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John is doing press-ups in the sitting-room when Sherlock erupts from the kitchen in a cloud of foul-smelling yellow smoke and starts throwing open windows.
“John! What are you doing?” he demands.
John sits back on his heels, then pulls himself to his feet, massaging his left shoulder.
“What am I doing?” he repeats. “Not blowing up the flat, for a start.” He coughs; the yellow smoke reeks of sulphur. “I thought we’d agreed to keep explosive experiments off the premises?”
Sherlock sniffs, disdainful, then ruins the effect by coughing. “It wasn’t meant to explode.”
“They never are,” John sighs.
Then the smoke detector goes off.
John flaps a cushion under it while Sherlock, instead of helping, raises his voice over the frenzied beeping: “It was important! The sister-in-law’s alibi!”
“Boys?” Mrs Hudson’s anxious inquiry is just audible. “Is everything all right?”
“Not to worry, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock calls back, smirking. “John’s got it all under control.”
John, still flapping, glares at him. “You could help, you know.”
“I opened the windows,” Sherlock points out. “Of course, if you’d tell me where you’ve hidden your gun, I could—”
“No, Sherlock.” The beeping stops, finally; John feints towards the sofa, then flings the cushion at Sherlock’s head.
But he can’t resist asking: “So, was it the sister-in-law who hid the body?”