Mrs. Hudson had been nasally assaulted by all kinds of smells coming from the living room Sherlock Holmes shared with Doctor Watson. That she would notice any kind of smell at all, considering how badly London itself reeked of sewage and garbage on the daily, was itself testament to how bad the smells were when they became noticeable from the living room. It was usually the detective's fault, but occasionally they'd both sit for a couple hours smoking, which not only permeated a stench into everything they owned, but also yellowed and dirtied the entire room. The doctor was generally good about opening the windows, but that didn't stop the smoke from coating them in grime to the point she was constantly washing them.
Sherlock Holmes, when he was alone, was the worst about creating an uninhabitable environment up there. Sometimes, Mrs. Hudson couldn't imagine he could smell anything at all, for how could he stand it if he could? He was always working with chemicals or bringing strange things into the living room or smoking all night without so much as cracking a window. The Baker Street living room, as a result, was always covered in a fine layer of grime to the point where Mrs. Hudson had taken a couple of the doctor's nicer books to her rooms so they wouldn't get ruined like all the rest, which were already yellow and brittle and irredeemably saturated with smoke.
Of all the things she'd smelled in Baker Street, however, the strong scent of gunpowder was the only which filled her with dread. When that happened, she took the exact opposite course of what her boys had always lectured her to take if she feared there was danger afoot: she ran up the living room, throwing the door open.
Both the detective and the doctor spun to face her, startled. She looked around, knowing she wasn't wrong. A gun had gone off up here repeatedly, but if her boys hadn't been involved... she saw, then, that her nice tapestry nailed sloppily to the wall. She stalked over to it, pulling it down without caring it ripped since it had already been ruined. She examined the 'V. R.' which adorned her wall while the doctor whispered, 'I told you she'd catch you' and the detective whispered 'how did she know?' in return. She turned and gave them both a glare, but left without saying anything. She found she didn't have the heart to scold them, not really. Not when she was simply so glad they were both alright.
For the prompt from goodpenmanship: a strong scent.
Don't smoke, friends (or vape, my goodness!). It's not worth it, and not just for your bookshelf. I wish you all health and happiness, and healthy coping mechanisms as well!
I'm sure I'm not the only bibliophile who doesn't like the idea of all of Watson's nice books, journals, and original manuscripts slowly getting degraded... :(