Oh, dear. Why did he have to put skulls everywhere?

Mrs Hudson looked around her upstairs flat in something close to despair. Skulls. Everywhere.

He'd put a large picture of a skull up on the near wall, no doubt having first punched holes in her lovely chocolate-brown and cream coloured wallpaper to do it. Then there was a big animal skull on the wall between the front windows, with headphones on it. And on the mantelpiece was -

Oh, no. Sherlock…

"Mrs Hudson!"

The door to the street slammed shut and Sherlock bounded up the staircase, three at a time, ruddy and chilled from running the short distance from the kerb to the door.

"Mrs Hudson, excellent news!" Sherlock threw his arms around her, squeezing her out of breath. He didn't smell like those nasty cigarettes he smoked today, and she was glad of it.

"Look at you, what are you all excited about now?" She smiled indulgently, brushing his hands away with a playful slap. "Well, never mind, it'll keep for the moment. Sherlock, we have to talk about -"

"I've got someone coming to look at the flat -"

"Sherlock -"

"Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock," he went on, pulling his scarf off in such haste that he nearly forgot to untie it.

"Sherlock, dear, these skulls -"

"Met him at Barts today." Sherlock hung the scarf up on the coat-stand near the door. It had always puzzled Mrs Hudson that Sherlock was very likely to leave a cup of coffee sitting out for days, but never left his clothes lying about. "I knew Mike would oblige me with someone I can work with -"

"… Him? Oh, Sherlock, how lovely, I'm so pleased for you. Well, you needn't worry. I can be discreet about it if you'd prefer your brother not know about that. Now Sherlock, about these skulls -"

"Some coffee, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper, and the magic word would go a long way," she said, folding her arms. No. She was going to be strong this time. She was... but it was cold out, and the poor dear had been out at the hospital all day and probably needed something to revive him. Besides, something his brother had told her the day before was troubling her. Do see that he eats, at least every few days. He forgets.

He forgets to eat?

"Just this once," she said, relenting. She picked her way through the chaos of boxes and books toward the kitchen. "I'm not your mother, either. Now Sherlock, dear, these skulls. I don't mind your picture, though I wish you'd asked before you -"

"We'll need to come to some agreement on the rent, of course -"

"But really, the one on that wall between the windows is very distasteful -"

"He's a doctor. Doesn't practice these days, needs a place to live that he can afford on an army pension -"

"Army pension? I thought he was a doctor. Now Sherlock, I really don't like you having that one over there on the mantelpiece. Even if it's not real, it's not decent, is it?"

"Who cares about decent, when there's finally someone interesting moving in?"

Mrs Hudson frowned. She'd much, much preferred Sherlock to have told her for certain that the skull was a clever cast that he'd 'borrowed' from the hospital. But Sherlock hadn't even glanced at it.

"Coffee, Mrs Hudson," he said again. "The kettle finished boiling eleven seconds ago, and I have some science equipment to bring up."

She smiled after him as he clattered down the stairs. Like a herd of elephants, he was, bless him.