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With Sherlock Holmes, it was always something. A collection of fingernail trimmings, or a plant that would kill you if you touched it, or some truly terrible and rather disturbing 'art'... Dr John Watson honestly wasn't sure how he survived sharing rooms with the fellow, even disregarding the decidedly dangerous (exciting, his army days insisted) cases he'd somehow been roped into participating in.
Tonight it was a large plank of wood with a series of strange symbols engraved on it, which wouldn't have been so bad, except that it seemed to be coated in still-tacky blood and some exceedingly flammable smelling liquid... and it was on John's bed. Sighing heavily he turned to walk out to the sitting room, "Holmes..."