When Greg put the little pencil mark on the blank square in his rarely-used pocket calendar, he wasn't sure what to make of it. That day the always mad and usually irritating Sherlock Holmes actually brought a person to a crime scene. Never mind where he got the poor sod, but Dr. Watson clearly was out of his depth with the consulting detective. Sherlock strode off into the night, as per usual, leaving the former army doctor stranded according to Donovan. All the same, when Greg retired to his office for the night he pulled out the creased plastic pocket calendar, tore off a few unused months, and scribbled a dot in the middle of the day's blank.

Maybe he would make an experiment out of it. Something like How to Lose a Flat Mate in Ten Days or How Many Late-Night Mad Dashes Can Turn a Man to Drink. Dr. Watson didn't seem like a bad chap, though. Maybe he would last the week.

Less than twenty-four hours later Greg stood, arms folded, on the sidewalk outside of a new crime scene. An aged cabbie armed with a James Bond novelty lighter and enough poison to kill a horse lied dead on the floor above. Across the police tape Sherlock whispered to his flat mate, who struggled not to giggle as they left for takeaway. He should arrest him. He really should. Sherlock hadn't stopped his deductions fast enough and the sharp glance to the perfectly calm man on the other side of the police tape told quite a lot. Greg dismissed Donovan's usually scathing remarks and made his goodbye, muttering about mounds of paperwork.

When he got into his cruiser he extracted the pocket calendar with some difficulty. Just yesterday he marked the date as something to keep an eye out for. Today he drew a little oblong on the day's square. A little pill to remind him what he could have lost and what Sherlock seems to have gained. He supposed that he might get the doctor's mobile number. John Watson might stick around longer than he first thought.

Greg let his head fall back and hit the sterile-white wall of the hospital waiting room with a satisfying thump. He'd been up for God knows how long, first with an alert put out by a pathologist at St. Bart's of all people an then with the minor explosion at a local pool. Then came the realization that Sherlock, John, and the bastard blowing up citizens all over his city were stuck under the rubble. Sherlock and John they found. Moriarty was a different story.

A baritone shout came from somewhere down the hall and Greg couldn't help but smile. The stubborn git probably refused all heavy pain medication and refused any aid at all until he heard from his unconscious flat mate. Little did he know that a Miss Sarah Sawyer, judging by the name she gave at the information desk, had just gone back to see the retired soldier.

After a somewhat opiate-addled description of events from Sherlock (He was going to let them shoot him Lestrade! Instead...instead of me! Then water, oh water everywhere...best Spenser Hart...) who had accepted the morphine and a brief interview with a singed John, Greg made it back to his home at an obscene hour.

He went to take off his coat, but reached inside the pocket instead. The once-unused calendar had filled out quite a bit. Every few blanks displayed a crooked drawing, some numbers, initials, and little things to remind the Detective Inspector of all that he noticed. He even had a scrap of a bright ticket from some absurd Chinese smuggler circus John told him about over a pint one night. Greg found the date and drew, of all things, a little heart.

Sherlock's face had been white with pain, eyes unfocused from the meds, but his voice rang out lucid enough:

He said he would...burn the heart out of me. Ridiculous, of course? Right. Yes.

Well he nearly did...