Greg leaned on John's shoulder as they stumbled drunkenly from the pub.

"Ur a reeeeeelly grate frend, John!" Greg slurred as John threw up his hand carelessly for a cab.

"Naaaw, I just don't wantchoo to wake up a' Scotland Yeeeard with a hangover toromo-tomromo-tormoro-when you gotta go to work agin!" John shouted, much too loudly.

Greg let out an equally loud cheer and the two continued to stagger along until they hailed a cab to drive them home, singing nursery rhymes and yelling drunkenly all the way.

…

John opened his eyes to a splitting headache.

He moaned and sat up carefully in his…no, not his bed…he had fallen asleep on the stairs up to his room. He had no memory of last night, apart from a few (no, more than that, judging by his current migraine) drinks, and a vague rendition of Mary Had A Little Lamb running through his head.

He made his way to the bathroom to find some aspirin for his pounding head. After swallowing them dry, he headed to the kitchen, now rather famished and hoping for a piece of toast. Thank goodness today was his off day from the clinic.

After a simple breakfast of tea and slightly burned toast (the toaster had never been the same since Sherlock had put that jellied eel in the crumbs tray), he headed out to the Tesco to, yet again, buy milk. Sometimes it seemed like that was all he ever did; buy milk, help Sherlock, buy milk, help Sherlock…a vicious cycle.

A half an hour later (having safely gotten past the chip and pin machines without a row), John was outside the store and calling a cab when, for some strange reason, a red laser dot appeared on his forehead. He frowned and turned around slowly, but the dot stayed with him. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

John shrugged and got into the cab that had just pulled up for him. Probably just a freak of nature, he thought. Not anything to worry about, at any rate.

John arrived home and, after he had put away the milk, found himself sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall. Sherlock was still sleeping, oddly enough; he knew this because if Sherlock was in the flat and not making any noise, he had to be sleeping. Sherlock was quite fond of noise, John had learned that rather quickly.

Then John frowned. A vague sense of forgetfulness had entered his mind. Why did he feel like something wasn't right? Then, it all came rushing back. The morgue, Sherlock gone, calling Greg out for a pint so that he didn't feel like a helpless loser. He sighed. He knew that Sherlock was a grown man, knew that he sometimes left for days on cases and didn't come back until they were fully solved, but he wished that once in a while Sherlock would let him know when he was going away for a while.

…...

Greg woke up to someone hitting him violently in the head with a not-so-soft pillow.

"Wha…?" he broke off his question as he sat up and was assaulted again by none other than his estranged wife.

"You bastard!" she screamed, hitting him again and again. "You stood me up last night, here, at your own house, and went to the bar with some guy! You utter wanker!" she continued the torrent of abuse, occasionally punctuated with whacks from the (now quite limp) pillow.

Greg ran across the room, dodging a cheap vase and a metal pan as he made for the bathroom to find some aspirin, Jenny following him the whole way, still screaming abuse. He ducked as a bottle of aftershave zoomed over his head.

He pulled on a wrinkled pair of trousers and a shirt from the laundry hamper, narrowly avoiding an overgrown spider plant that met it's death against the opposite wall, splattering dirt all over the floor. Grabbing a banana from the kitchen, he pulled his phone from the charger as a book about plankton that he had never read went sailing across the stove. He made for the door of the flat. Jenny furiously followed him, still armed with the pillow, now leaving a trail of feathers in her wake, and a rather nasty looking pair of rusty meat scissors. Hailing a cab, Greg turned to Jenny, who had stopped and was holding the scissors aloft, looking like a crazed serial killer.

"Jenny…" Greg started, carefully trying to explain.

He never got to finish as the scissors flew straight at his forehead.

Thankfully, he thought as he dove into the cab and told the driver to step on it for God's sake, the scissors were rather dull and only left a small, jagged cut along the side of his face. He daubed it with his handkerchief and ate the banana thoughtfully.

The driver looked at him sympathetically in the mirror. "Got in a little domestic with the wife, mate?"

Greg sighed. "She shagged another bloke behind my back and threw a pair of meat scissors at my forehead."

He nodded. "Been there, mate. Well, not with the scissors, but definitely the shagging."

Five minutes later Greg was at Scotland Yard, half an hour late, with a splitting headache and a strong desire to call in sick.

He staggered towards his office. Sally was near the door. She looked concernedly at him. "Sir, are you all right? You look a bit pale."

He waved her off and opened the door to his office. He darted in, trying to ward off questions, and slammed the door shut. Still facing the door, he breathed a sigh of relief…and turned around to see Mycroft Holmes sitting in his desk chair.

Mycroft looked up and smiled in his usual calm, controlled manner. "Ah, Gregory. Good morning."

Greg groaned. "This is a nightmare."

Mycroft frowned. "It's a bit early in the morning for insults, wouldn't you say?"

Greg glared. "Just say what you have to say and get out, and then I need to get some aspirin."

Mycroft gave him a knowing look. "One too many pints with John, I assume?"

Greg groaned, yet again. "You have no idea."

He turned and poured himself a cup of coffee. "So why are you here?"

"Today in the mail I received a rather…ah…interesting parcel." He gestured to a small, brown box sitting on Greg's desk. It had been previously opened, and a small bit of what looked like blue cloth was peeking out of the edge.

Greg walked forward and pulled at the cloth. He found himself staring at Sherlock's favorite blue scarf, the one the consulting detective never went anywhere without. It was sporadically dotted with droplets of scarlet blood, presumably from the man himself.

Greg gulped. "Is this from when Sherlock was…y'know…tortured?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft shook his head gravely. "No, Gregory. He had me launder it for him after the incident. I gave it to him precisely two days ago when I visited Baker Street."

He looked towards the window. "He's still out there, Inspector. And wherever he is, Sherlock is as well."