A final chapter/epilogue of sorts. It doesn't quite fit with the end John/Mary conversation of the last chapter, because once again Sherlock invaded the story and changed how I was going to end it.

But this story is, finally, completed.

Thanks all for hanging on for the ride!

Emrose

Later, when she looked back on that afternoon, she doubted her own memory. From the moment she had sat across from Mrs. Watson and overheard that strangest of one-sided phone calls to the first awkward, stilted explanations from an embarrassed Dr. Watson, nothing had seemed quite real. She found herself wanting to explain it all away, but she couldn't find any possible explanation that fit all the facts like the truth did.

Which, she supposed, was the way the truth worked.

But that didn't make it any less unbelievable.

"So, there's the whole of it," Dr. Watson had concluded, settling back in his chair and glancing at his wife, who had chimed in several times during the course of the conversation to correct this or that or add a detail he'd forgotten (or deliberately left out, going by the disgruntled look on his face).

"So, you're…an ex-CIA agent," Mrs. Ramsey directed to Mrs. Watson, who shrugged, a smile twitching at her lips. Her eyes were sparkling, and despite the fact that the Watson family's dirty laundry had been well and truly aired despite her best efforts to keep it tucked away, she seemed more relaxed than ever, if that were possible.

"Afraid so," she said cheerfully.

"And you're an army veteran now working as a GP who runs round with Sherlock Holmes and solves crimes for the Yard," Mrs. Ramsey said.

"Uh, yeah, that sums it up," Dr. Watson said, and though he still looked exhausted, he too looked cheerful. "If you've got any questions, you might as well ask them now."

"Erm," Mrs. Ramsey said. "About Sherlock Holmes…where does he figure…"

But before she could finish the question, Mrs. Watson had giggled, Dr. Watson's eyebrows had lifted in…affection? Exasperation? Apprehension? And, at quite the same time, the office door burst open and a long, lanky figure in a billowing black coat and a mass of curly hair fell into the room.

"John, the trail," it said in a crisp, breathless baritone. "The trail. Oh, we haven't had one of these in months. Really sorry to burst in like this, but we're out of time. Lestrade is on his way and if his idiots get there first they'll send the rat deeper into his hole and we'll never catch him. Hello, Mary, how's the conference? Left Lily with Mrs. Hudson, no need to worry, she's being force-fed biscuits and looking through photo albums of the 'old glory days', apparently. Come along, John, I've got the cab waiting."

Mrs. Ramsey had felt her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. This wild, bright-eyed, pale figure in the posh suit and cream silk shirt and black leather gloves who was even now fixing her with a penetrating gaze and allowing a slow, mischievous smile to creep onto his long, thin face was both identical to and the exact opposite of what she'd imagined belonged to the voice on the phone.

"Sherlock, I told you to stay put, I said I'd phone you," Dr. Watson said, half-standing automatically and grunting as Sherlock Holmes' arm shot out and pulled him the rest of the way to his feet.

"No time, John," he had said, and bent around him to wave at Mary. "You don't mind if I take him for the evening, do you Mary?"

"Don't let him do anything stupid," she said comfortably, and exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Ramsey (or, rather, Mrs. Watson gave her a knowing look and Mrs. Ramsey gave her a rabbit-in-the-headlights one in return) "And don't you do anything stupid either, Sherlock."

"Mary," Dr. Watson began despairingly, but Sherlock grinned and tugged John towards the door so hard that the doctor had to fling out a hand and catch himself on the edge of Mrs. Ramsey's desk.

"We never do. Come along, John…"

But Dr. Watson had planted his feet firmly on the floor, and half-turned towards Mrs. Ramsey. "I'm so sorry about this," he started to say, but he only made it halfway towards her before his head snapped back around and fixed on Sherlock Holmes' left coat pocket.

"Is that my gun?"

Mrs. Ramsey lifted a hand to her heart. Mary made a noise of mingled indignation and amusement. Sherlock Holmes' forehead creased.

"Maybe?"

"Of all the…bringing that into a school!" Mrs. Ramsey had found her voice at his point, and even risen from her chair with the force of her outrage. "How dare you?"

"Mrs. Ramsey, how good to meet you," Sherlock Holmes said, and a warm, charming smile spread across his face. "I do believe we've spoken." He let go of Dr. Watson's arm and stretched out his hand across the desk to her. Her natural instinct was to take it, but she clasped her hands in front of her instead and glared at him pointedly. He didn't seem fazed, and simply withdrew his hand and turned back to Dr. Watson, who had turned to stone.

"And this is your idea of a good way to handle this today? Couldn't have used one of your other 'one or two ideas,' could you?" he asked. But he didn't seem to be expecting an answer, and Sherlock Holmes only smirked in a smug, self-satisfied sort of way. Mrs. Watson sighed audibly from behind her husband. "Alright, give it here," Dr. Watson said, holding out a hand stiffly. Sherlock shook his head with a wounded look and tossed a glance at Mrs. Ramsey as if to appeal to her sense of humanity. She bristled.

"Give what here? Really, John, we're losing time…"

Mrs. Watson snorted. Dr. Watson folded his arms. "Don't make me take it from you."

"Take what?"

"Oh, for…"

What happened next was another of those moments that Mrs. Ramsey wasn't sure had happened later, and even as it happened she wasn't sure that she could believe her eyes. Dr. Watson stepped forward, hard-armed Sherlock in the shoulder, twisted his arm up and away, and pulled a black handgun seamlessly from the left coat pocket with his free hand. Sherlock Holmes hardly had time to gasp in protest before Dr. Watson had examined the gun, fiddled effortlessly with it for a second, popped the clip free, and stuffed it deep into the pocket of his blazer.

"Really, Sherlock?"

"John, we're going to need…"

"Not fully loaded and cocked right now, in this school, in this office," Dr. Watson said. There was a note of steel in his voice, and for the first time, Mrs. Ramsey saw the sort of man that could run around the sewers of London hunting down a pick axe murderer instead of the tired, kindly general practitioner that had sat in her office all afternoon.

"But out there…"

"Out there, I will carry the gun, and I will load it when I think we need it, and I will be the one handling the firearm, because frankly, I don't trust you with it."

"Why don't you trust me with it?" Sherlock Holmes was both outraged and curious, and he caught Mrs. Ramsey staring at him and tossed her a quick wink. Mrs. Ramsey sat down in her chair with a gasp.

"Because you're the kind of bloke who scratches your head with a it, points it at your best friend's head, and carries it fully loaded in your back pocket," Dr. Watson said dryly. "Now go on, out, before you give Mrs. Ramsey a heart attack." He turned, bent and kissed Mrs. Watson on the cheek. "We'll be back late. See you at the house. Don't wait up."

"You know I always do."

"Yeah, I know." He smiled at her affectionately, and then reached across the desk and took Mrs. Ramsey's hand. "I am really, really sorry about all this. And about him." He threw his head at Sherlock, who growled in annoyance. Dr. Watson ignored him, smiled lopsidedly, and released her hand. "Good luck with Lil."

And then he had grabbed a griping Sherlock Holmes around the bicep and was hustling the much taller man out the door, stuffing the barrel of the gun in the waistband of his trousers with his free hand. He turned, sent Mrs. Ramsey a last charming grin, and shut the door firmly behind them both.

The silence was deafening.

Mrs. Ramsey had never had cause to use that oxymoron before, but she decided then and there that it fit this moment perfectly. When she finally tore her gaze from the door, it wandered slowly over to rest on Mrs. Watson, who was looking at her with drawn eyebrows as if waiting for her to explode.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes creasing with a suppressed smile.

"Yes," Mrs. Ramsey breathed, though she didn't think that was true. "Yes, I think so."

There was another silence. Mrs. Ramsey remembered how to breathe.

Mrs. Watson cleared her throat.

"So," she said. "Tell me more about Pinterest."

The End. Thanks once again for reading!