1. for Sherlolly: “The skirt is supposed to be this short.”
I’m not sure about ‘hilarious’ but I’ll give it a shot. thanks for the prompt(s) x
“For God’s sake, Dad. Don’t be such a loser!”
“You’re not going out like that. Whilst you’re living under my roof, you’ll obey my rules.”
“Where did you get that one from? The Ladybird Book of Parenting?”
Molly rolled her eyes, focusing on the medical journal in her hands; her husband and daughter had been arguing about her night out for the past half hour. At fifteen years old, she was keen to spend as much time as possible with her group of friends which, to Sherlock’s concern, consisted of three nineteen-year-old boys; her assurances they were like the brothers she’d never had did nothing to reassure her protective father. Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs and Clara barrelled into the living room, Sherlock hot on her heels.
“Mum, will you tell him the skirt is supposed to be this short?” The teen demanded, gesturing at her outfit. Before Molly could even open her mouth, Sherlock interrupted.
“Molly, will you remind her that she is just fifteen years old?”
“Both of you stop it,” Molly said with a sigh, closing her journal, “Clara, we agreed you could go out but you have to take our concerns seriously. We know what we’re talking about when we say it’s dangerous out there,” Clara folded her arms tightly but offered no argument. Molly turned her gaze to her smug husband and raised an eyebrow, “Sherlock, Rosie’s going with them, isn’t she? She’s older. She’ll look after her. Clara is going out with her friends whether you like it or not.”
“But-“ he had been about to suggest a few dozen of Lestrade’s men accompanying them for protection; one look from Molly, however, told him he should probably keep his mouth shut. Instead, he nodded, “yes, fine. You should…have a good time.”
Clara beamed, throwing her arms around her Dad, “thanks, Dad. I won’t let you down.”
Ten minutes later, Sherlock was surrounded by the complete morons Clara called her friends; genetic experiments gone wrong seemed more appropriate to him. They were all gangly masses of muscles, grunting their way through a conversation – it was a wonder they weren’t crushing empty beer cans against their foreheads and beating their chests. Rosie Watson, the spit of her mum with her father’s height, was among the primates, tapping away on her phone.
“Taxi’s here!” She called, linking arms with Clara as the party shuffled towards the door; she smiled at her godfather, “don’t worry, Uncle Sherlock. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“And who’s going to keep an eye on you, eh?” One of the rabble yelled, slinging an arm around Rosie as they filed out of the flat. Once they were once again alone, Sherlock turned his incredulous expression onto Molly.
“Oh, come on,” she chuckled, gathering up the empty cans the teens had left behind, “they’re just having a bit of fun,” she watched as he took his place by the window, his eyes narrowing as he observed the party climbing into the taxi, “are you going to stay there all night?”
“Fine,” Molly said, discarding the black bag full of rubbish and stretching. Deliberately, “I’m going to have a shower.”
Sherlock glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and swallowed, “g-good idea.”
“You coming?” Molly said coyly, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Sherlock answered by charging at her, lifting his giggling wife into his arms and almost throwing her into the shower.
The following morning, Sherlock found his daughter nursing a glass of aspirin filled water, groaning at the noise of the boiling kettle. He chuckled, sitting beside her and reaching for the paper.
“Good night?” She groaned in response, taking a swig of her water; he smirked, “we’ll talk about that tattoo when you’re sober.”
Molly almost broke her coffee cup as she turned around to look at her daughter, “your WHAT?”
“Excuse me, I need a shower,” Clara mumbled, slinking off into the bathroom before her mother could properly explode. Molly turned her surprise onto her husband.
“Mmm. A raven, I think,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, turning the page in his paper, “your fault for naming her after Doctor Who.”
Molly gritted her teeth; she wasn’t having that argument again. She stirred her coffee vigorously, sitting down beside him, propping her feet in his lap.
“How are you so calm about this?”
“I don’t have to live with it,” he replied simply, stroking Molly’s foot slowly and carefully, just the way she liked.
“How can you-“
“Yeah?” Molly called, sipping her coffee.
“Why are there handprints on the bathroom mirror?”
As Molly sprayed coffee everywhere and proceeded to choke, Sherlock abandoned the paper to pat her on the back, “I shouldn’t worry. When she sobers up, I think we’ll be even.”