"Sherlock Holmes! I am your landlady, not your housekeeper!"
"Yes, yes Mrs.Hudson, very well." Sherlock said absently as he waved the women off, but she didn't leave in a huff like usual.
"I mean it young man! Clean up this flat! I have someone coming to look at 221C and" she paused and lowered her voice "it smells like rotting body parts in here."
"Well that's because I'm measuring the different decomposition rates of hands and feet." The detective said nonchalantly.
"Well clean it up! No more experiments until after the showing! Don't forget, I am perfectly capable of starving you."
Mrs.Hudson turned and walked down the stairs and Sherlock peered around his disheveled flat. He supposed he could stand to tidy up a few things if it would make the old women happy. Also he had recently found out that it was Mrs.Hudson who brought him his morning tea and he didn't want that to stop.
He spent about 5 hours cleaning and in that time he managed to make his bed, pick up the papers off the floor of the living room and wash a frying pan. He was very pleased with himself and called Mrs.Hudson up to see his good job. She did not agree with his analysis.
"You haven't done anything!"
"Don't be daft, it's much neater."
"I really don't want to play this card dear, but either you clean this flat or I will call your brother and have him send someone to do!"
The thought of someone else cleaning your home, would be appealing to most people but to Sherlock that just meant that one of his brother's goons would search through all of his stuff and report back to Mycroft.
Sherlock spent the next three days deep cleaning his home; he picked up all of the random trash that was just laying around, wrapped up his experiments and disinfected the counters, did all the dishes and he even vacuumed (once he figured out how to turn it on). 221B was spotless and completely unrecognizable.
In fact it was so strange looking that when John Watson stopped by to check on his friend he wasn't sure he had the right place. After double checking that there were indeed bullet holes in the smiley on the wall, John immediately jumped to the worst conclusion.
"Mrs.Hudson!" John screamed as he ran down the steps two at a time.
"Yes, what is it dear?" The seemingly sweet old lady called out in response.
"Where's Sherlock? What happened? Did he relapse? Did he overdose? Where is he? We're the police here? Was there a drug raid? Or was in Mycroft? Did he throw out all of Sherlock's experiments? Because when Sherlock is better and comes home he is going to want those! Why wasn't I called? I should be the firs-"
"John! Calm down! I can't understand anything you're saying, your speaking too fast. Now Sherlock is perfectly fine, so what are you going on about?"
"The flat! It's, well it's um-"
"Clean." said a deep baritone from behind the doctor. "Mrs.Hudson made me, believe me it was not my idea...What are you doing? Get off me John!"
To the detective's dismay John stood there with his arms around him for another 5 minutes, happy that his friend was okay and that he learned how to use a mop.