Martha Hudson was taking a well-deserved break, treating herself to a pot of tea and some freshly-made biscuits while watching the latest edition of 'Escape to the Country'. She sat back and sighed, sinking into her comfy armchair.
She had almost finished her second cup when a thought occurred to her.
It was quiet.
It was far too quiet.
Hazel eyes strayed upwards, and she stared at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the antics of her undoubtedly mad tenant.
It only took a few minutes of consideration before the long-suffering landlady pulled herself out of her chair, and steeling herself for whatever experiment she might find him elbow-deep in, she opened her front door.
She made it as far as the twelfth stair, the one that creaked ominously when you stepped in the middle of it, when she heard the unmistakable sound of a body crashing into her bins. She almost ran back down the stairs and out to the back yard.
Sherlock lay with his leg twisted beneath him, on the floor spread out around him was a large sheet.
"I was trying to see if it would work as a parachute." He explained to the octogenarian, who was currently assessing the damage.
"Be that as it may young man," she replied, "that leg's broken!"