John gags as he comes downstairs.
Holding his nose he tries to see through the haze of smoke that covers everything. What has his flatmate done this time? A list of possibilities runs through John's mind. Blown up the kitchen? No, he already did that. Set the sofa on fire? No, he loves that sofa too much. Experiment gone wrong? That could be it.
John prays that the rancid odor filling his nostrils isn't toxic as he coughs and says, "Sherlock! Where the hell are you?"
"Kitchen!" Sherlock's deep voice yells through the smoke.
John shuffles in the direction of what he hopes is the kitchen and finds a new wall of black smoke.
A cry of, "Bugger!" comes from ahead of him and he steps forward toward Sherlock's voice until he crashes into the kitchen table.
He can see Sherlock's blurry form running around the smoky kitchen, trying to cover pots and pans that are emitting great puffs of smoke and giving off a stench worse than the dead.
John coughs and tries to see through the smoke. Sherlock's face comes into view and he drags John out of the kitchen and into his room, away from the dark smoke.
Shutting the door, Sherlock turns around and says, "Sorry about the smoke."
"What were you doing?" John asks.
"Making breakfast."
