Dear Readers: I've made a small change. Mr. Wormwood brings Fang back while the client is there with the case. I hope that doesn't affect how much you enjoy the story. Assuming you are enjoying it. Let me know if you're confused about anything.

Literally, the ice demon sitting in the chair facing Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth in front of him, and John, who sat in his chair, was holding a large, electric blue, leather suitcase with a combination lock. But at the moment, the two men were more interested in observing the demon. He was of medium build, nearly transparent, with blue-white hair, and pale eyes not unlike those of Sherlock; as soon as he sat down, a thick layer of frost covered the chair, and began steadily creeping across the floor as he talked. Sherlock also saw that he had eaten a large jelly doughnut before coming here, that he didn't like frosting (or at least didn't like the frosting on the doughnut), was a widower, but had just recently started seeing someone new, and was very nervous about whatever it was that he needed help with. He introduced himself as Fred Nevar, and then said, "I need your help opening this suitcase."

Sherlock looked rather disappointed that his first case with a monster sounded so boring. He examined the suitcase, which was tucked snugly into Mr. Nevar's lap, and finally said, "Do you not know the combination?"

"No; my uncle died before we could figure it out. And if I get it wrong, then it will explode."

That definitely got their attention. The doctor said, "I think you'd better start at the beginning, sir."

Mr. Nevar cleared his throat, and began, "My uncle was a member of a club for monsters here in London, on Crawford Street. It's called the Yokai Club, and one of the rules of membership is that every week, they need to bring a special item. Something exotic, that no one else could possibly have. Then they have a very elaborate card game, with the objects as white elephant prizes for the winners."

"That sounds stupid-ow!" Sherlock rubbed his shin where John had kicked it. "It is!" he protested, looking down at the glaring doctor.

"Timing, Sherlock!" his friend hissed.

The detective just made a face at him, and nodded to the demon. "Continue."

"Well, last week Uncle Genty came to visit, very excited, carrying this suitcase. He said he'd won it during the card game from his friend Mr. Hellman, and that it had something very important inside. But he said Mr. Hellman, in a fit of pique, had refused to give him the combination. I asked why, and he told me that Mr. Hellman had been trying to get the case to his other friend the whole game, and when Uncle Genty ended up winning it, he tried to buy it back. But my uncle refused, so he said fine, I won't tell you how to open it. He said fine, I'll figure it out myself, and then Mr. Hellman said Good luck with that, if you get it wrong or try to break the lock or the case it'll explode. So at first he thought he was out of luck. And then he thought of me, how I love a challenge, and decided we'd try to open it together. So we were going to find a mage or someone who could open it...but then, out of the blue, my uncle just died. It looked like his heart stopped, and he couldn't be resuscitated. I suspect Mr. Hellman or the man he planned to give the case to, or even both of them working together, had him killed, but I can't prove it. This suitcase was left to me in his will, and ever since I got it, I've been worried someone else will try to kill me. Then I found out about you, Mr. Holmes, and hoped maybe you could help me open this and find out what's inside that's so important."

Well, Mr. Nevar was obviously not a born storyteller. And probably not too bright either; then again, almost nobody else was, in the detective's experience. But he had given a good hunk of information to begin with. Sherlock flopped down in his chair to process it.

"Why haven't you gone to the police?" asked John. Sherlock rolled his eyes the tiniest bit; surely it was obvious that he was worried whatever was in the case was illegal contraband of some kind, and hoped to keep it for himself. But as if reading his thoughts, the doctor glanced at him in a way that said, I want to hear what he has to say, so keep your big mouth shut.

Mr. Nevar squirmed a bit uncomfortably, confirming Sherlock's suspicions. "Like I said, I heard about you two. If you can figure it out, there's no need to get them involved."

"Even though your uncle was apparently murdered?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, you can figure that out for certain, right?"

"Of course I can," the detective snorted derisively. Did the ice demon dare to doubt him? "How long has it been since his death?"

"Three days. He lived alone, so no one's been in the house, except me and some other relatives."

"And you didn't-" Sherlock leaped up, irritated that he hadn't been summoned sooner. The crime scene was no longer fresh, curse it all!

"I'm sorry, I-" Whatever trivial thing the demon was about to say was interrupted by the door of the flat opening, and a tall man wielding an umbrella entering.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft purred. He didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at the sight of the pale man covering their spare chair in frost.

"Go away," Sherlock growled, "we're busy."

Ignoring him, as usual, the politician pointed at the suitcase. "I'll take that, if you don't mind."

"What?" Nevar demanded, clutching it to him protectively. "Who are you?!"

"That is none of your concern. What is your concern is that the item inside that case is official government property, and must not be in the hands of the general aiEEE!"

The last phrase was probably not intentional. But even an icy, formal politician will have a hard time keeping his composure if a small dragon suddenly creeps up behind him and sinks his fangs into his ankle when he is least expecting it.

A few seconds later Mr. Wormwood (no longer wearing the trench coat or fedora, but still wearing the sunglasses) thumped down the stairs from John's room, looking a tad anxious.

"What happened? Did someone step on a cat down here?"

"Don't you ever use the front door?" John managed to ask through his giggles.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Fang had by now released Mycroft's ankle and happily bounded over to Sherlock and John, leaping on first one, then the other, climbing all over them and washing their faces in greeting, like some bizarre combination of cat and dog. Sherlock looked over at the gargoyle with a wide smirk.

"Fang introduced himself to my brother."

Mycroft was crouched down on the floor, trouser leg rolled up, dabbing at the now-bloody area with a handkerchief. For once he looked quite undignified, and you didn't have to be a genius to see that this embarrassed him greatly. He glared up at the boys.

"You should keep that beast under control!"

Fang whined in protest at his words; Sherlock gave him a reassuring scratch behind the ears. John, having pity on the elder Holmes, said, "That's nothing; you should see what he did to my arm when we first met."

Mycroft did not appear to be comforted.

"Um, should I come back later?" asked Nevar, starting to edge out of his seat.

"No!" both Holmes boys cried at once. They glared at each other challengingly.

"I got him first," said Sherlock, fending off Fang, who was now trying to clean his ear.

"He's carrying government property that was stolen a week ago by one Dorian Hellman, an ambassador for the monster government, who has since turned out to be a double agent. It is rightfully mine."

"No fair! I'm going to figure it out on my own, back off!"

Without warning Mr. Wormwood, rolling his eyes behind their shaded glasses, crossed the room in three strides, and snatched the case out of Nevar's hands.

"I'll take it," he said. With that, he looked down at the combination lock, and cocking his head to the side, began spinning the dial between his left thumb and pointer claw.

For a moment all four men were too busy being frozen in horror to do anything. Then they were leaping up, starting forward, yelling things like "No!" and "Stop!" But Mr. Wormwood stepped out of reach, continuing to turn the dial, and Nevar warned, "He's not allowed to stop now; that'll make it explode!"

So, much to Sherlock and Mycroft's frustration, they were forced to stand there and watch as the gargoyle figured out the combination, praying earnestly that he would get it right (not that either would admit it, as they tried to avoid any and all activities associated with a deity). They all watched with anxious eyes as Mr. Wormwood spun the dial first one way, then another, waiting patiently until the tumblers clicked. Finally, with a pleased smile, he removed the lock. Everyone sighed in relief. Mycroft stepped forward.

"Well done. I'll take charge of it now-"

"Oh, no you don't," Mr. Wormwood growled, backing away again. "I want to see what's so important."

Mycroft's eyes grew cold, and he put on the facial expression that sent most mortals begging for mercy and to tell him everything they knew. The gargoyle just flipped back the strap of the suitcase, and unclasped it. And pulled out a rather large, golden egg.

I'm not talking about the type in Jack and the Beanstalk. I mean a large, golden-shelled, glowing egg. Glowing so brightly that Mr. Wormwood had to push his glasses all the way up the bridge of his nose to protect his nocturnal eyes from it. The egg was somewhat smaller than that of an ostrich, but still big enough that the gargoyle had to drop the suitcase and hold it in both claws. The other men edged closer, staring in awe.

"My gosh," whispered Nevar, "Is that what I think it is?"

"If what you think is that this is a phoenix egg, then yes, that's what it is. Don't come any closer; it can't be near any cold temperatures."

John shot him a disbelieving look. "Are you saying the phoenix is real too?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" Sherlock murmured, "Just about everything else is."

"Not vampires or zombies. They don't exist," said Mr. Wormwood. Seeing the suppressed eagerness in the face of his fellow detective, he held out the egg to him. Sherlock gently laid his fingers on the shell-and jerked them back in surprise.

"It's hot," he said, shaking them and blowing a little.

"Oh. Sorry. I've got a higher tolerance for heat. Hold on, these should help." Mr. Wormwood laid the egg back in the open suitcase, and dug around in his coat pockets. Finally he produced a pair of golden bracelets. "Special charms that'll protect you from high temperatures. My assistant made them."

Sherlock did not appear enthusiastic about the prospect of wearing girly jewelry; but his curiosity outranked his dignity, so he slid them onto his wrists, and then knelt down, touching the egg. It was still very warm to the touch, but it had become more tolerable somehow. His pale eyes were filled with wonder as he brushed his fingertips over it, cataloging and assessing every part, comparing it with other eggs he had seen and touched before, storing the information in the part of his mind palace that he had christened "The Monster Wing." It was definitely much larger than any he had ever seen before, and had a most peculiar smell that reminded him of fresh, hot curry. He turned it over, and found something up in the narrower end: a tiny, nearly invisible hole. Just the right size for a hypodermic needle.

The detective glared up at his brother. "What have you been doing to this creature?"

"I haven't been doing anything," Mycroft retorted.

"Well, what have you hired other people to do?"

"It wasn't just me. It's a project I and some others have decided to authorize. It's for the good of both our cultures, and should prove to be very beneficial in the future."

Mr. Wormwood crouched down too, and took one sniff of the egg before bristling, and leaping up with a small snarl.

"You've been letting people inject it with fireflower juice?! Just how much of an utter moron are you?!"