A/N: What sort of get-together with friends would those two come up with? I love an overachieving socially awkward genius and his enabling blogger, and I don't think a great playlist and drinks and nibbles would cut it.

Sort of a continuation from the last? -csf


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221B is our impromptu stage, a setting of illusions and mysteries. Candles light up the room, instead of electric lights, to the exception of the amber shaded tall lamp (now decorated with a pumpkin lantern face) and the kitchen's white overhead light filtering through the glass sliding doors (where beware signs announce imminent danger). A staged contrast of warm and cold.

Around the living room there are the usual chains of plastic dead bones, the silicone bloody palm imprints, and a score of suggestively named "poison" bottles, alongside Mrs Hudson's ghost-shaped biscuits. A pirate's sword sticks out of the back of the sofa, but it's been there for two weeks now. There are bloody footprints on the black and white wallpaper. The mirror is framed with black lace, and a skeleton hangs off the curtain pole. There are deep gashes in the curtain's heavy fabric, showing through the dark night outside.

It's home, and it's only slightly weird for 221B.

I'm laying out the last few chalky footprints to the upper steps leading to the flat, and Sherlock is quality control tasting Mrs Hudson's biscuits, as the doorbell rings a funeral march jingle.

'You changed the doorbell?' I frown.

'Seemed more fitting for a consulting detective, you don't mind, John?'

I chuckle and quickly go downstairs to open the door to our guests. Dress code: casual. You might need to run for your life before the night is done.

Lestrade was poised to knock, knowingly distrusting of our doorbells, as I pulled back the front door and asked him inside. Molly is with him, clearly he's given her a ride to ours. The old gang is coming together.

Mrs Hudson walks out of 221A, carrying a very red velvet cake she's baked for us.

Feels like home.

'I thought you said no outfits, John.'

I quickly grab back the chains crisscrossing my chest and back that were slipping to the floor.

'These? Sherlock was working on a case, earlier. Not strictly speaking an outfit, no.'

'And where's the madman then?' Lestrade chuckles.

'Upstairs. Look, before we go up...'

'Spit it out, John.'

'Sherlock was having quite a bit of fun. You know what he's like. I don't think he's ever hosted a party before. There was that Christmas, but it was mostly Mrs H and I getting it sorted. Sherlock...'

'Go on, tell us the worse of it.'

'Sherlock has really put a lot of energy into this, that's all. Just, be kind.'

Lestrade chuckles, Molly nods sincerely and Mrs Hudson shakes her head in understanding. Little do they know, I played a part in this too.

It's all part of the plan.

'Let's go up, shall we? Is that a salad you got us, Molly?'

I climb up those steps two at a time, with the advantage of a routine exercise. I arrive to the flat long before they do, and slap the door shut behind me.

Right, let's see how the team performs.

Greg opens the door to 221B's living room, calling out my name, then Sherlock's. No answer and they can't seem to find us.

Mrs Hudson is unbothered and goes into the kitchen to drop her cake, reuniting the sliding doors behind her.

Greg and Molly look blankly at each other.

'Looks... festive,' Molly comments about the decor.

'Yeah, but where are they?' the inspector asks.

'Upstairs?' she squeaks. 'Probably not, there's no decor on the second flight of stairs.' Funny, Molly always sees more than we give her credit.

'We can wait. Have a drink,' he proposes, picking up a bottle from the coffee table. Rat poison, acid, clostridium botulinum. On second thought, Lestrade thinks not. Just in case. 'Let's check the kitchen.'

They slide the double doors open.

The kitchen is full of a huge mad scientist apparatus bubbling away by the table. And chained to the scared wood table top is me, eyes closed, even breathing. There's even electrodes stuck to my temples and linked to a huffing puffing electronic contraption where the fridge usually stands, and roughly its size too. By its side, Sherlock awaits, arms crossed and challenge flashing across his face.

'Scenario. John has been kidnapped by a mad scientist, he must be freed and revived... hmm, not sure why, it fits the narrative though.'

He forgets the rest of the script so I have to open my eyes and verbally prod him: 'Carry on?'

'Oh, right. You're locked in, mortal danger, yada-yada. Welcome to our little Halloween bash at Baker Street.'

'No, you need to tell them about the clues!' I hiss.

'Do I? One is a detective inspector and the other a forensic examiner. Must I really?' he protests. If I wasn't weighed down by these chains...

Molly looks around her. 'Why is Mrs Hudson not here? Is that a clue?'

I look pointedly at Sherlock. 'See? This is why we need to tell them about the clues!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but plays along. 'Clues are found within the scene. Bedrooms are off-limits. Bathroom is open, but only for comfort breaks. The first aider is John. There's a backdated disclaimer waiver to sign if anyone gets hurt.'

I realise that I need to add, getting up, with chains clinking about: 'In order to save me...'

'Assuming you wish to help doing so,' Sherlock teases me. It's usually his job.

'...you'll need to solve three simple puzzles in the living room. Sherlock and I will circulate and we may be other characters while we do so. Come back to the kitchen when you've got the key to the padlock.' I wave it about.

Sherlock grins wickedly at that. 'Let's see what you can do, shall we?' Greg raises a hand in a time-out gesture. 'What?'

The inspector grins too. 'First off, we're not nearly drunk enough for this yet, and secondly, did John supervise all this?'

Sherlock frowns. 'Yes,' he answers, a bit confused. 'Why?'

'It's just... if you invent mysteries, not even the whole of the Yard is likely to solve them, right?'

Sherlock is shocked into silence, blinking like an owl. He slowly looks at me. I plaster on my face my best innocent smile.

I can hold my ground, I'm a storyteller. Sherlock knows it well.

From the landing a gravely sounding grandfather clock beats belated midnight strokes. I look over at Molly, she's been extremely quiet so far.

Molly hands me her salad and assures: 'I'll need my hands free for this. Can we start, Greg?'

Not wanting to be left behind by an adventurous pathologist, he nods and follows her into the living room.

Sherlock quickly helps me out of the chains mess around my waist. We follow them suit.

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Greg is at a loss. I can tell, as he looks around blankly. Molly is just waiting on the inspector's cue. Overall, this is not being very successful.

'Remember, Greg, I'm missing? Kidnapped? Captured? Chained in a mad scientist's lair? Surely you'd have some idea of where to start?'

I'm still dressed as myself – minus the chains – and Sherlock is changing in his bedroom. But these guys don't know that.

'How do we even know you've been taken?'

'Ugh, a video of me in chains has been posted online, for instance. A member of the public alerted the Yard anonymously. You got the case. Now what do you do?'

'Look for you.'

There's uncertainty in his voice. I hope it's about what to do, and not if he needs to do anything.

'Right. How do you look for me?'

'I don't know. Is there a ransom note?'

Hmm, the Yard's finest, was it?

'All the clues are in this room. I can't tell you more than that! Can't you, I don't know, investigate?'

Greg and Molly glance at each other and start pottering about, moving pillows and lifting piles of "to be read" books. Their underwhelming enthusiasm is likely to damage my self-esteem soon.

Sherlock re-enters then, now dressed casually, and quickly takes in the scene, reading my disappointed face. He knows how close I am to just give up and go lie on the kitchen table in chains for the rest of the night. Immediately he inserts himself in the scene.

'John has been kidnapped. I'm panicking – unrealistic, John! – and called you two in here. The place looks off.'

'Blooming right it does, there's candles and Halloween decor everywhere!' Greg remarks, frustrated.

'See, John, I told you, you were overdoing it.'

Me? I overdid it? Was that really me?

And to our guests he adds, more patiently: 'Good, you're thinking now. Why all the candles?'

'To burn the place down by accident?'

'Seriously, Greg, if you're always like this in your investigations...'

'Fine, fine... Can I at least turn on the lights?'

'Inspector, the stage is set. You have carte blanche to investigate.'

Greg walks over to the electrical switch, but no ceiling light comes on.

'Ooh, must be a clue,' Sherlock singsongs. And he smiles at me.

'Are you just going to feed us clues, Sherlock?' The inspector is looking aggravated.

'Don't I always?' he mutters, looking put upon. 'Actually, I don't know the answer. John masterminded the whole thing in my back, to amuse me.'

I rub the small of my back faking an ache and glance at my watch. 'Really glad I decided not to chain myself to the table for real.'

Sherlock smirks. Then, he moves ahead and announces: 'Fine, we can take turns. Even the playing field a bit. I go first.'

And with that Sherlock grabs one of the candlesticks and brings the naked flame closer to the fireplace mirror. Observed more closely, the surface is streaked by some oily translucent substance, forming what appears to be letters.

Fine, it's vegetable oil. Any oil would do.

Sherlock's hand hovers over the mirror's surface like a transfixed magician act, before he rushes over to the poisons flasks, uncorks them and sniffs at each one by one.

'Not yet,' I quip.

He nearly growls and turns, spinning around, looking for what he needs. He spots it, staring at the fireplace. It's cold and unused.

'It'll do,' he comments, grabbing a handful of ash and pilling it on the palm of his other hand.

'I knew you'd appreciate the personal touch,' I comment.

He hushes. 'Quiet, John. You've been kidnapped, presumably subdued by unduly chemical advantage as you are a very good fighter. Unconscious men don't talk.'

'Where's the fun in that?' I still protest, but he's already blowing over the ash across the mirror. Ash sticks to the oily residue.

I notice Greg and Molly are deeply interested now. It's the old Sherlock magic.

Challenge one achieved; as letters form on the mirror's surface.

"Well done. Seek further instructions where the light that shines you cannot see."

At once, all three look straight at me, confusion patent in each earnest face.

I cross my arms. 'Can't tell you the solution, can I?'

They grumble. Molly mutters my way: 'Well done? A bit condescending, no?'

'I was trying to be supportive!'

'Shush, John, you don't talk, you've been kidnapped.'

I smirk. They're hooked now.

I go sit in my armchair. Molly reproaches me with a glance.

'I'm not sitting on any clues,' I promise. 'No foul play.'

Greg repeats, checking the mirror again: 'Light that shines you cannot see.'

Good, do they know how long it took me to write all that on there? Need to practice being concise...

'Lestrade?' Sherlock knows.

'Light that shines you can't see. Ultraviolet light? Another written message?'

They all turn to me. I nod. Might as well. They are still very unsure about saving me.

'Is it all going to be written messages?' Molly guesses, frowning at me now.

What? No!

Sherlock is already climbing a chair to reach the bison skull, now with the addiction of round spectacles with dark tinted lenses.

On his part, Greg is checking the desk lamp and finds the right bulb inside – ultraviolet light.

Sherlock dons the glasses as Greg floods each wall with the desk lamp black light.

Above the sofa, between the smiley face and the skull picture, in luminous letters, it reads:

"Keep going! An iron key will set me free. Find it where you would find me."

Challenge two was too easy.

They all turn to face me, but I'm long gone. The red armchair is now empty.

Molly is the first to start: 'An iron key is magnetic. Got a couple of magnets, Sherlock?'

'Fridge door, obviously.'

They all head into the kitchen, noticing the table is empty bar the chains.

'Shouldn't John be heading back here?' Greg notices, handing out the magnets. 'We're almost done. It's too easy.'

Sherlock frowns at that, but says nothing, rolling the doors closed again. He may not be in on the plan, but he gets the basics of stage magic.

Back in the living room, they scour the red armchair with their souvenir shop magnets and find the key snuck into a pre-existing rip in the fabric, on top of the padding. The key is a rusty, heavy, prop-like thing. Armed with it, they all come to the kitchen, again sliding the glass doors, victoriously.

Still I'm not there.

'What? Did he get upset we were taking too long? He looked upset earlier.'

Greg's comments are followed by stunned silence.

Molly notices: 'We're done playing though. We have the key. Key unlocks the chains. John is freed. The end.'

Sherlock notices: 'There's no padlock.'

'What do you mean?'

'What is the key for if there's no padlock on the chains? And earlier, when we were looking at the poison bottles, John said "not yet". We haven't used them.'

'Red herring,' Greg explains.

'He would have said that. He also sat on his armchair and stated he wasn't in the way of any clue. Any real clue, we would presume.'

'Red herring?' Greg repeats.

'No. Wrong turn. Molly, you were right. It was too easy.'

Sherlock is the first to head off back to the living room.

'John?' he calls my name.

Sorry, can't answer. It would spoil the game you're enjoying so much.

'John!' he insists.

Nope.

'I hate you sometimes, you know?' he says, not sounding anything other than proud of me. I smile, all alone.

Sherlock closes the kitchen doors and paces aimlessly in figure eights over the rug. Thinking. Greg and Molly are starting to lose momentum, and sit together on the sofa.

Time for me to go. He's about to figure it out. I might be late already. Scene changes are always hard.

'John is far nutter than I gave him credit for,' Greg comments.

I still hear it, jumping across from our tiny iron railed balcony to Mrs Turner's. All pre-arranged, of course. Oi, I've got feelings you know?

'Shut up!' Sherlock snarls and goes vocal on his internal monologue. 'Seek further instructions where the light that shines you cannot see. Where the light that shines you cannot see... Ah, clever, very clever John!' Sherlock's exclamation is loud enough that I can hear it, as Mrs Turner's married tenants help me to their living room. Just in time, as Sherlock opens the living room windows and looks out. 'Recently oiled hinges. A plant pot on its side. John has been here recently. The light that shines that I can't see. The stars in the London night skyline. The city is too bright, stars are hard to find. What else, what else?'

Greg notices: 'What did he do, climb down from the balcony to the street below?'

'Of course not,' Sherlock spats. 'John moved quietly from his chair to the balcony, spied on us through the curtain gashes and, when I was on to him, he climbed the railings and went into the neighbour's.'

'Should we follow?'

'No. John's leads are all in 221B. To follow him would be against the rules.'

Sherlock goes back inside, muttering the second message: 'An iron key will set me free. Find it where you would find me.'

'I thought the key was a red herring.'

'Nope, just the wrong key. John was outside, that's where we would find him.

'And the poison bottles?' Greg hesitates.

'Red herring.'

'What? That's not fair!' the inspector clamours. Molly gives him a heavy look, he dials back. 'Okay... Just so we know, are they actual poisons?'

Sherlock glares at him. Those are the available refreshments.

'Of course not. That would be cheating.'

The detective is already on all fours, exploring the balcony. Finally, he finds it. The key. It had been under the plant pot.

Sherlock smirks. 'Clever, John, clever. But is it clever enough?' he chuckles. And with that Sherlock walks over to the glass doors, slides them open, and there they find me neatly lying on the table, in chains. This time there is a padlock, I made sure of that.

Actually the other time it just slipped my mind. Never mind, it worked.

'Hi guys!' I say, with a bright smile.

I barely had the time to get out of next door's, run up the stairs and place myself in confinement. Mrs Turner's tenants really want to know what is going on.

Sherlock paces about, as Molly and Greg come up to the sliding doors, one on each side. 'Really, John? Are these the best challenges you could come up with?'

My smile falls, but I hold my ground.

'As a matter-of-fact, yes. Still, took you long enough.'

'Maybe next time we need to be a bit more drunk. This was far too easy, John.'

'Oh, really? 'Coz I'm still chained up!' I spite him. But I know he's got it, he's just waiting for the other two to catch up.

'Really an excellent number, John. No one touched your chains but you.'

'No one noticed that before now.'

'And you found reasons not to wear them long.'

'Best not.'

Sherlock chuckles, inserts the key into the padlock and turns it. Completely not acknowledging that the mesh of chains is on top of me, not around me. I'm not Houdini, okay?

'You wouldn't want them to know you were never helpless all along.'

Sherlock helps me down from the kitchen table, just as Mrs Hudson comes upstairs. One glance around the kitchen and she berates the detective: 'Sherlock dear, I do wish you wouldn't leave your tools of the trade all over the flat. Someone might get themselves trapped in those chains. Cake, anyone? Drinkies? Did the boys not get you anything yet? John, I thought better of you, treating your guests this way...'

I blink and offer half-hearted apologies to Mrs Hudson alone, as the team is pulling our landlady to the Halloween filled living room. She squeals: 'Sherlock, the decor is just perfect for you now!'

Sherlock falls back a couple of steps to help me tidy up the chains back into the kitchen pantry. I search for his mood in his angular face, he smiles openly at me.

'Nicely done, John, but my teammates need a little practice... Can we do this every Tuesday?'

I smile too. 'Sure. Nothing good on the telly anyway.'

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