till time and times are done

Mrs Hudson has just been up to have me try on something she's making for L for Christmas... Should be interesting.

This is our last Mycroftless weekend for a while - he's home on the 6th, although their mum called today to say she might take them on a trip if L and I going away somewhere, which would be lovely for everyone, especially Mrs Hudson, who will probably be thankful for a little peace and quiet by then. It's funny how we always think the flat feels so empty when Mycroft leaves, when of course it is - there's double the number of living beings in the flat, and the dogs count for two people each in terms of chaos. Or about 13 degus each. Whichever unit of measurement you prefer.

Plus Anthea, of course, but she's a sort of...chaos sink (like a heat sink for chaos). Everyone's better behaved with her around. Especially security. I suspect them of telling urban legends about her while she's away.

I've promised Sherlock we can go and buy tinsel tomorrow. I'll let you know if I survive, but at least it'll get us out of the flat so L can get some rest. Right now, Sherlock's online researching Christmas traditions. I've already had to veto the one about actual candles on the tree.

Did any of you actually go out and shop on Black Friday? Got your Christmas shopping done yet? Ready to hide under the bed and wait till the holidays are over? 

three years

L and I went out for dinner last night, a nice Italian place. He says I smile indulgently at him when he speaks Italian to the waiters, but I don't think that's indulgence he's seeing.

We talked a lot about the fact that it's been three years since we met, and most of the conversations went like this:

Can you believe it's been that long? 

I know, it seems strange. Do you remember how small Sherlock was?

And Mycroft was only 12! 

We must've said those lines, or approximations of, at least five times in the past few days. It doesn't get any less strange. And yet, three years isn't really that long. I was in Afghanistan longer than that. Half the time, it dragged by and it seemed like I'd been there forever, and half the time it seemed like nothing at all, but that was more dependent on what was happening.

This...seems like a whole other life. One that I'm still astonished and grateful for, daily. 

shirt full of mushrooms

I saw a man today with a shirt full of mushrooms. He was holding the bottom of it out in front of him to make a little basket for all of them. I don't know what sort - he was moving fast, and I didn't get a good look. Might not have been able to tell if I had. Brown and dirty is the best I can do. He passed me on the street, muttering something about 'thieving bastards'. I assume he didn't mean the mushrooms themselves, but who knows.

When I told Sherlock this after school, he wanted to know why I hadn't stopped him and asked him what he was doing with a shirt full of mushrooms. I don't think he would've taken well to being stopped and questioned, frankly.

Post-mushroom-man, I met L for lunch. It was lovely to have him out of work early, and we went to a nice Vietnamese place. Banana fritters and honey-gringer ice cream for dessert. And then home, briefly, before it was time to pick up Sherlock.

I just talked to Mycroft, who apparently spent the last hour on the phone to his mum, trying to explain that she can't keep having him followed around by security for the rest of his life... I think she disagrees. The next few months should be interesting. 

nothing but the night

We had a good day today (despite the subject line). Went to the off road place. Sherlock and Mycroft are doing really well and came out on the trail with us for a while. It's hard to believe Mycroft will be able to get his own bike soon if he wants to. I suppose it makes sense than time seems to go faster when you're older, since any given amount of time is proportionally less of your life, but even so, the pace at which this year has gone by seems a bit ridiculous. 

This weekend, in particular, was a blur, and Mycroft is back at school already. He and Anthea seem to be engaged in some sort of war in which he tries to work out her birthday and she smiles serenely like he hasn't got a prayer. Since I assume he'd need her real name to find out her birthday, and since I assume that information only exists on some top secret computer somewhere, I'm...slightly concerned. But he assured me he wouldn't do anything illegal because 'that would be cheating'. 

I've been thinking, as I know L has, about the boy who died on Friday and inevitably about people I haven't been able to save. About how many people will go their whole lives without watching someone die. About how Sherlock and Mycroft have already seen that and the ways I know it's affected them. No real conclusions. Just a lot of think about. 

greg the florist: aconitum

The next morning, Greg cooked eggs and bacon for breakfast. John sat in the warm kitchen, sipped tea, smelled the familiar scents of cooking, and still couldn't shake the thought that it'd been more than a dream. He could feel the fur and the hot breath on his neck. 

After breakfast, they walked along the edge of the property, past a lake, a crumbling stone tower, and through a forest where the trees wove so closely together than they almost blocked out the sun.  

"It goes on for miles," Greg said. "I was looking at the maps. If they're still right, at least. Some of it might've been sold off. Maybe I should sell some of it off."

"Don't do that," John said, before he could stop himself. "Sorry. I know it's your place. But it's just… It's amazing here. And if you sold it, anything might happen to it."

"Might have to at some point, if we really do get all the repairs done." Greg grinned. "But since we can't get anyone to come and do the work anyway, we're fine for now, right?"

"I tried the next town over. They're all 'busy' as well." He stopped short. "We should look at the library, right? If everyone thinks this place is cursed, there must be something about it in there. There's a whole stack of leather bound journals and letters and things."

"You think one of them's going to be along the lines of Dear Aunt Milly, I hear you are cursed and there may be demons inhabiting your house and/or person, what can we do to help? Love, John?"

"There might be! At least it's something to look for. Something to do."

"Yeah, all right. You go on, I'm just going up to the point there." He nodded to a jut of rock that stuck out into the lake. "I'll be back in time to drag you out of the books before lunch."

John didn't like it, but there wasn't any logic behind the sharp tug of worry in the back of his brain. It was the middle of the day. All Greg had to do to get back was follow the shoreline.

"Okay. Just...be careful."

"I promise not to get eaten by trees. Go on."

It took the best part of an hour to walk back, and he went directly to the library, and to the journals. He picked one up at random and flipped through it. It was a woman's handwriting, but there was no name inside the cover. Most of the entries concerned the management of the estate, but pressed leaves and flowers also made their way between the pages, labeled with common and scientific names and with the location in the forest where she'd found them.

The book ended abruptly with a faded blue flower. This one had no name. The text under it was a quick scrawl that took some effort to decipher. It read: Georgiana found it near the point. I hope to God it's not all starting up again.

snail races

I keep meaning to collect all the Greg the Florist posts and put them on a page so I don't have to look up the last post every time I try to do more...but that's not going to happen today.

We've just been to the allotment. Do snails hibernate in winter? I think they do. At least, you never see them, so I presume they're doing the snail equivalent of staying home with a hot cup of tea. It must not be cold enough yet, because Sherlock found two of them that were lively enough for a snail race.

You can't count of snails to follow a race track, of course, so he raced them consecutively and measured the distance each one went...in five minutes. Which is more patience for watching a snail crawl than I would've had. Or in fact than I did have. I think I wandered off to pull carrots halfway into the second heat. He wants you to know that the second one won, and that he thinks the viscosity of their mucous may be related to their speed.

We now have carrots (and chard), tomatoes (and chard), and some more small pumpkins (and...chard). The tomatoes are stubborn, hanging on in the greenhouse and ripening while their vines die off. The chard is just unnatural, and I expect to see a news report on it any day now. 

clarity

Here's someone who's embedded body monitoring technology under his skin. 

The article seems to say it only monitors body temperature, which makes one wonder...why he bothered? Proof of concept, I suppose. Still, interesting.

Sherlock's done very well at school and got a sticker in his book - not just academically, but he's done well in getting along with the other students and listening to Mrs N too, which is wonderful, and we're very proud of him. We're planning a trip to the bike place when Mycroft comes home, partly as a reward for him. I imagine he'll also get cake. Between L and Mrs H, cake is inevitable. ;)

The football has gone well...there maybe have been some dancing around the room. It's been a good day, despite the weather.

Sherlock was sitting on L's shoulders last night, watching the fireworks, and when I glanced at them, they were both looking up at the sky with the exact same expression. There's something about the tail end of summer that seems to drag on and on, until you've hit the middle of October and still feel it with you. Maybe it's just me, but the air seems clearer now. 

fireworks forever

Sherlock's mum took him out for the day on Saturday, and I was on call. I'm still not quite sure about everything they did because he told me all of it at top speed when my brain was only functioning at half speed, but I understand there were toffee apples, ice cream, dinner out somewhere 'with tablecloths' (not a huge distinguishing feature, but it does let out a few places), and FIREWORKS. He said it in all caps, trust me.

I didn't have nearly as good a time. FME works rarely features ice cream or fireworks, although there was a tablecloth involved at one point, and a small cat with very sharp claws. The cat is fine. The tablecloth and the officer involved, less so. I was out from about eight to eight, and L made me a lovely dinner when he got home, even though he'd been working just as long as I had.

At some point, I took this: