I don't have much experience with writing comedy/light-hearted fics that don't have any real drama in them at all, so this is a bit of an experiment. It'll be three chapters, and stems from a "what-if" scenario a coworker and I came up with when we should have been working *cough*. I'm usually not one to write OCs, but it was kind of fun to look at "Mr. and Mrs. Psychopath" from an outside point of view...plus let myself dream that Mary will survive long enough to see a child grow up to be old enough for primary school (please, Mofftiss?).

Reviews are, as always, welcome. Thanks for stopping by!

-Emrose

On Ordinary Parenting

Mrs. Ramsey considered herself to be a fairly understanding, tolerant, kind sort of woman. She was, after all, a primary school teacher, and all primary school teachers had to have a considerable amount of patience and tact on principle.

But Mrs. Ramsey had never had to deal with a problem like the problem that was Lily Amelia Watson before, and she was feeling rather affronted, slightly frustrated, and more than a little concerned.

It wasn't Lily that was the problem, really-she was a sweet, intelligent girl with a large vocabulary for her age. She shared nicely with the other children, always washed her hands before snack time without a fuss, and made friends easily. She tended to be a little bossy, but none of the other kids minded-the shy ones all worshiped the ground she walked on. Since she was always careful to include all of them in her games, Mrs. Ramsey let her bossiness slide. She was a pretty little thing, with white-blonde hair and large blue eyes, ears that stuck out a little, and a nose that turned up pertly on the end.

Lily Watson's one fault was an incredibly active, descriptive, and altogether far too morbid imagination for a five-year-old little girl.

"And now you're dead, and you lay down there. No, there." Lily gestured imperiously at a very specific patch of floor, upon which a little dark-haired boy lay down obediently. "And you've been poisoned, and we have to 'cide who killed you. Prob'ly arsnice, that's bad poison. And you, you're the 'tective, but you don' know how to find the nose on your face, an' so you call me."

Mrs. Ramsey had caught only snatches of these directions, but what she heard had been alarming. She had hurried over and broken up the murder investigation, much to Lily's disappointment. Then she had pulled Lily aside during naptime and asked her where she had learned such a dreadful game.

"Sherlock," Lily had said promptly. "He teaches me 'bout poisonings so's I can grow up to be a 'tective."

"Who is Sherlock?" Mrs. Ramsey had asked.

Lily had looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "Sherlock Homes," she had said, putting one hand on her hip and shaking her head. "He comes 'round for tea and tells me bedtime stories when Daddy's not home. He's a famous 'tective, an' he solves crimes when the p'lice don' know what's what."

"Sherlock Holmes?" the name was vaguely familiar to Mrs. Ramsey, and she resolved to look him up on the internet as soon as the children went home for the afternoon. "Well, dear, I don't think we ought to play poisoning the other children anymore. It's not a very nice game."

Lily considered this, and though she seemed less-than-happy, she finally nodded, lips pursed in a little pout. "Yes, Mrs. Ramsey."

"Good girl. Be a dear and take your nap now."

Lily walked away with a decided slump to her shoulders, but Mrs. Ramsey saw her playing a muted game of house with the other children later that afternoon. She put the entire incident out of her mind-surely the matter had resolved itself, and Lily was such a good girl...

A few days later, she caught Lily teaching the children how to splint a broken arm. Slightly strange, but she simply broke up the game and suggested ring-around-the-rosy instead. The next morning, Lily mentioned something about a suicide and Scotland Backyard at snacktime, which she filed away mentally but did her utmost to ignore. Two days later, Mrs. Ramsey could have sworn she overheard Lily talking about the inner mechanics of a handgun in surprising detail, but surely she must have been mistaken.

No five-year-old child who couldn't properly pronounce dental consonants yet could possibly know terms like "extractor," "cylinder stop stud" and "stirrup pin."

It wasn't until later the next week that she found real cause for alarm.

"And if you stab them here and here..."

Mrs. Ramsey looked up from where she was playing tinker toys with two quiet little boys to see, much to her horror, that Lily was calmly displaying a doll that had two plastic knives from the kitchen set stello-taped to its head to a rapt audience.

"They bleed on the brain and die right off. And if you put it here..." she ripped one of the knives off and taped it to the left shoulder, "they hafta do 'stensive surg'ry, an' you might die from the shock 'fore they getcha patched up..."

Mrs. Ramsey confiscated the doll and set Lily in the corner to read by herself for the remainder of the afternoon. Then she left the children with another teacher, went into her office, and called Mrs. Watson.

Mrs. Watson was a cheerful, pretty woman with white-blonde hair and big, blue eyes. She shook Mrs. Ramsey's hand with a firm, feminine grip and took a seat opposite the desk, sliding her handbag to the ground and taking off her gray-knit coat while she kept up a pleasant stream of chatter about the adorable picture of Mrs. Ramsey and her nieces that hung on the wall and how nice the school looked since they'd redone the landscaping last spring.

When they'd both settled in, a brief, awkward silence fell and Mrs. Watson looked at Mrs. Ramsey expectantly.

"So," she said. "Something about Lily?"

Mrs. Ramsey cleared her throat and nodded. She wasn't sure exactly how to approach this conversation, and looking at the kind, open, intelligent face of the woman before her, she wondered suddenly if she might have been mistaken. This was not the face or posture of a woman who would teach her children about handguns and how to murder fellow schoolmates.

"Oh, yes," she said brightly, clasping her hands in front of her for lack of something else to do with them. "She's a very sweet girl, Mrs. Watson, I want to make that clear…she's truly a joy to have in the classroom. So smart, too—you and Mr. Watson must be doing something right!"

Mrs. Watson laughed politely. "Well, thanks very much," she said.

"She's so helpful around the classroom…always very willing to do whatever I ask. And I'd say she's top in her class…"

"I know, I know, she's always been a bit of a know-it-all…"

"No, no, not at all, never comes across that way. Lily is always sweet to the other children…"

"Yes, she's very sweet." Mrs. Watson laughed lightly again. There was a brief pause. "You asked me in to tell me how nice and clever she is, then?"

Mrs. Ramsey cleared her throat again. "Well, of course that's part of…well, no, I suppose not. Although I just wanted to let you know how much I truly do enjoy her."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Ramsey reached for a pen, just to give her fingers something to fiddle with, but then she thought that might make her seem nervous, so she patted the desk awkwardly instead and interlocked her fingers again.

"Mrs. Watson, I've overheard Lily telling the other children some…well, some rather alarming stories," she said. "It seems rather ridiculous, and I'd have thought I was imagining it had I not heard it on several occasions."

"What sort of stories?" Mrs. Watson asked, her brow creasing a little.

"Well, let's just say Lily has a very vibrant imagination," Mrs. Ramsey said delicately. "And the other children just worship the ground she walks on. She's very good with them, but I'm worried that some things she says might be inappropriate for young children to be discussing, particularly in school."

"What sort of stories, Mrs. Ramsey?" Mrs. Watson asked again, and her kind, blue eyes flickered with something like impatience, but she was still smiling in slight concern. Mrs. Ramsey wished she had something to fiddle with. Oh, how she just loved this part of her job.

"Stories about…well, about poison. Arsenic, I think it was. And she was teaching the children how to splint up a broken bone just last week!" she laughed, but it sounded forced and she wished instantly that she hadn't.

But Mrs. Watson was laughing too; her laughter sounded just as forced as Mrs. Ramsey's felt.

"Oh, that would be my husband's fault," she said, laying a hand comfortably on the desk and leaning forward. She rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. "He's a doctor, see, and he's got this horrible habit of bringing his work home with him. Lily must have overheard us talking about one of his patients."

"Well, that would certainly explain it," Mrs. Ramsey said, and her lips stretched in a wide, fake grin that matched Mrs. Watson's. "And the arsenic? Another case from your husband's work?"

"Oh, it must be," Mrs. Watson said, settling back in her chair. "He's always talking about all kinds of medical jargon even I don't understand half the time."

"Are you in the medical profession too, then, Mrs. Watson?"

"I'm a nurse, yes. But Dr. Watson has a surgical background, and he forgets that I don't have the same training he does." She smiled comfortably. "I'll talk to Lily, shall I? I'd hate to have her disturbing the other children."

Mrs. Ramsey had the panicked feeling that the conversation was wrapping up, and she hadn't even mentioned the worst bits yet.

"It might be best coming from her parents, yes," she said. "Maybe if Mr. Watson could speak with her?"

"I'll talk to him," Mrs. Watson said, and now she was reaching for her handbag. "I'm sorry, but I've really got to dash—I'm due back at the office at 4."

"Oh, well," Mrs. Ramsey said, and fumbled for a moment as Mrs. Watson waited, wide-eyed with expectance again. "Well, you see, Mrs. Watson, Lily has also been talking about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and several of her stories involve some rather disturbing…"

"Oh, has she mentioned him too, then?" Mrs. Watson let go of her handbag. Her eyes were bright and keen now, and the corner of her mouth was twitching. She looked positively impish. "Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Ramsey?"

"Only briefly," Mrs. Ramsey admitted. "He's a detective of sorts, isn't he?"

"Of sorts. He and my husband were flatmates before we married, and he comes round now and then when he's not off solving his little mysteries. Sherlock is a wonderful storyteller with an absolutely brilliant imagination, Mrs. Ramsey, and I'm afraid Lily hangs on his every word. I'll have a word with him next time he comes to tea. Is that everything, then?"

Mrs. Ramsey found herself nodding, though it certainly was not everything. But Mrs. Watson was slinging on her coat and chatting about how much Lily liked the other children and how good it had been of Mrs. Ramsey to address her concerns, and how she was sure there wouldn't be any more incidents.

And of course, there wouldn't be. Mrs. Watson had such a calming, utterly normal presence, and as the door closed behind her, Mrs. Ramsey couldn't help but relax back into her chair. Surely she'd been over-exaggerating, anyway. All children had imaginations, and with a surgeon for a father, of course Lily's might be a little more medically-inclined.

But as she packed up her bags to head home that evening, she couldn't erase a niggling doubt that maybe, just maybe, she was missing something…

"You'll have to talk to him, John. He's been telling Lily about crime scenes, and she's talking about them in all their gory detail…and she was teaching them how to splint a bone, and poor Mrs. Ramsey said something about arsenic…"

"What? I certainly didn't teach her about arsenic…"

"Well, I don't think Sherlock taught her how to splint a leg, husband mine. Don't bristle, John, I'm not accusing you…you just need to be a bit more careful with her bedtime stories, maybe tell her "Hansel and Gretel" or "Snow Drop" for once. You know, normal little girl stories. And I want you to talk to Sherlock. He's got to stop putting ideas in her head too."

"Why can't you talk to him?"

Silence.

"Right, I'll talk to him. It's fine. I'll talk to him."

"Tell him if he doesn't quit telling her about murders and serial killers that I'll come after him myself."

"That ought to scare the pants off him."

"I don't care about his pants, I just care that he stops filling our daughter's head with murder mysteries. She's only five years old…"

"I'll talk to him, Mary. Don't worry. I'll talk to him. Promise."

TBC...