spring

Well, I think it's safe to say that it's spring now. L took these today...

Things are blooming, the sky is blue, the sun was out... We got very dirty at the allotment... Well. Very dirty is relative. I have no doubt it will be much worse later on, but there was mud in abundance. And I strained the top of my foot somehow getting my boot off later. That's unrelated to the allotment. Probably.

Reg suggested to Sherlock that he make a scarecrow to keep the birds away from the new plants. He doesn't know what's he's wrought. I remember one of you being worried you'd started something here a few nights ago -- never worry about that. Honestly, it is impossible not to start something with Sherlock. His enthusiasms are enormous and often overwhelming, and always entertaining. We will have the most terrifying scarecrow of all time.

The running is...going. Well, the running itself is fine. Finding time for it is going to become increasingly difficult as the runs get longer, I think. And of course one has to schedule in all that time lying pathetically on the floor afterward...

training

I've been looking at half marathons since L foolishly agreed to do one with me. There's a few in France, in the mountains - which is good because it'll be cooler, but bad because...they're in the mountains. But we don't get Mycroft back until late June, so it's going to be either heat or elevation, and I think I'd prefer elevation. Greg? Preferences? Or we could just do one around here and then we could do it anytime, but I thought something different might be nice. 

There's also a Midnight Sun Run in Iceland, which sounds interesting. Apparently you get to lounge around in thermal pools afterward, which will probably be all we can manage.

And here's a training schedule that Sherlock sent me because "you and Lestrade are old and you should be careful you don't die when you run for miles and miles."

Noted, Sherlock. We will do our best not to die.

There's a link to the website where he found it, but I'm also pasting it here because the constantly moving text at the top of the screen on the site makes me want to hurl the computer across the room. 

i always forget what the day after my birthday is

Early this morning - and I do mean early - L woke me up and said he had something very serious to tell me. What was it, I asked, still groggy but trying very hard to be awake and supportive and really listen rather than wonder why I'd been dreaming of giant snails.

'John,' he said. 'I think I have feelings for Anthea. She's made me discover a part of myself I never knew existed. A...[dramatic pause] heterosexual part. So I'm really sorry, but we're going to run off together and start a school for ninjas. You can enroll if you want, we'd be honoured to have you.'

Once my brain got past the initial sleepy panic and the 'feelings for Anthea(???)' part and processed the ninja school, obviously I had to pummel him with pillows until...matters were resolved.

I'm very glad I don't go out and try to drink myself into an early grave for my birthday anymore - April Fool's Day, at medical school, with a hangover, is something everyone should do their best to avoid. 

amazeballs

The post's title is Carla's reaction when we told Nicky and her family the news. I think that sums up my reaction pretty well, too. If you haven't heard, go and check L's blog.

No, I mean it, go. He tells it better than I do.

no one needs to worry

We had a little accident on the bike. Bruises and scrapes mostly. We're going to hospital for L's hand, which is swelling nicely. I don't think anything's broken though.

I've talked to Sherlock and Mycroft already, and Mrs H is picking Sherlock up from school, though he's not happy about it. Please be good for her, Sherlock. Hopefully we won't be too long.

Some bastard, also on a bike, cut right in front of us and there was just nowhere to go, bus on one side, pedestrians on the other. You'd almost think he was trying to knock us over. I'm glad it was L driving and not me; I'm sure he managed it better than I would have.

And when I say no one needs to worry...I mean about us. The bike didn't fare so well. I don't think he'll be riding it for a while. 

packing, a drama in three parts

Act I, scene i, the kitchen. 

Lestrade is getting ready to leave for work. Mycroft is drinking orange juice and eating toast. I am hunched over my tea in a protective fashion because that is my standard morning position when I'm not forced out of it by the divers alarums and excursions that so often fill our lives.

Sherlock rushes in, dumps a pile of things on the floor, and rushes out again. The things are as follows: a microscope, a large green towel, one of Lestrade's rare ties, a small live frog (how?), a packet of biscuits, part of a computer with some wires hanging off of it, and his book on mummies.

Mycroft, Lestrade, and I stare at the pile.

Act I, scene ii, Sherlock's bedroom. 

I enter, with my tea held before me like a particularly ineffective talisman. Sherlock is wrestling his suitcase out of his wardrobe. With the handle extended, it is as tall as he is, so this isn't going well. I ask what he's doing. He replies with a look that says it should be blatantly obvious that he's trying to force his suitcase into submission. Fair enough.

I remind him that I said we'd start packing later in the day, and that we're not leaving until Monday. He says that if we all get it done sooner we could leave earlier. I explain that this is not how it works. He nevertheless proceeds downstairs with his suitcase.

Act I, scene iii, the sitting room. 

Lestrade is pursuing a small, live frog. Mycroft is restraining the dogs from pursuing a small, live frog. Sherlock has retreated into the kitchen to pack all his belongings which haven't yet run away.

I contemplate taking my tea back to our room and locking myself in, but instead send L off to work and take over the frog hunt myself. It takes close to an hour. It's an agile frog.

Later in the day, we'll have to take it back to the park. For now, it's in a glass bowl, regarding me with a hurt expression.

Tomorrow, no doubt, act two. 

something amazing

Here's a frog we saw while Sherlock was running us around the park yesterday. Or riding rings around us while we tried in vain to keep up. I stopped to take a picture. Or I coincidentally saw the frog while I was already stopped and bent over and panting. Take your pick. 

At breakfast, Sherlock introduced Mycroft to the idea of body painting for Pride (which may now be Sherlock's third favourite 'holiday', after his birthday and Christmas). Mycroft was wary, but not completely appalled. I may end up being the only unpainted member of our party. He suggested Sherlock ought to get painted-on wings, which would look quite nice and more importantly would not be a target, which was one of Sherlock's other ideas. I don't feel like I could reasonably veto that one, but it would make me feel a bit odd. 

Today...well, it's just gone seven, and Sherlock has so far made himself breakfast (cold cereal), spilled half a carton of milk on the floor, tried to soak it up with today's newspaper, dunked biscuits in his cereal milk, and squished up a banana inside its skin and then attempted to squirt it into his mouth with...exciting results. All before L and I were out of bed. 

When I emerged just now he said proudly, 'I didn't wake you up at all! Let's do something amazing today!' I said he could help me clean up banana and milk and then we could do something amazing. Ideas, anyone? 

Things that also need to happen today: (L, don't let me forget!) need to get a birthday card for my mum...and ask her why she has sent me a box full of her wedding china with no note of explanation. 

previously on the moor

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...

Right, let's see...Baskerville Hall, excellent tea, bruised shins, what happened next? Oh yes. Sherlock came back just before dinner, I sent him upstairs to clean himself up, and he never came back. I had dinner with Mycroft, and then spent the entire bloody night looking for him, with no success. 

That house is massive, and I never did manage to search the whole place. If I'd had any sense I would've just waited in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson. As it turned out, he'd been in to get a sandwich from her and then took off out to the moor again. She gave me breakfast and also the paper, in which I read that something was killing people out there. 

I followed Sherlock, obviously. Slowly. Found him near one of the big tors. I think he may have kicked me again, can't quite remember. It started pouring, we shared his sandwich, and then we fell asleep in an alcove in the rock. 

It was dark when we woke up. Went outside. Sherlock said he saw something and took off. I saw it too. Didn't know what it was, just that it was glowing and growling and looked like something that had been on its way straight to Hell and took a slight detour to terrorise Dartmoor. I think I caught up to Sherlock and grabbed him just about the same time Anthea showed up out of nowhere and took a shot at the thing. It ran off. 

After that, it was a long and thankfully unexciting walk back to the house. Sherlock fell asleep. I didn't know it at the time, but I'd left my cane at the tor, which I would come to regret in the morning. That night I was just grateful to be in a bed and was certain the next day would go far more smoothly. [insert the hollow laughter of hindsight here]

well, that was exciting

I imagine you've seen Sherlock's post. Perhaps a...wider perspective is in order. So. Let's recap.

We were having a very nice lunch, the four of us, with sandwiches and coffee and crisps and other civilised things. There would've been cake as well, except that, before we got that far, Lestrade spotted someone at another table, someone they've been looking for.

His plan was to step out and phone for backup, which was a good plan. He told me about it, quietly, but not quietly enough apparently (or possibly he can lip read?), because the next thing we knew, Sherlock was on his feet, pointing at the man in question, and shouting, "MURDERER!"

Everyone froze for a second, I suppose because even if you've killed someone it's not ofter you get accused by a six year old, and then the suspect took off, L took off after him, and I tried to prevent Sherlock running after both of them...for about ten seconds. And then the man's friends decided they'd join in.

L had, as Sherlock said, tackled the suspect, and didn't need the man's mates piling on top of them, so I had to do something about them, and Mycroft, bless him, grabbed Sherlock and kept him from running over to help. And by help, I mean kick them with his pointy little feet.

Someone called the police, and there was some mild confusion at first, but L had his warrant card of course, so it was all sorted out in the end.

We're all fine, mainly. Sherlock's uninjured, I suspect Mycroft has some bruises from restraining him, and L bashed his elbow pretty hard on the floor jumping the guy and has assorted bruises and scrapes but nothing serious.

I'll let Sherlock sum up:

"BUT NOW HE'S LOCKED UP AND HE CAN'T MURDER MORE PEOPLE AND THAT'S GOOD AND WE DID THAT AND IT WAS FUN."

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. 

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.

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.

hospitals aren't my favorite places

I went in today to get my stitches out, got home, was there all of five minutes before there was a knock on the door. Some young policeman I didn't know. Looked pale and sweaty and asked was I John Watson. There's never a good end to a conversation that starts like that.

He said Lestrade was being taken to hospital following a traffic collision and he'd been sent to collect me. That was all he knew.

I'm writing this from the waiting room. I saw him very briefly before they took him for X-rays. They had him strapped to a back board. His knee looked bad. Blood on his face, but no serious head trauma that I could see. He tried to smile at me, and I tried not to lose it completely.

the third thing

3. Packed up dinner for L and Sally, went up to his office, giving no thought whatsoever to the photos he'd warned me about. It didn't occur to me for a moment I'd have a problem, and L does tend to be a bit overprotective - it's all right (usually*), makes a nice change from being surrounded by people eager to throw me into mortal peril.

I felt a bit sick while they were eating - like, actually physically ill, wondering if it was the pasta and if I should stop them eating it. And then I realized I was thinking about...how it happened. How the boy in the photos got that way. And I couldn't stop.

two thirds

There are three things. This post will cover two of them.

It's very late, again. So late it's early. I feel odd posting about this while Nicky & Co. are here, but I can't seem to settle down to write about anything else, even though there's quite a lot else to write about. I don't actually want to write about this at all, but my usual methods of repression and denial don't seem to be working all that well.

And I asked Lestrade and he said it was all right. I suppose since he told me about it via blog comment it'd be a bit odd to worry about me posting about it. I still feel weird posting about it. Obviously, or I would've stopped blithering by now and... I'll start with the point weighing most heavily on my mind.

who doesn't love crime scenes

I wen to Tesco for Mrs Hudson, got Lestrade's nicotine patches, stopped for coffee. All in all, I was only gone an hour and a half or so. Maybe less.  Lestrade stayed with the boys, and they were all clustered around his computer talking about some crime scene  seminar he's meant to be writing when I left.

When I got back, Lestrade was unconscious on the floor, bleeding copiously from a head wound. Sherlock was examining it with a magnifying glass, and Mycroft was trying to keep Phobos from licking up the blood.

the littlest d.i.

I suppose everyone wants details? Right.

On the way to school yesterday, we're coming up the road and there's this boy (16-18, bigger than me, let alone Sherlock) throwing stones over a garden wall. We weren't close enough yet to see over the wall, but quite close enough to hear the poor dog when one of them hit home.

I hadn't even got as far as working out what to say to him (hopefully something that would get him to actually stop instead of getting more abusive) when Sherlock ran up to him, flourished Lestrade's warrant card in his face (all right, more at his knees) and said he was under arrest for "being mean to dogs."

paging d.i. lestrade

LESTRADE, WILL YOU PLEASE ANSWER YOUR PHONE? OR THE FIFTEEN TEXTS I'VE SENT YOU?

Because I've got a fun game for you. You'll enjoy it. It's called Guess Who's Got Your Warrant Card, and I'll give you a hint to start out with: it's not you.

Oh, and he's short, dark-haired, and enjoys waking people up at 5am to demand pancakes. And he just tried to arrest someone on our way to school. 

inappropriate pets

The events of earlier today:

From upstairs: *CRASH BANG*

"Is everything all right up there?"

"Everything is fine and really good don't worry!"

I mentally translated this as: "Armageddon is taking place in Sherlock's room at this very instant."

spiders: more of them

Cara asked in the comments of the last post about Australian spiders. Having done some research, my verdict is: No thank you. Someone else left a link to a camel spider devouring a lizard, and while I'm not sure "awesome" is the word I would choose,  it was certainly impressive. I hardly know what to say about it, except that I'm glad that's not my face. 


This post is mainly an excuse to share this video: