The funny thing about being dead was the number of people who noticed.

Nine people Calypso visited later in their dreams.

It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been woken up at ridiculous o'clock; it wasn't even the first time he'd been woken up at ridiculous o'clock in London, in the comfort of his own flat. But as John Watson's fingers closed reflexively over the handle of the bedside drawer, yanked, and then plunged inside to close around the familiar weight of his side arm, he realised that it was the first time he'd been woken up by Sherlock Holmes silhouetted on the threshold of his room, with a feather in his hair, snapping his fingers peremptorily and announcing: “Gun. Now.”

One would think being a famous astronaut, the darling of the Royal Spacefaring Corps and the heir to the throne besides, would afford him certain privileges. But oh, no, of course not; because he was the best pilot (or so they told him, and who was he to argue?) he got tasked with the most dangerous operations in the most experimental spacecraft. Which would not normally be a problem – after all, it wasn’t a boast that Arthur could fly anything with a fusion engine – but clearly the new Excalibur craft had been cobbled together out of spare parts and welded into a whole with chewed-up Maynard’s Wine Gums, because he was only halfway to Epsilon Eridani when bits began to fly off the bloody thing and he had to ditch on the nearest planet before the entire cockpit fell apart around him...

"The likelihood of finding a cab on Christmas Eve is fast approaching nil." "So was the likelihood of you kissing me in the middle of the pavement, and yet."