Another one of Atlin's b-words, combined with my mad love for our patron saint of shippers, Mrs. Hudson.
"Oi, Sherlock, what's all this mess then?" Mrs. Hudson gestured at the piles of clutter and trash, tutted at him, and Sherlock rolled over, facing the back of the couch. The damnable woman was a champion tutter, and she was asking irritating questions.
"Honestly, Sherlock, he's only gone for a week. It's going to take you longer than that to clean this mess up. I'm certainly not going to help you!" she muttered, while picking up the rubbish and putting it in a large bag. Humming to herself, she tidied up the kitchen while Sherlock continued to sulk, wrapped snugly in his bathrobe.
"I'm not going to keep doing this for you, you know. I just don't want the flat to be such a mess when poor John gets home. Don't get complacent, Sherlock. I'm not your housekeeper."
Sherlock snorted derisively and tossed a cushion in the general vicinity of where poor Mrs. Hudson was standing. She picked it up and whacked him playfully in the back before placing it on John's armchair.
A knock at the door sent her trotting down the stairs, leaving Sherlock in relative peace.
"Oh, Lestrade! I'm so glad you're here. Do you have a case for him? The doctor's away at a conference up in Edinburgh for a bit and Sherlock's feeling a bit blue."