He should be working on this case Lestrade's given him. He really should.
Instead, Sherlock finds himself musing on the strange miracle that brought him a family in a way he'd never expected to have.
When he got home from the Yard, Mrs. Hudson had greeted him warmly, maternally.
"Be quiet when you go up, Sherlock. John was waiting up for you and he nodded off on the sofa. Oh, and before I forget, I made you boys a nice pound cake. You never eat enough." She bustled off to get the cake and shoved it into his hands. He made a show of trying to refuse but eventually just smiled and thanked her for it.
When he got to the sitting room, he paused to study his friend, his partner, the man who somehow made his life complete. John always looked so relaxed, so content when he slept. The creases in his face softened and his mouth slackened. Sherlock had gently pulled an afghan over John's shoulders, smiling as John burrowed into the warmth without waking.
Sherlock is a rational man, a man of science and logic – not a man of faith and hope. How is it then, that as he hears Mrs. Hudson puttering about downstairs, as he watches John murmur peacefully in his sleep, he feels so blessed?