I walked into our little flat, my hands full of groceries. Of course, I nearly dropped them when I caught sight of the state it was in. There were several take-out cartons scattered over the floor, (and dripping grease on our expensive rug, no less), a half eaten apple on the mantle, and a violin (with a broken string) sitting on the sofa, just waiting to be sat on. I put the heavy groceries on the table (as the counter was taken up by a half a rat, a bag of grapes, several bottle nipples, and possibly a mile of duct tape. I assumed it was one of Sherlock's experiments.) I suddenly noticed how quiet the flat was.
"Sherlock," I called. When there was no response from my lover, I tried again. "Sherlock, if you think that I'm just going to clean up this mess up, you better think again. You'd best get your bullocks out here, love." I said the last bit a little rather snarkily. I was fed up with him treating me like the maid. I was about to call out to him again, to tell him just that, when I heard one of the doors down the hall softly click shut. Instincts automatically kicking into overdrive, I grabbed a knife off of the kitchen counter, and crept down the hall. The door to our room was slightly open. I knocked the door out of the way, and lept in, only to find the room empty. I quickly deserted the room, and faced the only other door. The spare room. I slowly advanced, taking care not to make even the slightest of sounds. There was a faint rustling coming from the room. I slowly reached my hand out, and grasped the door knob. I took several deep breaths, focusing on slowing my heartbeat. Then, in a flurry of motion, I wrenched the door open, and threw myself onto the figure stooped over the bed. I landed a solid punch in the bloke's face. He fell back with a muffled 'oomph.' That was when I heard the wailing from the bed.