“I was testing whether Ms. Morena could have fashioned a suitable lock pick from the tools at her disposal.”
"Here you go." The copier paper box Watson dropped on the kitchen table narrowly missed Holmes' nose as he looked up, and he jerked back, blinking and frowning.
"Those are yours. so you better stay out of mine from now on." She folded her arms and stared at him, nodding toward the box impatiently after a few seconds.
He leaned toward it, but all he could smell was cardboard, a bit of must, and industrial laundry detergent, similar to the odor that sometimes lingered on Watson's coat after she'd spent some hours at the shelter. Ah. That explained the source, but not the contents of the box.
"It's not a problem for folks to donate them used, but sometimes they come ripped or don't survive the washing machine. Considering you always end up taking mine apart anyway, I figured that wouldn't be an issue for you." Now that was a curious clue, and focused his deduction considerably. There were lamentably few items she claimed as "mine" in the Brownstone.
"Plus this way you get a lot more variety than I care to provide. Not that I cared to provide any for you, ever. But now I have, so don't say I never got you anything."
"I would never, Watson," he said, removing the top to reveal a panoply of battered bras.