It was a typical evening at 221B Baker Street: Mrs. Hudson was making some tea, all the while muttering that she was not the boys' housekeeper, thank you very much; Sherlock was scouring the online newspapers in hopes that a nice murder had stumped the police; and John was attempting to keep himself awake long enough to finish writing his latest blog post.

"Police suspect foul play was involved in a fire yesterday leaving three people injured. Boring. Break in yesterday morning, nothing stolen. Boring." Sherlock intoned from where he was mournfully eying his laptop. "John, why is nothing exciting happening?"

Footsteps on the stairs saved John from having to answer. There was a light knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a cup of tea which she placed on the table beside Sherlock, who was still muttering to himself. She was just about to leave the room, when she noticed John sprawled out on the sofa, typing away at his blog.

"John, dear, are you still up? I thought you had gone to bed."

"I couldn't sleep."

Mrs. Hudson's brows knit together in concern. "Are you having those dreams again? Stay right there and close your eyes, I'll be right back with a blanket and some warm milk with cinnamon. My mother used to give that to me when I was a child, and it would always help me fall asleep."

Before he could reply, Mrs. Hudson had exited the room faster than John would have imagined for a woman her age. He started to rise, as if to assist Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, but a voice from across the room stopped him.

"I do believe Mrs. Hudson asked you to stay there and close your eyes, John." Sherlock commented dryly, his eyes still on the computer screen.

"I can't very well let her carry everything up the stairs herself, now can I? Those stairs are steep and poorly lit; what if she falls?" John retorted.

Sherlock sighed deeply, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to ask a greater being why John was being so difficult. He rose slowly, retrieved a blanket and his violin from where they lay discarded on the floor, and purposefully made his way over to John who, despite his moral conscience, was sitting on the couch with his eyes closed. Sherlock carefully tucked the blanket around John, who muttered a sleepy "thanks Mrs. H." He then picked up his bow and began to play a soft, soothing tune that most would recognize as a lullaby.

A short while later, Mrs. Hudson returned to the apartment to find John and Sherlock sleeping side by side on the couch with only Sherlock's violin separating them. John shifted unconsciously closer to Sherlock, who was the closest source of warmth, and rested his head on his shoulder, displacing their blanket in the process.

There was an air of vulnerability surrounding the boys, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't help the surge of protectiveness that filled her chest as she looked at them. For the first time in months, Sherlock and John – her boys, as she had come to see them – appeared to be content and untroubled. Tiptoeing across the floor, Mrs. Hudson draped the blanket across the boys' laps, making sure to cover them both, and turned out the light. Pausing only to fondly glance at her boys once more, she quietly left the room, being careful not to disturb this private moment intended only for the eyes of the night.