sanity: trace amounts

None of us are [is] (thank you, Mycroft) [my tag still says I'm 12] (...I'll see what I can do about that) happy Lestrade is away, obviously. Only one of us rang his superintendent and explained very carefully why he shouldn't be sent away again, or, if he was, that we should go with him. Especially if there were wolves. Three guesses who it was, and the first two don't count.

panda lestrade

Sherlock's artistic talent has struck again. He's done a rendition of Lestrade's current rather unfortunate appearance. The detail is astonishing. This will obviously be going on the fridge as well.

more jokes

I enjoy how all the math ones are also related to baking.

From Book Geek:

Q: What do you get when you cut a jack o'lantern by its diameter?

A: Pumpkin Pi!

From Jessica B.: 

If z is the radius and a is the thickness of the crust, what do you get?

pi*z*z*a

or pi*z^2*a 

Either way, it's tasty!

Also from Jessica B, in the chemistry department:

NaCl/KOH

Lestrade read me this one and wouldn't show me her explanation. It took me about two hours to get it (I was sick, all right?) and then I groaned a lot. Because I am much nicer than he is, her explanation is below the cut. 

i'm still on about the skating

Most of that post about Mycroft's first lesson was actually about Sherlock, so: Mycroft let someone tell him what to do for an entire hour, which was enough to qualify the whole thing as a success for me. He's used to respecting (a very very few) people for their minds, but this is the first time I've seen him accept the idea that there's more to life than intellectual pursuits, let alone defer to someone else's non-academic experience (all right, except mine, but I think sometimes he views me as a necessary evil inflicted on him by his mum). [John, that's not true!] (All right, perhaps more of a necessary morally neutral obstacle to independence.) [...Yes. But. I like you too. I wouldn't want you to go anywhere.]

misleading tags and also pizza

Harry informs me that I tagged the last post 'lestrade' and yet it contained nothing about our date. Apparently, this is unacceptable. I'm not sure how much I should say, considering his sergeant reads this blog (so he tells me), but here we go.

I read to the boys before I left. Sherlock was so tired, he fell asleep in the middle of a chapter (admittedly it was a chapter about different sorts of rocks, so perhaps not the most gripping material he's ever been exposed to). [to which...] (Mycroft you know people don't talk like that. Not ever.) [But it is correct.]

We'll let him have that one.

Lestrade picked me up a bit after eight.

home again

We made it home about ten last night after train delays and engine trouble. Apparently their mum's ability to control the world does not extend to British Rail. I suppose that would be too much to hope for. As a result they're both overtired and crabby. This means Mycroft's hiding in his room reading Chaucer in his pyjamas, and Sherlock is... Well. Two minor explosions so far today, one broken lamp, and one glob of spinach directed at my face.

no photos please, part 2

I mangled the bagpipes.

I marched through most of the castle.

I did it in a kilt.

I did it sans pants.

we're just going out; we may be some time

We're going to Scotland, in fact. I got an email with an itinerary and B&B info from herself before I even asked about Mycroft's sky-watching expedition. Mycroft's happy and packing up his telescope. Sherlock's happy because he doesn't have to go back to school yet. (Sometimes I do wonder about making him go to school. He loves learning, and I worry a bit that school's going to knock that love out of him. I know they're slowing him down. But he's got to learn to actually speak to children his own age at some point, yes?) Mrs Hudson has declined. I think she'll be happy to be on her own for a while. Lestrade has work, obviously. [Ask him anyway.] (Relationship advice now, Mycroft? Really?) [He calms you and Sherlock down.] (...I'm just going to move on.)

The end times are upon us:

Thousands of dead fish washed up last week on a 20 mile stretch along the Arkansas River between Ozark and Clarksville. On New Year's Eve thousands of red-winged blackbirds tumbled from the sky in Beebe, Arkansas. [source]

My grandmother would've loved this. She'd say it'd be rains of toads next and "all those bastards would get what's coming to them." Very keen on bastards getting what was coming to them, my Gran. I think by "bastards" she generally meant the Inland Revenue. And occasionally the U.S. government. Oh, and very often the local butcher. She said he frenched his ribs wrong. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds pretty bad.

The town we're heading to isn't far from her old house. Maybe we'll drive by and have a look. Got to pack now and wake up Sherlock. He's sleeping with my copy of Gray's Anatomy. That boy needs a teddy bear. Do they make a Teddy Ruxpin that reads medical texts and perhaps astrophysics?

the party

I never did get back to the computer yesterday. The smoke was more of an aquamarine this time, and it smelled of gardenias. Rather nice, really.

Anyhow, the party: we were all there but for Harry, watching the ham cook, by 6pm. Harry got there about an hour later with, get this, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Lestrade was impressed as well.

"I'm trying to quit smoking and all, but I don't torture myself with candy cigarettes," he said.

Harry made a face I remember quite well from childhood as meaning mum hadn't let her do something stupid like eat an entire bottle of olives or ride her bike all the way to her friend's house across town. I guess she has to be her own mum now. That's got to be hard. [Harder than it is for you?] (...Mycroft. You can't ask me these things in person?) [This is easier.]

...All right. Yes, harder than it is for me. I wasn't a jumping off bridges, eating entire bottles of anything sort of child. I don't drink myself slowly into an early grave, or suck on cancer sticks, or shoot up, or gamble, or drive irresponsibly. I sign up for a year's tour of one of the world's hottest vacation hotspots, complete with sand in my eyes, blood up to my elbows, and a whole variety of chaps who want to kill me. What I mean is that the sort of things I do are not the sort mum ever could've kept me from.

Anyhow, the party: it was pretty excellent, actually. Good food, movies, fireworks on the telly at midnight. Oh, and Their Mum sent us a little video of the fireworks where she is. Red Square, in the snow (note to self: check this isn't compromising national security or something before you post it) <As if I'd allow you to post it if it were.> (...Right. Is anyone not reading my blog before I post it? Is there actually any point in hitting that Publish Post button?) ANYWAY.

I can't figure out how to upload her movie, but it looked a lot like this.

The boys were asleep by midnight, so there was only Harry to make faces when Lestrade snogged me. Due to poor timing and circumstances beyond my control, I've never actually been seeing someone at midnight on the new year before. It was quite nice.

lucky save

Mycroft decided last night would be a good time to try out his telescope. On the roof. Without telling me. Thank god for sibling rivalry.

Sherlock came bounding into my room when I was half asleep with that wild and gleeful look he gets on the rare occasions when Mycroft's done something wrong instead of him.

"John! Mycroft's on the roof! He's gonna fall and die and break his telescope!"

Which of those is worse in Sherlock's mind? I'm honestly not sure.

Another, more immediately relevant question: How does one get onto the roof? Via drainpipe, as it turns out. I would not have expected so much voluntary athleticism from Mycroft, but then it's not that he's incapable. I think he just considers physical activity beneath him. With the proper motivation (a rare cloudless night in London), he's every bit as agile as Sherlock. As for myself, Army training or no, the climb up a rather frosty drainpipe at 1AM is not one I'd wish to repeat.

 All the same, I have to say it was worth it. I'm not advocating climbing around slippery rooftops in the dead of winter, but...

Well, it was beautiful. The stars were dimmer than in Afghanistan, of course. You'll never see them brighter than in the desert, and we're lower here too. Farther from the sky. All the same, they're up there. Sometimes I forget.

My leg hurts like buggery [do you really think this is an appropriate simile, given your relationship with DI Lestrade?] (MYCROFT HOLMES. WE ARE HAVING A TALK, YOU AND I. GET DOWN HERE NOW.) {what's buggery?} (Sherlock, do not even start.) {but i want to know!} (ASK YOUR MUM.)

(It's not going to be his mum giving him the birds and bees talk though, is it? It's going to be me. Oh dear god. Maybe letting him at Gray's Anatomy was actually a stroke of genius.)

My leg hurts like fury, let's say. I'm back on the cane for the day at least, but I can't say I wouldn't do it again. I will say that you, Mycroft, are not to do it again. It's too dangerous, and I don't want to be scraping you off the pavement come morning. We'll go somewhere after New Year's. I'll talk to your mum. Meanwhile, no more unsupervised climbing expeditions, please and thank you.

harry, ham

Harry invited herself over for New Year's Eve. I'm...shocked, frankly. Pleased as well, obviously. She'd have a hard time getting even mildly buzzed on what I keep in the flat, and she knows that. She said she might bring Clara as well (!). I told her as long as she didn't bring a bottle.

Sherlock likes her because she says exactly what she wants to, all the time, even when what she's saying isn't really appropriate for little ears. That joke about the nun and the asp--well, she's not the one who had to answer awkward questions for the next two days, is she? That one stumped even Mycroft.

Lestrade's coming as well, and Mrs Hudson will be back by then. She emailed me today to get me to pick up a ham, so I'll bundle the boys up in a few minutes and go and do that. [...go to do that.] (Mycroft, what did I say about editing my blog?) [You always leave the edits in though.] (Split infinitive! Ha!) It'll be a bit of an adventure as we had some Weather last night. Still, the Dogs of War demand their due. I'll let you know how it goes.

boxing day

("No, Sherlock, it's not called that because we have to clean up all the boxes.")

Lestrade's off to his sister's and Mrs Hudson to hers. A's gone as well. Seems she actually has family. Not sure why that surprises me. She's quite young; it'd be more of a surprise if her parents weren't still alive. Must be a large family, too, judging by the pile of presents the lesser minions helped her down to the taxi with. [...presents with which the lesser minions helped her...] (Mycroft. Stop editing my blog. I mean it. My blog, my grammar.)

I slept on the sofa last night, and the night before. Why, you ask? Because the boys' mum stayed over. Everyone's a bit cautious still, but there were hugs when she left this morning. Pre-clean-up, of course. I should've done it yesterday, but watching Phobos and Deimos bound through the wrapping paper like snow drifts was really too amusing.

They're so well behaved normally. I suppose everyone was on a bit of a Crimbo high. At one point, Mycroft wedged himself and the dogs into the box his (admittedly enormous) telescope came in and refused to come out until he was promised a trip to somewhere with stars. A promise he did not get of course; the government of this flat does not respond to blackmail. And there's only so long two enormous dogs and a 12 year old can stay in a box that size, especially when one of the dogs has gas. (I suspect Phobos. He ate something off the street on Christmas day. I don't know what it was and I don't want to, but it couldn't have sat well with him.)

I understand recipes are traditional on blogs (and pictures of cats, but we haven't got any of those), so here's what I'll be making for dinner tonight.

Frozen Pizza
1. Remove from box
2. Preheat oven to temp listed on box
3. Important! Remove plastic from pizza
4. Insert pizza into oven and cook for time listed on box
5. Remove, slice, and eat your portion in the kitchen before the boys catch sight of it

Dead simple, right? The last step can be a bit tricky, but it gets easier with practice. Happy Christmas, everyone!