Xingfu (Chinese)—A sort of happiness or contentedness felt through having everything you want in life and/or not having any looming worries. It describes a long-term feeling about one's life situation rather than a happiness achieved through a singular outcome or situation.
Case-wise, it was a quiet day at 221B Baker Street. A few years ago, John would have abhorred a day like this. Sherlock would have been flopped on the couch like a beached squid, moaning about boredom and acting like a petulant child. But now it was different. John and Sherlock had gotten married seven years before, and, after two years of marriage, had adopted a son.
After three days in the hospital, Sherlock and John brought their new son back to Baker Street. John scooped him out of his carrier and held him gently. "We still don't have a name," John said softly.
"I know," Sherlock rumbled. "Wait!" he exclaimed, and they both flinched, but the baby didn't mind. "Why didn't I think of it before?"
"Think of what?" John asked, meeting his husband's eyes.
Sherlock smiled. "Hamish."
"My middle name."
"Obviously."
"I thought you didn't hear me say that."
"Why?"
"Well, you were so…focused on Irene."
"Oh, please, John. It was all part of the game. You were brilliant on that case, by the way." John furrowed his brow. "You…well….You saved me from myself, as trite as that is."
John smiled. "So…Hamish?" he said after a pause, knowing Sherlock didn't know what else to say.
Sherlock walked over and looked down at his son. "Yes. Hamish."
Hamish was now five, and was running around the flat on a Sunday morning. Once Hamish had come home with them, Sherlock had stopped experimenting on Sundays. "Fa!" Hamish shrieked, running into Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock swung his son up into the air and kissed him on the cheek. "Good morning, Hamish."
John plodded down the stairs and rubbed his eyes. "Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed.
John ran his hand over his son's head and kissed him. "Hello, love. Good morning," he added, sharing a kiss with Sherlock. John started to make omelets for the three of them, while Sherlock and Hamish looked through one of Sherlock's chemistry books.
Once breakfast was ready, the three of them sat down to eat, and after they were finished, Sherlock did the dishes while John and Hamish sat on the couch. John touched his finger to Hamish's forearm. "Radius." John touched again. "Ulna." He moved up his son's arm. "Humerus." Sherlock sat in the armchair across from them.
"Come join us," John said with a smile. Sherlock sat down behind Hamish, and the boy scampered into his father's lap. "Hamish, has Fa ever told you the story of the time we went to Boscombe Valley?"
Hamish shook his head, and Sherlock smiled. "Well, Uncle Greg called with the case of a Herefordshire land owner…." John got up and moved so he was curled on Sherlock's back, listened intently to his husband's deep voice, and grinned. Life was good. Life was very good.