All was quiet apart from the soft footfalls as Sherlock paced the floor slowly and thought back to where he had been on this very day one year ago.
Facing the sister he didn't remember, watching a man commit suicide in a futile attempt to save his wife, pointing a gun at his own brother…
Having all his defenses stripped away until his bleeding heart was showing for all the world to see that he loved so many and so deeply.
The love he held for his brother and the way his world tipped upside down at the thought of Mycroft's death.
His love for John and Rosie, fighting to keep his best friend alive and make sure his beloved goddaughter did not lose the only parent she had left.
And his love for Molly, hidden away even from himself for her protection. And his own. To have it torn from him in a moment of panic, coming face to face with the realisation that he loved her and then almost losing her. To be so utterly, emotionally eviscerated.
The Sherlock he had been before John Watson, before Molly Hooper, before Mary Morstan, before any of them, would have never buckled to Euros' experiments.
He would have called himself weak for giving in and turning it all back on her by threatening his own life to save any of theirs. He would have stormed into the situation and likely have gotten them all killed.
But now?
He smiled. Now, he knew that they were his strength. And their influence taught him to learn and embrace the heart inside him that he fought for so long to destroy. And it saved their lives.
It saved Euros.
'What are you doing up?'
Sherlock turned, his dressing gown billowing out around his legs. Molly leaned against the doorway and rubbed her hand through her mussed hair as she frowned sleepily.
His heart overflowed and he smiled widely. 'Couldn't sleep.'
Molly walked over to him, uncaring of the way his old t-shirt fell off her right shoulder. 'You'll have to let go someday, my love,' she teased.
'Not today,' he whispered and tightened his hold on the precious bundle in his arms. The way his newborn son nestled against his chest, completely trusting him even at just four days old, was a wonder he knew he would never understand.
Molly smiled in understanding and kissed him, then bent to kiss their son's downy head.
'Sleep well, my love,' she murmured against his soft hair. Looking up at Sherlock, she shared a tender smile with him before pressing a kiss to his lips and shuffling back to bed.
Once more alone with his sleeping son, Sherlock resumed his slow pacing, swaying every so often.
It would forever amaze him how much had changed in the course of one year. He had never imagined in his wildest theories that he would be standing here now, married and holding his son, perfectly and utterly content with the life they were building.
He smiled and watched as the moonlight played across his son's face. 'It's going to be a grand adventure, Johnathon Victor. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.'