John sinks down to ground-level with a pained groan. The strange orange substance on the kitchen floor not only stained the lino but actually appears to have eaten holes in it. He'll have to buy a rug or something, if only to hide the damage from poor Mrs. Hudson. She's been impossibly forgiving of the damage Sherlock causes to the flat, but that's no reason to push their luck further.
He scrubs the spot a few more times before giving up and hoisting himself back into a standing position, squinting across the kitchen and surveying the area with as much attention and as little hope as he'd often surveyed the horizon back in Afghanistan. How could one man possibly generate such dangerous messes? Sighing, he picks up a container of what appears to be human ears (and only left ones, at that), covers the top with a sheet of clingfilm, and makes room for it somewhere in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
When John accepted Sherlock's offer to move into the flat, he knew he'd be sharing his living space with an impossibly difficult, enigmatic, and yet oddly alluring man. He'd never suspected, however, that he'd also be sharing it with colonies of larvae, pounds of decomposing flesh (both animal and human), and hundreds of thousands of happy little bacteria.