, so: "No?"

"I see. Is your stepfather in?"

Given a choice, John would rather have gone back to discussing the unknown Siger Holmes as he really didn't want to let the social worker know that Tony was at the pub and would remain at the pub until it closed or he was thrown out for swearing at the barmaid. "He's asleep." John gave him his best angelic look, then added, "He's been ill."

"Perhaps you could -" Mr. Holmes broke off and turned to gaze down the road.

John pulled the door open another inch and stood up on his tiptoes to stare over the fence. It looked like Tony had been thrown out of the pub very early today.

"It seems he's made a remarkable recovery," Mr. Holmes said.

As Tony stormed along the pavement to the garden gate, he seemed to realise there was a woman standing there, and he came to a halt, swaying slightly. "Hello, darling."

John cringed at the look on the woman's face, then Mr. Holmes coughed and Tony swung around, grabbing at the gatepost as he staggered.

For a moment, he stared, then his head turned back towards the woman. "Social workers." He straightened and brushed down the front of his jacket. "John, put the kettle on. We've got guests."

Tony headed up the path, a broader, bulkier man leaving the car and following him, and John dived into the kitchen, quickly switched the kettle on, then backtracked to linger, out of sight but within earshot.

"So, what can I do for you?" There was a rustle of paper, then Tony shouted, "What the fuck is this?!"

Taking a chance, John peered out, then ducked back again when Mr. Holmes looked at him, his face tight with anger.

"That is a custody order," he heard Mr. Holmes say.

"You can't -"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. Yes, I see you recognise my name. I assure you, Mr. Harris, there is no power on earth that will persuade me to leave my half-brother with you."

"You'll take him over my dead body!"

There was a short pause, then the posh voice said, "That can be arranged."

Confused and wondering who on Earth this half-brother was supposed to be, John peeked around the door again, but all he saw was Tony's back as he protested, "Listen, the boy, he's like a son to me! I -"

"In which case, I hope you never procreate."

As Tony was yanked to one side, Mr. Holmes approached the kitchen door, and John shrank back, his heart pounding as the big man followed him into the kitchen.

"John, I'm taking you away from here," he said, firmly. "Is there anything you wish to take with you?"

John thought he was going to be sick, but he managed, "My box."

"Fetch it now, please."

John dashed past and ran up the stairs, hearing Tony argue again as he went. He tuned out the words - as long as Tony wasn't using that voice, he didn't have to listen. He shoved his feet into his trainers, stuffing the laces down the sides to save tying them, then dropped to his knees and scrabbled under the bed for his box. If Tony had ever found it, he would've thrown it out, saying John was too old to keep such junk. His fingers found the edge, and he dragged it out, wrapping his arm around it tightly as he ran back to the stairs.

He was almost at the bottom when Tony turned on him, jerking at his arm as the bulky man held on to him. "John!"

John froze, not daring to move. He hated that voice, that tone, the way it made him shake inside, but moving made things worse.

Suddenly, Tony was dragged to one side, and Mr. Holmes grabbed John, lifting him off his feet and carrying him to the front door. "Put him in the car."

The lady took John's hand and hurried him down the path. As he was put into the back seat onto a booster cushion, he heard Mr. Holmes talking, his voice hard and angry as Tony blustered. The lady leaned over him to do up his seatbelt, and John felt a flush of resentment - he wasn't a baby - but then it was done and she was gone, slipping into the front passenger seat with a graceful air. Mr. Holmes got in, the other man got into the driver's seat, the car started up and John was carried off to he didn't know where.

~~~

Mycroft gave his newly acquired half-brother a long look, but John's attention seemed to be fixed on the scruffy and untied trainers he was wearing, and he didn't look up.

"John." Mycroft waited until the scared gaze met his, and gave him a reassuring smile, pushing down his anger at the ugly bruise. "You have nothing to be afraid of. As I told you, my name is Mycroft, I'm your half-brother, and I'm taking you to my home. You'll live with me and with my brother - your other half-brother - Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" There was a spark of interest in his eyes, and Mycroft did his best to encourage it.

"He's ten."

John sat up a little straighter, interest on his face. "You're...older."

Mycroft smiled again. "I'm twenty-four." That was something Mycroft felt very grateful for; he needed all his years of experience to keep ahead of Sherlock. "I work for the government. Sherlock goes to a school not far from our home and you'll go with him once the new term starts."

"Okay." John's gaze left his and moved to Anthea and Hawkins.

"That's Anthea - she's my assistant - and that's Hawkins, my chauffeur."

"Okay."

Mycroft wondered if John was naturally quiet or if he was too scared to ask questions. His fear was understandable if Harris had had a habit of violence. "If you have any questions, you may ask them and I'll do my best to answer them."

He got another look for that, then John asked, his voice almost inaudible, "How come you came today?"

"I found out about your existence yesterday. It took until today to get the custody order."

"Okay."

Ah, they were back to 'okay'. Mycroft kept his voice quiet and as reassuring as possible. "If I'd known you existed, John, I would have made sure to meet you long before your mother died, so that you'd know you had somewhere safe to go."

John's shoulders stiffened slightly, then he turned his head to gaze out of the window. "Okay," was all he said, but the word had a final air to it.

Out of mercy, Mycroft let him be. Maybe Sherlock would break through the boy's barriers, if John piqued his interest.

~~~

John kept his head turned away from Mycroft, his mind whirling and his stomach churning, though, really, he wanted to look the posh man over. He was related to John. And he was taking John to live with him and 'Sherlock'. Mycroft and Sherlock... John was very grateful his mum had named him John. He wondered if this Sherlock would be as posh as Mycroft, and guessed he would be. Hopefully, not quite as posh and not as grown up; John didn't feel he could really talk to Mycroft. He picked at the edge of a hole in the knee of his jeans, then stopped, sliding his hand over the hole to hide it. Would it matter that he wasn't as posh or as well-dressed? He wriggled his toes in his trainers, wishing they weren't quite as cramped. Tony wouldn't spend money on John's clothes even when John was living with him; John didn't think he'd fork out for clothes now he was gone. John stared at his trainers and wondered how he'd afford a new pair.

Money worries kept his mind occupied until the car turned off the road through high metal gates. John looked through the windscreen and gaped at the sight of a posh hotel, then wondered why they were stopping. Hadn't Mycroft said he was taking John to his home?

Used to not being able to question adults, John kept quiet as the car stopped and the driver got out. The driver opened the door for Mycroft, and John scrambled to undo his seatbelt and got out too, wrapping his arms around his box as soon as he was free of the car.

"Drive Miss Anthea home, please, Hawkins, then that'll be all for today."

"Yes, sir."

Anthea chimed in with a, "Goodbye, sir. Bye, John."

Turning, John caught the smile she gave him, then she got back into the car and it drove away. John glanced up to find Mycroft gazing at him.

"Let's go in, shall we?"

The front door opened as they approached, the doorman standing to one side as John stepped inside.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"William. John, this is our footman, William."

John looked up at the tall man in uniform. "Hi." Footman? What kind of a hotel had footmen?

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. This is John. John, this is Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper."

Leaving the puzzle of the doorman-footman until later, John found himself being smiled at by an older lady with kind brown eyes. "Hello, love. Do you want to see your bedroom?"

Before he could answer, there was a clatter from behind her, and John peered around her to find a tall, thin boy with wild dark curls and pale eyes giving him a narrow-eyed stare from the bottom of the wide staircase. "I'll show John his bedroom," he said.

There was silence for a moment, making John wonder what was going on, then Mycroft replied, "That would be kind of you, Sherlock."

As Mrs. Hudson stepped out of John's way, Sherlock turned and ran off upstairs and John hurried after him. At the top of the stairs, Sherlock paused, then, as John caught up, he led the way to the third door along and went in, leaving it open for John to follow.

"You've got a view of the drive," Sherlock said, standing by the window.

John's gaze was fixed on the bed; it was huge. Bigger even than Tony's at home. He wondered whether he'd get caught if he bounced on it, and thought maybe he shouldn't risk it. When he finally managed to look around the room, it was just as impressive. The furniture was all dark wood and bright handles; solid-looking stuff that didn't look as if the doors would come off if he pulled too hard. Turning, he noticed another door and pushed it open. "There's a bathroom!" he exclaimed.

"Your bathroom."

John turned to look at Sherlock. His? He wondered how long they'd be staying in this posh hotel that came with bathrooms just off bedrooms. "Where are the other guests?" Maybe they'd all gone out for the afternoon.

"Guests?" For a few seconds, Sherlock looked puzzled, then it cleared. "This isn't a hotel; it's our home."

"You live here?" Sherlock had to be pulling his leg, right?

"That's what a home normally means." He stepped closer, his pale gaze looking John over. "You can put your box down; no one will take it."

John stiffened, his arms tightening around the box until the metal edges dug into his hands.

"Or keep hold of it. I'll show you my room, if you like."

As Sherlock dashed past him, John followed, across the hall and into a room a little further up the hall. This one, though, was a mess. There were books piled up on every surface, papers scattered around, a single shoe in front of the wardrobe...and a human skull on the bedside cabinet.

"That's a skull!" It looked real too.

"It's a friend." Sherlock stopped picking up papers and straightened. "Well, I say friend...."

John grinned. "Is it real?"

Sherlock picked it up and held it out. For a moment John paused, then he put his box down on the bed and took hold of it. It was heavier than he'd expected, and surprisingly clean. His grin widened. "Awesome!"

A faint hint of pink appeared on Sherlock's face, then he carried on picking up papers. "Mycroft got it for me. I had a corpse but he made me give it to the police." He dumped the papers on top of some books and pulled a face. "He's so stodgy at times!"

"He got you a skull." John sat on the bed, still amazed at the fact that he was holding a real skull in his hands.

Surprisingly, it didn't seem to comfort Sherlock. "I had a whole body!"

John forced himself to look up from the skull. "What was it like?"

"It was dead!" Sherlock huffed a breath and sat down next to John. "I found it in the garden shed. The man was homeless. He must have sheltered there in the night, and suffered a heart attack during his sleep. When I found him, he was totally stiff. I tried to move the body to my shed, but it was too heavy, and the gardener told Mycroft when I told him to move it." He gave John a determined look. "When I'm older, I'll have all the dead bodies I want and Mycroft won't be able to do a thing about it."

"Where will you get them from?" John was absolutely fascinated.

"Morgues, of course." His gaze narrowed. "Or maybe I can make the police give me some. It's seems only fair, after all."

"I've never seen a dead body." Maybe, if he got to stay with Sherlock, Sherlock would let him see one.

"We're bound to find another." Sherlock took the skull from John's hands and smiled at it. "They can't be that rare; if you read the papers, they're forever turning up."

"If you worked in a morgue, you'd get all the dead bodies you want," John pointed out, feeling that might work out well for Sherlock's ambition in life.

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "They might not let me do experiments on them. Anyway, I'm going to be a consulting detective - that's why I need to know all about dead bodies."

John was puzzled. "What's a consulting detective?" He knew what a detective was, of course; he'd seen loads of them on the telly.

"A detective who's consulted. By the police!" Sherlock added, impatience in his tone.

"I didn't know they did that."

"They don't. I invented the job."

"But...how will you get them to consult you?" It seemed to John that there were a few holes in Sherlock's plan, though he didn't want to come straight out and say so.

"By showing them how well I deduce facts. They need all the help they can get."

"Deduce?"

"Deduction, John! It's the most important skill a detective can have!"

"Deduction, right." Maybe there was a dictionary somewhere.

Sherlock's gaze fixed on his face, and John got the impression he knew John was totally lost, then Sherlock leaned forward. "For instance, your stepfather is approximately five foot ten, he's right-handed, and he wears a large coin ring with a mesh shank on the...middle finger of his right hand."

John's heart thumped unpleasantly. "You've met him?!"

"No." Sherlock sat back, looking satisfied. "I can tell from the bruise on your face."

For a moment, John stared at him, then he leapt to his feet and ran to the long mirror on the front of the wardrobe, leaning in closely to peer at the bruise. Tilting his head, he squinted. He could just make out the darker bruise where the edge of the coin ring had caught him, and the mesh had left tiny scratches in his cheek. "That's amazing."

"Really?"

John turned. Sherlock was looking surprised. "It's brilliant."

"People don't normally say that."

"What do they normally say?" John asked, curious.

"Piss off."

John couldn't help it; he laughed.

~~~

By the time they went downstairs, John was feeling a lot better. Okay, so Mycroft was sort of scary, and John couldn't get over the fact that there was a footman and a housekeeper - not a butler though, he'd quit after some trouble with a haddock and his pillowcase, and Sherlock hadn't explained that one at all - but Sherlock...Sherlock was fascinating.

They sat down at a large wooden dining table, and John couldn't help but stiffen as Mycroft came into the room and sat at the end of the table.

"Do you like your room, John?" he asked, unfolding a piece of cloth and draping it across his knees.

John glanced at Sherlock and saw him doing the same thing, so he hastily copied them. "Yes, thank you."

Sherlock flapped his piece of cloth in the air. "John's impressed by his bed." He grinned at John.

"If you bounce on it, please try to avoid falling off; Sherlock did that and it took weeks for his wrist to mend."

Sherlock's grin disappeared. "I was four!" he said, sounding annoyed.

"And it was a trial keeping you entertained until your wrist was better."

John gave Mycroft a doubtful look, surprised that anyone so grown up would be okay with people bouncing on beds, then he redirected his gaze to the bowl of soup that had just been put in front of him. He was starving; the toast he'd had for dinner had been hours ago, but he managed to wait until Mycroft picked up a spoon and started eating. Sherlock was too busy arguing with Mycroft to eat much, though John noticed he'd managed to finish half the soup before William brought in more food.

John was relieved to see the extra dishes come in. The soup had been nice but not that filling, and he hadn't wanted to ask for more food in case there wasn't any, so he tucked into the roast dinner with gusto. He'd barely swallowed the last bite before Sherlock said, "May we be excused?"

Mycroft looked at John. "Do you want to be excused?"

For a moment, John was frozen. Sherlock was kicking him under the table and nodding wildly, but Mycroft was looking at him and waiting. John mumbled a, "Yes, please," and hoped it wouldn't make Mycroft angry.

Mycroft smiled. "Then you're both excused."

Relief, mingled with surprise, made John's knees weak, but he scrambled from his chair and hurriedly followed Sherlock out of the room before Mycroft could change his mind. Sherlock didn't go back upstairs though, instead he raced across the hall and into what John quickly realised was the kitchen. John stopped as William got up from the table, but Sherlock merely waved a hand in the table's direction and said, "We're going to my shed. Come on, John!"

After a few seconds, John hesitantly returned Mrs. Hudson's smile, then ran after Sherlock.

"This is my shed."

John stared at it, half-expecting a palace with dead bodies hanging out of every window. Instead, he saw a large wooden shed with a row of fire extinguishers in different colours stacked nearby. He pointed to them, but Sherlock shrugged, muttering, "Mycroft," in a disgusted tone as he fiddled with something on the shed door. After a few seconds, he yanked open the door, then stepped back, his eyes fixed on John's face.

John glanced at him, then peered inside. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but a plain wooden table and what looked like the contents of a mad scientist's lab wasn't it. "It's a science lab!"

Sherlock looked pleased. "It's where I do my experiments." He led the way inside and handed John a pair of thick, clear glasses.

Staring up at the bulb dangling from the roof, John blurted out, "You've got electricity!"

"Only a small amount. If I try to use too much, it trips the safety circuit." He shrugged, looking annoyed. "I haven't figured out a way round it yet." He pushed a stool towards John. "You can sit down. I'll stand."

John hopped up onto the stool and put on the glasses, gazing at Sherlock and wondering if he'd produce a dead body that he was going to bring back to life. "What do you normally do when you bring friends here?"

Sherlock turned away, lifting some bottles down from the high shelves and putting them down on the table. "I don't have any friends."

"Why not?"

"People don't like me."

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head. That couldn't be right; Sherlock had a skull and a lab and did experiments. After a pause, John said, "I like you."

Sherlock stopped, then lifted down another bottle. "I'll show you how to do this, if you like."

'This' turned out to be a stink bomb that made John laugh and cough, and wish he'd had the chance to use it on Tony before he'd left. They were in the middle of writing out a list of possible hiding places for the stink bomb when William appeared carrying a tray.

"Cocoa!" Sherlock finished scribbling their latest hiding place (attached to the toilet handle so it would go off when he flushed) and put the pen down. "We'll have it out there, William."

William put the tray down on the wooden bench. "Master John's to come in and have his bath in an hour. I'll come back for the tray then."

Sherlock scowled. "That's only eight o'clock!"

"And he'll be in bed by half-past," William said, walking away, apparently not at all put off by Sherlock's glare.

"They're treating you like a child!"

"I am only eight," John pointed out, picking up a cup and sniffing at it.

"And I'm ten! I don't go to bed until much later."

"How much later?" John was pretty sure Sherlock didn't get to stay up until midnight or anything.

There was a pause, then Sherlock admitted, "Half past nine."

John hid his grin in the cocoa.

Part 2