"The only kind of universe that I can even begin to conceive is an inconceivable one."

― Ilyas Kassam

Saturday nights often found a handful of the Detective Inspectors of Scotland Yard in The Crooked Arrow, their favorite pub. Bradstreet, Hopkins, MacDonald, Jones, Morton, and Patterson were clustered around a large table with drinks and two empty chairs. Tobias Gregson was pacing, awaiting the arrival of the final member of their party, who was expected to report on the event he was attending tonight.

Bradstreet tapped his fingers on his tankard. "Surely the dinner has to be over by now."

"Oh, I donnae," MacDonald said innocently—"how long did yours last?" MacDonald hadn't even been on the Force, yet, but even now, fifteen years later, there were still stories floating around the Yard about that night. No one who had actually been in attendance had willingly spoken of it for years, so the younger policemen were left with tales that might or might not be too fantastic to believe.

Working in Scotland Yard sooner or later broadened one's suspension of disbelief, although tonight's special event threatened to push even that suspension to the breaking point.

Bradstreet scowled, but Hopkins beat him to saying it: "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. Who knows?"

"But on such short notice, it had to be a small guest list," Morton pointed out. He took a drag from his cigarette. "I'm sure he'll be by soon."

"I hope so," Peter Athelney Jones grumbled—"I've got paperwork as needs doing tomorrow."

"On the Sabbath?" Patterson said mildly. "Jones, for shame."

"For the love of all that's holy, will the lot of you shut up?" Gregson snapped. "A man can't pace in peace these days."

Geoffrey Lestrade walked in the next moment, still in his best suit beneath his overcoat. He gave the group a tired nod while also eyeing them warily, their expectant looks eloquent. God, why had he agreed to do this, again? "Evening, all."

Gregson stopped and sighed in relief. "Ah, Lestrade, at last."

Bradstreet lifted his tankard in salute. "Geoff."

Hopkins nodded, trying not to look too eager (and failing, poor lad).

Patterson rose from the table. "I'll get that last beer now." He nodded at Lestrade and walked towards the bar.

Lestrade removed his hat. "Thanks, Patterson." He was in dire need of a proper drink—champagne wasn't really to his taste, too light and bubbly. Glancing over at his former rival, he said dryly, "Sit down, Gregson, for God's sake—haven't those boards have taken enough punishment?"

The fair-headed inspector glared but took a seat, folding his hands around his tankard.

Bradstreet grinned at Lestrade. "Tobias doesn't think Miss Smith—pardon me, Mrs. Holmes—exists, Geoff."

"Bradstreet!" Gregson hissed.

Hopkins and MacDonald shared grins.

Lestrade pulled out his chair and dropped into it. Quirking an eyebrow, he loosened his collar gratefully, his neck a good bit thicker than it once was. "Well, if Gregson thinks I'd half-strangle myself for several hours on end for a phantom, his imagination's better than mine."

"My dear chap," said Gregson, "my imagination has always been better than yours, and that would not be the oddest thing you've done in your life by far, especially when it regards Himself."

Jones snorted into a tankard—it was true enough. Geoffrey Lestrade lived something of an oddly-charmed life: he managed to survive everything life had ever thrown at him; so, to compensate, life had thrown many of its nastiest and weirdest surprises at him.

Patterson returned with Lestrade's tankard and set it down before him. "Drink up—Bradstreet and MacDonald are footing the bill."

Lestrade nodded gratefully to the man and took a long pull. When he finished, he turned his most innocent tone on Gregson. "Ah, so that's why the stack in my 'in' tray's half as tall as yours…" He ignored Gregson's sputtering and turned to the others. "Oh, she's real, all right." Although he couldn't blame any of them for wondering otherwise, even Gregson. "First met her yesterday, actually." He nodded to Hopkins. "You remember."

Hopkins nodded back, grinning. "Came into my office looking like you'd had the shock of your life—which, to be fair, it probably was. You said she's young, too."

Morton frowned. "How young?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, frowning himself. "You know, it's hard to say…" Elizabeth Holmes was obviously quite young, indeed, but there was something also remarkably older about her, more in line with the maturity of street boys like the Baker Street Irregulars. Or with her husband, when he had first set out on his career nearly twenty years ago—an old soul in a young body. "Can't be any younger than eighteen, though. She's tall, too, nearly as tall as her husband." And she hadn't been wearing heels, Lestrade had noticed, so something like 5'11" or 6' was the girl's real height.

He grinned suddenly and wonderingly—he was still having trouble himself, believing this most unexpected turn of events.

"The real question," Bradstreet said mischievously, "is: is she pretty?"

"No," countered Jones, "the real question is: why would she marry the man in the first place?"

"I thought the real question was: why would he marry at all?" Gregson muttered into his drink.

Lestrade snickered and turned to Bradstreet. "Aye, she's pretty enough." She still half-reminded him of someone, though he was damned if he could think of who it was! "As to why…" He shook his head. "God only knows! Still, they obviously see something in each other—you should have seen Himself when he made the introductions yesterday: proud simply wasn't the word!" Sherlock Holmes had positively glowed, proof positive that miracles still happened.

MacDonald shook his head wonderingly. "Tha' must-a been a sight to see."

"What's she like?" asked Hopkins.

Lestrade's brow creased as he tried to find the words. Mrs. Holmes hadn't said much at their first meeting, or even during the reception. "Well, she's sweet… well-mannered… My first impression was that she's quite shy, but…" He shrugged. "Somehow, I can't see Mr. Holmes falling for a shrinking violet—and she's from the States, besides." The few American women he'd met had been, if not exactly brash, then noticeably more confident in themselves than their British counterparts.

"Could be that she's still finding her feet, then," mused Patterson. There was a reason Patterson had been chosen to take down the Moriarty gang—he was unquestionably the most intelligent detective in the CID. (Which Gregson would acknowledge if his own ego were ever to allow him to do it.) "Holmes wouldn't respect a woman who couldn't hold her own against him."

"You realise, Lestrade," Morton said in the same thoughtful tone, "you could have described Watson that way back in the day?"

Lestrade nodded, then grinned as he remembered the other astonishing piece of news he had to share. Oh, this would be good… "Oh, aye. And talking of the good doctor…"

"Right, how's he taking all this?" asked Bradstreet. "Must've been a shock to him, too."

Lestrade chuckled. "I don't doubt it! But then, I hear he's been occupied with his own domestic affairs lately…"

Gregson looked slowly, disbelievingly, at Lestrade. "What domestic affairs?"

"Oh," Lestrade said casually, "the usual sort of thing, you know: getting remarried…"

There was an almost-perfect unison of spluttering "what?!" from the group, even Patterson. Gregson, naturally, was the first time recover. "How the hell did no one know about that?!" (A fair-enough question, one to which Lestrade wished he knew the answer.) "Lestrade, how did you not know—you're at Baker Street all the time!" (Again, Lestrade wished he knew.)

Patterson blinked slowly, as in shock as the rest of them. "Clearly something about our receiving news from 221B wants improvement."

Lestrade managed an innocent tone, even though he was grinning from ear to ear. "Obviously. And that's not even the best part!"

Bradstreet looked at his friend warily. "I shudder to think."

"His new wife, Sally? She's a young widow, with a baby daughter from her first marriage." Lestrade paused a moment to let that sink in. "Watson's a father again," he said softly, beaming.

There was stunned silence around the table for a moment—they all remembered Mary and the baby boy. This was undoubtedly good news of the first water: after all that he had been through, John H. Watson most certainly deserved another chance at that kind of happiness.

Jones was the first to break the silence. "There's a baby at 221B?!"

MacDonald shook his head, wide-eyed. "Well, miracles ne'er do cease…"

Lestrade looked around at them all with the stern expression he typically reserved for wayward constables. "And mind, I've been informed by Mr. Holmes, in no uncertain terms, that anyone referring to said infant as Watson's stepdaughter had better have their affairs completely in order." It was a fair-enough demand, as well: Watson would be doing the raising of the lass, and he would be the only father the child would ever know. Lestrade shook his head, his smile returning at memories from earlier that night. "Honestly, the way those two men dote on that wee one has to be seen to be believed!"

Morton blinked. "Well, Himself has always been good with the young ones and no mistake, but… good Lord!"

"I don't suppose," Jones said in a hopeful tone, "all this domestic bliss means we'll be seeing less of him in the future?"

Gregson snorted into his tankard. "If we're lucky, we'll get the winter off, but only if we're lucky, mind."

"Well, I'm glad for Watson," said Hopkins—"heaven knows he deserves some happiness. And for Mr. Holmes, too, even if I still can't quite wrap my head around the idea of his having a wife." He trailed off, looking at MacDonald, both thinking the same thought: what would it be like if a child ever came out of that union, and ought they actually to be wondering 'how soon' rather than 'if'?

Lestrade could see all too well where their minds were turning, and his eyes widened. "Oh, God, no!" he groaned. Some things were just too horrifying to contemplate. A Sherlock Holmes in miniature!

"Well, Morton said it: he's good with the bairns!" said McDonald.

Gregson and Jones caught on then at the same time, their eyes widening in horror. "No—absolutely not!" Gregson said adamantly. "There should be some sort of law somewhere preventing arrogant geniuses from having offspring!"

Patterson lit a cigarette, his composure recovered and his voice returned to its customary dryness. "Well, when you find it, let me know, will you?"

Lestrade gave a theatrical shudder, muttering into his tankard, "I'll have a word with Mycroft…"

"Well, whether or no," Bradstreet said charitably, "I think a toast is in order, to the health of Mr. and Mrs.—" he grinned—"Holmes, and Dr. and Mrs. Watson." He raised his tankard, and MacDonald followed suit with a hearty "hear, hear!"

Lestrade lifted his tankard with the others. "Aye," he said, sincerely glad for the newlyweds, "I'll drink to that."

Ria: We both love the Yarders sooo much, it's such a shame they don't appear more often in the canon. And a big hand for Sky, who roleplayed all but one of them in this scene! As for whether Baker Street will ever hear more patters of tiny feet... well, you'll just have to stay tuned!