Sherlock belongs to the BBC! Not me!
Sherlock finished stabbing the dead pig with his harpoon and recorded the results in his notebook. He tucked his notebook into a pocket in his jacket. He then nodded his thanks to the (terrified) butcher, and walked out the door still holding the harpoon.
He was rather lost in thought as he walked out, as a result not noticing the disbelieving stares. He hailed a taxi. The driver took one look at him and screamed something in Portuguese, then sped away. Odd, thought Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. This process repeated itself with the next 3 cabs. Then a cab pulled up, and the driver raised an eyebrow at him. "You'll get blood on the seats, mate." Then he went away too. Sherlock sighed. Oh well. He texted John-Finished research for case. Taking Tube home-SH He hit Send, then frowned and tried to wipe his now bloody phone on his shirt.
Nobody would sit next to him on the Tube. Many people, in fact, were more than happy to huddle together if it meant staying away from the man muttering to himself and holding a harpoon, completely covered in blood. Sherlock, meanwhile, had his eyes closed when he figured the case out in it's entirety. His eyes flew open. "That's it!" he exclaimed, and sent a text to Lestrade with the details. He was then extremely bored the rest of the way home.
When Sherlock walked in through the door to their flat, it probably said something about John that his first question is Why is there no blood on his pants or shoes? instead of Is my flat mate a mass murderer?
"Well that was tedious," grumbled Sherlock.
Am I the only one who wondered how his shoes and pants stayed clean?