Disclaimer: Without the brilliant works of Laurie R. King and Sir. Arthur Conan-Doyle I am nothing. I humbly bow to your superiority.

Chapter 1

The telephone rang melodiously, causing me to look up momentarily from my reading. I waited for Holmes to answer it, not recalling that he had just left for a walk. The phone rang again, insistently. With a sigh, I closed the heavy volume that rested in by lap and strode across the room to lift the receiver from its cradle.

"Yes?"

"Is Ms. Russell at home?"

"Speaking. Who is this, please?"

"You have a package waiting at the post office."

I paused before replying. What could that be? I wasn't expecting anything . . .

"Ms. Russell?"

"Very well, I'll be right over."

"Thank you. Have a nice day." The line went dead. I hung up and glanced out the sitting room window. A steely gray sky with dark billowing clouds hinted of rains to come; I disregarded the weather and took my heavy wool coat from its hook by the door, calling into the kitchen, "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going for a short walk."

She bustled out, wearing ridiculously large hot mitts that enveloped her hands like giant clown gloves and holding a tray of steaming biscuits drizzled with honey.

"Where has Mr. Holmes got to? His lunch will get cold. Not that it would be the first time." Mrs. Hudson muttered crossly to herself, arranging the biscuits artfully in a basket and placing it near the fireplace to keep warm.

"He went out early this morning, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. Perhaps I'll catch him up as I go- I must run to the post office. If he returns before me, tell him where I've gone."

I snatched a fresh biscuit from the basket and popped it into my mouth before slipping my feet into long leather boots and opening the door to a brisk February morning. Regrettably, the roads were muddy and scattered with many deep puddles so that it was impossible to keep one's feet dry, and as I started along rain began to fall heavily. Despite this, I made good time, reaching the post office in under an hour- without a sign of my husband.

I stepped gratefully into the warm office, oddly empty for a Saturday, and came up to the polished wooden counter. The clerk was not the usual dour Mr. Baynk, but an elderly woman with wild curly gray hair, her mouth twisted into a scowl over the newspaper she read. She didn't look up as I entered, but continued to glare at the small black print. I glanced at what section she read and suppressed a smile. The obituaries were never the most cheerful source of information; it was entertaining to find that someone other than Holmes read them so devoutly. I cleared my throat- I must say, a bit too loudly to be entirely polite- and the woman spoke.

"May I help you?" she drawled in a low rasping voice, her eyes still on the small text. Her left eyebrow rose sarcastically, as if to suggest that she would rather do anything than help me.

"I just received a call saying-"

"Just?" She looked up sharply and I met a pair of strangely familliar, calculating gray eyes with surprise. "Oh, I suppose you mean . . . " She glanced at her watch, "fifty three minutes ago. I would hardly call such a length 'just' when it takes no more than five minutes to drive-"

I stared. Then cut her off in exasperation, "Holmes, this is far from amusing."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "You are slow today, Russell."

"I am on vacation. I am supposed to be slow. I don't need any intellectual strain at the moment, thank you very much. What is this, anyway? I don't really have a package, do I?" I retorted, folding my arms across my chest in what I hoped was an intimidating manner.

"Actually, yes. But I'm afraid it has been . . . removed. Why the devil did you have to walk? Would the car have been so dreadful an inconvenience?"

"And waste such a fine afternoon? Oh, Holmes, do take out those hideous teeth. They are . . . distracting."

He obliged, wrapping the false denture in his handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket. Then he proceeded to strip off the rest of his disguise- including the extremely unflattering wig- to reveal the face I knew. "Very well. I shall have to call a cab if we are to make the two thirty train. Ring Mrs. Hudson and inform her that we will be missing lunch."

I frowned, "Holmes, what is with the old woman character? I sincerely hope you weren't playing dress-up just for me."

"If you had been here an hour ago, you might have seen the reason in a disguise. It is all very quiet now that the police have cleared everyone out, but at the time it was advantageous to hide my identity from so many people. It was quite crowded here once the neighbors got a whiff of possible crime . . . the fact that Sherlock Holmes was keen to get a look at the bomb draws attention we frankly do not need."

"Bomb?" I raised both eyebrows and searched his face for any sign of humor. Not that I expected to find it. "Isn't that a bit dramatic?"

"Oh, the usual trigger mechanism, set to explode at the opening. But your little package seems more than a mere assassination attempt."

"Do elaborate."

"Upon closer inspection, we found that is was non-functional."

"What?"

"The explosive would not have detonated even if you had been absent-minded enough to open such a suspicious package. No, it seems someone purposefully disabled it and sent it, knowing we have our mail monitored."

"We have our mail watched?"

"Russell, we have enemies. Of the deadlier variety. You know that as well as I do."

I fingered the scars on my collarbone self-consciously and shook my head. "Why the hell would someone send me a fake bomb by mail?"

"A warning? A joke? Seriously Russell, do you want me to guess?" His face soured at the mention of his least favorite word. "What matters is, the police took it back to Lestrade- they wanted to be sure there weren't any unpleasant accidents- and we are to meet him there before evening. I couldn't get a close enough view before, and am convinced there is something more to it than first appears."

"Holmes," I said firmly, "We return home for lunch first."