A/N: It was only a throwaway remark on a follow up piece. I loved those throwaways from the original stories. All those cases Watson wasn't yet at liberty to tell, so bewitching. But, anyway, my throwaway took shape as I came up with it. Then I decided that I really wanted to know how it went; do you know what I mean? Sometimes I write just to find out how my own plots will turn out.

Sort of the continuation of the continuation. Sorry, it's quite LONG.

PS- Can't keep up this posting schedule. -csf


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221B is our safe space. Some evenings we watch together something mind mushing on the telly, order takeaway and fall asleep on the sofa before crawling to bed. Often, the evenings are filled with Sherlock patrolling the rug, quick firing deductions, amid a mess of evidence, newspapers, science equipment and the occasional client bewildered into silence. Sometimes, the evening is spent with Mrs Hudson in companionable homely meals, that she insists on fixing us even though she still insists she's only our landlady. Rarely, but remarkably nonetheless, there are evenings where Sherlock takes up his violin and the most beautiful melodies are chased by taunt bow strings over warm, resonant wood. Other evenings, I carefully disassemble my gun, clean and oil it, and make sure it's reliable for when we need it the most. Exceptionally, the evening might give way to the first aid kit spread over the coffee table, and I'm patching up Sherlock after a disastrous encounter with a misguided criminal, followed by him patching me up too.

And on Tuesday evenings, we get our friends over for a small challenge to everyone's detective skills. Never a big production, only small scale modifications across the living room and kitchen, little to no budget, and we tend to use our imaginations such as when we were once kids and played pretend outside, our mums calling us back for dinner and we'd promise to resume our play the next day.

At least, I try not to put too much pressure on myself. I'm a storyteller, according to Sherlock, who presents my blog as matter-of-fact evidence. So, one day, we decided to test out the old gang's abilities against a challenge I scripted. A bit of a bad stage play meeting an escape room, follow the leads, rescue the kidnapped blogger, and little more than that.

It was... awkward. Very awkward. Greg and Molly weren't very engaged at first, but soon they became competitive, with a bit of a push from Sherlock.

And the consensus at the end was that we should try it again. Molly likes being in the scene of the investigation, as she is so often a removed part of the process in real life. Sherlock is eager for the human connection, basking in our group's shenanigans where the mysteries are commonplace for him. Greg is exhibiting a bit of a competitive edge right now and really wants to show us all he can lead. And Mrs Hudson actually said she'd participate in this next one, but only if as a part of the challenge Sherlock played something on his violin (strange request, I won't have him play long, but I can fit it in, no problem).

Of course, it's been certainly awkward to prepare everything without giving any of it away to my flatmate. I shouldn't have worried. Born out of trust in me, and a genuine desire to enjoy the game with the gang, Sherlock has been quietly dissecting diseased kidneys in the kitchen while I hammer, saw, screw, wind and tighten pieces for my secret coup de grace. And if Sherlock has deduced what it is, he hasn't yet berated me over it, which I take as a kindness.

'John?'

'Hmm?'

'Two hours to go. Will you be ready?'

I take a fortifying breath. Stage fright setting in once again. This is so far removed from the former army doctor I'm used to be. Sherlock is the one enamoured with the spotlight.

'I hope so. Only a few more things to go. Need to put a few things out, the nibbles too...'

'John?'

'Hmm?'

'I'm looking forward to this.'

I look his way, feeling thankful for my best friend, who so easily supports my flights of fancy and madness.

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Our friends are set to arrive at the eleventh hour; a droll touch to cater for the spy tone of our endeavour tonight. Sherlock is still shying away, hiding in our kitchen. He assures me he is rereading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea to investigate the possibility that captain Nemo could credibly have been a vampire, shying away from daylight in a submarine.

Sherlock is an avid reader, never constrained by one type of narrative or authorship.

I'm laying out sandwich bites, pizza slices, crisps and drinks when Mrs Hudson woo-whos her way into the kitchen with a gift of her own.

'My new Brownie Baffles, just as promised, John.'

'Mrs Hudson, you are truly amazing!'

'Nonsense, dear, it's just a little help.'

I hug her my sincere appreciation; if she notices that I'm jittery about hosting tonight's mystery, she doesn't let me think too much about it.

'Is Molly and that nice inspector coming over as well?'

I nod, wondering if I should see something more in the fact that they usually arrive together, one giving the other a lift. Probably not, parking in Central London is always a nightmare.

The doorbells rings on cue, and we are about to begin.

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Swallowing on a dry mouth even if surrounded by friends (who know me well so they can judge me better), I stand before our Tuesday night team and start explaining:

'There is a spy's briefcase hidden in 221. Actually, it's in this living room. We'll focus tonight's mystery in this living room and perhaps the landing, should we need more space. Drinks and nibbles are on the kitchen table, clearly labelled and identified this time. Feel free to tuck in at any point, I've been told my last production was inhumane for not accounting for toilet breaks and refreshments time.'

Sherlock smirks, searching for my eyes. 'Real life is rarely that accommodating, but John is ready to give you these.' He hands out pieces of scribbled paper to each of our guests. On second notice, their are toilet paper squares with "toilet pass" written on them. What the—? I didn't approve this.

Unsure of my public's reaction to the toilet paper humour, I press on: 'But more about this vital brown leather briefcase.' I mark my words carefully, it's important they see it as such. 'It contains compromising papers the enemy would like to get their hands on. Should they succeed, it would seriously dent our defences, possibly even cost us the war...'

'What war is this, John?' DI Lestrade asks with a smirk.

I shrug, and answer darkly: 'Plenty to choose from, Greg. Past and present.'

Molly comments: 'This is rather exciting, John!' Sat next to her, Mrs Hudson places a hand over hers, in solidarity and support.

Sherlock remarks, coldly: 'Don't let Mycroft find out you're dabbling in spy stuff, John, he's much too eager to recruit you to his side.'

I look at the detective, can't conceal my surprise; is he? 'He never asked me, Sherlock.'

'I forbade it. One mention of Queen and Country and I'd only see you on your holidays. I forbid you too, John!'

I shake my head. 'I'm not going anywhere, mate.'

Mrs Hudson requests: 'John, dear, don't get distracted. What are we supposed to do?'

I count aloud, using my fingers. 'Find the briefcase. Follow the clues to unlock it. Retrieve the papers inside. Pass the message on to headquarters. Just one more thing. There's a time limit, though. A bomb will go off at midnight if we don't defuse it.'

Everyone looks at their wristwatches. Seven minutes past eleven o'clock now. We may be running late.

There's also now a huge wall clock – digital – perched atop the back of the sofa. It looks suspiciously like the one at the surgery where I work. And, anyway, its big angry flashing red digits against a black background allow for no excuses.

'Did you just say a bomb?' Greg repeats, an eyebrow shooting up. Took him a couple of seconds, to negate his common sense and just check.

'Obviously, not a real bomb,' I reassure him.

'Make believe?'

What? No, what would be the point of that? 'Oh no, it's rigged to explode at midnight. It's a glitter bomb.'

Mrs Hudson cheers over the idea. 'That's so much nicer than a semtex bomb, John!' And to our detective, she suggests: 'Why can't your dissections be as nice sometimes, Sherlock?'

He frowns and asks Molly: 'Can you get me a kidney full of glitter for tomorrow?' She shakes her head, bewildered. 'I tried, Mrs Hudson, all in vain,' he adds a sad puppy look for our landlady.

Greg is looking around 221B already. 'I've got to say, the place doesn't look very different this time, mate.'

He's right. There's the digital clock, of course. The brown leather briefcase is hidden for now. There's a map stuck upon the fireplace mirror. And, of course, an old telegraph machine on the desk – that I'm not sure anyone but Sherlock has taken notice, given that they probably think it's Sherlock's anyway.

'The secret to being a spy is to fly under the radar, Greg. Alright, are we ready to start?' I glance at the bright numbers on the digital clock; eleven hours and nine minutes. Fifty one minutes until detonation. I wish the team wouldn't talk so much. It's going to be a tight one.

Everyone nods their willingness to start. I feel awkward as heck, doing the official countdown: 'Three, two, one... start.'

They don't budge. Staring at me. Waiting for a cue. Or a clue. I groan and rub my face.

Again Sherlock takes the lead. He turns to the map stuck with tape to the mirror and squints. He glances at me in half disbelief, half wonder. 'It's upside down, John.'

'Yes,' I maintain, crossing my arms in front of me.

'It's London borough.'

I give myself the chance to collapse against the sofa, looking at the ceiling, the windows and everywhere else, while whistling a tune. Not engaging, mate.

Sherlock's mercurial eyes narrow dangerously at that. He pushes Greg away before Greg can unstick the map and readjust it. 'Don't touch yet!' he snaps at the inspector. 'John is devious, there might be a clue on its surface somewhere. Invisible ink, perhaps. This challenge is spy themed, after all.'

Sherlock lunges at the desk, avoiding the telegraph machine for now, and unearths a blue light pen from a cup full of stationery.

Already on it, Molly turns off the ceiling lights, and the flat becomes dusky, quiet and magical. The mystery more believable in the dim light of a tall lamp and the filtered white light from the kitchen.

As if on cue, they too become more quiet, gestures less boisterous (Sherlock and Greg), less fidgety (Molly), more engaged (Mrs Hudson and Greg). That's why they hear for the first time the subtle tick-tock of an analogue clock.

That would be the alarm clock rigged to the explosive device. The final glitter countdown.

Blue hued light shines upon the map laid out on the flat mirror surface as if ready for one of Sherlock's dissections. It gives them nothing. Mrs Hudson turns the lights back on.

They all jump as I slam the brown leather briefcase upon the coffee table. Turning around they can see the old thing, battered and scruffy, monogrammed under the wood handles, under the handles, a number metal lock.

Sherlock's expression softens. 'That's your grandfather's medical bag. The one you keep under your bed, next to the shoebox with your medals.'

Hmm, very attentive, but I didn't need the broadcast, mate.

'Well, yes, it is, but not tonight it isn't.'

'It's the spy's briefcase,' Molly transposes easily.

What they see is a brown old doctor's bag. What we assume it is for tonight is a brown leather briefcase. Close enough.

'Yes, I was on a tight budget. Not got paid yet.'

Molly and Greg nod in understanding, Sherlock looks sheepish (he knows I've been cutting down my hours to accommodate the Work). Mrs Hudson is ruthlessly slipping into the kitchen for refreshments, ruthlessly bored by now.

'I'll input the numbers you tell me, guys.'

They all (except Mrs Hudson) turn back towards the upside-down map. I start whistling again; (im)patiently awaiting.

Greg brings down the map, searching its back for any clues. None to be found. Molly checks the mirror's surface now exposed with the ultraviolet penlight. Blue light bounces back. Sherlock quickly hovers a hand over the gridded map, in his quicksilver mind, he's checking it against his knowledge of the city, checking for anomalies. None is to be found.

I clear my throat, ostensibly looking at the huge clock behind me. Eleven fifteen. 'What numbers do I try?'

They all look at each other blankly. Mrs Hudson's voice is muffled from the kitchen and what is probably a cheese cracker: 'Try London's longitude and latitude, John.'

Sherlock immediately provides the knowledge: 'Try 51.5072N and 0.1276W.'

I try the first three numbers of both 51.5072 and 0.1276, nothing works. Appreciating their frustration, I settle back against the sofa and return to my whistling.

'That's a clue!' Sherlock's voice booms, he snaps an accusatory finger my way.

I nod. I find it really hard not to tell Sherlock the truth, anyway.

I also stop whistling.

'Wait? How did it go?' Greg asks. Always late to the party, mate.

Sherlock walks decidedly towards his violin stand and picks up his violin to his chin. Immediately he reconstructs my jingle, playing it by ear.

Mrs Hudson returns from the kitchen with a wide grin. Glad to be of service, Mrs H. 'Play some Paganini next, Sherlock!' What, no! What about the bomb?'

Luckily, Sherlock's mental gears are turning at high speed, as he puts his violin and bow down. 'John's whistling, that was a known melody. Mendelssohn's violin concerto number 2. Just one number? It can't be!'

I smile. 'The map was a ruse. The first number for this lock is 2. A couple more numbers needed, I'm afraid. Keep your eyes peeled.'

They all go back to wandering aimlessly in the living room.

Molly is the first to voice: 'Where's John?'

Greg grows suspicious. 'He gave us the slip again?'

Soft knocks on the living room door and I open it myself, revealing my costume change. Well, not really a change, more of an add-on situation. A trench coat, a black umbrella, and dark shades (incongruent with the umbrella, I know). Also, I've just ran myself five seconds under the shower, so the trench coat and my hair are soaked – and there's a chill running down my spine.

They all congregate around me, studying me like I'm a living piece of evidence. Which I am, but it's still weird, come on!

Before anything else can happen, and Sherlock is about to deduce the living daylights out of me, imperious footsteps on the stairs to the flat have us all face the flat door.

A client, right now? Do I need to defuse the glitter bomb? I know how to defuse it, right?

Suddenly the door springs open again, this time by Mycroft's hand. Uh-oh, he looks miffed. Lips snarled, nose crinkled in affront, he gives the room a quick glance and claws his elegant umbrella back from my possession. His amazingly dry umbrella too. The missing clue.

'I'm withdrawing the reference and application I submitted for you to the MI5, John. You better not have damaged my umbrella! I understand you're skint, but to resort to theft for prop use in your amateur pantomime...'

'It's not a pantomime,' I say, through gritted teeth.

He quickly opens and shuts his umbrella, flashing the huge number chalked in white on the black fabric. 9. Works fine as far as he can see from his side. Reassured it is intact, with a last huff of derision and a glare set to make prisoners tremble in their torture cells, Mycroft Holmes exits stage right and stomps his way down the stairs, finally banging the front door behind him.

We all look at each other.

'Two, nine...' I enunciate, as I sit on the sofa, bag in my lap and scroll each number in. 'One more to go?'

I see Sherlock glancing at the clock. Eleven twenty-two. Heck, Sherlock doesn't need a clock to keep track of time. He's calculating the spare time to bring the other players some victories as well. Nice sportsmanship. But the third mini-challenge is not quite so easy.

Before Sherlock can work his team building magic again, Greg steps forward, decided to manhandle my grandfather's bag – sorry, the spy's brown leather briefcase – out of my hands.

'Only one digit left, John, let go of it! It's one of ten possibilities!' Oh.

That's cheating, by the way.

I grab on tighter to the bag. 'You'll set the bomb off, you idiot!'

He chuckles. 'There's no bomb, John, you made that up!'

'Yes, there is, I built it myself! Let go!'

'Let us finish the mystery!'

'Finish it properly!'

'If it works, it works!' With one last pull, he overpowers me and steals the brown leather briefcase.

I huff, pout, and cross my arms tightly. We'll see about that. My grandfather's bag is notoriously difficult to open, unless you know to twist the lock at the same time.

Predictably, Greg goes through all possible combinations and doesn't manage to open the lock. All under my glare. Tension grows in the living room. Eleven twenty-seven.

'Fine. I'm fetching a pair of strong pliers,' Greg declares.

Luckily for me, they all jump in and stop the inspector before he reaches the kitchen and the utility drawer.

Molly returns my grandfather's doctor's bag, aka the brown leather briefcase, to my hands. 'One digit left. There's got to be a clue. John can open the briefcase when we give him the right number, can't you, John?'

She seems to be trying to appease a couple of grown-up children, but I still nod in response.

I'll open the lock when they deduce the right number. No cheating!

'What did we have so far?' she insists, starting to pace the room. She reminds me of Sherlock. 'A map, but that was a dud. A musical clue. A stolen umbrella.'

'Budget constraints,' I quip at once, to excuse my misdemeanour. 'Don't forget about the brown leather briefcase, Molly.'

'You jeep referring to it like that. "Brown leather briefcase", always those exact words.' By her side, Sherlock smiles. He's onto it too.

The two sleuths in the room look for answers in one another. Greg looks really grumpy by now, sinking into the Bauhaus chair, that is until he jumps up with a sudden realisation: 'Anagrams! That's the sort of thing you'd bring up, John!'

I nod, expectantly. Go on...

His smile wavers. 'Mate, I'm terrible at anagrams.'

We all look over to Sherlock, who mimics zipping his lips shut. He's got it. I can see him glance at the piles of "to be read" books. He's spotted the answer, the fake slip cover on a real book. He knows that the title is an anagram for "brown leather briefcase".

I glance behind me at the clock. Eleven thirty-six.

I wonder if I should get up and make myself a cuppa. Maybe I'm cramping their style...

Sherlock huffs, with an eye roll. 'The anagram for "brown leather briefcase"—' And he picks up the top book on the pile 'is "Brownie Baffle Research". Mrs Hudson?'

They all turn to our lovely landlady who manages to look convincingly unaffected. 'You will remember, Sherlock dear, that I insisted on naming my new brownies recipe, for John's sake.'

Mrs Hudson was keen to be in on it, as a player and a mole. She's brilliant.

He gracefully bows to Mrs Hudson, unlike anything I ever watched.

To me, Sherlock comments, ruffling the pages: 'And quite the silly title for a book or a delicious recipe. How are we for time, John?'

'Tight,' I assure him.

Sherlock seems to understand. As he hands out the book to the detective inspector, he also instructs: 'Cyphers. Search for page, paragraph and word number.'

Greg is visibly confused. 'Based on what?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, Molly answers first: 'London's coordinates. We haven't used that clue yet! Hurry!'

Sherlock repeats them: 'Try page 51, paragraph 5, 72nd word.'

Greg does, flustered. 'The word is "seven".'

'Now try page 12, paragraph 7, 6th word.'

'Hmm, "seven" again.'

'Seven, it is. John?'

Greg still grumbles: 'I tried seven, just so you know.'

I rotate the numbers to form 2-9-7, twist the lock and it opens wide for everyone's view.

First off, I remove my contraption. An alarm clock is strapped to a biscuits tin with a little side chimney. That's where the trap mechanism releases the glitter cloud, should it not be defused on time. The alarm clock's handles are just 13 minutes apart from each other now. And there's still part two to go.

I set the bomb aside cautiously and explain: 'Information exchanged by spies is often coded. Here's what our spy carried in the briefcase.' I bring out papers full of schematics of different sorts. The first looks much like a blueprint for a building; but no indication about what building is being targeted. The second is of an alien looking chemical compound stereochemistry. Should be easy peasy for Sherlock. The third is an inventor's patent for the electric telegraph, from 1937. Can I be more specific in my hints?

Guess so. First reaction is shock. Then follows a rush from all the players to appropriate the loose pieces of paper. It's a tenacious fight for leadership that ensues.

'It's Scotland Yard!' Greg recognises his workplace at once (from a crumpled piece of paper, a corner missing); much according to the plan. 'John, you'd plant a bomb at the Yard?' he looks shocked.

'A glitter bomb.' The final glitter countdown.

'Still rotten, John.'

Sherlock ruffles through half torn papers and immediately recognises: 'Not glitter according to these print outs. C7H5N3O6. Trinitrotoluene, TNT.' Damn it, John.'

'Too much?' I ask my friend.

'Those are detonation charges. You'd never manage to drill the necessary holes in the structural walls to bring the building down.'

'That's because I never intended to. Come on. One last step.' I look openly at the telegraph. Eleven fifty-four. Less than six minutes left. 'Who knows Morse code?'

'You.'

'Well, yeah, but I'm not playing. Greg? Molly? Mrs H?' They all shake heads. 'Sherlock.'

His gaze goes steely. 'I couldn't help notice that I was a last resort option, my dear John.'

'Yeah, but you can solve anything I come up with, and with your eyes closed. It's only fair I give the others a chance first!'

His gaze hardens. 'Have I displayed exceptional powers throughout your little mystery charades, John?'

Eleven fifty-five. 'Haven't you?' I doubt.

'No, John, I haven't. Your mind is so disorganised, it's a miracle you can function as a medical professional! You can jump from strange notions one after the other! You associate incredible things that I have never seen before! You are incredibly interesting and totally irreplaceable, John!'

I breathe deeply. 'Those are very kind words shouted with a lot of anger at me.'

'Frustration, not anger,' he maintains.

Eleven fifty-six.

'Fine, you still can fake send the warning telegram to Scotland Yard and be done with our case.' You win.

He doesn't look happy, as if he's winning, though.

'No,' he refuses.

'No?' I repeat, stunned.

'Lestrade should do it. He's destined for a win tonight. Sorry, Molly, next time? And you, Mrs Hudson, you already won tonight by taking over the mystery with John.'

The inspector's frown lessens. 'Really?' He wasn't expecting this. Sherlock offers him the occasional case solution and case solving glory, but he doesn't usually relinquish control and allow Greg to confidently steer the team to the win.

'Really.' Sherlock walks over to our book shelves and selects one of those Children Encyclopaedia volumes there. He opens it on a much thumbed Morse code section (I can image Sherlock as a young child studying this with the same incredibly information seeking brain he's got now) and hands it to the inspector, who's already taking a seat at the desk, in front of the telegraph.

Of course they still bicker over the contents of the message, in plain English that is, but it just doesn't look heartfelt.

Greg painfully taps the message on the machine. Crisis averted, lives saved, hurray.

Eleven fifty-nine. Time to defuse the glitter bomb. I lean over the contraption—

—just as it hisses and chokes out a cloud of glitter, high up to the ceiling and descending in a dancing dust of sparkles over me, the sofa and half the living room.

It's pink glitter too. Hair still damp from my "wet spy with dry umbrella" characterisation, I now look much like a beached mermaid. Merman.

Damn it!

Sherlock coughs, to clear his airways and to hide a damned smirk. 'John, you clearly did not synchronise the clocks properly.'

I cough glitter like a cat coughing hair balls, so I don't reply the obvious.

Sherlock adds: 'And this is why you'll never be a criminal mastermind.'

I cough some more.

He adds one last thought: 'Unless we team tag on the criminal mastery, John.'

I look at him funny.

'Oh dear,' Mrs Hudson tuts, 'must you boys always be so messy?'

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