Text in italics is from Roald Dahl's 'James and the Giant Peach', which is a splendid book and you should read it, I don't care how old you are.
"Are you sure you don't want to hear about 'Jack the Ripper Comes Back', or the 'Case of the Missing Fingernails'?"
"Not tonight," Nicholas voice was soft. His son's manner made Sherlock pause in rifling through hardcopies of cases.
"Did something happen today?" the boy all of five, shifted uncomfortably in bed.
"I just want to hear something nice tonight." Sherlock was about to reply that 'Jack the Ripper Comes Back' was almost exactly like 'The Cat in the Hat Comes Back' except without the rhyming, and a little more gore, but instead he nodded.
"Very well," he shelved the cases and went to the bookcase by Nicholas bed. 'Something nice' usually meant for children. "What will it be?" one look at his son and Sherlock knew. With a smile and a nod, he selected a well-worn volume from the shelf and opened it. "Bunch up," he said, and Nicholas scooted over. Very carefully, Sherlock crawled up onto the bed and ever so gently placed his son between his legs so they could both read. "James and the Giant Peach," Sherlock began. "By Roald Dahl…"
Hours Later…
With a yawn and sigh, Molly shut the door behind her. She hated being on call this time of year. The weather was already depressing enough. Finding no sign of her husband or son (who should have been asleep at this hour) she shuffled into her slippers, looking around. From Nicholas' room, she could hear her husband's voice, and the light was still on. On tip-toe, she crept closer to investigate.
There on Nicholas bed, Sherlock was sprawled out, Nicholas curled between his legs, his face contorted in pain, though his eyes were heavy with sleep as his father read:
"Every day of the week, hundreds and hundreds of children from far and near came pouring into the City to see the marvelous peach stone in the Park. And James Henry Trotter, who once, if you remember, had been the saddest and loneliest boy that you could find, now had all the friends and playmates in the world. And because so many of them were always begging him to tell and tell again the stories of his adventures on the peach, he thought it would be nice if one day he sat down and wrote it as a book. So he did. And that is what you have just finished reading. The End."
Sherlock looked over their son's head, nodding to her.
"Now it's time for bed," he kissed his head and carefully shifted so that Nicholas was laying flat. "You have a handkerchief under your pillow?"
"Yes."
"Sleep tight."
"Da?"
"Hm?"
"Are you happier now than before. . . when it was just you?" Sherlock bent, pressing a gentle kiss to Nicholas' forehead.
"Infinitely happier, now go to sleep."
"Night Da," he saw Molly in the doorway and waved his small hand. "Goodnight ma."
"Goodnight, love," a kiss from both parents, the nightlight switched on, Nicholas turned on his side and drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of giant peaches and centipedes, ladybugs and grasshoppers, and the thought that one day he might be lucky enough to have a friend.