Disclaimer: Do I look like I own the BBC? Didn't think so.


Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion.

John was in New Zealand. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did notice when he was gone. That didn't stop the detective from acting like he was still there. He hadn't had a case in almost two weeks. Certain objects in the kitchen would be on fire in exactly three-point-two-five minutes if something interesting didn't come along before then.

It wasn't entirely John's fault, he supposed. How was he supposed to know that nothing would come along while he was away? Still, it was rather inconsiderate. In fact, it was incredibly inconsiderate.

Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion.

That mantra from primary school was chanting in Sherlock's brain. He needed something to do. Something that stimulated his brain without self-destructing it. He needed a case. Or cigarettes. He ambled over to the window and sat down. The weather was nice. Perhaps there would be something interesting in the street.

Mrs. Hudson had finally rented out the basement flat yesterday to a desperate exchange student from some university he hadn't bothered to get the name of. Nor had he bothered to get the reason why she needed the flat in the first place. Some sort of housing mix-up he supposed, watching her carry a cardboard packing box inside with only the mildest of interest. She needed to adjust her grip. Anyone with half a brain could see that the bottom was about to give. And there it went.

Silly girl, he thought, watching the contents spill out and bounce down the steps. It looked to be cosmetics and hair care products. The usual fare of a university-aged woman. It also appeared to be an inferior brand of shampoo, which suggested that— Good grief! He needed a case and he needed it fast! Surely, surely, he could find something better to do than make deductions about a person he couldn't even show off to.

He glanced around the sitting room. A pile of papers full of case notes and research needed organizing. Boring. His eyes went to the cow skull. The headphones were on crooked. He could straighten them. Dull. There was always the mold collection in the kitchen. He could— no, he couldn't. Mrs. Hudson had thrown it out on Wednesday. He supposed he could update his website and add those twelve new types of tobacco ash he'd identified. But John had taken his laptop with him. So much for that idea.

Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion!

He really hated his brain right now.

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock returned his attention to the window. The inferior brand of shampoo suggested that she didn't have the money to buy anything better and explained why her hair was so lackluster. She was also under stress. She wore black-rimmed retro-style glasses that didn't disguise the fact that she had dark circles under her eyes indicating a lack of sleep. She was thin, but her clothes draped over her frame loosely, so she'd recently lost weight. Stress. Probably a combination of school and family since she'd dyed a strip of her light brown hair a vibrant magenta in some juvenile act of rebellion and declaration of personal identity.

She didn't care much for personal appearance. Her clothes, denim jeans and a gray university T-shirt, were splattered with various splotches of oil paint, gouache, and some unidentifiable stain that may or may not have been motor oil. There was another smear of blue paint on her left cheek. She was only wearing one earring. So she was absent-minded, suggesting a mental preoccupation with something more important. Again, back to the stress. Whatever was causing it was causing her scatterbrained persona. But that didn't really matter.

Form a hypothesis.

What hypothesis could he form from her? Nothing that couldn't be confirmed just by looking at her. Or perhaps not. She was an art student, that much was obvious, but unlike the stereotypical artist she didn't appear to be short-fused or overly dramatic. She'd seemed more depressed than annoyed when the box broke, but it was almost always the long-fused ones that erupted so violently. So what did it take to set her off? Something drastic, he would wager. How drastic?

Conduct an experiment.

She had missed the shampoo bottle when she was retrieving her stuff. It had rolled away from the steps, apparently out of her near-sighted line of vision. A Good Samaritan would go get it for her. A Bad Samaritan would take it to the 221B kitchen-cum-laboratory first.

Sherlock stretched languidly in his chair, stood up, and sauntered downstairs.


"Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said congenially when she opened the door. "I live in the flat upstairs. I was just on my way out and I'd noticed you dropped this."

He handed her the bottle with a disarming smile. She accepted it, thanked him politely, and shut the door. Sherlock's expression changed from innocent to cat-caught-the-canary as he retreated upstairs.

There would be no need to duplicate the results.