Sherlock could feel all the blood rushing to his head. It wasn’t conducive to his mental faculties, indeed quite the opposite, but it was necessary. To help relax himself he grabbed a cigarette and a lighter from the side desk and lit it. The task of smoking was surprisingly difficult but he managed to get a lung full of the beautiful, black tar. As he let out the smoke watching the wisps float downwards, or should it still be noted as upwards, he heard the door open. It was his landlady, Mrs Marvins, he could tell by the distinct noise her ridiculous, green heels made as they tapped on the slate floor. Sherlock winced knowing that she was already straightening hallway painting and picking up important documents. “Holmes,” she called out from the living area, “I have a letter for you from the curator of the local gallery. Says she wants to call in that favo-OH MY! What on earth are you doing upside down you silly man?!” He was right, she had a stack of his favourite men’s magazines under her left arm. Bloody woman was putting a crease in a brunette’s large bust. “Its an experiment,” he drawled lazily. Mrs Martins put the stack of pornos down on his desk and thrust a folded letter at his hands before turning away muttering about “silly fools being the death of her”. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her antics and used his teeth to rip open the letter. It must be important if Marcy was calling in her favour... The door banged open again and Mrs Martins called out greetings. Must be Watson, Sherlock though dismissively.