This story is dedicated to Sherlolly29 and is inspired by the awesomely beautiful image she has made of the Hooper-Holmes family from my Sherlolly Saga.

Set six months after the events of Fatal Breath.

Quiet Sunday

by

thedragonaunt

Chapter One

'Daddy, Daddy, is it today, Daddy?' Freddie entreated, hopping up and down in a state of barely contained hysteria.

Sherlock cracked open one eye and peered at his youngest son through long dark lashes, his vison still blurred from sleep. Freddie rested his forearms on his parents' bed and jutted his chin forward into his father's face, smiling hopefully. Sherlock freed one arm from the confines of the duvet and stroked his hand over Freddie's tousled hair.

'Wha' de madda. Fr'ddie?' he mumbled, his lips and tongue not yet under his control, following the abrupt awakening. As he struggled to shake off the after-effects of deep sleep, he felt Molly stir beside him and roll over to curl into a ball on the far side of the bed. But Freddie was speaking again.

'Is it today, Daddy? Are we doing it today?'

With a monumental effort, Sherlock opened his other eye, too, and blinked at the earnest little face mere millimetres from his own.

'Doing what, Freddie? I don't even know what day it is!'

'Oh, Daddy! It's Sunday, silly,' Freddie exclaimed, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, which made the bed bounce in sympathy.

'OK, steady on, Freddie, you're making me sea sick,' the harassed father pleaded.

At least he was awake now and, being awake, he was aware of the quality of the light filtering through the gap in the middle of the curtains, which had been drawn rather hurriedly the night before and, consequently, a bit carelessly. The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled in recollection of the reason for that haste as he squinted down at the bedroom floor and the collection of discarded clothing scattered around, there.

'Daddy, are you in your Mind Palace?' Freddie asked, bringing Sherlock out of his reverie.

'No, Freddie, I'm listening. What time is it?' he wondered aloud.

'It's morning time, Daddy. De birds are singing weally loud and de sun is shining weally bwight. Dey woke me up,' Freddie explained.

'So I see,' his father replied then raised his left hand from its resting place, on his wife's hip, and looked at the luminous dial of his watch.

Half past five, a.m.

'Oh, god,' he groaned. Letting his hand flop onto the bed, he turned his head towards the four year old.

'It's very early, Freddie,' he explained. 'Nowhere near breakfast time.' Freddie's concept of time was entirely based on the relative proximity of mealtimes.

At the revelation that breakfast was not imminent, his face fell.

'Here, do you want to come into bed?' Sherlock offered, with a sympathetic smile, and Freddie's broad grin was all the answer he needed. Lifting the corner of the duvet, Sherlock invited Freddie to crawl into bed with him, which he did without any hesitation. As he curled into the crook of his father's arm, Freddie exclaimed,

'Daddy, where are your PJ's? Did you forget to put dem on?'

'Er…it was a bit hot, last night,' was the best Sherlock could come up with at such short notice. The stifled snort from Molly's side of the bed alerted Freddie to the fact that his mother was also awake.

'Good morning, Mummy!' he squealed and launched himself across his father's body, narrowly avoiding heeling him in the groin in his haste to get to Molly who, unable to feign sleep any longer, rolled onto her back and put an arm around her son, in return for a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

'Mummy, was you hot, too?' Freddie asked, ingenuously.

'Oh, yes, darling, very hot,' Molly giggled.

And steamy, thought Sherlock. And, since he was wide awake now, he decided he should perhaps answer a rather pressing call of nature, so he slipped lithely out of bed and strolled to the en suite bathroom, giving his wife and son a spectacular view of his naked rear.

'Chuck me my nightie, would you, sweetie?' Molly called after him. He unhooked Molly's night dress from the back of the bathroom door, palmed it into a ball and tossed it across the room, where it landed squarely on her head, spot on target.

'Toad!' she squawked, scrabbling to remove the garment. Sherlock winked at Freddie, who chuckled, throatily.

Closing the bathroom door, Sherlock used the lavatory then crossed to the basin to wash his hands. Gazing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he studied his visage. Those eyebrows – always a little on the rampant side – seemed to be growing more bushy with age and the crow's feet seemed more pronounced by the day. He rubbed his stubbly chin and inspected his reflection more intently. Had his hair line receded from where it used to be, he wondered, or had he escaped the Male Pattern Baldness gene, unlike his brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock leaned in to the mirror for a closer look and gave a sudden gasp. What was that? A grey hair! Pincering his finger and thumb, he grasped the offending grey follicle and gave a sharp tug. It came free from his scalp and he held it up to the light to inspect the curling silvery thread.

Oh, God, he thought, I'm on the slippery slope.

Flicking the hair into the bathroom bin, Sherlock retrieved his PJ' bottoms form the back of the bathroom door, pulled them on and returned to the bedroom, where Molly and Freddie were enjoying a cuddle under the covers. He was about to slip in beside them when Molly said, in a wheedling tone,

'Cup of tea, Daddy…seeing as how you're up, anyway?'

Sherlock could not help but feel that he had been somehow manoeuvred into this position – out-manoeuvred, in fact – so, with an exaggerated eye roll, he diverted to the bedroom door and descended to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

'So, Freddie,' Molly began, 'what are we doing today?'

'We is goin' on a picnic!' Freddie chortled, with delight.

ooOoo

The Hooper-Holmes family were habitual early risers so it wasn't long before Violet made her presence felt, hollering from the Nursery. Sherlock and Molly eyed each other over the rims of their respective tea mugs but Freddie pre-empted a stand-off.

'I can get Ada!' he declared, with a perky grin, so reminiscent of his mother.

'Yes, OK,' Sherlock agreed, 'but be careful lowering the cot side.'

'I knows how to do it,' Freddie assured his parents and, wriggling off the bottom of the bed, he padded across the landing to rescue his sister from her incarceration. As he opened the Nursery door, Molly and Sherlock heard Violet's shriek of delight, at the sight of her favourite brother, and Freddie's answering whoop. Both parents listened intently to the sound of the cot side being lowered and then a grunt and a thump as Freddie wrapped his arms around his sister's waist and lifted her down to the bedroom floor.

'Hode my hand, Ada,' Freddie insisted, and led the toddler back across the landing to the master bedroom. Only when they were past the danger point, at the head of the stairs, did Freddie release Violet's hand so she could waddle over to the big double bed.

At fifteen months, Violet was at the tottering stage – or 'Chocks away' as Sherlock called it, in deference to the aeroplane arms. Her breaking system was a little unreliable but, on this occasion, the bed served as an excellent buffer. She crashed into it and sat down with a bump.

Sherlock leaned over the side of the bed and grinned at his daughter.

'Everything alright down there?' he asked, sardonically.

'Dad-dee, nyidee beh!' Violet demanded, raising her arms in the air.

'Yus, mi'lady!' Sherlock replied, in his best Parker impersonation, reaching down to hook Violet up onto the bed.

'Hello, little Miss Sunshine!' Molly cooed and was rewarded with a beaming smile from the resident princess. Violet's eyes were aquamarine in the morning light and her hair a thick mane of rich golden curls that seemed to glow, like the sun, hence the nick name. Sitting on the bed between her parents and Freddie, who had climbed up on his mother's side, Violet was exactly where she loved to be – at the centre of everyone's Universe.

'Is it somebody's birthday?' came a groggy voice from the doorway. William stood leaning against the door jam, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, his Snoopy toy dangling from the other.

'No, but do come and join in, Will,' Sherlock invited his first born. 'Sorry, old chap, did we wake you?'

'Yes,' William replied, grumpily, as he climbed up onto the bed and crawled into Sherlock's lap, wrapping one arm round his father's neck and cuddling into his chest. 'You're all very loud,' he added, 'and it's only six o'clock.'

Sherlock put a comforting arm round William and gave the rest of the family a censuring glare.

'Uh-oh, we's in twouble!' Freddie whispered, loudly, with an impish grin.

'Sorry we woke you, William, but if we're going to have this family picnic today, we need to be up and at 'em!' Molly exclaimed, reaching over to give her son a playful pat on the back.

ooOoo

This was only going to be a one-shot...but it grew!