BANG.

John Watson jerked irritably, morning paper becoming a crumbled shamble of what it once was in his contracted hands. It was all old hat, really. Loud noises at any hour of the day; coming home to find his dog in variable states of consciousness, generally at the sufficiently unconscious end of the conscious spectrum; various articles of clothing gone, or else burned, torn, or altered to points of no return. But this really was all supposed to be in the past. The male pursed his lips, rubbing a finger along his mustache thoughtfully--

Good Lord, Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to be here.

Watson and Mary-- well, they were getting married. It was all settled. The ring was on her finger, the day was set-- a lovely spring afternoon in the year to come-- Mary had even ordered new stationary with 'Mrs. Mary Watson' across the top in spider writing. If anything, that solidified it. So how did it come to pass that Watson's extra workspace on the third floor had become Holmes' fly-by-night apartment? It was now a normal occasion for Watson to either find Holmes passed out across a couch or at the breakfast table-- HIS breakfast table-- eating HIS breakfast. And the frustrating thing that topped everything was that both Mary and their new housekeeper-- a particularly dour matron by the name of Mrs. Lowrie-- had grown USED TO IT. After Holmes had given Watson the gem for Mary's ring, she had grown considerably fonder of the man, and could even be found conversing amicably with him upon Holmes appearing in their home. And as for Mrs. Lowrie-- well, regardless of her dour countenance, she found Holme's CHARMING of all things. She giggled like a school girl whenever the male was in sight! Watson pouted where he sat. She never giggled at him. Wait. No. He was NOT jealous that Holmes made his housekeeper laugh! It was-- no. This could not stand any longer. He was going to put his foot down.

Rising from his chair, Watson was required to involuntarily discard his newspaper as another retort shook him and his house to the core. Straightening, he strode from the room and towards the staircase.

"John?"

Watson paused, peering over the rail towards the lower floors. Mary stood on the first floor landing, peering upwards with hands placed on her lovely hips. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Would you be dear and make sure Sherlock hasn't blown any appendages off? I'd hate to stain your new carpet with blood."

Watson's mouth hung open for a moment, brows lofting into his hairline incredulously. "Do you mean to tell me that your first concern is the state of the carpet and not, conversely, why explosions are coming from my office?"

Mary smiled demurely. "Oh, he's just going through a phase, dear," she trilled, "You've come to know his ins and outs better then I. Just the other day, you pointed it out-- all he needs is a new case!"

"But you'd think he could wait for the case at HIS--"

BANG.

Mary waved a hand. "Off you go! And when you're done, Mrs. Lowrie's made cookies. They're in the kitchen."

Watson frowned, turning on his heel and rounding the corner to climb the stairs to the third floor. "Cookies!" he mumbled under his breath, pouting. "Mrs. Lowrie never makes cookies for ME-- Good Lord--" Having arrived before his office space, he opened the door, already in a foul mood. Little did he know, however, that his mood was capable of becoming even fouler.

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the center of the room, hair sticking out at all odd angles, undershirt asunder, ash covering-- well, covering EVERYTHING. A layer of the dark stuff had dusted practically everything in the room: the couch, the rug, the CEILING. In Holmes' hands was a jar full of sparkly black powder that refracted the light quite beautifully. Its' beauty, however, was lost to Watson, who was growing quite livid. As he opened his mouth to speak, his companion cut him off.

"Ah, Watson. I never thought you'd come. I though Mary might have you-- oh, picking out patterns for drapes-- or learning to sew--"

"No, actually, you were the one to drive me to sew, old boy. You have the distinct talent for putting holes in anything linen. Wait, no, you put holes in anything SOLID. What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? The room's a complete mess--"

"Nothing the obliging Mrs. Lowrie can't take care of, I'm sure. She's really an accommodating lady, Watson. You could learn a lesson from her."

"Learn a lesson from her?... HOLMES!" Watson bellowed, nearly losing his head completely. "Either explain yourself or I'll-- I'll call the police on you!"

Holmes dead-panned, brows knitting together in concern. "Oh, well, we wouldn't want that now, would we? After all, you know as well as I the dedication of Scotland Yard's best. Weren't you the one who told me that Detective Lestrade found himself accidentally locked in one of his own cells last week? That couldn't have been--"

"Holmes—" growled Watson.

Holmes, knowing Watson's moods and able to read when the doctor was on his last nerve, held up a hand and then held up the jar. "This, my friend, will revolutionize the way a man makes an escape."

"What-- an escape?"

"Indeed."

"What do you mean, escape?"

"Well--"

"What sort of man? What are on about?"

"It seems, Doctor, you are hell bent on conversation, so allow me to stifle your tongue with a demonstration. If you'd please place yourself over there, next to the couch-- actually, behind the couch. There you are. Now if you'd crouch down a bit--"

Watson, who up until now had allowed Holmes to ferry him across the room, suddenly spoke up in alarm. "Are you using my couch as a shield?"

Holmes knelt next to him, eyes wide and dancing. "No--"

"Good."

"-- WE are using it as a shield. Now if you'd cover your ears--"

With that Holmes took a pinch of the powder from the jar and flung it into the center of the room. At first, Watson thought Holmes' had lost it-- the powder simply dissipated into the air. But after a moment an explosion as loud as a gunshot shook the room and a sudden dark stole over the space. Watson couldn't see a foot in front of his face! He stood quickly, and felt his companion rise with him.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

"I-I--" Watson watched as the smokiness-- for that was the only way he could think of describing it-- slowly melted away, leaving the room just as bright as it was before, save for the growing layer of dust about the room. He spun on Holmes, who was already speaking.

"The other night, I happened to take in a magic show. Marvelous, really, though a bit rudimentary. Each act was easily explained. Fishing wire. Magnets. Staged actors in the audience. While the show lost any magic the programme had promised, I enjoyed deducing how each trick was performed." Holmes turned to Watson, hands raised as he told the story with a level of exuberance only he could possess. "But then-- the most miraculous thing happened!"

"What? You were fooled?" asked Watson in jest.

"Precisely!" exclaimed Holmes, completely surprising his companion, considering Holmes rarely was tricked by anything, let alone magic. "The performer-- a young man-- promised he could make instant night, with the snap of his fingers! 'Dark so dark, you'd swear the sun had gone out!' And-- he did!" Holmes ran to the desk-- Watson's desk, that was-- and waved a hand at the dust in order to reveal the previously obscured papers. There sat sketches of a very chemical looking nature. "I've been holed up here for the past three days--"

"You've been here for THREE DAYS?!--"

"-- do try to stay on topic, old boy-- I've been TRYING to figure out how the man did what he did! I knew gunpowder had to be a part of it, considering the loud retort and distinct smell of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate-- not to mention the remnants of black powder residue on my jacket--"

"That-- wait, were you wearing my new jacket? I thought I'd gone crazy! I KNEW I hadn't gotten it dirty!--"

"-- but that couldn't have been it! No, not at all! Because gun powder itself couldn't have simply caused the blackout. And then it came to me last night--" Holmes held up a single piece of paper. "-- It wasn't so much a fog, but a HAZE-- they must have used some sort of atomizer, or a spray pump powered either by magnets or someone off stage, breaking some mineral oil into a fine mist that, when mixed with the gun powder that the performer was holding, would cause some sort of reaction!--"

"And--"

"Graphite! It was graphite! How ludicrously simple! Isn't that something?"

A long pause followed Holmes' reaction. Watson was speechless. That was it? Holmes had dirtied his office and made such a to do-- all about GRAPHITE? With sigh, Watson sank into the plush velvet couch, forgetting it was covered in what he now knew was a combination of gun and graphite powder, and cradled his head in his hands. "Holmes-- I-- I can't do this anymore. I'm just too tired. I can't-- I can't WAKE UP in the morning and expect that you've-- blown up my office-- or-- killed my dog-- It takes a remarkable toll on one's health, you know, to constantly be on one's guard!"

Holmes had positioned himself behind Watson's desk, where he had abandoned his jar and retrieved from somewhere his beloved violin. "What are you saying, Doctor?"

Watson looked up. "Holmes, I'm done. This is it. By six o'clock, I expect you go--"

"Oh, before you say anything, old boy, I forgot to mention that we've received a letter."

"We-- what?"

"Yes, there's been a murder over at 2nd and Singer. Grisly thing, really, but I'll let you read the details yourself. I told Lestrade we'd look into it-- in fact, goodness, we're running late! Where's your hat, come on, come on..."

Watson didn't move. "What makes you think I'm in any mood to go anywhere with you?"

Holmes paused in his stride, having made it halfway across the room. He canted his head and simply said one name, "General Cummins," and disappeared out the door, shouting, "Shall I get you your cane?"

Watson's head had dropped back in his hands. His face was suddenly ashen, and the anger at his companion had suddenly dissipated. "God," was all he managed to whisper as he pulled himself to his feet and headed towards the door. General Cummins had been Watson's superior during his time in the Army. General Cummins had also been a man who had killed hundreds of innocent civilians during the Afghan war for his own macabre pleasure. It was, by way of an extensive report, John Watson who had exposed General Cummins' exploits and had been the main instigator in the man's eventual dishonorable discharge.

And now, it seemed, Watson would be the one to find General Cummin's killer.