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:

birthday dinner

Happy birthday, Gregory Martin Finchley Lestrade. I love you, and I'm so lucky to have met you.

Even if you did think I was a serial killer at the time.

rugby

All right, so...I still like it, but rugby at 40 is significantly different than rugby at 25, which is the last time I played with any kind of regularity. Still, with Sally in charge, I feel like we'll have a decent chance. Definitely need to be more regular with the running though. And possibly other things.

...But not until Sunday, because right now I feel like I've been stepped on by something large. I think his name was Ian.

After that, the park, Sherlock and Mycroft running around and trying out newly acquired rugby skills on each other while I lay very still in the grass. Ice cream. Mycroft got vanilla and chocolate, Sherlock got mint and chocolate, and I got something called goji berry...I don't know, it was pink and nicely tangy.

And then we came home. And, I know you'll all be shocked to learn, I cooked actual food. 

the four horsemen ride to victory

It was close, but the four horsemen of the apocalypse are apparently going to win the NSY vs City rugby match, according to you lot. I hope you all realise you'll be next. I mean, I don't think they're going to stop at one match. At the very least they'll go for the Six Nations Championship, and then it'll all be rains of toads, plagues of locusts, and general doom.

We went to visit Eton today. Because of the reschedule, we were the only ones being shown around, not that there weren't enough of us to fully occupy our poor tour guides, especially when Sherlock started asking about the quantity and quality of their dead things in jars vs Harrow's dead things in jars. The consensus was that their dead things in jars were of roughly equal scientific interest, but Sherlock's still declared his intention to go to Eton because he's "not going to Mycroft's stupid school."

combine harvester

For L's entertainment, more Greg the Florist. He won't talk about the case he's working on at all, so it must be pretty bad. Hope this manages to cheer him up a bit...

As they walked up the road, towards Greg's flat, above the shop, Greg turned to John. "So, before you gave in to your life long urge to be a florist, what did you fill your time doing?"

"I repaired farm machinery."

"What, really? Threshers and--"

"Combine harvesters, yes, don't sing the song."