A month of Sundays

AN: This first Sunday is the Sunday when John and Sherlock go to dinner and Sherlock has the fight with Mycroft.

1st Sunday

Lucian hadn't even shaved.

For so many years her husband had always gotten out of bed before seven and pottered around with a cup of coffee. When he had retired he had taken to making the breakfast in a move that Bella found oddly sweet. For the past three days he had simply lain in bed until she roused him with coffee and toast.

Even then he was listless.

"You can't do this to yourself," she said gently one morning as the sun streamed into their bedroom.

"I keep going over it," Lucian said hoarsely. "Over and over. Every single time that I should have seen something was wrong or there was a sentence that didn't make sense-"

"We," Bella corrected him, laying her head on his chest. "We should have seen it."

"You did," Lucian said tightly. "You were starting to see it with Mycroft, you wanted to talk to Sherlock about what had happened. I was the one who wanted to pretend it would all fade away."

"We made that decision together," Bella sighed. "We made all our decisions together."

Lucian said nothing.

"We can't change it, darling. It breaks my heart but we can't change it. What we can do is try now."

Lucian rested his cheek against her hair.

"And that includes getting up, getting showered and deciding what we are going to do later on today when they come over."

"Sherlock won't come."

"Mycroft says he will," Bella said.

She could tell Lucian wasn't convinced but, all the same, a few minutes later he stirred and she moved to let him sit up and get out of bed.

Her grandson looked as if he would maim anyone that said one wrong word to his father.

It was sweet. Sad, painful, but sweet that he was so protective of Sherlock. Sherlock who looked exhausted and listless. Sherlock who didn't snap and mutter about anything and everything.

Instead her son made polite conversation about the weather and stayed silent for most of dinner.

At first she assumed it was his way of getting back at them. Sherlock had used silence as a weapon far too many times before. One look at Mycroft's guilty face was enough to tell her that some argument had happened there.

And Mycroft could be as cutting as his brother when he wished to be.

"Any plans for the summer holidays?" Bella asked John.

Her grandson shrugged.

Silence.

Then, as if wincing at the uncomfortable atmosphere, John relented. "Chris is away," he said stabbing his potato. "They're off to Florida. Mrs Hudson told me places they should go."

Mrs Hudson. The woman who got to see Bella's son and grandson every single day.

"That was good of her," Bella said.

Silence.

"Do you want to have some of your friends here again?" Bella asked.

John's gaze flickered to Sherlock who was moving his beans around his plate, barely paying attention to the conversation. After a moment's thought, John shook his head. "Most of 'em are away."

"They won't be away for the entire holiday-"

Next to her, Lucian reached for her hand under the table and shook his head ever so slightly. "We'll see how it goes, won't we, John?"

A flicker of relief showed and John nodded.

He was slipping away.

Once the dinner plates had been cleared, Mycroft asked Sherlock outside and John sat awkwardly at the table staring at the table cloth.

"I understand that you're angry with us," Bella began slowly. "We handled things terribly with your father-"

John let out an annoyed breath.

"We have made mistakes," Lucian suddenly said. "And that-"

John was shaking his head.

"What are you thinking?" Bella asked softly. "Please…what's upsetting you the most about this?"

Anna's stubborn chin jutted out and John glared at the centre of the table.

"He's not something you need to fix," John said eventually.

"We're not saying-"

"You are," John protested. "Every time you say that he isn't this or isn't that. And you sugar coat everything-"

"You are twelve years old," Lucian said firmly. "You have been through enough trials in your life without having to deal with every single issue that comes our way."

"I'm not-"

"You are a child," Lucian cut over John. "And I will not apologise for wanting to keep my grandson from the evils of the world."

"I'm not the kind of child you're used to," John said with a glare. "I'm not…I know what life is like. Real life-"

Lucian shook his head.

"Lucian-" Bella warned, seeing the look on John's face.

"Your father is treating you far too much like his mate," Lucian snapped. "Whatever notion that you have about knowing the real world-"

"Mum was homeless when I was a baby."

Bella felt something fall from her heart.

"Mum used to steal my Christmas and birthday presents for me. If we were short I'd help her nick the shopping. I had to lie to social services twice about Mum so they wouldn't take me away. One term I had to pinch my own dinner money," John said with a determined hiss to his voice. "I know more about the real world, about not having money and what people will do to survive than either of you."

Tears blurred her eyes at the thought of her grandson having to do that, knowing that there wouldn't be enough money for the basic things most children took for granted. "You should never have been raised that way," she started to say.

John looked up at both of them. "Thing is ... I was. I was raised so that less than a year before I met you I was used to steal from a house like yours-but then, if we went your way, I would never have been born at all."

Her brain stuttered.

Lucian jolted next to her. "Your father-"

"But Mum wanted me," John's voice wobbled as he spoke. "And then you never once bothered to ask her, to look her up. I was just another of Dad's mistakes to be fixed and forgotten."

"No," Bella said fiercely. "Please, that was never what we thought-"

"Stop lying," John snapped. "All this family ever does is lie and cover things up so that nothing sounds as bad as it is-"

"Because you were our chance at getting it right."

John stared at them both and Bella closed her eyes at the desperation in Lucian's voice.

John shook his head and slipped away from the table as Lucian sighed and buried his head in his hands.

The front door slammed shut five minutes later.

"Sweetheart?"

Mycroft sat in the lounger staring blankly ahead.

"We'll try again next Sunday-"

Mycroft stood up. "There will be no more Sundays," he said in a numbed voice. "Nor Wednesdays."

Bella closed her eyes as her son walked out.

Gone.

All gone.

2nd Sunday

It had been foolish to hope that John would come on Wednesday.

It had become such a stable routine that Mycroft had everything cleared for a few hours with his nephew on habit alone. His mind had been racing about what to say, how to apologise, how to explain-

Part of him had known he was holding onto a dream.

He'd watched the CCTV that night, catching a glimpse of John and Sherlock walking through London, having lunch and then going to Bart's. John stood as close to Sherlock as he could physically manage without actually touching.

At four o'clock they were still in Bart's. There was no way to tell if John had tensed at the time, if it had crossed his mind to leave.

So he had sent a message to Sherlock, letting his brother know that Mycroft would not be going to Sunday lunch.

Nor are we. Do what you like. SH

John should have a relationship with his grandparents, regardless of what arguments we three are having. MH

That had been hard to type. 'We three'.

Mycroft had never imagined he and John would be fighting.

John has refused to go. We were not the only ones having an argument apparently. SH

What?

His mother looked dreadful and stared at him blankly as she opened the door.

"It's Sunday," he said gently, his intended ire fading instantly at the sight of her.

She smiled and then burst into tears.

Xxx

"Where's Father?"

"Out," she said, wiping at her eyes as they sat in the conservatory. "He goes for long walks now."

Mycroft nodded slowly, not at all sure how he had missed that. He'd been so focussed on spying on Sherlock and John that he hadn't really bothered to look at his parents.

"Therapy," his mother suddenly said. "That's where he is going. He calls them walks but we both know… he started three days ago."

"Is it helping?"

His mother sighed. "It's been three days," she said looking out the window.

"Sherlock said you and John had an argument," Mycroft said slowly.

"You're speaking?" she asked hopefully.

"No. We…I texted him. But we are not speaking. I said…I said unforgivable things to him."

The look of disappointment on her face unsettled him and, for a moment, he couldn't make out whether it was because he'd lost his temper or because he and Sherlock weren't talking.

She didn't even know he and John weren't talking.

Wincing, he looked away.

"The Holmes tongue should be a licenced weapon," his mother said slowly. "Sherlock has said enough things to you over the years."

"I threatened to have John taken from him," Mycroft stared at the carpet. "And John overheard."

"Oh," his mother breathed, closing her eyes. "Oh, Mycroft…" she trailed off, clearly gathering he thoughts. "We all say foolish things," his mother coaxed. "John knows that."

"And if I had said those things to anyone but Sherlock he might forgive me. But…" Mycroft sighed. "I would swear an oath there are days where John forgets that he is the child, not the parent. To hurt Sherlock…it is the one unforgivable act in his eyes."

"He loves you."

Mycroft nodded. "But he adores his father. And I have committed heresy by threatening to take Sherlock from John." He stared up at the coffee table. "I have lost."

"He cannot stay angry forever."

"Sherlock or John?" Mycroft asked feeling oddly numb by the whole thing. "Both have a great capacity for stubbornness."

"As do you," his mother pointed out gently. "More so than Sherlock even. And Sherlock has never been able to stay angry with you. He'll walk into your office ranting and raving about how unfair you are soon enough."

Mycroft almost smiled. "It's habit," he corrected.

"You know it isn't," she soothed. "Do you remember when you first started your job? You had a case of nerves and completely buckled."

Almost hissing at the memory, Mycroft glared at her, unhappy at it being brought up. "Mother that was seven years ago-"

"You took three days feeling sorry for yourself and then you worked like a demon so that the moment that arrogant brat faltered you could step in."

Amused at the passion in her voice, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Am I to assume in this context that Sherlock is the arrogant brat?"

"His stubbornness certainly is," his mother sighed. "And my point is that you are not the type to sit and wallow in self-pity and wait to be forgiven."

Mycroft drew in a breath.

"Unlike your father."

He blinked.

That had almost sounded like…

Baffled, he looked at her. In all the years he had paid attention never had his mother and father broken their unified stance.

Well…his mother hadn't anyway. His father had often rolled his eyes at flowers or friends or frippery.

It took him so by surprise that he had no idea what to say.

"You are…arguing?"

She tutted. "Your father has decided to martyr himself in the hopes that penance will inspire an act of forgiveness from your brother."

Utterly baffling. It took Mycroft a few attempts to form words in response. "And have you…" he searched for the right way of phrasing it. "Expressed your point of view?"

"Your father is a proud man. And, on occasion, slow and resistant to constructive criticism."

When had they started having this kind of relationship? "Oh."

They sat in silence.

"Is this going to become a regular thing? You…expressing your views about father being an idiot?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" his mother asked suddenly sounding worried. "I love your father very much but…I do wonder sometimes if I am too…accepting of his views at times."

"No, no," Mycroft said, trying to reorganise his mind a little. "Just…I wish to be prepared if this is going to occur often."

"Well…I'm not entirely sure things can get much worse…though you are still talking to us which is a blessing."

The hidden worry in her voice made him soften slightly. Reaching out he took her hand in his and squeezed. "Never worry about that," he said seriously.

She took one look at him and burst into tears again.

God he missed his brother's acerbic complaints. The entire meeting would have been far more bearable if he could have annoyed his brother with the recount.

Third Sunday

"Do you have roast dinner?"

Greg looked up and then down at the flattened body. Just the sight of it made him struggle to keep his breakfast down.

"Not right now, Sherlock," he said with a glare. "Can we focus on this?"

There was a sigh of sheer disdain. "On Sundays," Sherlock said with frustration. "Do you do the Sunday lunch…thing?"

'Thing' was said with the exact same amount of exasperation Sherlock used when reading Anderson's reports.

"No."

"No?"

Greg shook his head.

"It is not tradition?"

"Not when your wife can't cook."

Shit.

He had not just said that. Not to Sherlock Holmes who wouldn't know tact if it bit him in the arse.

And there was absolutely no way of recovering.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said with a worrying amount of glee in his voice.

"You tell her that and I will never let you on a case again."

Sherlock snorted.

"I'll stop ignoring the fact that John is spending a lot of time hanging around crime scenes."

That seemed to get Sherlock's attention. The consulting detective shifted, as if uncomfortable.

"Still having issues with the family?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "We have always had issues," he muttered. "The problem was talking about them. Sentiment," he added with a sneer.

Coming from the man who had once threatened his son's school bullies to the point where Greg had been forced to step in and reassure the head that Sherlock was just blowing off steam?

"John all right?"

"No." The answer was frank and brutal. "He does not do well with grudges, no matter what he might think."

"Gonna try and fix it?"

Sherlock made an odd noise. "We are at a crime scene," he decided. "The conversation is inappropriate."

Greg looked up at the ceiling. "Good to know you know what the word means," he said after a second or so.

"How droll."

Fourth Sunday

Bella was waiting for him by the key hook.

"I'll be back-"

The words died on Lucian's lips as Bella reached out for his hand and then for the front door. "Shall we have a walk together?" she asked gently.

"Bella-" Lucian faltered, unsure how to explain that he wasn't just going on a walk but off to the therapy he had mostly managed to avoid for most of his life.

"I'll wait outside," she offered softly.

"You knew," Lucian sighed. "I wanted…I wanted to see if it was working first-"

Bella inclined her head to the door. "It's a beautiful day."

It was. Nodding, Lucian let his wife lead him outside and into the fresh air.

"I've been thinking," she said, looping her arm through his. "And sometimes…I worry that after all that happened, you and I have tried too hard to be perfect."

Perfect? He doubted anyone would accuse him of that.

"I think we have tried to be parents and grandparents rather than just us. The moment we saw we had a second chance we tried desperately to fulfil the role," Bella continued. "To make it something it wasn't."

They crossed the road and entered the park.

"John shouldn't know half the things he does," Lucian said after a moment as he mulled her words over. "It breaks my heart that he does."

"And mine," she agreed. "But he does know them, darling. Sherlock and Mycroft are too perceptive…we dance around the issues far too often."

Lucian glanced at her. "What would you prefer? We all scream at each other like fishwives?"

"Hardly our style," she scolded.

For a moment he was reminded of the beautiful blonde who had winked at him across a dance hall the first night they met. Amused, he leaned a little closer. "Why do I forget that you have a tendency to be right?"

"I haven't been," she said seriously. "I've been trying too hard, trying to hold on too tightly. I have no idea what I was thinking that first lunch John came over."

Oh, the staggered lunch dinner. Lucian winced at the memory. "Are you referring to the timing or the soup with 'bits'?"

Bella pulled a face. "Oh that poor boy. The look of horror on his face," she said shaking her head.

"And then Sherlock telling John the apple was poisoned."

There was a small smile at the memory. "I need to relax," she said firmly. "And you? Any decisions?"

A little uncomfortable with the idea of talking about it, Lucian stayed silent as they walked down the path. "I don't even know where to begin," he confessed.

"Can you think about it?" Bella asked. "While…" he saw the hesitation and then the determination, "while in therapy?"

Lucian nodded. "That I can do," he agreed, turning to place a kiss to her hair.

"Do we need to rush?" she asked as they continued their leisurely pace.

"No," he said, taking in a deep breath and enjoying the scenery. "We can take our time. It's been far too long since we did this."

His wife hummed in agreement.

"I told Mycroft you were slow," she added suddenly. "I don't think he's ever heard me complain about you like that before. Poor child looked like he would collapse in shock."

Lucian felt a chuckle bubble up. "I thought Mycroft was incapable of shock now."

"You could try complaining about me and see if it would have the same effect."

Lucian winced.

He doubted it.

"Well, serves you right for complaining about me then," his wife scolded with amusement.

"My dear, you go to a restaurant with your friends for the sole purpose of complaining about the food and staff."

"You play golf."

Touche.

Next up:

Donovan: Transferring back to Lestrade's unit was bad enough as it meant dealing with the 'him' again. And now there's a kid lurking around the crime scenes too...

Café: John is surprised to see a familiar face at Speedy's.

Uncle