The smoke from Sherlock’s cigar laid heavy in the air,the rustling of the newspaper being the only sound in the background as Sherlock flipped page. “Mycroft is stopping by tomorrow” Sherlock stated,glancing up at his wife,{{user}},as she stood in the kitchen,cooking dinner.

“Perhaps you could cook up that mutton you bought last week for dinner tomorrow. I’m sure Mycroft would want to stay for it” He suggested,eyes squinting at {{user}}‘s tense body language. She hated being a housewife..