Scans_Daily

"Funny thing," muttered Sherlock, absent-mindedly affixing his fifth nicotine patch of the day as he waited for the photographs to develop in the sink, "Depending on your definition of funny."

"What?" replied John, affixing his eyes on the red lightbulb and wanting desperately to relieve himself as soon as his flatmate had compared the surreptitious hidden-camera photos and compared them to the numerous severed limbs in a plastic bag on top of the toilet.

"When Mrs. Hudson first rented me the place, the last occupant was, in her words, 'A bit of a lovey' who did Vincent Price impressions - and look at what he scratched on the bathroom door."

John turned, squinting in the half-light, to look at the til-now-ignored door of the bathroom which both men shared. Grunting with slight discomfort, he hobbled forward to look at it.

In neat, square letters were carved "The Flatshare of Mystery".

"I put a stop to that. Lowered the rent," the consultant continued, holding up a photograph of ghastly horror to the dim illumination of 221B Baker Street's only bathroom.

John peered below. A small post-it note was selotaped beneath, on which was written in elegant handwriting, "Before handling any mysteries, wash your hands."

"You wouldn't believe the stares I get at parties."

"Obviously not. You never have any."

"Oh, ouch. Hold this foot."