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“It’s all your fault, Mrs Hudson!”. Much to her surprise, Sherlock Holmes’ landlady jumped on her chair, wondering why her tenant seemed to be so irate with her.
“Oh, don’t give me that face! You know damn well what I’m talking about! If you had allowed me to put a beehive on your building’s rooftop, I could have predicted all this!”. He gestured frantically, pointing the rain pouring outside.
“Do you know that bees spend more time out of the hive, and stop working later in the afternoon, when the following day is a raining day? Do you know that they respond to changes in humidity, temperature and barometric pressure that preceded rainstorms? Of course you don’t, because you, all of you”, this time he turned so he could address the other guests in the hall, “You’re all a bunch of morons who rely on meteorologists, who, by the way, weren’t able to predict this wreck!”
”Oh, Sherlock… It’s only rain!”. As always, Molly’s soft voice did the trick; Sherlock Holmes hung his head, suddenly ashamed at his own outburst.
“Molly… Our wedding day wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be sunny, and warm, and…” He stopped, sounding dejected. “It was supposed to be your perfect day.”
His newly-wed wife approached him, her petite hand pushing his chin up until his eyes caught hers. “Sherlock, look at me, please. I don’t need the sun, or a soft breeze, when I have you. Did I make myself clear?”
Sherlock finally gave a hint of a smile. “If you say so… But the pictures are going to be a disaster, with all the rain, and the mud in the garden…”
“Mr Holmes, you disappoint me… You and your lack of imagination… Mycroft, do you mind?” Molly approached her brother-in-law, and without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his omnipresent umbrella; then she seized her husband’s wrist, and sprinted outside, the open umbrella barely covering their heads.
Sherlock’s baffled outcry soon transformed in a burst of laughter. “Mrs Holmes, you stole the umbrella to the British Government! I tried to do it all my life…”, he confessed, turning to watch his older brother, who looked utterly lost without his protective gadget.
“I will apologise to him later, as you will do with Mrs Hudson…”, Molly warned him. “But now, I just want the photographer to take a picture of us, while I kiss my husband under this pouring rain…”
“At your command, wife…”, Sherlock said, and at his nod the photographer, armed with another umbrella, started to shoot.
They were in a puddle, Molly’s dress was ruined, and probably the next day they would have a cold… But they were in love, ready to start a new life together, and nothing, not even a thunderstorm could ruin it.