A/N: All of my teen!lock stories have a mix of British and American terms, so please bear with me. I like having the gang in high school but I can't get away from British terms for other things.

"The richest bloke in school and you drive a used hearse," John Watson muttered, shaking his head at his best friend's eccentricities.

"Would you prefer I drive a new hearse?" Sherlock Holmes muttered back.

"At least with a new one, you wouldn't have to guess all the time how much petrol is left in the tank."

The two teenage boys were leaning against the hearse at the side of the lonely country road, waiting for the tow truck. Sherlock had forgotten to make a mental note of the last time he'd filled up the hearse's tank, the petrol gauge having broken the previous winter. Now it was the end of summer and he still hadn't gotten it fixed. If asked, he would say he was saving his money to buy a Belstaff.

Sherlock was the only boy in their high school who drove a used hearse. Consequentially, he was the also the only boy in their high school who had a towing company on speed-dial. He relaxed when the familiar yellow tow truck crested the nearby hill and started downwards towards them.

"There's Mr. Hooper," he said.

John looked up. "Who's that with him?"

Sherlock looked at the person in the front passenger seat as the tow truck came closer. Short, whoever it is, he thought, but decided not to say that within earshot of his "average height, thankyouverymuch" best friend. He could barely see more than the top of the person's head, all he could make out was brown hair.

The tow truck pulled over to the side of the road and stopped in front of the hearse. Mr. Hooper and his passenger got out. The towing company owner was a middle-aged chain-smoker with unlimited patience. There was always a hint of sadness in the man's eyes that Sherlock had speculated about. When he got a good look at the man walking over to him and the girl hurrying to join him, he realized why the sadness was gone.

"Hello, boys," Mr. Hooper said, smiling broadly. "You had a good stretch, Sherlock. It's been what, three weeks since you last called?"

"Four," Sherlock muttered, annoyed that his cheeks were turning pink.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Hooper said. The girl beside him cleared her throat and Mr. Hooper chuckled. "Where are my manners? Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Sherlock's one of my best customers. Boys, this is my daughter, Molly."

"I didn't know you had a daughter," John said.

In that short amount of time, Sherlock had already assessed the girl. Five-foot-three. Short, like I thought, but I think the word is "petite" when you're talking about girls. Long brown hair. Ponytail – practical, wants to keep it out of her face but doesn't want to cut it. Brown eyes, larger than average. Faded jeans fraying at the edges. Old but not stained. Baggy Hello Kitty t-shirt. Also old, what looks to be an old chocolate ice cream stain on the collar. Doesn't care much about clothes. Wearing a ring on a chain under the shirt. Since she's now with her father, the ring must be her mother's and most likely the woman has recently died. Grieving but not hiding herself away, good for her. Looks twelve but that probably means she's fourteen.

"I used to only see her on the weekends but now she's come to live with me," Mr. Hooper said. "She'll be going to school with you two next week. I was hoping you could show her around, help her get used to the place."

"Sure, Mr. Hooper," John said, smiling. "You've certainly helped us out plenty of times." He nudged Sherlock in the side.

"Er, yes, happy to help," Sherlock muttered. The last thing I need to do is babysit a freshman. Don't they know there's an orientation the day before the first day of school just for freshmen?

"Good! Now, I've got two gallons with me, that'll get you to the next station. Let me make sure that's all you need."

While Mr. Hooper put petrol in the tank and checked under the bonnet, Molly looked at Sherlock. "Are you going to be a mortician?"

Sherlock was used to that sort of question. He smiled a bit. "No, I just wanted a car that would annoy my family and was within my birthday money budget."

John grinned. "Mrs. Holmes swore she'll never get in the hearse with him and she's forbidden him from taking it when he's running errands for her."

"God forbid her friends see me in it," Sherlock added, smirking. Molly giggled and Sherlock found himself liking the sound. But I'm not about to date a freshman. Not that I'd date anyone in my class – the disaster that was Irene Adler was enough for a lifetime.

"At least you'll never lose it in a parking lot," she said, grinning. "I want to be a pathologist, maybe I should get one."

"Maybe," Sherlock said noncommittally.

Mr. Hooper put down the hood. "She's good to go, Sherlock."

"Thank you, sir," he said. "How much do I owe you?"

The older man smiled. "Drive Molly to and from school the first day and we're even. She'll take the bus after that."

"Um, sure," Sherlock said, surprised at his request.

"Good. I'll give Molly your number and let the two of you arrange a time." There was a chirping sound coming from the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out his mobile and read the text. "Time to go, Molly – another stranded driver needs us."

"Okay, Dad," she said, then she turned to the boys, smiling shyly. "Bye, John. Bye, Sherlock. I'll call you the night before school starts, okay?"

"I prefer to text," Sherlock said.

"Okay, I'll text you." She got into the truck and waved as it drove away.

John waved back then turned to his friend, scowling. "You could've been nicer."

"We're seniors, John. The last thing I need is a freshman girl following me everywhere all year."

John rolled his eyes as they got in the car. "Yes, having a female friend would go against your 'above-it-all loner' persona. You know how many girls at school fancy you, right?"

"Thirty-seven, as of the last day of school," Sherlock said. "That number may have changed over the summer, I'll find out when we get back."

"You know that question was rhetorical, right?"

Sherlock spent the last night of his summer holiday holed up in his bedroom, deliberately not wondering why Molly Hooper hadn't texted him yet. He'd made the mistake of mentioning her to his parents and siblings at dinner. All of them had questions, none of which Sherlock was willing to answer. Mycroft, who still had Sunday dinner with the family whenever his government job allowed, and Eurus teamed up to tease him about Molly, his single status, and the number of girls who fancied him (thirty-nine after a quick Facebook search).

Mycroft will be back at Whitehall tomorrow, Sherlock thought, but I'll see Eurus at school. His younger sister had ridden with him while she was in her goth phase, liking the idea of riding around in a hearse, but her current steampunk phase required that she take an honest-to-God penny-farthing to school when the weather allowed. When it didn't, which was more often than not, she decided she would take the bus. Sherlock was mid-eyeroll when his mobile chirped. He picked it up.

8:10p Hi, Sherlock. What time did you want to pick me up tomorrow? Molly

I normally delete texts that start with "hi," but this time I'll make an exception.

8:11p School starts at 9, I'll pick you up at 8. SH

8:13p Okay, I'll be ready. Molly

The next morning, Sherlock pulled up to the address Molly had given him. It was an apartment building in a nice neighborhood a few blocks from his townhouse. He pulled up to the curb then texted Molly.

8:00a I'm outside. SH

8:02a Be right down! Molly

God, this school year is going to be so boring, he thought. Thank God it's my last one. Gap year then uni beckon.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Molly walking towards the car. She wore a black long-sleeved top, a black and beige plaid knee-length skirt, burgundy suede ankle boots, a burgundy scarf around her neck, and her hair was in some kind of fancy bun. She also wore light make-up and all-in-all looked a lot closer to eighteen. Sherlock couldn't stop staring at her as she opened the door and got into the front passenger seat.

"Hi, Sherlock." She saw his stare and frowned worriedly. "Am I overdressed? I wanted to look nice for my first day of my senior year."

Senior?! "I … I thought you were a freshman."

She rolled her eyes, smiling a bit. "Everyone thinks I'm about twelve when they first meet me since I'm so short. I'll be eighteen in March."

"You're not short, you're cute," Sherlock blurted, and immediately blushed. "Um, I meant to say 'petite.'"

Molly grinned at him happily and Sherlock knew his senior year was going to be anything but boring.