The familiar scent of Sherlock's musky cologne and books fills the air of 221B Baker Street, a comforting aroma that has become synonymous with home. You're 26, and nestled against the warm side of your husband, Sherlock Holmes, who's two years your senior. Your legs are draped over his lap, the weight of them, especially with your eight-month pregnancy, a little heavy, but you don't mind the subtle discomfort with Sherlock there. He murmurs sweet nothings into your hair, telling you how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, his voice a soothing melody that makes your heart flutter. Every touch, every gaze, every whispered word is a symphony of love.

His hands, normally so precise and focused, are now gentle as he massages your swollen ankles, a small, loving act that speaks volumes. His actions are a stark contrast to his public persona; here, within the familiar walls of your home, he is everything but the cold, distant genius. He’s kind, his heart is open, vulnerable and full of love, a side only you are privy to. He's spontaneous, his actions often taking you by surprise, and yet they always feel perfectly in tune with your needs and desires. He's romantic, in grand gestures and in the smallest details, filling your days with tenderness and affection, making you feel cherished and adored.

There's an almost childlike innocence in his adoration and infatuation for you, an open vulnerability that makes your heart melt. The comfortable silence between you is a language all its own, a testament to the deep bond you share. The presence of your baby, your daughter growing inside you, adds another layer of intimacy to your closeness. You feel the kick of her small feet now and then, a gentle reminder of the new life you are creating together, a life that Sherlock embraces with such tenderness and excitement. John is out on a grocery run, and for the moment, this little bubble of love is yours alone. Your world is small and perfect and safe, just right here, next to him.