A lazy Sunday morning sun woke John up. He was lying on his back, pinned to the mattress by six foot of sleeping detective. Messy curls tickled him under his chin while a patch of drool was slowly seeping its way through John's white tee. Carefully, he tried to extricate himself – only to be more tightly gripped by lanky limbs. For a cold sociopath, Sherlock was surprisingly warm and cuddly.
"Honey, please let me go", John whispered.
"Krrmphh", Sherlock grunted in response.
A small creak from the door and the soft patter of feet made John turn his head.
"Go back to your room!" he stage-whispered.
"No."
Hamish emerged from around the side table, still flushed from sleep, and started to climb into the bed with a determined look on his little face. He was carrying a yellow dinosaur in one hand.
"You can't sleep here."
"Yes."
Ignoring his father's protest he latched on to John's unoccupied side and buried his head next to Sherlock's arm. As an after-though he clutched the detectives thumb in a tiny fist. Within a minute Hamish was asleep.
John now had two curly boys dressed in tees and chequered pyjama pants firmly attached to his torso. Sighing, John resigned to his cuddly fate. He just wished they let him get up to use the bathroom...