gay pubs of all sorts

The pub last night was nice, and made a change from Harry taking me to mainly lesbian ones. The hairy eyeballs I was getting last night were presumably trying to determine whether I was actually with L, or if he was free for the evening.

When I go with Harry, we get looked at oddly for entirely different reasons...I assume (hope) it's because we don't look much alike. The woman behind the bar at the last one asked if we didn't think it was a strange place for a date. Harry laugh so hard she nearly fell over and said anywhere was a strange place to take your brother for a date. (She went home with the bartender later. I was completely unsurprised.)

you are all lovely people

This will not be a long post because I'm having too much fun. Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who left me happy birthdays, you are very kind, and I appreciate it a great deal. Especially Sally, since her threats were instrumental in me getting L to myself this weekend. He hasn't had one single call. Sally, I'm extremely impressed.

And I got cards! One from Lupe and two from Lestrade, one of which I'm not sure I should post, but I probably will anyway.

i never could get the hang of thursdays

(I know. Today is not Thursday, but I've been going on about the date...all week? Is that possible? Good god. So, I'm a bit behind.)

I've told Mycroft he's committed to the skating at least until he outgrows the skates (although really that won't be long). He's cheerful about it, and his instructor is looking less grim and wary when he tries jumps that are clearly too advanced for him and starting to be encouraging instead. I'm still torn between pride and wanting to cover my eyes, but I suspect that's normal.

Anyhow, the result is that my Thursday afternoons have become a game of How to Entertain Sherlock at the Skating Rink. Harry came along this time and proved quite good at it.

sea change

I went to the pub with Harry last night, a fairly pointless exercise, given that we both had soda water and lime. She's been sober for almost three months. It's not quite her record, but it's close.

She's a different person when she's sober. It's true we've never really got on, and it's easy to blame that on her, what with her penchant for locking me in the basement when our parents were out and she was supposed to be looking after me, but the thing is... When she's sober, she's my sister again. And lots of people are horrible when they're kids, and god knows she didn't have an easy time of it growing up. And I miss her when she drinks.

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.

out of the closet

No, not the Big Gay Closet, as Harry will insist on calling it. Lestrade got me in the comments of the last post. Yeah, I did used to smoke, in medical school. Try going to medical school and not smoking, see how far you get. Got time to eat? No. Time to sleep? God, no. But there's always time for a fag.

I picked it up again in Afghanistan for a bit, mainly for the same reason. Also, of course, cancer seems a bit farther away when you're getting shot at on a daily basis, no matter what logic and common sense tell you. I suppose the same goes for getting shouted at by doctors and nurses while you're trying to learn to intubate someone for the first time or find a particularly deep vein. Medical school: not unlike war in many respects.

I never really got addicted though. (If you listen carefully, you can now hear the sound of Harry and Lestrade restraining themselves from punching me in the nose.) I dropped the habit easily enough the first time, and of course the second time I was too high on morphine to begin to notice any withdrawal symptoms. It's just not my thing, I think. And I do appreciate the effort certain members of my readership make not to taste like an ashtray when I kiss them.

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.

wherever you go, there you are

Well, we've made it. I've never had such an organized move. If Mycroft doesn't make it in politics, he'll make a fortune organizing people till they beg for mercy. Holmes for Homes. Let Holmes Move Your Home? He'd come up with something better. And he'd think bigger anyway. Logistics, not house moving. Want to get your expedition from London to the Amazon Basin? Mycroft's your man. Or will be, in about 15 years.

I asked Herself for something not too flash, and I've got what I wanted in spades. You should see the wallpaper. I'll try to get a picture of it later. Right after I get a camera. (Harry, does your mobile do that?)

Sherlock made some sort of smoke bomb that nearly drove the movers off entirely. It was violet and smelled of pears. Overall, I think it could've been a lot worse.

Also, we've got the dogs.

All right. So, the serial killer I mentioned? He had dogs. I'm not completely sure how much of this I'm meant to write about in a public forum, but this was in the news: he had dogs. Two. Big, black, reasonably fearsome. Painted, as I think I mentioned, with glow-in-the-dark paint, and let out at nights to terrorize the countryside. And eat people.

Mycroft wanted them, and his mum got them for him. (Or two dogs that look quite like them? ONE CAN ONLY HOPE.)

Mycroft's named them Phobos and Deimos.

I hope no one's surprised by that. What else would he have named them?

They're currently asleep in the kitchen, taking up most of it.

Well. That's my life.