This. Sherlock realises is both the best and worst day of his life. There's a blood thirsty serial killer out prowling the grubby streets of London, skulking in the shadows and taunting Sherlock with his elusive trademark riddles and untidy knife work. He should have been out on the streets now, his shoes scuffing against the pavement and his coat billowing mysteriously behind him as John tries desperately to keep up. And keep them both from being viciously assaulted.

Instead he's sat crossed legged on the floor of 221B Baker street, clad in his dressing gown and reading Cinderella for the sixth time while John snoozes tiredly in his armchair. His back pressed comfortably against the doctor's leg while Rosie giggles and claps her chubby little hands together. He hits all the right notes, his voice pitched with the right enthusiasm and just the right amount of quiet deducing in the infant's ear. Content enough to ignore the sirens outside of the flat and the hum of his phone as it vibrates abandoned on the side.

He'll complain to John later. Whinge and sulk until his heart's content that they've missed another case; that he's bored. But John will just smile at him, maybe huff a laugh as he ruffles Sherlocks hair and kisses the top of Rosie's head. Make a snide remark about him domesticating the consulting detective.

He'll grumble and groan and pretend that he would rather be out there playing the great game. When deep down he'd be happy to spend the rest of his life in the company of his doctor. Clad in his dressing gown with his legs crossed reading Cinderella to Rosamund for the sixth time on the floor of 221 Baker street.