poetry for insomnia

A sleepy degu that Sherlock put in my lap earlier. I think it's Argon, but I'm not sure; I had them both at one point. 

Despite the title, I was asleep for a while, and I think I will be again. You get more poetry anyway though. This is from memory because I can't find it on google, which means it's probably a bit wrong (and the punctuation is all wrong). I imagine someone with more skill than I have can find the correct version.

I am a shepherd of those sheep that climb a wall by night
One by one, until I sleep, or the black pain goes white.
Because of which I cannot see a flock upon a hill
But doubts come tittering up to me that should by day be still,
And childish griefs I have outgrown into my eyes are thrust,
Till my dull tears go dropping down like lead into the dust.

Edna St Vincent Millay again.

Sounds actually rather depressing when I write it down, but it tends to cheer me up on bad nights. Which this is not one of, oddly. L and I had a good talk earlier, and...well, that's enough, really. He gives me hope. 

song about nothing, song about sheep

I had things to post about, but I can't remember any of them right now. Irritating.

L's been asleep most of the night, thankfully, though I think I hear him moving about now. Sherlock was up briefly, but I put him back to bed and stayed with him for a while. Nightmares all round tonight, apparently. Part of it was Mycroft going back to school with things so unsettled here I think. Neither of them were happy about it.

His nightmare was about a vampire in the living room. Coffin on the floor by the sofa. He said it was just lying in there with its eyes closed looking dead. And he made sure I knew he wasn't even frightened of vampires because they're not real.

Mine, predictably, was about Afghanistan. At what point exactly do I get to go back to having nightmares about...oh, giant potatoes crushing me, or clams, or boots with teeth? You know, normal things. 

paint

I really wonder about the people who make up paint names. There's one we looked at called Dark Linen that's quite a light sort of spring green colour, which I think you'll agree is neither dark nor linen-coloured. Our wall now looks like a patchwork quilt of browns and blues and lots of colours that are really beige but called Rum Caramel or Twisted Bamboo or Desert Dawn.

There is paint on Sherlock's nose and a bit at the ends of his hair, and a Sherlock-sized handprint on the back of Mycroft's shirt. One of the dogs also has a Striking Cyan tip on his tail. He's going to be harder to clean than Sherlock, or at least harder to keep still.

Mycroft's learning Morse code and trying to teach the dogs to tap out words with their tails for treats. I'm not convinced the dogs have that much control over their tails.

That's all, I suppose. Decent enough day, considering. 

all's well that ends well

L's back to work, and Mary's entertaining the boys, and I'll try to explain things a bit without bringing down the wrath of Mrs H.

I used to know the man who was behind the abduction of Mary's mum. A long time ago. He was in the Army then. I gather he was thrown out on his ear not long after, and I'm not surprised. There was a lot of rumours. Him talking to the wrong people and information getting where it shouldn't, things going missing. Nothing was ever proved, although apparently it was later on.

I can only assume that's why Mrs H wanted me involved, although if she already knew who he was... I don't know. Maybe she just wanted confirmation. You can run yourself to death trying to follow her trains of thought.

Most of the packages Mary was getting were a sort of trail of breadcrumbs from her mum that I won't go into the details of because I don't know how on Earth she managed it, but a little while ago there was something else, from him. A sort of threat-slash-bribe. Mrs Morstan was not giving him what he wanted, and he thought he could get it from Mary instead.

I recognised his... Not signature. This odd little sign he used to doodle all the time. Either as a result of that, or independently, I have no idea, Mrs H and her people found and retrieved Mrs Morstan. I went to give Mary the good news...and he broke into her flat while we were having tea and tried to... I don't really know what his goal was, actually.

Fortunately, he came on his own. We had a bit of a scuffle, I knocked him out, and you've read the aftermath. Mrs H tells us Mrs Morstan should be home tomorrow. 

so

L, call me when you see this. Or call Mary. Don't worry, it's not that bad. 

fine

Busy day. Got Sherlock to school, got me to work. I was the only doctor there this morning so it was a bit busy. Lots of sniffles, coughs, fevers, etc (not that kind of etc). The flowers L sent are out on the receptionist's desk now, because as nice as they smell, it's a little overwhelming in an enclosed space, and the room I see patients in is quite a small enclosed space. She says my 'young man' must be very sweet, and I told her she was right.

After work, first physical therapy appointment. Yes, it hurt. I'm fine. It's just pain; it's not as if there's anything actually wrong. If I was quiet, it's because the alternative was being snippy, and I don't want to do that. I know you're all just worried.

Picked Sherlock up. He looked at me like was going to explode for a few minutes and then declared that I was fine and not bleeding or anything so why was L so worried? Ha. 

the flowers that ate london

I got some flowers at work today. I forgot to take a picture before I left, but here is one I've stolen from the internet to give you an idea of the general scale...

Bloody enormous, in other words. Pink and red, mainly roses. They smell lovely. L denies sending them, but the poem that came with them gave him away. He can share it with you if he wants to. I'll just say...I can't believe he dictated that over the phone to a stranger. Good lord. I wonder if florists get a lot of that sort of thing on Valentine's Day. 

And then I checked I checked his blog on the way to pick up Sherlock and found his post... Well. I can't think of a better gift than that.

hollandaise

He wasn't joking about the breakfast in bed. I woke up to tea and eggs benedict, all made from scratch.

Me: You can make hollandaise sauce?
L: Where did you think it came from?
Me: A jar at the supermarket?

Although honestly, I'm not sure I've ever seen it at the supermarket, and I know I've never had it at home. It was excellent, of course, much better than when I've had it in restaurants, and presented on a tray with a rose and everything. I was very impressed. (That sounds flippant when I read it over, but I really was. Am still. Not used to that sort of thing.)

This is the mill:

We've been out walking most of the afternoon. It's chilly and quiet and peaceful. The only thing you hear is the water and the wind. 

mummies and policemen

The museum yesterday was interesting, lots of information on the mummies' placards. Sherlock got a book in the gift shop called Conversations with Mummies, which was written by the woman who used to be the head of the museum's Egyptology department. Mrs T is going to get more than she asked for, but she's used to that by now. 

This is the unwrapping of the 'Two Brothers'; they were Sherlock's favourites. I liked the coffin made for a cat.   

Got back in time to hear L's talk, or parts of it at least. Three hours is a very long time for Sherlock to sit still and listen to anything, even if it's about murders, so there were a few breaks.

Today was a little boring for Sherlock I'm afraid, as I had to pick up some things, but he hauled his new book around with him and read parts of it aloud to me (and policemen at the hotel and strangers in shops).

We met Darren for dinner, and I hope he doesn't regret agreeing to it. Sherlock had an enormous number of questions for him, half of which were about police work, and half of which were more about establishing Sherlock's territory (i.e. Lestrade and I). Darren was very, very patient, and Sherlock did warm up to him after a bit.

Tomorrow, we're going flying. 

snow forever

It did not snow forever, despite Sherlock's hopes. His plan was that Mycroft would have to stay home tomorrow because he couldn't get back to Harrow, L wouldn't be able to get in to work, and we would build a massive snow fort in the middle of the road.

Mycroft is, sadly, back at school now, along with Anthea and the hounds, but we all had a nice day at the park, with snow balls, peculiar snow sculptures, snow angels, and a particular DI who clearly wanted me to tackle him into the snow or he wouldn't have stuffed a handful of icy slush down my shirt while he was kissing me. There wasn't really enough for an entire snowman, but Sherlock did attempt a snow pancreas. It wasn't bad, considering the limitations of his medium. He fed it to the dogs when he was done.

Mycroft and I watched bits of the England vs Scotland match yesterday. England won, first time at Murrayfield in years, so I'm pleased, my father is probably cranky about it, and my grandfather would be livid. Mycroft, I think, doesn't quite see the point of team sports, and Sherlock said it was more interesting when L and I were playing, which I took as a compliment until I remembered how keen he was to see a broken bone up close.

Back to normal tomorrow for everyone. 

spare parts

Photos of soldiers, taken before, during, and after Afghanistan. I don't really know what to say. I didn't know you could see the difference.

Let's see...still cold. Still no snow. We have Mycroft and Anthea and two large, excited dogs home. Sherlock is besieging his brother with Quite Interesting facts, such as that the Earth apparently has two moons and that there's a jellyfish with 200 foot long tentacles. On the haircut front, he alternately wants a mohawk, a shaved head, or no haircut at all, so no real progress there, although I think he's getting a bit frustrated struggling to keep his hat on.

Mycroft says school is going fairly well 'for school', which I suppose is the best you can ask from school. He also says that it sometimes seems calculated to let you learn as little as possible and that people would be better off just reading. Glad it wasn't just me, then. I remember times when I had so much homework to do there was no time left to try to understand any of it.

They're both interested in L's latest case. Less so now that all the bits have been found, although Sherlock would very much like to help Molly put them all together. Never in my life did I think I'd write a sentence even remotely similar to that.

A short story from the day Sherlock lost his tooth: we were walking back from school and he was showing it to...basically everyone. One of them was an older woman, about of an age to be his grandmother and clearly accustomed to children showing her odd things, because when he did...

S: Look, it just came out today!
Her: That's lovely, dear. Now put it back where you found it.

in victorian novel terms

Remembering of course that I can't tell you eighty...no, now make it ninety percent of what's going on... The map we found, and the directions Mary's been getting seem to be related. I'm starting to have an idea of why Mrs Holmes picked me for this, and it hasn't got a lot to do with my investigative skills.

In other news, we might have snow this weekend, or, to put it as Sherlock has, several times: 'IT'S GOING TO SNOW AND SNOW FOREVER AND WE CAN SLED TO SCHOOL EXCEPT I WON'T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL BECAUSE THERE WILL BE SO MUCH SNOWWWWWWWWWWWW.'

He lost his tooth at last, put it in the designated tooth fairy box under his pillow, and went to sleep, barely. He's scornful of the entire concept of course, but still happy to have both the chance of catching me making the switch and the money. Happily, he slept through it.

We've got Mycroft coming home this weekend, and if it doesn't 'snow and snow forever', L suggested we go to an indoor ski place, where they make their own. I am hoping for real snow (see blog background), but that sounds like fun as well. And maybe better than ice skating, in that snow is softer when you fall down on it.