Nothing is mine.
Every morning when John woke up, he gave thanks to whatever deity would receive it. He was thankful for being alive, relatively healthy, having a roof over his head and the love of a good (if slightly insane) mane.
He work first, naturally, and gazed lovingly at Sherlock's sleeping form. He was usually wrapped around John like a giant child around his teddy bear. If he was especially lucky, Hamish would be clinging to his dad's other side, blanky wrapped around him and sucking his thumb.
John swallowed the lump in his throat and hugged Sherlock and Hamish tightly.
Thank you for reading.