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.