Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own creations. Rated T for language.
John Watson startled awake instantly at the sensation of someone pulling his eyelid open, but it took several long moments for his weary brain to identify where he was and who had woken him up. Blearily keeping his eyes open he saw the fluffy ears of a poor strangled teddy bear before they moved upwards to view the toothy grin of his son.
"The sun's out daddy!"
John groaned as he cricked his neck to look at the clock on his bedside table. 5:27am. Fuck. He hadn't even been asleep for two hours, courtesy of his partner needing someone to bounce ideas off... the same partner who was currently sound asleep, his breath tickling the nape of his neck, arm resting heavily on his stomach in slumber.
Bastard.
He couldn't suppress the yawn that escaped as he addressed the eager boy adorned in bright blue pyjamas. "It's still early Ham."
"But the sun's up!" protested the four year old.
John blasted summer daylight hours to hell and back. "Yes, but most people aren't yet."
Recognising the stubborn jut in his chin and the impending sulk (wonder which parent he got that from) John's heavy limbs lifted the edge of the duvet in invite. "Climb in kiddo."
Hamish, Redbeard firmly under his arm, promptly scrambled up onto the bed and burrowed into his father's chest.
Son buried into his chest and husband buried into his back, John sighed and allowed himself to doze off once again.
Waking up some indeterminate time later, John realised that he had rolled over into his back. Turning his head to find out the time he discovered that his movements were greatly restricted. Looking down, he found he had curly haired heads a shoulder apiece.
Hamish was wrapped around his arm, one hand still gripping the ever present Redbeard, as he sucked on two fingers in his sleep. John grimaced. They'd need to cure him of that habit soon. Pressing a soft kiss to his son's curls, he turned his attention to their counterpart.
Running his fingers through through Sherlock's hair, he smirked when he felt the man starting to respond to his touch. A few moments longer and he began to stir. "Nrgh. Too 'rly," came the barely comprehensible mumble.
It was rich coming from the same man who had rattled off countless theories at three o'blessed clock this morning before coming to his conclusion. Poor Greg had also been on the receiving end of an early morning wake up call to arrest the guilty party, aka Mrs Saunders the Mistress.
John stifled another yawn as Sherlock tightened his grip on him and extended an arm to cuddle. Finding his path blocked by artificial fur, the world's only consulting detective decided it not worth effort deducing and instead contented himself with grasping the appendage, rubbing his nose into his pillow's shoulder and promptly returning to sleep.
John couldn't help the grin escaping at the sight of Sherlock holding onto the leg of their son's teddy bear.
If only he had a camera.
Finito.