The sofa isn't that wide, but somehow they all manage to fit in. The Watsons are huddled together on one side while Sherlock is curled up on the other, his head only an inch away from Mary's knee.

He's barely able to suppress a contented sigh when her hand moves to his hair, her fingers threading through his curls; he leans further into the touch, like a cat welcoming its owner's strokes.

"Good boy," Mary teases him, but he doesn't rise to the bait. He enjoys being touched, though not in the way most people do, and he's not going to give that up in favour of exchanging barbs with the woman providing it.

He doesn't need to look up to know that John is trailing kisses along his wife's neck, he can feel it in her fingers and it's enough to send a pleasant tingle down his spine. It has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with closeness and intimacy; the majority of people wouldn't understand, but then John and Mary are not most people.

Sherlock smirks, his eyelids flickering open. "Amanda," he announces, and Mary's fingers pause for a moment.

"Amanda – who?"

"Amanda Watson. What do you think about it?"

He feels her smile in the way her fingertips twitch ever so slightly against his brow.