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221B Baker Street reeks of sulphur (and the smell is rancid). Can't say it surprises me, as I climb the stairs into the flat to visit Sherlock. It happened before. About two times. I guess three times is the charm, really. I still have no idea what he's up to, in one of his science sulking fits. I'll read it in his blog eventually.

I finally cross the door, disguising a smug smile, and his low voice addresses me immediately:

'Fireworks, John.'

Fireworks. Right. With gunpowder and dangerous chemicals. Just the thing to (not!) do in a kitchen in the heart of London.

'Is it for a case?' I ask.

'Of course. There was an explosion in a warehouse in Chinatown due to badly produced, illegally stored, fireworks. Don't you read the news?'

Yes, I read the news. There was a time I even read them out loud to Sherlock.

'Look Sherlock, are you sure you are being careful?'

'Yes, of course I am. I'm adding sodium for the yellow firework - see?, clearly labelled package - and lithium for red.'

I frown. Not exactly what I meant and he knows it.

'Where will you store those?'

'Nowhere. I'm using them at once.'

'You've got a permit to throw fireworks from Central London on an unordinary date?' I ask.

He shakes his head. 'Mycroft will take care I don't get jailed. He needs me for a case.'

'Sherlock, you'll scare someone half to death!'

He smirks childishly, I sigh as a response. Some things don't really change.

'Look, we can get into a cab, we can try to find a more secluded location.'

He looks triumphant now. What happened? Oh, right. He never meant to use 221's rooftop. He wanted me to go along. Sometimes, the great Sherlock Holmes, the mind of the century, is like a big child with a loud obnoxious foul-smelling toy.

'New Year is over with, Sherlock.'

'Chinese New Year, John.'

I nod, absent-mindedly.

'Are you sure this is for a case?'

'Of course, John!' he answers, like I've just wounded his pride. Immediately I feel bad.

'Fine. What colours do you have?' I lead him on.

'Calcium, lithium, copper, sodium', he tells me as if those were actual colours. I pick up one of the makeshift cardboard tubes, reading again the colour noted on it: copper. Right.

As I'm lowering it back down on the table, Sherlock is reaching over for more foul chemicals. His hand collides with my left arm, jerking it briskly. Damned his lack of personal space. My arm is quite sentimentally attached to my bad shoulder that cries out in pain. Before I know it the crafted paper tube has rolled over the open flames of the Bunsen burner.

Sherlock and I share one very scared look.

Immediately I try to shake the fireworks tube to blow it off. Sherlock just grabs me by the other arm, tightly. 'Just drop it, John!' He pulls me to the bedroom down the hall just in time.

Turns out "copper" means "blue" in Sherlock's world, and 221B's kitchen hasn't been the same since.

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Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.