EPILOGUE

One month later…

Life at Baker Street had always been full of unusual activity, or at least it had been since the consulting detective and his blogger had moved in. The neighbors were frequently disturbed by strange noises or odors (from someone's experiments having gone awry), or were startled by boredom-induced gunshots, or were jerked awake at three in the morning by screeching violin "music." Then there were the arguments, and the giggling, and the adrenaline from a chase.

The unusual activity that had been seen inside 221B Baker Street had only begun, it seemed. Once the photos of a violent man's mug shots appeared stapled to a recently-closed case file, and a small puppy came to live there, a whole new set of disturbances commenced. Barking and the sounds of small paws skittering across the floor, bickering about whose turn it was to take the dog out, and bouncing balls down the corridors became the norm.

It turned out that Maggie was quite a resilient creature; once it was clear that she would be alright and that John had agreed to her living here (as if he would have refused), Sherlock had once again launched into showering her with toys and all manner of dog-pampering essentials. However, it turned out she was just as easily bored as Sherlock. Many a mishap resulted, for example…

"Sherlock," John called out one evening, choking back laughter. "Come get this off of your poor trapped dog!"

"What?" Sherlock asked blankly, looking up from his laptop at his breathless flatmate. They were both sitting on the sofa, though in the moment Sherlock looked as if he would rather be away from his suddenly and inexplicably giggling friend. When he shifted his gaze to Maggie, though, he bit back a surprised smile of his own.

The puppy had staggered into the room with a cross expression on her normally sweet face. A plastic clothes hanger was stuck around her middle, and one paw was stuck in it as well, so she was forced to walk – or rather, hobble – on three legs. She looked from John to Sherlock with a look that clearly said, I don't know what or how this happened but get this monster off me. Now.

Sherlock bent down as she approached him and gently extracted her from the hanger, chuckling. She made a huff sound and trotted away with her tail between her legs, looking highly embarrassed as she hurried to her bed.

"How on earth does she even get in those situations?" John was still laughing softly. "Last week she got a cup stuck on her head, and I have yet to figure out where she got it. I've never seen it before in my entire life. And the week before that, she was on top of my dresser chewing on my best tie!"

Sherlock grinned. "I've no idea how she accomplishes what she does. But why do I always have to be the one to rescue her from whatever she's gotten into? Can't you do it yourself?"

"She's your dog," John shrugged. Sherlock was the one who had brought her home in the first place, after all. He had started it.

"She is not," Sherlock scoffed, though he was still watching her with an affectionate look, one that John was still unused to. Gentler-Sherlock was still new to him. "She's yours."

"What?" John shook his head. "I didn't even want her at first. I was just helping you take care of her until we found her owner."

"And see how well that turned out."

"Why do we even give her a label anyway?" John smirked at the frustrated glint in Sherlock's eyes. "We could just call her the dog, not even bother with 'your dog' or 'my dog.'"

"Fine," Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation. "She's our dog! Is that acceptable to you?"

John smirked. "Yeah." He leaned over and caught sight of Maggie's name on Sherlock's laptop. "What are you doing?"

"I was simply curious about her name, and why the Prescotts chose it. Did you know it means 'pearl?'"

"I did not. Or maybe she was named after a famous Maggie."

"Like who?"

"Oh, you know, Margaret Thatcher, or Maggie Simpson… Ooh, or Maggie Smith!"

"I have no idea who any of those women are." Sherlock looked bewildered.

John laughed again. "Of course you don't. I really need to educate you on… well, everything."

Now Sherlock looked slightly offended. "Don't tell me this has to do with the rubbish solar system again! I thought I told you it is utterly irrelevant!"

But John wasn't listening; he was laughing too hard again. "Well I bet you anything she was named after Maggie Smith."

Sherlock just shook his head and turned back to his laptop, muttering something about "baffling flatmates" and the "stupid solar system." He looked cross, but that expression quickly faded when Maggie trotted over to him and leaped into his lap. He bit back a smile, glancing at John as if to make sure his sentimental countenance was going unnoticed, then pulled her closer and smoothed down her soft fur, rubbing behind her floppy ear. John just smiled and pretended he didn't see.

Within the next few days, yet another item appeared in the flat for Maggie, joining the dog dishes, bed, dozens of toys and treats, and leashes. For once, however, Sherlock had quite willingly gone to a store to purchase it (most likely because he knew it would annoy John: "People already talk enough, Sherlock!"). It was a silver dog tag, shaped like a bone. Engraved on it were the words…

Maggie Watson-Holmes
If found, return to 221B Baker St.

Thank you to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story! Your support means the world to me! This is the end of the boys' adventure with Maggie, but I do have a couple story ideas planned that will hopefully be worked on before the next season of Sherlock haha. Stay tuned for those, and have a lovely day! :)