starting over

This time last year I was still in Afghanistan. We'd made plans, got extra booze in. There were steaks. Around eight that evening, when we were sitting down to eat, we got word to expect incoming wounded. An ambushed convoy. It was bad. I rang in the new year with my hands in some poor lad's intestines. I can't remember his name. It'd be nice, wouldn't it, to say I remember them all? I don't though.

I still have no idea how I ended up here. How their mum found me. I'm grateful she did. Saved my life, I should think.

I meant this post to be about resolutions, but it seems to have got away from me.

Mrs Hudson's back now anyhow, and we're all going to the shops together.

More before midnight if I can manage it. If not, happy New Year to you all.

lucky save

Mycroft decided last night would be a good time to try out his telescope. On the roof. Without telling me. Thank god for sibling rivalry.

Sherlock came bounding into my room when I was half asleep with that wild and gleeful look he gets on the rare occasions when Mycroft's done something wrong instead of him.

"John! Mycroft's on the roof! He's gonna fall and die and break his telescope!"

Which of those is worse in Sherlock's mind? I'm honestly not sure.

Another, more immediately relevant question: How does one get onto the roof? Via drainpipe, as it turns out. I would not have expected so much voluntary athleticism from Mycroft, but then it's not that he's incapable. I think he just considers physical activity beneath him. With the proper motivation (a rare cloudless night in London), he's every bit as agile as Sherlock. As for myself, Army training or no, the climb up a rather frosty drainpipe at 1AM is not one I'd wish to repeat.

 All the same, I have to say it was worth it. I'm not advocating climbing around slippery rooftops in the dead of winter, but...

Well, it was beautiful. The stars were dimmer than in Afghanistan, of course. You'll never see them brighter than in the desert, and we're lower here too. Farther from the sky. All the same, they're up there. Sometimes I forget.

My leg hurts like buggery [do you really think this is an appropriate simile, given your relationship with DI Lestrade?] (MYCROFT HOLMES. WE ARE HAVING A TALK, YOU AND I. GET DOWN HERE NOW.) {what's buggery?} (Sherlock, do not even start.) {but i want to know!} (ASK YOUR MUM.)

(It's not going to be his mum giving him the birds and bees talk though, is it? It's going to be me. Oh dear god. Maybe letting him at Gray's Anatomy was actually a stroke of genius.)

My leg hurts like fury, let's say. I'm back on the cane for the day at least, but I can't say I wouldn't do it again. I will say that you, Mycroft, are not to do it again. It's too dangerous, and I don't want to be scraping you off the pavement come morning. We'll go somewhere after New Year's. I'll talk to your mum. Meanwhile, no more unsupervised climbing expeditions, please and thank you.

oh, my heart

Dinner tonight included actual vegetables. (Sorry, food is taking up rather a lot of my brain with Mrs Hudson gone. She'll be back tomorrow, and I'll start talking about... Well, I can't promise more interesting things, but certainly different things.) In the mean time, veg:

Spinach, cooked in our one pan, with butter and salt and pepper. I think anything tastes good with enough butter. There may also have been parmesan on top. It's still spinach, all right? It counts. Sherlock said it was good and then started singing "Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts." What are they teaching him at that school?

He also said, after dinner, that he would like a heart to dissect and since I was a doctor, couldn't I get him one from the hospital?

"A human one?"

"Of course a human one. They don't keep pigs at hospitals."

"A pig one would be easier to get hold of."

"Pigs are pigs." Cue withering look.

This is what comes of letting him read Gray's Anatomy.

(Could I get him a heart? Well, probably. Could talk to Mike. Is this a good idea? Perhaps a field trip to the mortuary rather than body parts at our flat? Am I completely loony tunes?)

just chemistry

Shopping accomplished, despite the Weather. Mycroft thinks the Dogs of War need coats. We did stop at the petshop to check out the possibilities, but somehow I can't see Phobos and Deimos in pink tartan. Any road, I don't know what they are, but they don't look like delicate hothouse flowers to me, despite Phobos' new habit of trying to get most of himself in my lap while I'm trying to write.

"Get off, you immense slobber fountain."
Phobos: *wounded look*
"...Look, go find your frog and I'll throw it for you, all right?"

John Watson, soft touch for prodigies and mythological animals. 

It iced. Which is to say, it rained, and the entire landscape instantly froze the rain into a sort of crystal coating over everything. London under aspic. Beautiful and treacherous. Actually, yeah, a lot like the aspic my grandmother used to do. (Sorry, Gram.)

We got, among other things, self-raising flour. Not that I intended to try the biscuits again, you understand, but once Mycroft read about our failure, he gave us both a look that ought to have petrified a few limbs at least, if not outright turned us to stone from shame.

"It's just chemistry," he said.

If my life were as satisfying as a sit-com, he would've failed utterly as well, and we would've all had a nice bonding moment followed by a pizza, but this is Mycroft we're talking about. Of course his bloody ginger nuts were perfect.

(I'm actually quite stupidly proud of him, despite it being "just chemistry".)

harry, ham

Harry invited herself over for New Year's Eve. I'm...shocked, frankly. Pleased as well, obviously. She'd have a hard time getting even mildly buzzed on what I keep in the flat, and she knows that. She said she might bring Clara as well (!). I told her as long as she didn't bring a bottle.

Sherlock likes her because she says exactly what she wants to, all the time, even when what she's saying isn't really appropriate for little ears. That joke about the nun and the asp--well, she's not the one who had to answer awkward questions for the next two days, is she? That one stumped even Mycroft.

Lestrade's coming as well, and Mrs Hudson will be back by then. She emailed me today to get me to pick up a ham, so I'll bundle the boys up in a few minutes and go and do that. [...go to do that.] (Mycroft, what did I say about editing my blog?) [You always leave the edits in though.] (Split infinitive! Ha!) It'll be a bit of an adventure as we had some Weather last night. Still, the Dogs of War demand their due. I'll let you know how it goes.

inevitable disaster

Biscuits sound so innocuous, don't they? Not like making cake. Making cake sounds loads more complicated. Or bread. Or even a proper meal with all major food groups appropriately represented.

You may have thought I was joking about the plastic on the frozen pizza. I wasn't. Maybe that was a hint to leave the whole area of cookery well enough alone. But:

Sherlock: JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. BISCUITS.
Me: ...It's five in the morning. Go back to bed.
Sherlock: BISCUITS. I FOUND A RECIPE, JOHN.
Me: Why did anyone think it was a good idea to teach you to read?

All right, I didn't say that last part.

But, several hours later, I was actually awake, and Mycroft was off with his maths tutor, Ms P, and Sherlock and I were on our own, and he had found a recipe...

Sherlock: I don't think flour is the same as self-raising flour.
Me: They're both flour. We haven't got self-raising, and I'm not going to the shops in this.
This: *continues to bucket down*
Me: It says rub the butter in with your fingertips.
Sherlock: I'll do it! No, I can do it myself!
Half the flour: *ends up on the floor*

You can picture him standing on the counter in bare feet and periodic table pyjamas, bent over that mixing bowl like Dr Frankenstein over his creature. Phobos and Deimos joined us. They cleaned up the flour quite handily. By rolling in it. We now have ghost dogs.

Anyhow, here's the recipe. Chocolate Ginger Nuts. Hope you have better luck than we did. In the end, we gave up and ate the chocolate bits. Perhaps Mrs Hudson can advise us when she gets back.

boxing day

("No, Sherlock, it's not called that because we have to clean up all the boxes.")

Lestrade's off to his sister's and Mrs Hudson to hers. A's gone as well. Seems she actually has family. Not sure why that surprises me. She's quite young; it'd be more of a surprise if her parents weren't still alive. Must be a large family, too, judging by the pile of presents the lesser minions helped her down to the taxi with. [...presents with which the lesser minions helped her...] (Mycroft. Stop editing my blog. I mean it. My blog, my grammar.)

I slept on the sofa last night, and the night before. Why, you ask? Because the boys' mum stayed over. Everyone's a bit cautious still, but there were hugs when she left this morning. Pre-clean-up, of course. I should've done it yesterday, but watching Phobos and Deimos bound through the wrapping paper like snow drifts was really too amusing.

They're so well behaved normally. I suppose everyone was on a bit of a Crimbo high. At one point, Mycroft wedged himself and the dogs into the box his (admittedly enormous) telescope came in and refused to come out until he was promised a trip to somewhere with stars. A promise he did not get of course; the government of this flat does not respond to blackmail. And there's only so long two enormous dogs and a 12 year old can stay in a box that size, especially when one of the dogs has gas. (I suspect Phobos. He ate something off the street on Christmas day. I don't know what it was and I don't want to, but it couldn't have sat well with him.)

I understand recipes are traditional on blogs (and pictures of cats, but we haven't got any of those), so here's what I'll be making for dinner tonight.

Frozen Pizza
1. Remove from box
2. Preheat oven to temp listed on box
3. Important! Remove plastic from pizza
4. Insert pizza into oven and cook for time listed on box
5. Remove, slice, and eat your portion in the kitchen before the boys catch sight of it

Dead simple, right? The last step can be a bit tricky, but it gets easier with practice. Happy Christmas, everyone!

not a creature was stirring

Lestrade was by to give me my present this morning. Guess what it was. Go on, guess. I'll wait.

lovecraftian

Here's a photo of the wallpaper, as promised. Doesn't it look as if it might come off the wall and move around at night? Or possibly release hallucinogenic gas and make you think you're being attacked by ducks until you light your hair on fire or jump out a window. If there were a Most Sinister Home Design award, this flat would win hands down. I still sort of love it. Maybe that means the gas is starting to take effect. 

We had a lovely time last night in the end. Lestrade somehow made an entire edible meal out of what was in the fridge (!!!) with all major food groups adequately represented. I believe the technical term for the dish is Pasta with Stuff In. I'm so glad the boys aren't picky eaters. When I was Sherlock's age I wouldn't eat anything green. Not even green sweets. The entire color was anathema to me until I was at least ten. I don't know how I survived. 

pine scented

We were meant to get a Christmas tree today. I had a plan. Drop Mycroft off with Ms P for his maths lesson. Take Sherlock to school. Clean the flat, top to bottom. My mum used to do that for the New Year, and somehow I think this is the last chance I'll get. She used to put out silver to catch the light of last year's moon and the new year's moon too, but I think trying that in London would be like walking around with a Please Mug Me sign taped to my back. Besides which, I haven't got any silver.

Well. Best laid plans and all that.

Sherlock disappeared from school today.

He's fine (I say, ruining the suspense), not kidnapped. No, he decided to run off to Harrods and go Christmas shopping with my bank card.

Just let me repeat that.

He left school, took the tube to Harrods by himself, stopped at a cash point machine some time in there, racked up about £500 of presents, and do you know how he got caught? He didn't have enough left for this one jumper, the last in that size, so he took it with him out of the store to get more cash. Planned to come back and pay for it, of course. And, of course, he got caught. He's very clever, but as I keep reminding people (including myself) he's only five.

The jumper was for me. He didn't get a damned thing for himself.

I made him return the lot and apologize (to me, not Harrods; he did pay for the stuff, after all, and, well, he was asleep on my shoulder when I took it all back). I think he understands why it was wrong, but it's bloody hard to tell with him sometimes.

I can't even say how relieved I was when he called me - from Lestrade's office - to say he was all right.

We did get the tree in the end, but you'll have to hear about that another time. I'm shattered. Oh, and there's a Detective Inspector asleep on my sofa.

wherever you go, there you are

Well, we've made it. I've never had such an organized move. If Mycroft doesn't make it in politics, he'll make a fortune organizing people till they beg for mercy. Holmes for Homes. Let Holmes Move Your Home? He'd come up with something better. And he'd think bigger anyway. Logistics, not house moving. Want to get your expedition from London to the Amazon Basin? Mycroft's your man. Or will be, in about 15 years.

I asked Herself for something not too flash, and I've got what I wanted in spades. You should see the wallpaper. I'll try to get a picture of it later. Right after I get a camera. (Harry, does your mobile do that?)

Sherlock made some sort of smoke bomb that nearly drove the movers off entirely. It was violet and smelled of pears. Overall, I think it could've been a lot worse.

Also, we've got the dogs.

All right. So, the serial killer I mentioned? He had dogs. I'm not completely sure how much of this I'm meant to write about in a public forum, but this was in the news: he had dogs. Two. Big, black, reasonably fearsome. Painted, as I think I mentioned, with glow-in-the-dark paint, and let out at nights to terrorize the countryside. And eat people.

Mycroft wanted them, and his mum got them for him. (Or two dogs that look quite like them? ONE CAN ONLY HOPE.)

Mycroft's named them Phobos and Deimos.

I hope no one's surprised by that. What else would he have named them?

They're currently asleep in the kitchen, taking up most of it.

Well. That's my life.