Bakersfield Residence, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: Hey, here's an Old!Lock Sherlolly-ish fanfic. I only own the plot and the general idea – the characters belong to BBC and ACD per usual.

Also, this fic has not been Brit picked or Beta'd, and I took some liberties with London and how it works. For the general sake of this fic, let's all just pretend that Battersea is a smaller town outside of London, instead of just a region.

Hope you all enjoy!

-AAG1D

Bakersfield Residence for the Elderly was a lovely old age home on the outskirts of Battersea. Away from the dense pollution and heavy noise of the city, it was a homey sort of place where pies were left to cool on windowsills, and the garden was always in full bloom. It was peaceful for the residents to live out the remainder of their days, and all who lived there were content and docile.

Well, that is to say, almost all the residents.

"Sherlock Holmes! You cantankerous, hypocritical, lousy-excuse of a human being! I swear, one of these days I'm going to turn off your breathing apparatus when you're sleeping!"

"Oh, I'm the hypocrite?! The only hypocrite and lousy-excuse of a human being is you, Molly Hooper! And I'd sooner eat my own liver than be subjected to the humiliating fate of being murdered by a dumpy pathologist!"

Yes, almost all the residents got along splendidly, save for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Ms. Molly Hooper. For the most part, they did their utmost to ignore each other's very existence. But when the two did cross paths, everyone in Bakersfield ran for cover.

"Miss, I'm dying."

The nurse raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And pray tell, Mr. Holmes. What's killing you today?"

Said person viciously snarled. "She touched my book."

The nurse sighed. They were well trained for these types of daily complaints. "Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that Ms. Hooper hasn't left her half of the Residence this week. It's physically impossible for her to have touched your book."

But Sherlock Holmes wasn't having any of it. He waved his cane around emphatically. "I'm telling you, she touched my book! It's been moved, and there's only one person who schemes like such!"

"Perhaps it was Mr. Watson," The nurse tried to calm the old man down before he had a heart attack. Though in all likelihood, she'd have an aneurism long before Sherlock Holmes bit the dust. He was stubborn like that.

Mr. Holmes merely rolled his eyes. "John's an idiot, but he's a smart idiot. More so than I can say for the staff here."

The nurse finally stood up to leave, deciding she had had enough. "Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check on Mr. Lestrade."

"Yes, yes!" He snarled from his seat. "Go make sure Graham isn't lost in the bathroom again. And just leave me to become the victim of that crazy woman's murder!"

"I don't think anyone would complain," The nurse muttered under her breath, as she quickly made her escape.

To be honest, no one really knew why Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper hated each other. But ever since grade school, a tangible hatred hung in the air between them. All their lives they did their utmost to avoid each other – they switched out of each other's classes in High School, they had lived on opposite sides of the city, and had used their friends as a go between at work, as their jobs had been their most frequent point of contact.

Of course, they still managed to find the time to rain a hate-tirade on each other almost daily.

When they were seven, Molly had pushed Sherlock out of a tree for being rude, resulting in him wearing leg brace for three months.

At age eleven, Sherlock 'accidently' poisoned her cat and killed it.

In return, Molly murdered his violin with vengeance.

Sherlock crashed her wedding.

Molly shredded his only copy of his final essay the night before it was due, resulting in him failing the course and having to take summer studies to catch up.

Sherlock broke into the hospital on the night her first child was born, and changed the records, resulting in her daughter's middle name being changed to 'Sherlock' (Which she didn't find out until six weeks later when she was mailed her daughter's official birth certificate, at which point it was too late to do anything about it).

She sabotaged his experiments for a month.

He burned a week's worth of autopsy paperwork in retaliation.

She took to his beehives with an axe.

And he defaced her deceased husband's gravestone.

"You're an insufferable git."

"And you're a pig-headed, dumpy pathologist!"

Molly's eyes narrowed behind her thick spectacles. "I am NOT dumpy, for the gajillionth time!"

Cue Sherlock's eyeroll. Molly really hated that the twat still had perfect vision.

"Let's add immature with a limited vocabulary to the list, hmn?" He narrowed his eyes. "And you're the dumpiest person to ever be dumpy!"

"Who's the childish one now?" Molly had to really, really refrain from sticking her tongue out at the intolerable man. She contented herself with sticking her nose up at him instead.

The gist of the idea was that Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had a life long rivalry, and the whole town knew about it. Their whole lives the townsfolk of Battersea saw too it that there was always minimal interaction between the two.

That was to say, until both reached their senior years, and moved into the only old age home in the vicinity: Bakersfield Residence.

Which brings us up to date with where this story picks up…

"You know Mary, I really can't stand him. He's incorrigible, outrageous, and simply unbearable," Molly sighed, rubbing her brow. "All he does is yimmer yammer and call me a dumpy pathologist. Me! Dumpy! Granted, I preferred cozy jumpers to fitted dresses when we were younger, but I was the best pathologist this city has ever seen, and Greg can attest to that!" She turned to her friend for moral support. "Mary?"

Her old friend let out a snore.

"Mary!" Molly raised her tone a few decibels, resulting in the other elderly woman nearly jolting forward out of her wheelchair.

"I'm up! I'm up! Yeesh Molly, what's with the shouting?" Her friend pushed her spectacles up her nose, while trying-but-failing to subtly cover up a yawn.

Molly rolled her eyes. "As I was saying, Sherlock-"

"Oh not this again," Mary moaned, throwing her head back in protest. "Between you and John all I hear is 'Sherlock this,' and 'Sherlock that.' Can we please discuss something other than Sherlock? My life actually doesn't revolve around Mr. Know-it-all, despite what he's always thought."

Molly huffed. "He just makes me so angry sometimes."

That earned a snort from the corner of the room. Both women turned to the source of the sound, neither having expected the lump from the corner to actually be conscious – Mrs. Hudson seemed to never move from the corner chair, and Molly swore the hundred-plus year old woman would die someday, and no one would be the wiser until she would start to smell.

Molly was morbid like that.

"Trust me dearie, you make him just as angry," Mrs. Hudson crooned knowingly from her corner. "I've known that boy since he was just a lad, and all he ever seems to do is rant about you or that brother of his."

Mary nodded, eyes wide in agreement. "Mrs. H is right, John says he's had to listen to Sherlock complain about you for the fifty odd years he's known him. Regularly."

"Well, if he wasn't such a right prat, I wouldn't have to complain about him, would I?" Molly retorted sharply.

Mrs. Hudson just sighed as she nodded off to sleep again. "I don't think you're really getting the point dearie…"

"Mrs. H is right," Mary decided definitely. "And until you do, we're changing the topic. How's Elyza?"

Molly perked up at the name of her great-granddaughter. "She's good. The wedding's next weekend, and I can't wait!"

Mary frowned. "I thought you didn't get an invitation."

"Well," Molly conceded slowly. "Your right. As you know, I've never been on good terms with Elyza's mum. But I will not miss my great-granddaughter's wedding! I absolutely won't!"

"And tell me, Oh-So-Determined-One, if you weren't invited – meaning none of your living family will pick you up, the wedding is on the other side of London, the nursing home doesn't allow patient leave without a friend or family member, and all your friends are in said nursing home with you, just how exactly are you planning to get to this wedding next weekend?"

"I'll think of something," Molly patted her friend's hand assuredly. "If I was able to solve a triple homicide with only a pair of kidneys before the git back in '63, then I can get to my Elyza's wedding."

The week passed without much deviation from routine for Molly. Board Games with Greg, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson in the mornings, and tea with John in the afternoons. She actually quite liked John, despite the fact that he was best friends with the man-child, though she supposed the fact that he was married to her best friend had quite a lot to do with it.

All in all, there were only three major incidents with Sherlock, two of the verbal nature, and one near catastrophe when they both wanted to watch a documentary in the same common room.

(Greg, Mary, and John who had already been in the room, fled without so much as an excuse, and the nurse who had been on duty – a new one who had heard one too many horror stories concerning the two – scattered immediately, leaving Anderson who was too decrepit to move one his own, an unwilling observer of the fight. He may or may not have started crying at one point.)

Despite that, the week was good, and Molly woke on Saturday morning invigorated, and more than ready to take on her prepared task of attending Elyza's wedding.

Mary, of course, had been right when she stated all the problems preventing Molly easy entry to said affair. First off, she had never been on good terms with her granddaughter, after Sherlock botched her school play to spite Molly. As a result, Ruth had been sure to keep Molly off of the guest list.

With no family to pick her up then, and all her friends in the old age home with her, there was no way the staff at Bakersfield would let her leave on her own.

Which brought her to phase one of her plan.

Molly Hooper was going to sneak out.

She dressed appropriately for the day, in a lovely sun dress with a practical purse slung across her shoulders. She tossed in a handful of notes into the bag, an oyster card that she found under the bed, as well as a decade-dated map that she had pre-marked her intended route through the city on. She snuggly did up the Velcro of her runners, smiling a little bit in satisfaction.

Now for the tricky part.

Bakersfield provided not only comfortable living for seniors, but also safe living. This meant that while each room was outfitted with large bay windows, only the windows in the common areas could open.

Unfortunately, the common rooms nearly always had either other patrons, or staff members in them. At least, the ones on her side of the Residence did.

Bakersfield was very clearly divided into two invisible halves – the Molly side, and the Sherlock side. The Molly side was always busy – even those who didn't have rooms on her side of the Residence, usually spent the majority of their free time there.

That was because Sherlock was an insurmountable twat.

A consulting detective with the powers of rudeness when he was younger, Sherlock saw no reason why that just because his body was slowing down, meant his insults had to too. Thus as they grew older, his tongue stayed as sharp as ever, earning him the reputation of the cantankerous old fart, who knew too much for his own good.

Patrons and staff avoided him alike. Only Greg, John (and Mary by default), Philip, and old Mike Stamford dared to room on his half of the Residence. So did Janine Hawkins, but that was because that woman was infatuated with Sherlock, for some unfathomable reason beyond Molly's understanding.

Plus, Molly was almost certain that the staff drew straws to work on that half of the building.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, that also meant that if there was a common area with no one in it, it would be on Sherlock's half of the building.

So that's where Molly Hooper headed out to.

The only one who knew the extent of her plan was Mary, as the ex-assassin was quite knowledgeable on that sort of thing. Mary's job was to create a big enough distraction in Molly's half of the Residence, that almost all would be drawn away from Sherlock's half.

Not that difficult of a job, really.

And she must have been doing well, as Molly only passed Sally Donovan in the halls. The other woman gave her a terrified look when she saw Molly cross the unmentioned threshold of boundaries, and hobbled away as fast as she could, her cane clunking in the halls.

Molly fought a smirk as she ducked into the first common room she came across, finding it blessedly empty. She made quick work of the window, sliding a foot stool underneath it once she got it open wide enough.

She almost made it without a hitch.

But of course, the universe couldn't actually allow that to happen.

She was half way out the window – half way to freedom! – when the bane of her existence decided to appear, like the awful timed git he was.

"Well, this is certainly new."

Molly let out a squawk of surprise, her foot losing balance as her hands lost their grip, resulting in her half-tumbling the rest of the way out the window, and landing with an undignified groan in the bush below.

Sherlock stood at the window, blinking judgementally at her.

"Your knickers are showing."

A shriek of embarrassment, as she quickly pulled her skirt down and attempted to sit up, only to be quickly reminded with a pain in her rear that she was no longer a young, spry thing.

"Sherlock!" She half scolded, half scowled. "What are you doing here? I could've broken my hip!"

"A pity you didn't, though if you want to try again, I'd be more than happy to help push this time. Finally get my vengeance from the tree incident all those years ago. And as this is undoubtedly my half of the residence, I believe the proper question is, what are you doing here?"

Molly huffed, trying to get in a better position that would make it easier to get up. "I'm going to my great-granddaughter's wedding. I know you can deduce the rest, and unlike you, I don't feel like wasting valuable oxygen," She attempted to pull herself upright again, only to fail miserably. "Well?" She directed at him pointedly. "Are you going to help me up? I'm in this position thanks to you after all."

Sherlock made a great show of pondering her request, before ever eloquently replying:

"No. This is much more entertaining."

Sometimes, Molly really loathed that man.

After at least two more minutes of struggling, Sherlock must have finally gotten bored, as he stepped graciously out of the window himself, before leaning over and helping her up.

"Thank you," She tried not to spit the words, as she did her best to brush the leaves from her skirt. "Now if you'll excuse me," She quickly walked towards the main road, as fast as her most-definitely-bruised rump could take her.

"Nope, I think I'll tag along," The prat of a man declared, easily catching up with the petite woman, with a couple steps of his long legs. Honestly. She wasn't even sure why he used a cane in the first place.

Molly immediately stopped, whirling to face him, an expression of indignation scrawled across her features.

"Absolutely not!" She scowled. "You will climb back through that window, and continue with whatever your usual cumbersome Saturday entails."

"Nope," Sherlock was still ridiculously straight-backed for his age, his hands folded behind his back. He used to do the same thing when bothering her forty years earlier, though back then his mannerisms also contained rocking on his heels.

She felt slightly vindictive and smug, seeing his equally Velcro clad runners firmly planted on the ground.

"Yes," She insisted. "You of all people are most certainly not coming. You've ruined more than enough family events for me, thank you very much!"

"Too bad," Sherlock smirked, grabbing her arm, and leading her down the rest of the driveway, before turning them on the main road. "If I go back, I tell, which means you won't be attending anyone's wedding. Either you let me come – this is the most exciting thing to happen since we moved into that retched prison anyways – or neither of us go. I'd say it's up to you, but I already know what you're going to say."

Drat. It was these kind of things, that constantly kindled the fire of her hatred for Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine," She eventually spat, pulling her arm from his grasp. "But if you get hit by a bus, I'm not stopping."

She could feel his glower, though she refused to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. She thought she heard him grumble something along the lines of, "If anyone is getting hit by a bus it'll be you, and it will certainly be no accident."

She kept walking.

Time for phase two: Transportation.

Molly didn't have a car. In actuality, she never even had a licence, though in her opinion, they were unnecessary anyways. Without friends and family to pick her up she was left relying on public transportation, the closest of which was a bus stop that she could've sworn was right about…

"There!" She smiled, seeing the double decker pull around the corner. Sherlock immediately sniffed.

"The bus?" He said the word as though it was the dirtiest expletive known to man. "Why can't we take a cab?!"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Not all of us can afford to be pricks on a daily basis," She jilted, making it to the bus stop just in time. She got in line behind a younger woman, and waited patiently for her turn to tap.

"Well, you certainly get by marvellously then," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

She ignored him, tapping her card instead. She felt a jolt of surprise when the driver called out, "That's only enough to get you to Trafalgar Square, Madam."

"That will do," Molly smiled demurely, pleasantly surprised to have any money on the card at all. She had been fully expecting to play up her age in order to get on.

She was certainly not expecting Sherlock to tap a card after her.

Her eyes flicked to his in confusion – he had no pockets in his pants (Bakersfield clothing requirement), and there was no way he had been caring an oyster card with him the whole time.

When the driver warned him of the same thing, he merely smiled as though he was charming instead of irritating, and said it would be fine.

A few other people boarded the bus, as Molly eyed Sherlock suspiciously. It was only when a man near the end of the line started swearing and searching fervently for his oyster card, that Molly connected the dots.

"You pinched that man's card!" Molly turned and hissed at her unwanted companion, as the driver kicked the poor man off and started driving. Sherlock's face was indifferent.

"And…?" He prompted, tone bored, eyes flitting around to the other people.

Molly rolled her eyes, settling back into her seat with a weary sigh. She shouldn't have been surprised actually. When they were young, Sherlock was always getting up to not-quite legal, and most-definitely-illegal situations. Came with his job, and his temperamental attitude.

They managed the fifteen-minute bus ride over the Thames in silence – a record since Middle School, when they had been forced to sit in detention together under the watchful eye of Mrs. Mallot. It gave Molly a chance to appropriate the situation.

Sherlock Holmes was an unbearable man, and a stubborn one at that. He got bored easily enough, which Molly knew from a lifetime of experience never meant anything good, especially for her. The fact that the man-child had mulishly decided to accompany her for the sole purpose of relieving boredom (and irritating her – it was one of his life goals), did not bode well for Molly.

She just sincerely hoped he didn't do anything to get her into Elyza's bad books too.

The familiar structures of Trafalgar Square were soon upon them, and their rare moment's peace was disrupted as they exited the bus. She felt her companion tense beside her, and she couldn't help her quip.

"Already dreading interacting with people?"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes, and although he claimed, "Only because they're all idiots," Molly wasn't fooled. She could see the clench of his jaw as clear as day, after decades of knowing the man.

She almost felt bad for him, knowing that his hatred of crowds stemmed from his Asperger's, no matter how vehemently the man claimed otherwise.

It was only almost though. He still had the over-bearing air of a pompous arse to remind her to keep her sympathies to herself.

With his face like a mask, Sherlock Holmes strode straight-backed into the crowd.

It was almost like the old days. Despite the weathered lines of his face, the silver sheen of his hair, and the distinct lack of what had once been his signature scarf and Belstaff, Sherlock Holmes looked as much at home in the heart of London as ever.

Molly thought she felt her heart swoon, then quickly blamed it on the nostalgia, reminding herself what an arrogant sod he actually was, despite how handsome he could be.

She hobbled after him.

Puffing for all her worth by the time she finally reached him at the end of the crowd, she was almost certain she was about to have a heart attack. A few others must have thought so too, as one young couple offered her their water bottle.

She waved it away with an embarrassed smile, finally catching up to the once-detective. She nudged him – though from his gasp of pain she supposed it could've been more accurately classified as jabbed him – in resentment.

"Wait up, you git."

"If you weren't such a dumpy pathologist, maybe you'd be able to keep up."

"Oh, that's it, you insufferable codfish-"

Sherlock sighed rather loudly. "We can keep this up till one of us keels over and dies – my bet would be on you, by the way – or you can tell me the address and we can get this wedding over with."

She bit her tongue, knowing he was right. With a scowl, she went digging through her purse.

"The wedding is in Kensington Gardens, near the Peter Pan statue," She said, pulling her map out of her bag, and gently unfolding it. "I believe if we go-"

"What is that thing?"

Molly looked up, brows drawn together in confusion. "Uh, a map. I thought you were a detective."

Sherlock all but ripped the paper from her hands, ignoring Molly's cries of protest.

"How old is this thing? I think it predates even Mrs. Hudson!"

"Ha, ha," Molly pantomimed, taking it back from him. "It's fine. Now come on, we clearly have to go this way."

Two hours later they were trotting south on Weymouth, drawing heads from every direction.

"I told you we were supposed to take that last left!"

"And I told you to stuff it where the sun doesn't shine!" Molly shouted back, walking as fast as her exhausted legs could carry her. She didn't make it very far, before the map was ripped out of her hands for the umpteenth time.

"For God's sake Molly, I know where to go!" He started speed-walking as fast as his bad hip could go in the opposite direction. "After all, I'm the one who used to live around here!" He shouted, before holding the map up again and mumbling, "…Somewhere…"

Molly was starting to panic. It was noon and they were nowhere close to Kensington Gardens. Instead, due in part to her slightly faulty map, but more so (in her opinion at least) due to Sherlock's memory of the London streets not being what it used to, they were most definitely lost.

The wedding was to start at one, and by the looks of things, they weren't going to make it.

Molly was close to tears.

And so she just stopped.

It took Sherlock a minute to realize he wasn't being followed by his raging, dumpy pathologist. When he realized he wasn't being listened to (the pertinacious sod), he turned around in righteous fury, completely prepared to verbally attack the bane of his existence once more-

Only to stop open mouthed at the sight that met him.

In all their years together, he had used many adjectives to describe Molly Hooper. Most had negative connotations. But always, always, he associated her with hard headed, because no matter what happened, Molly Hooper would always try till she got her way, or at least sabotaged his. She was strong, she was fiery, she was wily, and most importantly, she was tenacious.

He wouldn't use any of those words to describe the woman who had sat heavily on the steps a few doors down.

Head in her hands, shoulders drooped, Molly Hooper looked the epitome of despair. For the first time since he could remember, she looked everyday her age, bone-weary, and exhausted.

Something he couldn't identify ached inside his chest.

"Molly?" He prodded gently, walking back to where she sat. He stood awkwardly for a moment, their dispute forgotten. After another beat, he lowered himself beside her, eye trained on the street. His voice was low as he asked with genuine concern, for the first time in their entire relationship: "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay," He wasn't expecting her honest answer, or the completely dejected and broken tone of her voice. "Sherlock, we aren't going to make it."

Her words felt like a solemn confirmation of what he had been secretly thinking for the past half an hour. It didn't make him feel any better. Molly Hooper was not supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be feisty, and indignant, and determined – usually with the addition of several names thrown his way. This, this was just not… right.

He had to make it better, even if he couldn't fix it.

"Come on," He grabbed her hand, and gently pulled her to her feet. At her questioning look, he gestured with his head a block down. "There's a café. Let's get something to eat, and then maybe we can figure something out."

Molly made no protest as he linked his arm through hers, and guided her through the street. It was actually quite nice when she made no move to pull away, and he wasn't verbally vomiting on her.

He wondered if in another lifetime, a different Sherlock and Molly were able to be friends, or perhaps even more. If they got to daily enjoy the simple pleasantry, of walking arm in arm.

If so, Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't incredibly jealous of the thought.

Because truthfully, he'd always admired Molly Hooper. She was smart – not as smart as him, of course, but still, she was of greater intelligence than most people. She was quick too, never one to turn down a verbal challenge, with macabre interests that rivalled his own.

She was also the only person in the world who had always been able to see him.

Ever since they were children, he could never pull one over her, or get away with anything. He supposed that was why he hated her so much – she was the only one who could really know him, and that was absolutely terrifying.

They were seated without a problem, and Sherlock ordered a pot of tea and two hot sandwiches for the both of them. Molly's eyes were blank, and Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

So he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"It was your jumpers."

Molly blinked, her eyes finally focusing. "What?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, and focused on making up two cups, exactly how each of them liked it. "Your jumpers. When you started working in the morgue. Since it was cold and you didn't want to ruin decent clothes, you always wore the most atrocious jumpers. Pragmatic for sure. But still," His lips quirked as he handed her a cuppa. "Dumpy."

He was rewarded with the quirk of a lip. "Ah," She took a sip of the tea. "So that's where my life long name came from."

"To be fair," Sherlock took a bite out of his sandwich, "You didn't exactly give me much to work with. You were abysmally good at your job, so I had to take what I could get."

That earned him a laugh. "Good to know," She smiled, biting into her own sandwich. After a minute's pause she added, almost as though embarrassed to admit it: "I would never actually kill you, you know."

That had a chuckle rumble from within his chest. "Glad to know I'm not that much of an insufferable git."

"Oh but you are," Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "But I'd miss you."

Sherlock offered her a small smile. "I'd miss you too." Another pensive silence. "Even though you murdered my bees."

Molly's jaw dropped as she tried to form a response, before she threw her head back in laughter. It was a glorious sound, one she had never made in his presence before, making something melt in his chest.

"For the record," She said in between giggles, "You murdered my cat first."

"It was an accident!"

"Definitely don't believe you," Molly continued to laugh, and it took a while for both of their chuckles to die down. When they did, Sherlock took another sip of his tea.

"This is nice," He admitted softly. "Actually talking. Not getting pushed out of trees," He tacked on jokingly.

Molly snorted. "Or being startled out of windows," She added. "Though you're right. I wonder why we never did this before."

Sherlock shrugged, finishing off his sandwich. "Probably because I have an ego that rivals your obstinance, not to mention the lifetime hatred, and the fact that we're sworn arch-enemies," Sherlock listed methodically, bringing another smile to Molly's lips.

"Ah yes, arch-enemies. I forgot about that declaration, in the midst of the other two factors."

Sherlock made a tsking noise, though there was a spark of humor in his eyes. Another silence descended between them, and for the first time ever, there was no animosity, only peaceful companionship.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Molly, if you don't mind me asking, why are you so intent on attending this wedding? You've been estranged from Ruth since that God-awful school musical, and you didn't receive an invitation, even from Elyza herself. So why make the effort?"

Molly shrugged, sipping her tea. "Family is all we have in the end. They're really the only connection I have left to Tom, and I'd rather not lose that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh of course, the dullard you called a husband."

Molly mimicked him with a small smile, more than used to Sherlock's taunts. "Yes, but at least he was a good man." She paused mid-sip, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles. "And how did you know I hadn't received an invitation?"

Sherlock suddenly found a great deal of interest in the bottom of his teacup, while he tugged auspiciously at his collar. "I, er… well, I may or may not check your mail."

Molly couldn't help herself; she snorted.

"Why am I not surprised?" She laughed. "Though if we're being honest now," That mischievous gleam once again, "I may or may not move your books on a regular basis."

"I knew it!" He proclaimed, jolting forward. "I told those good for nothing nurses, and none of them believed me!"

They both dissolved into giggles at the ridiculousness of it all. Finally, Molly let out a sigh. "Well, I suppose we should be heading back. Perhaps they have a phone here and we can call the operator for directions."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement, though his sharp eyes caught onto movement through the window.

A dangerous gleam came into his eyes, as his lips pulled into a smirk.

"Actually Molly, I have a better idea."

It was anything but a better idea, and Molly was sincerely regretting going along with the crazy man's plan.

As soon as he had uttered the words, he had all but yanked her to her feet, barely giving her time to toss the notes she had in her bag on the table (She hoped they covered the cost) before he was dragging her back onto the street. She was about to ask what was going on, only for Sherlock to rip open the door of a cab, and shove her inside.

She barely had time to get her surroundings, before she realized that Sherlock had slid into the driver's side, thrown the idling cab out of park, and slammed his foot on the gas, jerking them into motion.

Molly screamed bloody murder as she clutched onto the door handle for dear life.

"Sherlock! Slow down!"

"No time," He grunted as he jerked the wheel right, earning an angry honk as he cut someone off. "The cabbie was merely running in to drop off a parcel. He undoubtedly saw us take the cab, and by now will have called NSY, with whom neither of us have any connection anymore."

"Take the cab?" Molly's brain fought to catch up with the events transpiring around her. "Wait – did we just steal a cab?!"

"Borrowed, I think, would be the preferred term," Sherlock muttered, narrowly avoiding a group of pedestrians. The honking wake behind them was getting louder, as was other's shouts of protest. At this rate there'd be a cop behind them in no time.

"Sherlock," Molly scolded, shimmying her seatbelt around her. "I am too young to go to prison!"

That earned a snort from him. "Please. If I recall correctly, Lestrade locked us both up that time with the balloons and the dead rats."

"You know what I mean!" She hollered, pulling her map out once again. "Turn here!"

"Don't tell me what to do!" He wheezed. "I'm going to turn here!"

"That's exactly what I said!"

"Well, that's not why I'm turning," Sherlock grunted as he yanked the wheel, the tail end of the cab fishtailing behind them. "Stop distracting me! No backseat driving!"

"Backseat driving!" Molly rounded on the detective. "I'm more qualified than you are – you never even bothered taking the test!"

"Only because you slashed my tires the night before," Sherlock scowled. "And you failed the test!"

"Besides the point!" Ah, there were the sirens. "Now hurry up and drive! There!"

Molly felt her heart lighten as the Princess Diana fountain came into view. They were close! They could make it!

"Hold on!" Sherlock ordered, laying on the horn, scattering pedestrians and tourists out of his path.

Then he drove through the open gates, clipping the cab's mirror on the metal posts on the way in. Molly grabbed onto his arm for dear life as the cab skittered over the green, people screaming and diving out of the way in terror.

"Let go you pesky woman! I can't steer!"

"You aren't doing a very good job anyways," Molly retorted. "Look out!"

She grabbed the wheel with both hands, narrowly keeping the car from avoiding a playground. Sherlock started batting her with his freehand, while trying to regain control of the vehicle.

"I said no backseat driving!" He roared, foot still pressed to the gas, as the car soared through the park. Molly was fairly aware of the sirens following them.

It didn't matter though.

Because the wedding party came into view.

Sherlock slammed on the brakes while Molly simultaneously let go of the wheel, and yanked hard on the emergency brake – hard enough to rip it from the console.

The car teetered precariously, before finally coming to a rest several feet from the alter.

"I had the situation under control!" Sherlock bellowed as he flung open the door to the ruined car, exiting as dramatically as ever.

"Under control?" Molly seethed, climbing out of the vehicle as well, the parking brake still clutched in her hands. "That is the last time I hijack a vehicle with you, Sherlock Holmes!"

"I at least got us here, didn't I?"

Both suddenly paused mid-rant, realizing exactly where Sherlock was gesturing. They turned to the crowd who was staring at them, mouths agape and eyes wide. Molly spotted Elyza, already at the altar.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Sherlock, thankfully, took care of the situation.

"Don't mind us," He smiled cheerfully, placing a hand on Molly's lower back, and guiding her to two free seats at the end of the second row. "Sorry we're late, got a bit lost. Carry on!"

"You look lovely, dear!" Molly tacked on helpfully, smiling hopefully at her great-granddaughter, who gave her great-grandmother a dazed wave.

"How typical!" A woman shouted in the front row before anything could continue. "You always have to ruin everything, don't you grandma?"

Ruth looked no different than the last time Molly had seen her granddaughter, a few years previous at a family reunion. She shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. To her surprise, Sherlock spoke up.

"Now, now, Ruth. Although you clearly didn't inherit Molly's brains, surely even you can tell that I'm the reason all of Molly's functions are ruined. Your mother's middle name certainly wasn't made Sherlock by Molly's doing!"

Said woman – the only one who looked fully entertained by the show instead of horrified – outright laughed in response.

"Mother!" Ruth cast a disapproving look towards the older woman, which went completely unheeded.

"You have to just let it be, honey," Margaret, Molly's daughter, waved at her own daughter. "You know your grandma's always had a rivalry with Mr. Holmes."

"I'm glad one of you sees sense," Sherlock muttered under his breath, earning a nudge in the ribs from Molly. He plastered another smile on his face. "Now if you don't mind, the cops will be here any moment, and we'd like to see the vows take place. If you will."

Which was how Molly Hooper saw her great-granddaughter get married, moments before said cops did appear, and promptly took Sherlock and Molly in for custody.

Both Sherlock and Molly got off with claims of senility, especially after a few phone calls revealed a very panicking staff at Bakersfield, looking for two missing patients. The two were quickly dropped off at the Residence, after a great many promises from the staff of keeping a greater eye on the two.

Mary laughed about the story for days.

As for Sherlock and Molly, much to the surprise of everyone, they quickly became friends, spending nearly all their spare time together. And for the first time in over seventy years, there was peace in Battersea.

"You no-good, clout! That's cheating! Greg, tell him it's cheating."

"That's cheating, Sherlock."

"Your all just too pea-brained to see. After all, you're merely a dumpy pathologist, Molly."

"Sherlock Holmes I swear-"

Or at least, as peaceful as it can be, when Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are involved.

*Edited May 24, 2017*