"I threw it in the rubbish bin," declared Mrs. Hudson.
"You what?" snapped Sherlock Holmes, whirling to affix her with piercing slate eyes.
"You heard me. Tossed it."
A furious search commenced.
"When did you do this?"
"You were sleeping! And you haven't touched the contents of that drawer in years. I thought I was doing you a service!"
The two faced off, radiating indignation.
"What is it, Holmes?" I threw in my lot; was rewarded by thoughtful silence.
"It is nothing," said he, slumping into his armchair, arms crossed petulantly across bony chest. Our landlandy looked dangerously on the verge of bursting into tears or flames.
"Well then, I'll go dig around for it then! But really, it was just a photograph of a woman you despised."
"Oh dear me," cried Holmes. "I would not describe it that way should you ever care to read Watson's account of the case."
"The woman!" I cried, understanding dawning. "Irene Adler. That is what you threw away. The photograph."
Our landlady returned, huffing.
"Well then. Here she is."
Holmes took the photograph from her. Clipped to the back was a newspaper cutting, Irene Adler, death date 1893.
"It was a decent write up, old chap. The Scandal in Bohemia. She was the woman for me. But the real ending should have been better…"