Spoilers: Vague reference to 2x03 but none apart from for 1x01 really

A/N: Written for hihiyas prompt "Molly's mum interrogating Sherlock and demanding grandbabies? Would be cute if this happens and they're not together. Yet.". The bad news is I failed at writing it 221B format and I misread it as 'Sherlock's mum interrogating Sherlock' the first time. So it ended up running away with me and then I did more to fill the prompt properly too...Oh dear, more fic than intended! ;) Not betaed, sorry, and it's a bit madcap but hope it's enjoyed.

"Body Parts R Us a-calling" rang out her cheery voice as she lumbered up the stairs with the bags laden with flesh, only to be met with no reply. Probably busy, that was why he'd given her the key, to let herself in, as more convenient for him.

Opening the door she found an slim older woman sat in the armchair opposite Sherlock, an unexpected guest that Molly had dropped in on too, who was dressed in an expensive looking violet dress suit and poised to take a sip delicately from a china teacup.

Molly felt eyes on her even as both the other occupants of the room drank their teas with quiet grace. She was near certain the woman was appraising her out of the corner of her eyes, particularly her midriff judging by her lingering gaze. Her waist didn't usually attract much attention, it seemed somehow more likely it was her lack of hips that were unpleasantly of note but she'd accepted never be one of those curvy hourglass girls and she wished others wouldn't fault her on things she couldn't change.

"Very familiar are we?"

Molly didn't know who she was asking, which flustered her but she didn't get time to reply as Sherlock intervened.

"This is Dr Molly Hooper, my…"

"Colleague, I suppose?" the lady enquired primly.

"Not exactly," Sherlock said tensely, likely holding back exasperation from being spoken over. Which made this person important Molly realised.

"Friend?" the woman prompted.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed oddly at the use of the term but he settled for agreement before resuming drinking his tea as if in a silent match against his visitor.

"I...I brought you the...the pigs 'bits' like we discussed, for your experiment. I'll just -"

"Was that really what he wanted?"

"Mother," was Sherlock's warning shot to the woman Molly had only ever refer to as 'Mummy'.

"Um, well, no but I can't really get away with handing over many people...bits. It's a compromise; I know a mate who gets a really good discount -"

"Speaking of mates," she casually interjected towards Sherlock pointedly, 'when can I expect progress?"

"A conversation for another time, I have company."

Molly moved to the kitchen to pack the contents of the bags away, she wasn't keen to get in the middle of a family discussion. Mycroft and Sherlock were, according to John, bad enough squabbling, and Molly'd never considered what their mother would be like but now she considered it it seemed to be expected no Holmes' would agree if they all had the same combination of defiant intelligence and stubbornness.

"I know you my son, your preferred time for this would be outside of existence, and you having company is exactly what I am interested in"

"Then you might try not scaring my company away."

"I'm sure Molly's not scared of me, are you my dear?"

Being in another room created a false sense of security and hadn't helped in actual fact because everyone involved knew they could be clearly heard by her in there. She came back out to the lounge holding up her slightly bloodied hands away from herself awkwardly since a few of the packages hadn't been very well secured.

"No, no, not really. It's just...unexpected. Out of the blue. I never thought I'd meet any of Sherlock's family. Though there was Mycroft-"

"Ah Mycroft. At least, Sherlock, I have not resorted to spying on any of your acquaintances. I'm merely asking, a concerned party."

"Perhaps not, but I'm sure you're not above taking advantage of the fact Mycroft does. Make no mistake Molly, my mother will have a report stating everything from your favourite toothpaste to how much you weighed at birth in her inbox by the time her car comes to pick her up. That's if Mycroft's people are as diligent as he pays them to be. He wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to please his Mummy."

"You should take a lesson from him Sherlock," his mother said as she placed her empty cup down and rose from her chair.

"As far as your goals are concerned that would do no good or haven't you noticed he's failed as miserably as you deem me to have in that area. I, in comparison, have not been attempting it and so have not in fact failed."

Mummy took in a deep breath, straightening her posture more precisely as she did so, making her look rather intimidating in pose over the still seated Sherlock. He didn't shown any reaction, waiting neutrally for that of his mother – he didn't outwardly seem scared of offending her but it was hard to know if he could have crossed a line with his remarks even with her knowing what he must be like.

"My goal Sherlock, my agenda if you will, has like your doting brother, simply been your happiness. You close off your mind to that which you deem does not interest you, so much so that you risk not seeing what else you could want for in the world – you don't know best how to achieve happiness."

She strolled calmly to the door and waited patiently in a way Molly had never encountered, until the sulky visage of Sherlock deigned to join her and despite the exchange witnessed, took down her coat from the hook by the door and helped her into it as if it were his natural instinct to show care for her like that. They parted without a word and Sherlock slouched back into his armchair ignoring Molly entirely. She didn't really know what to say, she was still processing what had gone on, so she finished getting the items into the fridge, trying to pack them sensibly away from the true food items and pinned the receipt to the fridge door with a stray magnet from a stack idling in a bowl on the side.

When she got home she had a bit of a relax, a glass of wine, cooked dinner and sort of forgot to some degree the weirdness of the day. Until she checked her email.

Dear Dr Hooper, or Molly, if I may.

Forgive my impertinence in contacting you. As you well know we share a common desire with regard to my son's happiness. I could ask you a great many questions to discern your suitability as company for him but none are as important as those I already know to be true; your shared passions as evident from both your profession and the task you willingly acquitted this afternoon; the loyalty he does not speak of that saw him through the darkest year of his life; and your reasoned refusal to do exactly as he asks where you do not warrant it without rejecting him outright.

I ask you to bear in mind two points when you acquaint yourself with my son, however you choose to in future. Firstly, keep that latter behaviour up – smart as he may be his actions are not always admissible in the pursuit of knowledge. Sherlock is an intellectual strongly in need of earthing lest his spark ignites that around him, as it did literally when his 5 year old self burnt the potting shed to the ground with an extremely ill-advised plan to concoct an ancient Chinese firework recipe.

Secondly, I reference a quote I suspect you to be familiar with from your activities at university "The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." Neither of my children are as wise as they believe, Sherlock less so unfortunately. Patience is not only a virtue, instead a necessity, but you are of course going no where so I need not mention except to say it is the hardest exercise to teach one who does not wish to learn, one who thinks himself the wiseman already. I hope though, that you will give a good deal of thought on what it knowledge you can impart upon him that would be ultimately beneficial to you both, and I do not speak of anything in the field of pathology.

Yours sincerely,

VH

It was an odd email, that felt more like in belonged as an old fashioned letter, and yet it wasn't unreasonable. What mother wasn't concerned for their kids. Holmes' obviously all had stranger than usual manners of showing their care and their mother's method was probably more direct in an appreciable way than either of her sons. So, Molly never mentioned it to Sherlock, didn't think it mattered when it didn't change anything between them. She wanted to be friends with him and she wouldn't refuse more than if it ever came up. It hadn't the least bit to do with anything his mum said. But it may have encouraged her a tad. She may spent a bit more time dropping by Baker Street after that and inviting him to things he was never going to come along to, just in case he might realise he was missing one of those things he hadn't know he wanted to do.

And it just happened that one day he did agree to a suggestion, one that was more of a plea for help, to repaint her flat.

Sherlock had turned up on the day for the repainting wearing a fancy looking suit he claimed was old enough he didn't care much for how grubby it got. Molly secretly thought it terribly wasteful to spoil a lovely suit like that but didn't disagree since if it did get messy maybe he'd be forced to take off the jacket for a while...

He had also turned up with supplies in tow. The doorbell rang five minutes after it first had for him and she opened it up to find two guys each lugging a largish handled crate that Sherlock enthusiastically invited in and direct to cover the floor of her empty room with plastic sheeting as well as erect a temporary plastic cover across the doorframe.

"My old sheets put down were fine, you didn't need to do that."

"On the contrary, it was entirely sensible given the plan."

"Aren't you being a little...paranoid about my floorboards."

"I would have thought you'd appreciate my respect for your abode."

She decided to let the oddity go as harmless and went to fetch the tins of paint. Scanning round the room to find where it was she'd safely stashed them she noticed the other one of the crates had been left in here by the handy men. Opening it up she found it evidently half empty – she recalled watching them take the folded up plastic sheets out of it - and the rest of it mysteriously piled several tins high with white Once paint. What had been in the other crate though, the one that they'd plonked in the room to be painted? She couldn't remember them getting anything out of it.

"Sherlock, why did you bring more paint? I'm not painting the room white either..."

Returning to the room she had the displeasure of walking in a fraction of a second before Sherlock enacted his distinctive plan that most definitely differed from her own for the day. In the moments she had the opportunity to, she took in the scene of the wobbly mannequin with a hole cut in the back of the head and what looked like blood packs shoved into it, and those moments were right before the up swing of his baseball bat as he raised it forcibly clonked her in the side of her head. Things got very confusing following that. She doubted that she was going to forget Sherlock attempting to turn her flat into his personal blood spatter playground though.

"'oo gitt!" she mumbled angrily as she put her hand out to steady herself, quite unsuccessfully.

Molly stifled the urge to groan as she came too. She just as instantly decided to not open her eyes as planned. Hangover from hell, except she remember it was a concussion. Most likely. And everything had looked glaringly white in the flash she'd seen as she'd attempted to look where she was, meaning she going to be in the hospital rather than in her bed at home which sounded very welcoming right now. She realised in a few seconds that she wasn't alone and wasn't alone very differently than she'd have expected too.

"Just who are you? Waiting sheepishly at my Molly's side, eh? They told me you're the reason she's here."

"In a manner of speaking, there was an accident-"

"How exactly do you accidentally beat my daughter with a cricket bat? You tell me."

"It was a baseball bat and it was an unfortunate-"

"What an understatement!"

"- case of timing. Nothing mor-"

"And what were you doing with a baseball bat inside her flat anyhow? You're a very fish young man."

"I offered to aid Molly in her repainting. In return for her complicity on a forensics matter for a murder case prior to the repainting-"

Now that was a spin on it if ever Molly had heard one. She wondered idly if the timeline in Sherlock's head had a wildly different 'history' of what he did to that of anyone around him...

"What does that mean exactly? You were recreating the murder."

"Exactly," Sherlock proclaimed, grateful her mum understood.

There were a few horrific seconds of silence, that Molly thought were bliss to her pounding head, when no one said a thing. Evidently someone would in a moment, once the words sunk in fully.

"I mean, that is to say, we were recreating the murder scene. With a dummy I should add, a...a mannequin. Obviously not with your daughter."

There was an unimpressed harrumph.

"Well, you seem to have done a good job of that not trying to. I'd stick with the day job if I was you mister."

Somehow Sherlock managed to bite his tongue because he didn't correct her mum about either how badly a recreation Molly's accident would be the murder or that it was his day job, in a manner of speaking. Perhaps now they'd both avail themselves of the possibility of not being here. Molly wanted peace and quiet and knew from experience neither of the people present were going to be very good for that, her mum a natural chatterbox and Sherlock known to bring out the worst in your average less-than-patient person. Pretending to be asleep was preferable – her mum would eventually go harass the doctors and Sherlock would get bored. She was honestly surprised he was still her but then he did has certain questions to answer to with why she was here that could hardly be avoided.

Her mum wasn't content to leave without seeing her awake it appeared, as evident by the screeching of a chair being pulled up beside her bed, and Sherlock was her closest form of entertainment whilst she waited. Mercifully her mothers voice was dampened down when she addressed him again.

"So, how do you know Molly, from work?"

"Not really."

"No, I didn't think so. You don't look like the type I've seen before"

"Type? Of what precisely?"

"Boyfriend."

"I am not dating your daughter Mrs Hooper."

"It's Mrs. Heeley now actually, and your name is?"

"Sherlock."

"Oh. Oh"

It was said with simplicity, an innocent little two letter word repeated but the tone expressed far more than Molly liked to hear – it said 'oh, you're that fella Molly talks about' and 'oh, that guy who's not interested in her'.

"Why haven't you taken my daughter out? You've known each other for years."

"During which we have been at best friends."

"She's not getting any younger you know. This is no time in life to be coy."

"I am not being coy with your daughter and I have no intention of-"

"Very sure you are of that are you? I know what you're like with her. A compliment here and there before you close off. Classic."

"Classic what?"

"Men. That's what. You don't a good thing when it's staring you in the face. You refuse to accept what you want."

"I'm sure that may be your experience of some men but I am not some man-"

He'd been remarkably polite to her but her mum was raising Sherlock's hackles alright and the lilt at the end of his sentence, what part of it her mother had allowed him to speak, had turned increasingly to the kind of irate she recognised as the precursor to a full smack-down. Then her mum said the thing that crashed and burned his anger with her righteous indignation at his behaviour.

"No, you're right you're not some man. You're the idiot she's been fawning over for years. You're the reason I don't have grandchildren, she's so hung up on you she'd never look twice at another man and you don't have the decency to leave her be."

Sherlock didn't have a quick retort to that. Molly strained to hear anything except his louder than normal, yet perfectly even, breathing as his annoyance subsided.

"If grandchildren are your primary concern I would be willing to assist Molly in fulfilling such ambition, should she agree with it."

She could practically sense her mother scowling at that, "Molly is my 'primary concern,' you dolt. I want my daughter to be happy."

"Then why do you mothers insist on haranguing your children for grandchildren?"

"Because I want Molly to know the happiness I've known. I'm pretty sure she'll want it too soon enough and she's not going to get it from a sperm bank or, or - some clinical arrangement with you."

"I have no intention of leaving Molly be."

"Really."

"Yes, really. I'm sorry if you are under the mistaken belief she would be better off without me for a...friend, but we shall have to agree to disagree. I've been reliably informed we are both better off for our companionship more recently, unconventional as it seems to you."

Molly had never known her mother to be satisfied with the idea of someone else being right who didn't think her opinion was too, so was shocked when her mum initially made a non-committal answer to Sherlock's suggestion. Not that she left it there.

"Promise me two things."

He said nothing and Molly could only imagine he had turned to look quizzically at her mum.

"Don't get my girl killed. And..." her mum took a resigned breath before continuing like it was hard to ask, "don't waste her time. I'm not talking about ticking biological clocks here, well, a bit in truth, but I'm worried. Don't fill her head with ideas about what could be when she needs something that actually is. Too much of a dreamer Molly, don't indulge it," her mother said in a low voice, leaving what she really wanted to say implied. Swap indulge for exploit and it would be spot on Molly reckoned - her mother tended to view her as foolishly naïve like she was forever her little girl.

"It is doubtful I have any control over either of those."

"And I doubt that's true."

"You should trust your daughter to know what she wants."

"I don't know why, it's you of all people. She thinks she wants you. The one person who can't give her what she'll want down the line, a personal time-sink eating up her good years."

"Fortuneteller, are we Mrs Heeley? Hmm? No? Unless you can see the future you should not be so quick to dismiss what could be."

Her mum shut up and footsteps suggested Sherlock retreating having had his fill of harassment for the day. Molly would have preferred it the other way round, next of kin or not she didn't much want to speak to her mum right now. She might've been bothered that her mum was partly correct, she kept holding on hope about him but it wasn't like she didn't enjoy time with Sherlock. None of the dates she'd been on in the last few years were as good as the reluctantly platonic time with him. Sherlock had used to confuse her, but now, it was simpler to be around him – it was other people who assumed and projected complications. Molly didn't want him leaving her be, she wanted them to get their noses out her lack of love life. Like a lot of things she dealt with she was content with that being dead, she knew how to handle that.

When she was released from observation the next day she somehow managed to persuade her mum not to stay with her, instead being bundled up into a paid for taxi with a bagful of ready meals, chocolate and 2 pints of milk so she could 'rest up' despite the tiny amount of weekend left.

She unlocked her door and the smell hit her, making her a little nauseous. Plonking the groceries on the table, Molly rushed through the flat and came to the now fairly freshly painted cerise room. The plastic and sheets were no where in sight, the single item left in the middle of the room – an oversized kind of playing card. Picking it up she turned it over and was met by the picture of a fool. Obscure and cryptic for a message from Sherlock, but he knew she liked puzzles and for all his bluntness there were certain things some knew he found hard to express. Even so the tarot card was out there, until she remembered his choice of words to her mum right before he'd stormed out of the hospital ward. He had insisted he wouldn't be leaving Molly alone like her mother had thought best, he trusted her to know herself best and that the future was not was a hint of the shared conversation - he knew she'd been awake the whole time, listening to every reply he'd given her mum, every reply he'd given to her too. The accompanying scrawl in blue ink on the yellow block colour of the background told her 'Keep asking me'.

She'd been planning on doing that anyway. But, she thought, as she went to open the window, she was going to have to frisk him for sporting equipment and other potential weaponry next time he said yes because she liked the idea he would attempt to keep the first promise her mum had tried to wrangle from him. It might have helped other people inadvertently see clearer but no repeat on the head injuries for her thanks.