The gods above finally showered us with grace and a murder. I am sure my as well as the Scotland Yard's prayers could be heard on the moon, as finally Sherlock had a case, he was focussed and off our backs. We all know how he can get when he is bored. But this time I literally asked my wife to plan hiding his body while I shot him. And Greg, the man with THE most patience for Sherlock, concurred.

So the case was a blessing. Sherlock was on it like a starving dog on a bone, determined and working non-stop. It could've been written by a Hollywood scriptwriter. Kidnappings, murder threats, robbery, shooting and a finale that involved...wait for it…a car chase around the Yorkshire dales. All that was missing was a helicopter chasing us with guns and a mad villain and we would've been in the next Bond movie. Of course the bubble of my imagination was nicely burst by my best friend, who very helpfully pointed out the silliness of a car being chased by a helicopter and the ease with which MI6 would deal with a villain that loco.

Yet I let my imagination run wild but the enjoyment lessened as we approached London. Now it was the excitement of seeing my family, and being held in those familiar arms that made me jumpy like a puppy, as I was so helpfully reminded.

The case had taken better part of two weeks to solve and I practically fell down on my couch. I was surprised out of my dazed state a few minutes later as a thoroughly exhausted Sherlock landed next to me. He preferred the quiet and isolation of Baker Street after a case like this, where Mrs Hudson cooed and pampered him, plying him with delicious meals. We had parted right at Paddington.

"Baker Street is empty; Mrs Hudson is off to her sister's. Of all the days to go off gallivanting…" he complained.

Patting his head, Mary nodded in a consolatory manner before making dinner. He practically inhaled the food she piled onto his plate and was fast asleep on the sofa before I could even call a cab. Mary's face, as she covered him with a blanket, mirrored the expression when she wished our daughter a good night. Looking at the woman who had welcomed my dearest, albeit definitely weird, friend into her heart right from the beginning, I realised how lucky a man I was.

Sherlock as a best friend, Mary as my life partner, a daughter -I cannot put into words how much I love her- who completed me in ways I didn't even know I needed…life has been good to me. It has taken its time but sitting here in my house right now, I cannot ask for anything more for myself.

As for my best friend, I just hope that he finds some quiet. And a non-narcotic means of getting it.

"We haven't had Sherlock over after a case like this in a long time. I assumed he would've been done with his limited stores of patience for other breathing beings and would kill to be left alone."

I could barely summon the energy to respond to that. I had the love of my life in my arms after what seemed like ages and discussing my snoring friend below was the last thought on my mind.

"Easier to eat what you've made, than to negotiate the intricacies of dialling in a meal."

But Mary (being Mary) continued to dig in.

"He looked a bit lost right now. Like he wasn't sure what to do now that Mrs Hudson wasn't home."

"Do you mind he came here? I can try and ask him, but you know he will do as he feels. And Mrs Watson, you will indulge him, making me out to be the villain. I would rather not want to punch my friend again."

Mary's breath against my neck as she laughed was the last coherent thought I had that night.

It is perfectly true when they say that your bed at home is the best recovery ward in the whole bloody world. I woke up early but refreshed, the sound of my baby cooing making me more content that ever. Home is where the heart is. Add to that Mary's special brew of coffee and my heaven was here.

I loved to watch my wife and daughter babble at each together, their special interaction the best thing in the whole world. So I tiptoed to the living room where I could hear voices.

I stopped short when I saw Mary playing with my daughter on her lap, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. The man himself was probably critiquing the coffee in his hand by the look on his face.

"It's true you know. Change is the only thing that is constant, that and our struggle to deal with it."

"Also my struggle to swallow this god-awful coffee you make."

"Oh Sherlock, you love it!" Mary smiled smugly. She laid her head on his shoulder, and silently made faces at my daughter.

I had known Sherlock long enough by now to remain where I was, almost getting a tangible sensation that he was about to reveal something. It had become a tradition by now; I would try to get him to open up for hours and days and he would simply insult me back. Then five minutes in, my wife would make him divulge his innermost thoughts in a way that would surprise the git himself. She was dangerous in that way, my Mary.

I recognised the play set up and waited.

And was rewarded when Sherlock quietly muttered, "You should learn from Molly how to make a good brew."