a collective noun of degus

It seems like forever since I posted last. I suppose five days is forever in internet terms...and that wasn't even me posting. Christmas was perfect, but busy. And logistically difficult, what with having to get the degus and their cage and all and then smuggle them into Mrs Hudson's flat and then keep Sherlock out of there until Christmas morning.

He's in and out of there two or three times a day normally, so it wasn't easy, but worth it in the end. His eyes got so wide, and he actually couldn't make a sound for almost a minute, just jumped up and down with glee.

This is Argon. Mercury hasn't held still long enough to be photographed yet.

my wings

Hi this is Sherlock, and these are my wings and also me playing at the school show with people watching. We don't really have spotlights but I drew them anyway and also the wings are smudgy because I was trying to use my white oil pencil to make them whiter but it didn't really work on white paper and I don't have not white paper. And the sequins aren't blue but I don't have silver and grey was stupid. Really they are white and silver.

tasteful

Lest you have nightmares about our flat and its smothering waves of tinsel, here's something tasteful L did with birds and branches and lights on top of a something or other in the kitchen (I'm not up on the names of freestanding kitchen furniture):

I had a dream last night about a lift that went every which way, further confused by all the rooms it was trying to get to also moving every which way, tipping surfaces, and lethal lift doors. I wouldn't exactly call it a nightmare, but all the rooms involved were decorated with tinsel... Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Sherlock said it sounded like fun when I told him about it. 

lights

Not ours. Much more impressive than ours, and brighter, no matter what L tries to tell you. Some sort of amazing installation at Harrods Selfridges:

And 'the biggest spiderweb ever' if you ask Sherlock:

It's barely possible they intended it to be a star, given that spiders aren't generally considered festive this time of year. Sherlock would like you to know that 'they probably almost definitely had LOTS of spiders in that stable.' I'm sure he's right.

I think L has pictures to show you of a few choice ornaments we bought, too. We had a lovely time, despite the crowds. Maybe partially because of the crowds. Wouldn't be Christmas without them, right?

And for next year...maybe this place. 

shiny and pine scented

The subject line describes our flat. The tree is up and draped with popcorn, lights, paper chains, ornaments, and more tinsel than should be legal. Mycroft and L flinch a tiny bit when they walk into the room, but it's their own fault for having taste.

Every tree on the lot was examined, and Sherlock actually wanted to go to another lot and see if they had a better one. No. It's a very nice tree, with regularly formed branches in approved tree-like fashion, and a good V at the top to wedge the comet into.

L has come up with the most impressive Christmas menu I've ever seen written down, let alone eaten, and seems not at all intimidated by producing that much food for 12 people.

Sherlock's wings are hanging over his bed so he could keep an eye on them while he went to sleep. Mycroft is upstairs with a book and two large dogs. The tree is all lit up, and L is making me tea. I don't see how anything could be better than it is right now. 

hello

This is Mycroft. A lot of you said welcome home, so thank you for that, and also for your support when I had that bit of trouble at school. We had to write essays as punishment, and I don't remember all of mine, but this is the beginning.

I've been told that hitting Mark was the wrong thing to do. In this case, most people seem to mean 'against the rules' rather than morally wrong. It was against the rules, which is convenient. There's no need to sort out morality, or decide who to punish, or whose penalty should be heavier. We both broke the rules. We both sit in detention and write essays. 


The other thing I've heard often in the past twenty-four hours is that 'violence is wrong'. In this case, I think people do mean morally wrong, rather than just against the rules. People repeat this without appearing to give it much thought; they treat it as a universal truth, as if no one could possibly disagree. 


People do disagree. Our government disagrees, or we wouldn't currently have soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq. We wouldn't have armed forces at all, because if violence is really wrong, always, in every case, then it's wrong to use it to defend yourself, too. 


I don't know if it's wrong or not. I think the issue is more complicated than that, and I wish people would stop pretending it's simple. 


I think that what I did was wrong, not because it was violent, but because I did it without thinking of the consequences. I don't mean the consequences to me, the detention and the essay I'm writing. I mean that what I wanted was for Mark to stop being horrible about people I love, and I don't think hitting him accomplished that, so it wasn't a very good idea. 

There was a lot more, because we were there for hours, but that was the main point. But I don't know what I could've done instead that would've been more effective. I've been thinking about it, and I still don't.

In a way, it did help. I've met a few other boys because of it who think what I did was right and brave and also 'really cool'. I didn't expect that. And a lot of people here said that it was good to stand up for your family, too, and that some things are worth fighting for.

I don't know if that's true or not. A lot of things are confusing right now. But even though it wasn't very effective, I don't think I'm sorry I hit him. 

christmas dinner

Last year, Christmas was pretty small. This year... L was joking when he said people might have to bring their own chairs, but I'm not sure they won't. Everyone I've asked so far has said yes, and I'm trying to think if there's anyone I've forgotten. L and I and the boys, Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hudson, Anthea and Harry, the on-duty members of the security team plus one who can't go home for Christmas. Someone might need to bring an extra table too. Maybe an extra kitchen.

I'm really looking forward to it. Christmases were always pretty quiet affairs when I was young, just Mum and Dad and Harry and I, at least two of us not speaking to each other, and one or more of us well and truly pickled before dinner. This was the sort of Christmas I wanted back then, with loads of people and ridiculous decorations and more food than anyone could possibly eat. We've got two out of three already.

i'm perfectly fine

Yes, I went to work, and I must not actually look like 'the undead' (thanks, L) because Sarah didn't send me home. Now I'm almost to Harrow to pick up Mycroft (and Anthea, dogs, half the world's supply of books) for the Christmas holidays.

We'll drop his things at home, go and fetch Sherlock, and then I might sit down. Forever. 

this is going to be weird

A little over a year ago, Mrs Holmes picked me up in a black car for the strangest job interview I've ever had. I keep putting off writing about it, and what happened after, because...well, I don't quite know how. The whole thing seems like a film, or a very odd dream.

She sent me a contract that night. I signed it. A car picked me up the next day and drove me to Devon, to Baskerville Hall. It's large. Really large. Composed mainly of stone, spookiness, and charming crenellation through which people can shoot arrows at you if they so choose. The staff turned out to meet me - Mrs Hudson, her husband, and Anthea, who was posing as a maid at the time.

Mycroft welcomed me, shook my hand, asked Mr Hudson to take my bag upstairs. Beginning a tradition, Sherlock kicked me sharply in the shin and ran off.

I worried, obviously. Five year olds shouldn't be allowed to run off into man-eating swamps. But my leg was a lot worse then than it is now; I used a cane all the time, and I didn't have a prayer of catching him. I had enough trouble with the stairs.

Mycroft and I had tea and an interesting conversation about people willingly giving up their privacy in exchange for the opportunity to vent to strangers all over the internet. At the time, I didn't think that applied to me at all...

*

Anyway. More another time, if I remember, or if you have questions.

In other news, I found out from his teacher today that Sherlock wants to boycott the school Christmas show because, shockingly, some of the children don't quite sing on key... This should be interesting. 

popcorn and paper chains

When we eventually get this Christmas tree, it will be so coated with paper chains and popcorn strings that there will be no room left on it for ornaments. Sherlock's been making the chains out of anything and everything he can find, from construction paper to magazines to pictures of different insects he's printed off the internet...and added glitter to. Glitter on everything.

There's unintentional glitter on the popcorn too. Maybe it'll keep the dogs away from it when they come home. It can't taste good. We had some trouble with the popcorn strings initially. I'd never made them before, and they're very easy to accidentally pull off the thread...or not accidentally, although Sherlock did mostly stick (in some cases literally) to the stuff in the bowl, since it had butter and salt added.

Also I almost set the kitchen on fire making it in the first place. But only almost. 

history

I imagine you've read or inferred most of this, but I'm hoping it'll get clearer in my head if I write it out.

I got a call from Mycroft's school a little before two. When I got there, Mycroft's housemaster talked to me for a while before they'd let me see him. I wasn't really listening at that point. They'd already said he 'wasn't badly hurt' which meant he was hurt, and... I might've been a little rude.

He and the other boy involved were in the headmaster's office, sitting as far apart from each other as they could get. Mycroft: black eye, bruised knuckles, cut on his cheek, not deep, probably from something on the ground. The other boy: bloody nose, split lip, likewise bruised knuckles. They were outside, between classes, when it happened. The other boy said something unpleasant about L and I. It escalated. Mycroft hit him.

Mycroft wouldn't tell me what he said. When I pushed it, he told me I didn't need to know. I think he was trying to protect me.

lestrade?

Can't get you by phone, I suspect you'll check this before anything else. Can you pick Sherlock up from school today? I have to go to Harrow. 

corner gas

That show I linked to yesterday and how I know it exists:

About two years ago, five Canadians and I accidentally spent Thanksgiving (Canadian version) at FOB Delaram. It used to be a Soviet base, and there's a tower they built that we spent a good part of the night in, instead of the beds that had been scrounged up for us. Why? Because someone had vodka, and where else do you drink vodka?

Things that had also been scrounged for my edification: pasta with cheese and gravy (chips were unavailable), small packets of fake maple syrup that got mixed with the vodka after we'd drunk enough to think that was a good idea (it wasn't), and fossilised nanaimo bars from someone's mum.  The pasta was actually not bad. I liked it better than poutine. You may all make horrified faces at me now.

And someone had Corner Gas on a USB drive. I have very hazy memories of watching most of series one that night, passing the USB drive from laptop to laptop as batteries surrendered under the onslaught of  Brent being hilarious, Wanda being frighteningly smart, and Hank being...Hank. It was quite an experience.

The next day they went on their way, and I went on to Bastion, and googled Corner Gas. It was conveniently on youtube, and a good thing too, because I don't think they ever made region 2 DVDs of it. There you go. Happy belated Thanksgiving, Canada. 

work and questions

Well, that's my two days at the surgery done. We'll see when she wants me next. Not for a while I'd imagine, or she would've said before I left. It was all right. Strange. Very... I don't know. Just very different from what I was used to, I suppose. I kept looking around and expecting to be somewhere else entirely.

L came for lunch today, or rather brought us lunch today - he brought a sandwich for Sarah as well, which was kind, and showed up on his bike looking rugged and manly and turning heads, as he does (and denies doing). He and Sarah seemed to get on well, which was nice. He insists she likes me, which... I don't know? Wasn't paying attention. If so, it doesn't seem to be making things awkward, so that's all right.

It's the last day of the month, and I still have quite a few unanswered questions. A lot of them are 'what's your favourite' or 'pick just one' sorts of question, which apparently I find really difficult. Here are some answers.

Random Anon Lurker asked about Americanisms or Canadianisms, and this isn't quite that, but it is the first thing I thought of when I read the question:

celebrity

RR wanted to know about any celebrity encounters I might've had, and Random Anon Lurker wanted teenage celebrity crushes (although that might've been meant just for L, but I'm answering anyway).

Last one first: Humphrey Bogart, Katherine Hepburn, Robin Sparkles (shut it), Angelina Jolie, DeForest Kelley...and I don't know if fictional characters count, but if they do, then Archie Goodwin and Lily Rowan, both from the Nero Wolfe mysteries. It's an odd collection, I know.

I don't know what else to say about the crushes - I certainly have no explanation for them - but if you have specific questions, you're welcome to ask.

Celebrity encounters... Well, there was one with someone you've never heard of, but for an Army surgeon, he was a celebrity. He'd been around forever, gone just about everywhere, awarded the George Cross for retrieving five injured soldiers from a mine field all on his own, nearly died of his wounds afterward. Basically, he was who I wanted to be when I grew up.

He was with us briefly in Kosovo, pre-haunted-mental-hospital. They'd sent him to do a report on medicine in modern warfare. That was about the time they were finally making adjustments in procedure for the fact that we were treating as many local civilian casualties as military - if not more.

He was very quiet. Barely there, really. It was funny, because the stories I'd heard about him made him seem like the sort of person who could fill up a room just by walking into it, if you know what I mean. He seemed very old to me at the time - in fact, I think he was about five years older than I am now. He watched everything, listened to everyone. I think I ended up telling him a lot more about myself than I meant to, almost certainly more than he wanted to hear.

I don't know if I'd call him kind, exactly, but he was very present. Mrs Holmes reminds me a bit of him actually, in that respect. I'm still honoured to have met him. 

cake and roller skates and birds

X and Innie both wanted to hear something about me and Harry growing up... Let's see.

There's the story I told Sherlock once, wherein I tried to scale our fridge to get the cake our mum had put up there for safe keeping. Harry was ostensibly watching me since our parents were out, but she was in the next room. I managed to fall and break my arm. She put me on her bike and rode all the way to the hospital, singing Folsom Prison Blues - a song which, yes, I liked even at six years old.

And before that... One of my first memories is of being maybe three or four and getting pushed off the swing by some older kids. Harry hit one of them in the stomach with her roller skates. She got in a huge amount of trouble for it, mostly because she refused to apologise to him. I still think it was pretty brave of her. She was only seven herself.

When I was seven and she was ten, we found this baby bird. It was just sitting in the middle of the road, no nest anywhere nearby that we could find. We took it home and hid it in my room. We had all these plans around taking care of it and what we'd do when it grew up, how we could train it to carry messages and spy on our evil neighbour. (Note: not actually evil, just didn't like us stealing his apples.)

my bug

Hi this is Sherlock. I drew a picture of my bug since I couldn't keep it but I think it would've liked to live inside with me all winter where it doesn't get cold and I could have fed it leaves and things because I think that's what it eats and then it could go back outside in the spring but John said no.

I looked up on the internet about people who collect bugs and butterflies and it said how to make a killing jar with a piece of cotton with alcohol on it but I didn't want to kill it, I just wanted to keep it. I have some dead bugs but they were already dead when I found them. Is that how the museum got all their bugs and butterflies? If there were bug detectives, the museum people would get in trouble for that.

John is watching the tennis and Lestrade is still at stupid work and I'm booooooorrrrreeeedddddddd. 

babysitting

The mostly mobile one has been chasing Sherlock around the sofa for over ten minutes. Neither of them are tired of it yet. Amazing. The baby is trying to eat L's mobile, his keys, his fingers, anything within range, basically.

I imagine we should take them to the park soon if we're going to. And then I really don't, but it seems to be going well so far. It's mostly just keeping one away from electrical outlets and changing nappies. Any suggestions? 

raising the dead

Trills wanted to know: It's a well recorded FACT that Medical students throw the best/most outrageous parties. So can we have a story from your uni days please! 


I think the best one was when we didn't take a dead body to the pub with us.

I can't remember whose idea it was (certainly not mine), but I do remember Ian getting the short straw.

When we moved the party from our flat to the pub, Ian was dressed in a hospital gown and painted a pale grey with the help of his girlfriend's make up and some food colouring. He had an arm slung round Will and Alan, and by the time we got through the pub door, they were carrying him.

We parked him at a table, got him a pint, which he didn't touch, and sat with him to watch the match.

He had a toe tag for verisimilitude, but Jamie had decided no one would notice it on his toe (especially since he'd insisted on wearing socks) and had hung it from his ear instead.

We got increasingly concerned looks from everyone in there, customers and staff. They all knew we were med students. Everyone knows what med students get up to with dead bodies.

Eventually someone called the police.

The PC who showed up saw us straight away, came over, started talking to us very seriously about respect for the dead the difference between a prank and a crime, and then Ian tapped him on the shoulder and offered him a pint. I have never seen someone jump so far straight back in one go, before or since.

In conclusion: it's a good thing he had a sense of humour, and in retrospect I'm very glad that wasn't how I met L!

in other news

At some point, someone asked to see our bookshelves. I suspect RR, but I didn't write it down, sorry. This is from Mycroft's room, though the Smyth Grammar is now at school with him. He says to tell you he has the Great Scott with him as well. I think it's some sort of classics joke.

In other news, I had a job interview this morning at a local surgery. It confirmed what you all already knew and what I suppose I knew as well - my schedule really doesn't allow for another job, even with all the free time I have in the day.

The woman who interviewed me - Sarah - was very nice about it, but in the end there are too many variables I can't work around. So, nothing regular, but she is having me in two days next week when one of her other doctors is off, so that's something. She says if it works out (by which I suppose she means I do a decent job and don't fall asleep at my desk?) it might be a semi-regular thing when she needs someone to fill in.

Not bad. 

the haunting

Sort of a prequel to last night's post. In writing about that I remembered that part of why I wanted to go outside in the first place was the building we were in. When I got there, we were in a tent, but in the middle of November they moved us into an abandoned mental hospital.

It was large, and made mainly of brick outside and cement inside. Lots of interior rooms with no windows, or windows that only looked out onto hallways, with green peeling paint and patches of green mould. Barred doors between sections. Marks on the walls.

It had occasional electricity and running water, so in that respect it was a step up. In just about every other way, it was a step so far down that it should've come with a warning sign and some red paint.

About a week after we moved in, one of the nurses told me he'd seen shadows moving on the walls, human-shaped shadows, when he was the only one in the room. I had a patient ask me if the medication she was on could make her hallucinate. She didn't want to say what she'd seen.

white christmas

There were a number of people who asked for army stories, and this isn't really one, but it's what your'e getting anyway.

In 1999, I spent Christmas in a field hospital in Kosovo. I was 28, and it was the furthest I'd even been from home. I'd requested the transfer there, got approval in June, and I was over there by October.

It was... Well, it was bad, obviously. It was worse than I'd thought it would be, worse than I could have imagined it being, because knowing what will happen and seeing it happen around you are completely different things.

But it was also what I'd wanted, in a lot of ways. We were understaffed, and I had no time to think about anything but the work in front of me, and it was necessary work - more cleaning out bullet wounds, less twenty prostate exams in a row followed by ingrown toenails. Mainly, I was happy, or too tired to feel much at all, which was just as good.

And then Christmas day came, and everything was dead quiet for once. I was sent off to get some more sleep, which I did not do. It was snowing like mad, and I went outside, and I remember standing there for... I don't know how long. A long time. At least an hour. The snow was up over my shoes by the time I moved.

It was so cold, and white, and quiet, after those first few months in the field hospital.

That's all. No story really. Just one of those moments I'll always remember. 

Not a real post

I cannot put a real post together today. My brain just isn't working properly. So, how was your day?

Also, if anyone cares to answer, a few posts ago when I was talking about being generally useless at talking about myself, a few of you said that I showed more of myself than I meant to. What did you mean by that, specifically? Or do I want to know?

impossibilities

So. Yesterday, one year ago, we all met Lestrade. It seems impossible that it's been that long and equally impossible that we haven't known him longer. Equally impossible that I haven't known Sherlock and Mycroft for much longer. Completely impossible that a year and a half ago I was still in Afghanistan.

Yesterday we went ice skating and to the Natural History Museum, wandered around, saw dinosaurs, got coffee and hot chocolate, had generally a marvelous day. I took L out for dinner, and afterwards he took me out dancing.

We weren't quite the oldest people there, but they were mainly in their twenties, generally sweaty, often shirtless. It was easy to imagine L there at that age. I wasn't sure I would like it (me and dancing...no) but it was actually a lot of fun. I have never been fond of being packed into crowds like that, that kind of heat and enforced intimacy with strangers and lack of an obvious exit route, but with L there it was...really nice. I didn't notice the rest of it so much, just him.

We got back...late. Later than I had planned. Poor Sally was asleep on the sofa. We definitely owe her baked goods of some sort. Probably more than one sort. She did say Sherlock wasn't much trouble though, which was a report we've previously only heard from Anthea, who would define a small bomb as 'not much trouble'. 

a difficult post to phrase politely

Anon wanted to know: When you've been with girlfriends is there anything you miss about men? And now you're with Greg is there anything you miss about women?

The short  answer is no. The slightly longer answer has to do with romance and why I've historically been pretty terrible at it.

In my early thirties I had a string of short-lived relationships with women - a few months each - and I came out of each of them not missing men exactly, but missing how much simpler things usually were with men. And I know (or assume) your question was referring to physical differences, but I never really cared about those much, it was all fine, all good.

The differences I saw were mental and emotional...and also they were nothing to do with the differences between men and women. They were about the differences in romantic relationships vs non-romantic.

But I didn't realise that for a long time, and in the back of my mind I think I blamed the women I was with for not being more like men. By which I meant wanting more of me than I was willing to give to anything except my job and my team.

And then I met Laura (the woman in Egypt, owner of Biscuit), who had no interest in me romantically, and that was great. And as a side effect, I became slightly less of an idiot.

Well. Maybe slightly less of an idiot. Because mainly it served to convince me that I wasn't fit for a romantic relationship at all. Maybe that was true at the time. Maybe not. I don't know really.

But in answer to your actual question instead of rambling about romance: no. I love the human body, I think it's amazing in just about every form, and there are so many more (and more important) differences - even just physical differences - from person to person than male vs female that I just don't think of it that way. I have occasionally missed someone's specific physical traits, but not not men or women in general.

home

At a tube station I go through pretty often - nice to see Harrow up there, makes me think of Mycroft. 

Pip wanted to know: What is your favorite indulgent treat? Something that you absolutely love but don't eat very often either because it's so bad for you or it's just too good to have very often.


Hmmm. Maybe Lestrade's pasta with X number of cheeses - I think it's meant to be quattro formagio or something, but it's not really four; it varies from three to seven. It's cheesy and delicious. There might be cream as well? Not sure.

Before I knew him and ate his pasta of many cheeses, it was probably the chocolate cake my mum used to make on very special occasions - older relative's birthdays and things like that. It was chocolate cake with chocolate chips in it and some kind of butterscotch frosting. Delicious.

I went to get Mycroft from school today - out on the tube, where I took the above picture, and back in Anthea's 4x4 with her, Mycroft, two large bags of things Mycroft's decided he doesn't need at school, and two even larger dogs.

Dropped Anthea off, took Mycroft and dogs to the park, where the dogs ran as if they'd been confined for a month, which I know they haven't been. At what age do enormous hounds of indeterminate lineage start to calm down?

Mycroft and I walked and talked for a while and then went to fetch Sherlock. The dogs got many hugs from Sherlock's classmates. I don't think they've seen them since Mycroft went to school. There was a lot of face licking and vaguely concerned look from some of the parents, whether about dog germs or their children getting eaten, I'm not sure.

And now, as L said in his post, everyone's here, and it's warm and cosy and generally perfect. One of those nights you wish could last forever.

stars and balls

X has once again kindly let me post her art with my bum in it.  At least this one has L's too! 

Calliope wanted to know: how about your favorite wintertime activity: snow angels, snowman building, decorating, making baked goods, etc.?


Eating the baked goods? Is that an option? Well. The decorations, maybe. I always liked doing the tree, even though Harry and I had some truly absurd (and loud) arguments over who got to hang which ornaments and who got to do the star. The favoured ornaments were the glass birds and the the hand-painted glass balls so we usually traded (after extended negotiations) two birds and a ball for the star-hanging rights.

Mum always put the lights on herself the night before, because she was (and is) convinced that none of us do them right. She stores them wrapped carefully around the cardboard tubes that wrapping paper comes on and lays them all out on the floor before she starts. We were generally not allowed past the threshold of the living room till she was done.

The tree was all we did in the way of decorating, and last year it was all we did here too, but I'd like at least a wreath this year as well, and I want to take the boys to pick out ornaments. I don't have any, and while their mum did find a small box of family ones, the tree was a little sparse. And they hadn't got to pick any of those, and they should have some say. L, do you have ornaments in any of those boxes you haven't unpacked?

non-answer

Nameless said: Given Lestrade's lovely post today, how about telling us about his most endearing quality?


And I've been thinking about it since she asked, without getting any closer to a real answer. Because it's everything. His kindness and love and warmth. His endless patience with the boys and with me and my baggage train of psychological issues.

How angry he gets - still, after all the years he's done this job - at the ways people hurt each other, how hard he works to fix what he can. How deeply he feels what he can't fix.

The ways he lets me know, literally every day, that he cares and wants me in his life. Everything.

And having said I can't pick... Maybe if I had to, it would be the way he doesn't ever give up, on his work, on me, on himself. Even when things are hard, or look hopeless, he's always willing to keep trying.

That seems like such a clumsy description, but it's the best I can do right now and I really wanted to post this tonight.

Someone give me easier questions for next time please.

irrational is relative

RR wanted to know: John--have you any irrational fears?


I thought of this after the discussion about Orwell's books on L's blog. I never read Animal Farm, but I did read 1984 when I was eleven and afterward I gained a fairly irrational fear of rats eating my face off. Not that, if it was about to happen, I wouldn't be justified in being completely terrified, but it's not exactly likely, is it? Given I don't live in a dystopia and I'm not trying to overthrow a totalitarian regime, I feel fairly safe from being abducted off the street and fed to rats. So it was a bit silly.

And actually when I picture it now (and I can picture it more accurately than I could then, unfortunately) I find it still leaves me a little queasy.

Also bees, sort of. I'm not phobic and I can cope with them with no outward signs of distress, but I dislike them a lot more than is justifiable considering all they can do is sting me a bit. But yeah, mainly rats eating my face off. Thanks, George Orwell.

Though I should say I've read others by him (without face eating) that I quite liked. Down and Out in Paris and London and Keep the Aspidistra Flying are two of my favourite books.

lord innuendo

Danger - You've got to write the next chapter of Greg the Florist. If Greg inherits a large manor house then I wouldn't complain.

L - Just remember, this is your fault.

When John came into work, he found the door locked, and the shop dark. He knocked anyway, and it was only a few seconds before Greg pulled it open in a jangle of bells and pulled him inside. His face was very serious.

"John. I have to tell you something."

"Are you firing me?"

"What? No!"

"Have you got a boyfriend?"

"I... Well, I hope I've got you. But. This is a little... Something's happened."

John tried not to let himself speculate further. "All right. Tell me."

how i got arrested in egypt, twice

Once was a case of mistaken identity. Someone who looked like me (by which I mean: was English, not a giant, and had sort of indeterminately coloured hair) had started a fight with a man who was selling chickens. I presume over the price, but that was never entirely clear. Anyway, he hurt the chicken seller pretty badly, got laid into by a couple of the chicken seller's friends, and then ran off.

Meanwhile, nearby, a friend of mine had lost her dog (chihuahua, named Biscuit). I was running after Biscuit. Biscuit was so small as to be pretty much invisible to the naked eye. The police saw a man fitting their suspect's description running away.

They shouted, and when I realised it was me they wanted, of course I stopped. I'd lost sight of Biscuit in the crowd by then anyway. Things were complicated by the fact that their suspect spoke Arabic and I didn't. They thought I was being difficult. I was completely confused.

They took me in, and I was there for about eight hours, even after the chicken seller came to have a look and said I was not the man in question.

Everything worked out in the end. They found the man who did it. Biscuit found her way home. I was released, albeit with some resentful looks for not being who they thought I was.

The second time I don't remember very well. I was pretty ill. I suspect the food at the hotel where I was staying. I'd gone out to get bottled water and something I could stomach, but it was all too bright, too loud, I was dizzy, there was vomiting. Not pretty. I was taken in for being (they thought) drunk and disgusting in public.

It was probably for the best. They realised their mistake pretty quickly and gave me water and crackers rather than throwing me out on the street, which was kind. By that evening I was all right to get back to the hotel on my own, and a few days later I was fine. 

everywhere

DW asked in the comments of L's post if I'd managed to hurt myself carrying him off to bed and I'm writing it down here so I can remember for the next time I have a similar brilliant idea. Answer: yes. Not badly, but yes. Shoulder: certainly better than this time last year, but (key point) not as good as it was ten years ago. Or even two. Good job, self.

Liz wanted to know: How about places you would like to go on holiday? Either to show the boys different areas of interest or just because you've always wanted to go!


Oh...everywhere? Italy, obviously, to meet L's family and see Venice and Florence and Rome and...well, everything. I think the boys would really like Japan, and then there's New York City of course, with its blog readers and cupcakes and so on.

I'd really like to see Pripyat (the town near Chernobyl) though obviously I wouldn't want to take the boys along for that. No matter how much Sherlock would probably enjoy it. I have no idea whether L would be interested or not.

Camping in Yellowstone Park would be amazing, and there's some massive national park in Alaska too (even though it's apparently full of bears and mosquitos) that I've seen pictures of and it looks so...wild. I know that's the point, but it's still impressive.

Let's see... Anywhere in France that isn't Paris. I'd go to Paris too, but I've been once already and I think the taxi drivers try to run you down on purpose.

I'd like the boys to see Egypt and the pyramids and all that and hopefully I could avoid being arrested again. Let's see... The Great Wall. Australia (all of it). The Amazon, mainly for Sherlock, since he's the only one of us excited about the concept of spiders bigger than your head instead of terrified sensibly cautious.

...Maybe you would've been better off asking where I don't want to go? This isn't a remotely realistic list, of course, but it's nice to think about.

montreal, two minutes

X wanted to know what I was doing in Canada. Fair enough.

It was for a medical conference, trauma medicine. They wanted me to come and talk about my experience in MERT (medical emergency response team; I looked for a wikipedia article, but there doesn't seem to be one), which I did. I suspect they picked me because I'd gone to school with one of the people organising it. I think she lives in Toronto now, but she was in Montreal then, and took me round to see the sights and insisted I try the bagels. And attempted to insist I try poutine. I...preferred the bagels.

I was only there for three days and was mainly dying of jet lag the entire time, but it was a beautiful city. I'd like to go back some day.

Someone asked if Sherlock managed to keep quiet for the two minutes of silence today. Mrs T says they all did, mostly. She explained it to them half an hour before hand and then again just before. Two minutes is a long time when you're that age.

Sherlock asked me about it after school, what the point of it was and how silence helped anyone. How remembering helped anyone if they were dead. Why there was a silence for people who died in war and not for people who died any other way. Didn't have an answer to that, really. Not one that both felt true to me and would withstand his cross-examination.

 I looked up the proclamation by George V so he could read it and found this as well:

The first stroke of eleven produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead, and the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped also, seeming to do it of their own volition. Someone took off his hat, and with a nervous hesitancy the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there an old soldier could be detected slipping unconsciously into the posture of 'attention'. An elderly woman, not far away, wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still ... The hush deepened. It had spread over the whole city and become so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain ... And the spirit of memory brooded over it all. (Manchester Guardian, 12 November 1919)

que sera sera

Innie wanted to know: What do you think the boys will be when they grow up (other than good men)?


I have no idea. Honestly. I think their main problem will be trying to decide and stick with something. My mum used to tell Harry and me we could be anything we wanted to if we put our minds to it, but that's the sort of thing mothers say; it wasn't really true. If your ambition's to be a world class surgeon or an astronaut or something, it's going to take more than most people have in them. Just a fact.

But Sherlock and Mycroft... I do honestly believe they could do anything they set their minds to. Mycroft has talked about working for the government. I'm not sure if he means politics or something like what his mum does. Sherlock has a new idea every day. I just hope they're happy in whatever they pick.

open

Nameless wanted to know: What impact do you think that blogging so openly about your life has had on you?

Blogging about what we do and where we go and so on...oddly, I don't think it's had much effect at all. Occasionally someone will mention the blog, and I think it's getting slightly wider play now than it used to, but I think L probably gets more fallout from it than I do. 

Apart from that, I'm not really sure how open I've been, to be honest. I mean, I do try, and I think I'm better than I used to be, but on the whole, this expressing one's emotions business...I'm not at all good at it. And I try a lot harder with L in person than I do on here. 

Even so, I think it's been good for me. It's certainly been easier than I expected, in a lot of ways. You hear a lot about the way people behave online and I thought I'd get a lot more criticism from people than I have. Instead, nearly every person who's commented here has been more kind and understanding than I had any reason to expect. Thank you. It makes things easier, a bit, especially this month when some of these entries have felt like slowly pulling out my own intestines. (No one should feel guilty about that, by the way. It's my own choice to do them.)

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that  I think it's good practice for being more open with L and the boys, and I really need the practice. It wasn't something I thought of as at all important up to now. Which, looking back on my life, explains a lot. 

coffee

First off, X drew the goat eating my trousers and kindly gave me permission to post it here:

It's pretty brilliant and I'm relieved it features the goat more prominently than my trousers. Thank you, X.

Mazarin wanted to know about my first date with L. I'm not quite sure what to count as the first one, but I suppose it's got to be the first where we got together, on our own, without the boys, specifically to drink coffee in an awkward fashion.

Just finding that much time took a while. Sherlock wasn't at school yet, and I hadn't found more than one of Mycroft's tutors. I had to get Mrs Hudson to watch them, and then I had to explain repeatedly to Sherlock why he couldn't come along and what the difference was between a date and just two people drinking coffee together.

It was a Sunday, I think, and we met at a place near NSY. The woman who took our order gave me a very dark look indeed. At the time I wondered if she thought I was going to steal the cutlery. She's warmed up somewhat since though, so maybe she was just worried I wasn't good enough for L.

We drank coffee. We talked about the boys and their mum, and the investigation that she'd basically made disappear into the ether. It was a little... I dunno. Slow, I suppose. Vaguely awkward pauses. Lots of smiling and not quite knowing what to say. I assume L was restraining himself from making dirty jokes, which must've been quite limiting, and I was trying not to... Well, put him off in any way.

I was a miserable bastard and I couldn't imagine why he'd want anything to do with me, and I was a miserable bastard with two young kids to take care of - not generally what most people are looking for. So I was probably trying too hard. Maybe we both were.

We were only there for about an hour, and I left feeling I should've done something differently, but he rang me up the next day to ask if I wanted to do it again. Of course I said yes. 

kids today

Roger Federer won the Basel tournament yesterday. He played Kei Nishikori in the final. Nishikori did really well, despite the score, never gave up even at the end. He's going to be a good player. Basel is Federer's home tournament. He used to be a ball boy there, and he buys the ball kids pizza after the final every year. That's the trophy in the bottom left, looking smaller than it is. For a relatively small tournament, it's a truly ridiculous size. 

A number of people have asked for war stories, so... 

letters home

Innie wanted to know: What made you decide to become a doctor and a soldier? How did you make that pairing work?


By the time I was 12 I was pretty sure I was going to be a doctor, because...well, just because. I don't think I ever thought seriously about doing anything else. Other than being an underwear model, obviously.

I also wanted to get far away from home, and I wanted adventure, and not to spend my life looking at ingrown toenails, which was our GP's gloomy prediction for my future when I mentioned what I wanted to be when I grew up.

The Army wasn't the first thing I thought of - I thought maybe a charity organisation of some sort - but I think it was always where I was going to end up.


My grandfather was in the RAMC, in World War II. He was killed in France when my father was quite young, but he wrote him letters the whole time he was in Europe. My father started reading them to me when I was...maybe two or three? So young that I can't remember a time when I hadn't heard them. I've probably still got most of them memorised just from hearing them so often.

Even so, when I started talking about the Army, both my parents thought it was a phase and I'd give it up when I learned more about it. They had a point, in a way. I obviously didn't have a clear grasp at 12 of what I'd be getting into. Grandfather didn't exactly sugar coat his stories, but even so.

But the more I learned, the more sure I was that it was the right thing for me. And it was. There was never a time when I had to question if what I was doing really mattered, and that's the best I could ask from any job.

fast track

Not a requested topic, but you're going to hear about my first bike riding lesson anyway. We went to Hendon, where Lestrade got his police training, and he convinced them to let us borrow their training track for a bit.

He went round a few times first, to take advantage of the lack of a speed limit show me how it was done. No wheelies, though. Mycroft's Housemaster clearly made an impression.

Then there was the lecture portion of the outing, with each point repeated several times and a Very Serious Expression. I'm relatively sure he was more worried about me than the bike. Probably.

And then I got to have a go.

It was brilliant. I want to go back. And then I want my own.

Maybe next time L will make fewer anxious and horrified faces. I wasn't going that fast. 

no one expects...

Desert Wanderer wanted to know: What about something you were unexpectedly good or bad at?

The first thing that comes to mind is shooting. Or, well, marksmanship, I suppose. Precisely hitting what I aim at over a long distance, at any rate, as opposed to most shooting in actual combat, which tends to be less about precision and more about suppression. 

I hadn't thought much about that aspect of being in the Army before I went to Sandhurst. I knew I was going to be in the Army, of course, and I was in the RAMC medical cadetship programme, but medical school didn't leave a lot of room for thinking about anything but medical school, and my F1 and F2 years even less so. I suppose I thought I'd be perfectly adequate at it, but I didn't expect it to be... Fun is the wrong word. Satisfying, maybe. 

It's a difficult physical skill, and, while the Army teaches you a lot of difficult physical skills, most of them don't require that much mental focus. I'd say it's more like surgery, but it's not really like that either. It's its own thing. 

And, of course, it's a skill I've very seldom had to use off the target range. That probably makes a big difference in my attitude toward it .

Walk

Not today's official post, just a picture of my mum's walk. Found it last night when I should have been sleeping.

autumn

Small Hobbit wanted something about autumn...

When I was fifteen or sixteen, there was this massive storm a few days before Bonfire Night - high winds, rain pounding at the windows, loads of damage. Entire trees went down. We heard one go with a crack you could heard over the thunder.

We went to Bonfire Night on Hampstead Heath, and they had all the debris from the storm piled up and fenced off, and... I feel this must've grown in my mind to be bigger than it really was, but I'll tell it like I remember it. The piles were higher than houses, so long they faded off into the dark on either side.

They were already burning when we got there. It was a chilly night, and most people had set up near the fire for warmth to wait for the fireworks. Mum and Dad and Harry did too. Harry and I wandered off pretty quickly after that, in opposite directions.

leveled

Thanks to everyone who left me blog topic suggestions so I'm not left flailing around for something to write about this month. Please feel free to leave more here, or on the previous post with the rest of them.

L's question, to start with...


So, what's the thing you've made that you're most proud of, Danger?


I think this caught me because I can't recall actually making much in my life, beyond, recently, dinner and brownies. There were a few group projects in the Army that I was involved in, but that was everyone making whatever it was, not just me.

day one

All right, first off, I never actually said I'd blog every day for November; I said maybe. Maybe! Don't believe everything Lestrade tells you. And don't google it either. Anyhow. With no commitment at all to doing the rest of the month, I suppose I could start by telling you about Sunday and the pond.

We started, as L said, with a big muddy hole, which everyone under ten, including the dogs, used as an excuse to get absolutely filthy. Several people over the age of ten got just as filthy inadvertently. The slope down is steeper than it looks and surprisingly slippery when wet. Sherlock painted his face with stripes of mud, and then he painted the dogs.

The liner went pretty well once the dogs were convinced to get out from under it. Phobos does that with the sheets sometimes when I'm making the bed. Deimos usually has more dignity but not, apparently, when covered in mud.

morning's at seven

It's nearly seven, and L is still asleep. I'm shocked and mildly concerned. Or I would be if he hadn't been up chatting with you lot at three in the morning. Still. Seven. That's like ten for normal people.

Sherlock wanted to wake him up so they could make coffee together as usual. Sweet, but no. He and Mycroft are making breakfast instead. Mycroft's being quiet so as not to wake L, and Sherlock's being noisy very quietly, so as to wake him if at all possible and still not get in trouble for it.

If he manages to sleep through this, he might get breakfast in bed, which I assume will be a lifetime first for him.

We're digging more of the pond today. I don't think we'll finish, but maybe we can at least finish the hole if we've got more help. Should be a fun day. 

the short arm of the law

Since L's super gave Sherlock (and Mycroft, but Sherlock is the one bent on abusing it) that NSY card, he's been treating it like he did the birthday boy badge Mrs Hudson gave him, i.e. a symbol to bend the rest of the world to his will.

Uses to which he has attempted to put it today:

1. Arresting the girl who got to the swing he wanted before he did.

2. Arresting the tree that dropped an acorn on his head.

3. Threatening the man at the fish and chips shop with dire legal consequences if he shorted him on chips.

I put a stop to the first one, and the tree was not impressed, but he got what he wanted out of the third encounter, which was to tell someone new the story of how he got the card.

I asked Mycroft if he planned to tell anyone at school what happened. He said no one would believe him, and he's probably right. 

well, that was exciting

I imagine you've seen Sherlock's post. Perhaps a...wider perspective is in order. So. Let's recap.

We were having a very nice lunch, the four of us, with sandwiches and coffee and crisps and other civilised things. There would've been cake as well, except that, before we got that far, Lestrade spotted someone at another table, someone they've been looking for.

His plan was to step out and phone for backup, which was a good plan. He told me about it, quietly, but not quietly enough apparently (or possibly he can lip read?), because the next thing we knew, Sherlock was on his feet, pointing at the man in question, and shouting, "MURDERER!"

Everyone froze for a second, I suppose because even if you've killed someone it's not ofter you get accused by a six year old, and then the suspect took off, L took off after him, and I tried to prevent Sherlock running after both of them...for about ten seconds. And then the man's friends decided they'd join in.

L had, as Sherlock said, tackled the suspect, and didn't need the man's mates piling on top of them, so I had to do something about them, and Mycroft, bless him, grabbed Sherlock and kept him from running over to help. And by help, I mean kick them with his pointy little feet.

Someone called the police, and there was some mild confusion at first, but L had his warrant card of course, so it was all sorted out in the end.

We're all fine, mainly. Sherlock's uninjured, I suspect Mycroft has some bruises from restraining him, and L bashed his elbow pretty hard on the floor jumping the guy and has assorted bruises and scrapes but nothing serious.

I'll let Sherlock sum up:

"BUT NOW HE'S LOCKED UP AND HE CAN'T MURDER MORE PEOPLE AND THAT'S GOOD AND WE DID THAT AND IT WAS FUN."

pond digging

A surprising number of people showed up to ogle Lestrade help us dig this morning. Six mothers, four fathers, one confused Swedish au pair, plus L and I, Sherlock and Mycroft, and an assortment of everyone's children, who ranged in age from Barely Walking to Old Enough to Use a Shovel. The dogs of war came too, and I think they must have some herding dog in their dubious lineage; they're not much at digging where we want them to dig, but they're pretty good at keeping the little ones out of trouble.

I'm pleased to report that no one turned up in high heels or a suit and tie. I did have my doubts. No one except L and the Landscaper had much idea what we were doing, but fortunately digging is not a complicated or mentally strenuous activity (my sergeant in basic training would've said, "If it was, we'd get real soldiers to do it!" - he said this about nearly everything we did), and L supervised the construction of the raised beds.

cabbages and condoms

No, really. Cabbages and Condoms. It's a restaurant in Bangkok, apparently. I was googling cabbage, thank you very much.

Sorry about yesterday. I tend to assume no one reads my tags but me. Which isn't really an excuse, since it's absurd to...express myself through tags anyway.

Do you see how absurd that sentence was? Even more than I'd feared, sadly.

Anyhow. If I'm going to say something, I ought to just say it, but I suppose I'm not, since I don't know what to say. I'm just restless. At loose ends. Not sure what to do with myself. It's nothing anyone should worry about.

Mycroft's home today, and we get to keep him until next Sunday, so that'll be nice. I've really missed him, and I never know how much of that to say when he phones. Don't want to accidentally make him feel guilty for going away to school, obviously. I'm probably silly for worrying about it - he's more sensible than that.

In theory, we're digging the pond at Sherlock's school next week, possibly with carnivorous plants, if anywhere around here sells them. No tiger pits though. Or quicksand. Or a selection of insects from the Amazon.

Oh, and this is my 203rd post. 200 was the drunken one. I'm glad, actually, even if it didn't make a lot of sense. It was, as L said, from the heart. 

leather daddy

As in the father of one of Sherlock's classmates, wearing leather, because he showed up on his bike. Nice man. He pulled up this morning to drop his son off and recognised and we chatted a bit. I think we met him briefly at Sherlock's sports day a few months ago, but the bike is new (and I suspect inspired by Lestrade's). Who knows, maybe Mrs T will be next...

I've been walking since I dropped Sherlock off, more or less. Stopping in parks and cafes and so on. Might just stay out until it's time to pick him up. L - you want to get lunch at any point? 

a brief note of thanks

Yesterday, L and Sherlock made:

- biscuits
- cupcakes (pink, chocolate, and vanilla)
- a small cake with the leftover batter from the cupcakes
- fudge (also in pink, chocolate, and vanilla)

As well as three meals. I made tea and icing for the cupcakes.

Thanks, Mrs H. As usual, you've given us just what we needed most. And I hope you like pink cupcakes, because Sherlock's valiantly refrained from eating the last one in order to give it to you.

No, I don't know what flavour pink is. 

champagne

This is reatlyy great you know, good champagne and Lestrade and boxers and all. Especially Lestrade. Try to tell him how much i love him but I think it comes outwrtong maybe, or not enough, or something. Anyway it's alot. I mean, singing in mpublic and ridiculouls storeies and everything. just everything. Yeah. It's important.

And he's got pretty eyelashes. Going to sleep now. 

cocooned

It's not really necessary to get out of bed today, right? At least not until lunch time?

Our bed at home isn't bad, but this one's much superior, besides being warm and full of Lestrade and on the correct side of a locked door. I hadn't realised it was a luxury not to be jumped on by someone with small pointy elbows first thing in the morning, but it definitely is. Which doesn't stop me missing him, of course, but there you are. Human beings are contrary like that.

Hi, Sherlock. Hope you're having too much fun with your mum to be reading this. It sounded like she had some good plans for you.

Hi, Mycroft. I hope school's going well still. Maybe we can come and visit some weekend soon? We miss you.

Right, going back to sleep until L wakes up. 

visiting

Mrs Holmes told me a few days ago that, when L and I went to Bath, she'd take Sherlock to stay with her. It's a good thing all round, since Mrs Hudson finds him exhausting after more than a few hours, and with Anthea not here to help, it's really not fair to ask it of her - not that it was particularly fair before, since Anthea's security and it was never her job to make sure he brushed his teeth and went to bed on time.

Sherlock wants to bring his art things and his chemistry set and another peculiar fish to show her the skeleton and 'a real suitcase with wheels to take it all in' and his bike, and and and. The list grows ever longer.

I'm hoping I'll get to drop him off, as I've never seen her house before, not even from the street. I don't even know the address. That's strange, I suppose. Hadn't really thought about it until now.

Lestrade's doing much better. Still coughing a bit, but his breathing sounds a lot better. Sherlock looked quite disappointed when he listened with the stethoscope this morning and said they sounded almost normal. We did our best to convince him this was a good thing... 

frog ponds and e-readers

Right, clearly my next poll should be on e-readers! Apparently they're like opera; either you love them or hate them.

Mrs T is glad the frog pond project is finally getting somewhere. If nothing else, she now has a focus for all her little baby genius to concentrate on apart from actual schoolwork, something that will get them outside and likely running around madly as they stick sticks in the ground and wind string around them and create an impassable spiderweb like Sherlock did in our bedroom that time.

It will be the most impressive pond ever, and I can't wait to see everyone's drawings of it. I imagine Sherlock's rendering will have man eating plants and traps for the unwary.

Sherlock and I had lunch with L today, or L had lunch, and Sherlock had an after school snack, and I had...well, cake. This has got to stop, honestly. (L, are we running when you get home?) Sherlock is now in proud possession of a very large measuring tape from Scotland Yard, which he carried home clutched to his chest, talking about the pond the whole time.

He's just asked me if it can have piranas...and carnivorous plants. 

uncharted

Dramatic clouds that have nothing to do with this post: 

Sherlock's been amazingly reasonable about not getting degus for his birthday, after the initial shock. I think Mrs T had a talk with him, which made it a lot easier for me to have a talk with him, about why we're a bit concerned he might end up treating his degus like he treats his colored pencils.

Of course he said he wouldn't, and that he'd take care of them and clean their cage and all, and I have no doubt he means it, just like every child who wants a puppy really means it when they say they'll walk it every day, 'yes, I swear, even if it's raining or really hot out or my favourite programme is on!' My parents didn't really buy it from Harry, but she got the dog anyway.

Last night we did a chart of chores he'd to do without being reminded. One of them is walking Mrs Turner's dog. I'll have to go with him for that one, of course, but it's his job to remind me. We'll see how it goes. 

low tide

We went away for the weekend to...a fort.

as requested

One year today, I let Dr E bully me into starting this blog, mainly because it was easier than doing anything else she wanted me to do, like discuss my feelings or get on with my life.

...It seems to have worked unexpectedly well. Good job, Dr E. 

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

Hello it's Sherlock again, I'm posting from John's phone because I'm BORED and stuck in stupid traffic and no one will tell me what my surprise is. School was fun and I guess I'm glad I went because Mrs T brought in cake and Mendia and Peter even gave me presents.

One was this massive dead bug she found which was really brilliant and I'm going to dry it out and pin it to a card like the bugs in the museum, and Peter's was a water pistol, but Mrs T said I couldn't fill it up until I got home and I'm not home yet because John and I never went there after school, we walked around and got a snack and went to the park. He said I was bothering the ducks, but I only wanted to see their feathers better to see how the water slides off them.

And after my surprise we're going to have pizza and liquid nitrogen ice cream and it will be amazing. I hope we get ice cream and then pizza because I don't want to be too full of pizza for ice cream. 

my favorite tag

Sherlock and I and some rather crumbly shortbread went to fetch L from the airport yesterday. Sherlock, as you've all heard, launched himself at him like a flying squirrel or some sort of flaily-limbed projectile, and L caught him just in time.

We met Hannah briefly before her grandmother took her off home. She seemed...well, tired, mainly. If Sherlock looked like that, I'd be sending him to bed right after dinner, but I don't imagine it'll be that easy for her. I'm glad she's got her grandmother with her now.

Today was pancakes and getting to see Mycroft again for the first time in 'literally forever' according to Sherlock and kites and frisbees and dogs. It was everything back to normal for a day, and it was wonderful fun. Anthea unbent far enough to have ice cream with us (strawberry for her, you can probably guess everyone else's choices by now) and tell us that Mycroft's a lot less trouble than we are. Ha. I think we all knew that.

karma and cheese

To the at least one of my ex-girlfriends who reads this...sorry about that whole going off to war thing and forgetting to email you for weeks at a time. Lestrade has the defense of probably being out of mobile reception range and I usually didn't.

Sherlock and I have been to the park and then home to make sort-of cheese straws out of this frozen pastry stuff from Tesco, salt, dried oregano, and grated parmesan. It's our contribution to the dinner Mrs Hudson's making. I think I might've said we could get ice cream afterward.

My mum called a bit ago, and Sherlock answered the phone, so they've met now, in a manner of speaking. Telephonically. The first thing she said after Sherlock handed me the phone was, 'I thought you were exaggerating!'

Ha. No. I was not exaggerating. 

questions regarding truffles

It's apparently National Cupcake Week, by the way. Just so you know.

Lestrade has been unreachable all day, which I hope means some movement on the case and not that he's been eaten by enormous slavering Italian hounds.

He and Sherlock were discussing truffles last night on the phone. Sherlock was confused at the thought that one found truffles underground with the aid of dogs. He was thinking of the chocolate sort of course, and has not quite yet fully grasped that in addition to being delicious chocolate blobs (filled with ganache, his new favorite word), they are also a form of rather smelly fungus. He has many questions. I do not have many answers.

He also thinks the dogs of war should be trained in truffle hunting, as this would keep us all in ice cream money for the foreseeable future.

In Mycroft news, he says to tell you all he's doing 'all right'. I'm hoping for a slightly fuller report at the weekend. 

home alone

I'm not actually (see title), because Sherlock's home from school now of course, but I have spent a lot of time alone since Lestrade left for Italy. It's odd. The Army doesn't generally leave you a lot of time to yourself, and before that I always had flatmates. On leave I usually went home or to stay with the current girlfriend. I've been trying to think, but I'm not sure I've ever properly lived alone, except for those few months between getting out of hospital and moving into Baskerville Hall with the boys. That seems like it can't be right, but I can't remember more than a few weeks at a time on my own before that. It's...really quiet.

Anyway, just random thoughts. Time for dinner. I think we're having takeaway of some sort. 

r. hero, p. taker

Right, I think I said I'd talk about Sherlock's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, although really it was only from about three in the afternoon on. Mrs T had him for the first part, and I'm surprised she didn't call me sooner.

It wasn't so much the yelling, kicking, loudly objecting to life, the universe, and everything. That's not all that uncommon for him. It was the duration. Usually there's a short period of that followed by crying, sniffling, and hugs, but it was like he couldn't get past that this time.

viking funeral

I ended up keeping Sherlock home from school today. He was tired and cranky and on edge and completely prepared to wind himself back up into a tiny maelstrom of fury, and I didn't want to put Mrs T through that again.

Seems to have the been the right choice. He was so shocked when I said he didn't have to go that it reset his whole attitude. We went for a walk instead. A very long walk that included croissants for breakfast, several parks, a shop for more drawing paper, a kite, lunch, and a paper boat launch.

Kira suggested yesterday he draw out his feelings and then set them adrift/alight, and he was so taken with the idea of setting something on fire... Well. We found a small pond surrounded by damp, non-flammable foliage, folded the paper up into a boat, and lit it up. I'd meant to fish out the soggy remains, but it drifted out of reach, and actually burned pretty thoroughly as well.

So, a lot of walking, minor literring, and we've only just got home.

Some people asked what worked in the end yesterday and I'll try to write more about that later. Just too tired right now. 

better and better

I was just back from seeing L off at the airport when Sherlock's teacher rang to ask me to come and pick him up. He was shouting, wouldn't sit still, insulting the other kids, not listening to a word she said. She couldn't have him there with that kind of behavior, it wasn't fair to everyone else. And of course she's right.

I went to pick him up and found him standing on a desk singing Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines over and over. The perils of letting young children listen to Cabin Pressure. Well, I say singing. More sort of shouting the lyrics. Might've been funny if he'd looked like he was enjoying it, but honestly he looked like he was barely holding himself together.

We're home now. He's alternating between sticking to my side like a limpet and running off to kick walls and cause unexpected havoc. I know he's miserable and scared, and I know why. I just wish I knew what to do. I'm about five minutes from phoning my mum to see if she has any ideas. 

dammit

Lestrade's work called earlier, wanting him to come in for some unspecified purpose. It turns out the purpose was to tell him he's being sent to Italy on a kidnapping and murder case. Again, for an unspecified period of time. Until they catch the bastard, basically. Lestrade doesn't want to go, and we don't want him to, obviously, but he's not being given a choice.

Sherlock very nearly experienced nuclear meltdown when Lestrade had to go back to work, so you can imagine how he's reacted to this news. Or maybe you can't. For you sake, I hope you can't. There was a lot of shouting and shrieking and angry, frustrated tears when it turned out, once again, that his temper couldn't change the course of the world. I wish it could, this time. It's really not fair, not today, and yeah, life isn't fair, but I don't think the universe really needed to drive that point home quite so hard.

I called Mycroft to tell him so he didn't read it on the blog first. You'd think this flat was twice the size it is for how empty it feels without him.

family portrait

Hello. It's Mycroft again. I wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been leaving comments wishing me well. It's really very kind of you all. I'm going to read them again when I get to school. I don't know how anyone went off to school without computers and email and Skype; it must've been dreadful.

Here is the picture Sherlock drew for me, or at least drew and eventually decided to give me. He got really angry that he didn't have the right colour pencils for anyone's skin, or for John's jumper, or Mummy's hair. But I think it looks like us anyway.

Thank you, Sherlock. I like it a lot, and it's better than a photograph because Anthea won't let us take pictures of her, and the dogs won't hold still.

I'm going to try to sleep now. 

incomprehensible tennis blather

It's the US Open, though I've managed to miss a lot of it. I saw Federer play today, and I've no idea what was going on with some of those shots he was hitting - not just into the net, but completely wild. Really appalling. He pulled it together to win anyway.

Dolgopolov, whom I've mentioned once before, beat Karlovic, after a bit of a struggle. Pretty good match. As is the one I'm watching now - Tsonga vs Verdasco. Verdasco just hit it so hard it looked as if it knocked Tsonga right over when it his his racquet, though I imagine he was off balance already. Tsonga just won the second set though, and I expect he'll win the match. That's good, it'll make things more interesting later on.

Tomorrow...Andy Murray is playing Feliciano Lopez. Who will Judy Murray be pulling for I wonder?

Anyhow. Day out tomorrow, Sherlock back to school Monday, Mycroft off to Harrow Tuesday. It'll be...strange. 

non-newtonian disaster

What was it you all said about the incident with Sherlock, the dogs, the jam, and feathers not being the last?

Oh, yes. That it would inevitably happen again. And I said, I believe, that as long as it wasn't so sticky I could cope.

There was no jam this time, but I'm not sure it was significantly less sticky.

the honest sausage

We went to get Mycroft's school things today, as planned. Anthea drove, Mrs H and Mycroft chatted on the way, and I tried to deflect Sherlock's attempts to ask her if we could have ice cream every five minutes. At the shop, Mrs H handled everything while I hung back and attempted to look as if I hadn't put on a ridiculously posh accent last time I was there. I'm pretty sure he recognised me anyway, but maybe he looks at everyone like that.

We got...everything. And picked up the laundry labels, which we ordered a while back. Mrs H said she could get someone else to sew them on, and I declined because...I'm an idiot? Sort of regretting it now, but not entirely.

like a very small boss

Mycroft's out with the dogs, Sherlock's drawing, and I think L's seriously considering a trip to the Yard to fetch more paperwork. Carla and Mycroft hugged each other goodbye, which was very sweet; Mycroft is not generally a hugger. Sherlock gave Paul a sheet of paper with notes on...something. If it was a stink bomb, I'm very very sorry, Nicky.

I'm going to Tesco soon, because we have literally nothing in the fridge except condiments, and even Lestrade can't make a meal out of jam, mustard, and siracha. First, the substance of what Sherlock said to L's mum. L said he didn't mind if I shared it.

It started with Nicky explaining to Paul and Carla that their grandmother wasn't feeling very well, to which Sherlock's response was, "She smells like alcohol. Lestrade said if you drink alcohol a lot it makes you sick and Harry said it makes you throw up, is she going to throw up?"

off again

Writing this from bed while L delivers his paperwork back to the Yard, though I may end up posting it later if he's back soon. Mycroft's still asleep. Pretty sure he was up till all hours playing with the new computer. Sherlock woke up when L left, got in bed with me, and fell back asleep. He's a very small lump under the covers. I suspect L will sleep most of the way to Nicky's. It's going to be a sleepy day.

It'll be lovely to see Nicky and everyone again and to meet L's mum. Speaking of which - thanks, Harry, for making meeting our family sound so dire in that comment last night. I'm sure it won't be that bad.

Hm. What else. Oh, corset beat Dorset - not really surprised, given how enthusiastic some of you seem to be about corsets. I'm having a hard time thinking up the next poll. Any ideas? General themes? Also, sorry I haven't been answering comments so much lately, I'll try to do better once this little bit of madness is over. 

official

So, to sum up: Lestrade's moving in with us, officially, and letting out his flat, which is wonderful, and I get what I suspect is a really stupid grin whenever I think about it.

We had a very nice holiday, full of sand and sea and stars, but mainly, I've discovered in doing the wash today, sand. Phobos and Deimos keep looking mournfully at Mycroft, as if to ask why he moved the sea and all those convenient strangers they could terrify into giving them bits of sandwich.

Mycroft's off to school on the 6th, which is suddenly very very soon, so we're starting to get organised for that. His mum sent him the new computer he wanted. Here's a picture with a tea mug for scale:

head on

I never thought I was over the nightmares. Just thought I might be able to depend on my subconscious to save the screaming ones for home. Where I have...walls and things. And there aren't other campers quite nearby to wake up and require an explanation of who's just been bloodily murdered.

No, no, nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. Just me and my permanently buggered psyche.

Everyone was very kind, of course. My three in particular. Sherlock made sure I had Spider, and Mycroft offered me one of his dogs, and Lestrade was...Lestrade. Solid and reassuring and doing his best to look be calm, which I imagine was fairly difficult, given how he'd been woken up.

I ought to be back in the tent with him now. I will be soon. Just needed some air. And apparently to unload on the internet re: current utter self loathing. But it's actually really chilly and I'm not wearing shoes, so. Off I go. 

postcards from the edge (of dorset)

Swimming was freezing and wonderful, both. Had to haul Sherlock out eventually or he would've stayed in till he turned blue. He and Mycroft are looking for wildlife now. I'm hoping Mycroft's sense of self preservation will make him stop Sherlock from loading his pockets with whatever they find, since it'll be in their part of the tent until we leave.

The dogs love it. They may abandon us and stay here to swim (they don't seem to notice the cold) and run and beg strangers for bits of their picnic lunches. They're usually far too well mannered to bother strangers at home, but they seem to know we're on holiday, so all bets are off. Mycroft kept having to call them back and apologize. Deimos in particular seems to forget he's actually rather large and threatening even when he wags his tail and tries to sit in people's laps. Maybe especially then.

Heading back for dinner soon. It's early, but there's something about the sheer volume of fresh air that really brings on an appetite. 

in trouble again

I'll start with the bad news - Lestrade's flat was broken into tonight. They took about what you'd expect them to take, electronics and so on. The place is a mess, things tossed about, but not too bad apart from that. We sat around and ate takeaway while it was dusted extremely thoroughly for fingerprints, and now we're all home again. L's asleep already, and the boys are now too.

Going back one day...as Lestrade said, we won the match, had a great time afterward in the pub, right up until it was time to go when Sherlock decided it would be a great idea to throw a fit over whether he got to sleep in the fort or not. Which was...

ft. zinderpillow

L's still asleep. In a last ditch effort to keep Sherlock from waking him, I suggested we build a pillow fort. Sherlock needed the concept explained to him, and then he got this look of wonder on his face and I knew I was in trouble.

An hour later, all the furniture is pushed round to serve as walls, every pillow in the flat is employed as either floor or interior dividing walls except the ones L is currently sleeping on, and all manner of blankets, sleeping bags, rugs, things... Lots of things. Everything, possibly. It's like a tornado went through a soft furnishings shop and dumped it all here.

Only it was a very careful tornado and seems to have laid everything out in a maze. I know Sherlock and Mycroft are in here with me somewhere. But where? 

practice makes...embarrassment

Rugby practice went all right. On the whole. I'll just quote Lestrade to start with:

Picture the scene - 20 odd cops, practising rugby...

Sherlock swinging around, holding hands with Sal, wearing shorts, t shirt...and his wings. And in a quiet moment he chooses to shout 'when are you all going to KISS, like John and Lestrade do when they play with each other in the park??'

Most of the time I don't think twice about the things he says and it takes L to remind me that it would really be better if he didn't say a lot of them quite so loudly and in public. This one...I was fortunate to have a coating of mud that probably disguised the colours I was turning. Except for the tips of my ears, Mycroft informed me. Thanks, Mycroft. 

L was, of course, also covered in mud, but it looked good on him. (Wait, he'll now accuse me of harbouring secret mud wrestling desires.) 

Anyway, I'm glad, in a way, because it was odd not having anyone but Sally know we were together, and they certainly do now. Now I suspect they're wondering where L was hiding Mycroft and Sherlock all those years. And, according to one conversation I overheard, if Sherlock is a boy or a girl. 

I was going to say more but I forget what it was and also L's both commented and texted to tell me to go to sleep, so I'll give it another go. I have Alice the Spider to keep me company of course, but it's not quite the same. 

waiting

Lestrade's out in the madness that's currently Croydon. The boys were asleep before he left. Small blessings. I'm not, obviously. Nor likely to be. He said to call if I was worried, which is clearly absurd since I'd be calling every five minutes.

I don't know. There's nothing else to say really. I suppose I should at least try to sleep. Watching the news footage certainly isn't doing any good. 

malmaison

Just a short post before we leave, with some pictures.

This is where we stayed. It used to be a prison and does still look like one from the outside, but it's much nicer inside now, as the pictures on their site show and mine mostly don't. However, here is the shower, which is very nice indeed: