So you people want an explanation for this, huh? So do I.
~L.
"I'm thinking of redecorating, John."
"Oh really? Which room?"
"All of them."
John put his newspaper down, looking skeptically at his flatmate who was hanging from the ceiling. He'd tied a chair to the ceiling that morning and had sat on it in silent contemplation ever since. John had stayed out of his way.
"What's wrong with them now?"
"Too blue."
"Don't you think Mrs. Hudson will have something to say about it?"
"Why would she? It has nothing to do with her."
The detective opened his eyes for a split-second to give John an incredulous look. He just returned to the newspaper.
"Whatever you say."
"What do you think of brown?"
"Sophisticated."
"Boring. Green?"
"Not exactly you. White?"
"Perhaps."
Sherlock stood and fluidly pulled the chair from the ceiling, not a single piece of it falling to the floor. Then he put it back under the desk and went to sit opposite John.
"So white. The whole flat or...?"
"The flat?"
"Yes, Sherlock. The flat. The place you're redecorating."
"Why on Earth would I want to redecorate the flat?" Sherlock looked at John as though he were the most stupid dunce he had ever spoken too.
"Well what are you redecorating then?"
"My mind palace of course. Good God if I redecorated the flat Mrs. Hudson would have a thing or two to say."
The doctor stared at the taller man. Then simply shook his head and pulled the newspaper back up to eye level, the walls around him instantly turning a pristine white. Sherlock nodded his approval.