just going out, part xxi

We are at an undisclosed location in the countryside. Undisclosed to me, that is, because I fell asleep on the drive here, and no one will tell me where we've ended up... Doesn't matter that much, I suppose. It's green, and the dogs are enjoying because allowed to tear around in huge circles, leaping at dust motes and biting at grass. The grass must be particularly threatening. I just saw Deimos pull up a chunk of it by the roots and try to devour it savagely before he remembered it tasted like grass and spat it out again.

We're walking. We have a packed lunch to eat at some point. I have only the haziest memory of packing it, because for some reason I woke up around six and did it before I went back to bed. I think I thought it was a school day or something, which doesn't explain why I thought we all needed one. I think I'm becoming gradually more like one of the undead early in the morning. I suppose because L usually deals with things then, so I don't have to force myself to. Still, good job I'm not in medical school now, I'd never make it.

-

Sherlock, last night: Can I have the middle of the paper towel roll when it's done?

Me: Probably. Why? (it's always better to ask)

Sherlock: So I can be an anteater.

Me: How are you going to get your tongue through there to eat ants?

Sherlock: I will have a prosthetic tongue with a stick and gum on the end so I can stick things to it.

Me: Of course you will. Silly question. 

a post of pictures

First off, here's the one Nicky sent to L, asking if Greg-the-Florist had expanded his business... 

Sherlock's new shoes with exciting skulls and two colours of laces! 

Picture of a pond that Mycroft took. (I think it's really nice, I'm sending it to his mum too.) 

And a slightly blurry picture that I took with his phone of our blueberry bush in bloom... 

And when we got home, we made flapjacks, because...that's what you do after you have pizza for dinner?

 I swear we do eat quite a lot of vegetables. They just don't get discussed on here as often. And I never think to take pictures of peas or asparagus. Although they are quite nice looking when you think about it so perhaps I should. Well, maybe not peas. They're basically just small, green (sometimes wrinkled) balls. (I am now waiting to see what L will say about balls...)

Tomorrow...in theory at least...we're going rock climbing. There's a place that has all the gear and gives lessons for beginners. When I say 'we' I might mean Sherlock and Mycroft. L is remembering climbing a tree at Nicky's and the regret that followed, and I'm not sure how my shoulder will feel about it, but we'll certainly try, and I think the boys will love it. (Wish us luck.) 

more greg the florist

Once again, part I have no idea...

-

When he reached the kitchen the door banged closed in a breeze, making him jump out of his skin.

"Greg?" He called, pulling the door open and peering out into the darkness.

There was nothing there but silence and the rustling of the wind in the trees. 

John swallowed hard and called out again, louder. The darkness seemed to gain solidity around him with every unanswered cry. The second match singed his fingers, and he dropped it. Torch, he thought. There was one in the car.

The car was parked perhaps twenty yards away. That was nothing, he told himself. That was a short walk, even in the dark. And Greg would probably jump out at him along the way and scare him senseless. They'd have a laugh. Everything would be fine. 

He lit another match, fetched the car keys from the kitchen table, and stepped outside. 

The first thing he noticed was the cold. It had been chilly since they arrived, windy and wet, the normal sort of bone-chilling damp that you got this time of year. This was different. The air was so still. It hung around him, inside of him, a tangible weight in his lungs, like ice was forming in his throat with each breath. He ignored it and struck out for the car with a brisk step. 

Five feet out, he pressed the unlock button on the key fob. The locks whirred and clicked. The lights went on inside the car, and it was as if a spell was broken. Everything seemed lighter all at once, and John broke into a run. 

His hands shook with relief as he opened the door and found the torch, wedged under the passenger's seat. He flicked it on and shone it around, heart still beating far too fast. He saw the gravel drive, the house lit up a sickly yellow by the beam, the wet grass, the wood pile. 

The wood pile was sheltered under the eves of the house, pressed up against one stone wall. As he approached, he could see a deep scrape in the grave and then a foot print, as if someone had slipped and stomped down hard with the other foot to catch himself. He looked behind the wood pile, around the corner of the house, and flashed the torch down the short flight of stairs that led to the cellar. 

Something on the stairs caught his eye, and he moved closer. It was a long, jagged splinter of wood. A touch assured him it was dry. As if it had been stored, sheltered from the weather, with the little stack of kindling at the end of the wood pile. 

The obvious conclusion that Greg was in the cellar warred with the obvious question. He had no reason to go down there. John sure as hell didn't want to go down there, but he was moving already, thudding down the steps before he could change his mind. He shoved the door open. 

The space inside was completely dark. The torch beam caught Greg standing alone in the middle of the floor, arms at his sides, eyes open. 

"You scared the shit out of me!" John said, as he stepped in. 

Greg didn't respond. Didn't move. He was looking past John into empty space, eyes unfocused, pupils contracted to tiny black dots. 

"Greg?" John moved closer. Still no response. He caught Greg's shoulder and shook him once, gently. "Hey. Are you all right?" John tugged at his sleeve, and Greg stepped toward him. 

One step at a time, and without looking too hard into the shadows, John led him back up the stairs. The door was standing open as he had left it. The house lights were on again. 

Inside, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea steaming in front of him, Greg finally looked at John instead of through him. "What happened?" Greg asked quietly. "You look...worried." 

John held onto his hand as hard as he dared and tried to think what to say. 

horrible histories

I got to see Sherlock's chicks yesterday - that is, the chicks that belong to his entire class, although he refers to them as his and wants to take them home so they can live in his room. He's not alone. I had four other children tell me they wanted a pet chicken while I was there. One little girl showed me a chicken harness she'd made so she could take it for walks. She plans to name it Dog, because 'no one's dog is ever called Dog so when I call him in the park he'll know I mean him.' You can't argue with logic like that.

Read about an exhibition just now...

'Horrible Histories: Spies'. Based on the popular childrens book series by Terry Deary, the display will immerse visitors into the world of World War Two espionage, including codes and ciphers, disguises, camouflage, forgeries and gadgets. The spy theme will continue in 'Secret War', an ongoing IWM London exhibition exploring the clandestine world of espionage, covert operations and the work of Britains Special Forces.

So I think the odds are quite good we'll be going to see that. Or Sherlock and I will anyway. Mycroft might be too old for it...but then again, I'm not, so perhaps he isn't either. I have a feeling one of you mention a spy exhibition and then I forgot to look it up, so if this is it...sorry, and thanks. Some days I feel I should be grateful my head is firmly attached so I don't wander off without it. And some days I wish I could wander off without it. 

Well, I'm awake, and that's clearly  not going to change, and I think I hear Sherlock stirring in his lair. Might as well see if he wants to help with breakfast. 

undulations of a skate

I got an email from someone I used to work with today about giving a talk at a conference he's organising. Could be interesting, but it's in Cardiff, in the summer, and both the boys will still be out of school, so I don't know. He said I've got time to think about it. If I can't, maybe Murray can do it instead. 

In other news, London has decided it's really more late winter than late spring once again, and our run this morning was chilly - at least until we got going and then it was the usual overheated, red-faced, we should really do this more often temperature, with Sherlock literally riding circles around us at some points. 

We are doing better though and running at least semi-regularly - even more so since Sherlock enjoys it (mainly the telling us not to be so slow parts) and asks if we can go out. L's home for the weekend, and we're going to see Mycroft tomorrow. Probably lunch and maybe a short ride. It's so nice that both of them can ride now. 

And here's something Sherlock found this morning before anyone else was properly awake:

Undulations of the fins of a skate viewed from the side, by  Étienne-Jules Marey, 1894

like spring

It was freakishly sunny and warm today, as if it were actually spring or something. Amazing. Sherlock and I went to the park after school and were pirates for a while - sword fights with sticks, sailing leaf boats on tiny bodies of water, that sort of thing. Sherlock has learned nothing from his broken arm and will still climb everything in sight given half a chance. He was halfway up a statue today before I stopped him.

Murray joined us for a bit, and for ice cream. He says he's not going back and might be leaving the Army too. He's thinking about looking for A&E work in London. I don't know what that job market's like, but he could hardly be better qualified. I told him there was babysitting in his future. He looked worryingly pleased. It's possible I shouldn't leave him and Sherlock alone together without someone else to babysit both of them.

I'm...relieved, I suppose. Sad, too, in a way. It feels like having both of us done with all that is a more permanent end to it than when it was just me, somehow. But I'm quite glad he won't be getting shot at anymore, obviously. And I'm glad it was his choice.

Anyway, as you probably saw in the comments of L's post, we're letting Sherlock pick out eggs from here to grow into a butterfly (or moth) and then release at the allotment. He is wildly excited, and I'm pretty excited too. We'll let you know what he decides on. My money's on the death's head moth...  

pretty much just pictures

I'm sure I had things to say, but then it got late and I should be in bed already... Here are some pictures of the blueberry bush and its pot:

The rocks at the bottom are to help drainage. 

And here's the actual blueberry bush. It's a kind that grows pink blueberries. Sherlock was entranced by the idea, and it sounds like it'll look nice in winter - yellow stems. 

And...I've been thinking about this for quite a while and I suppose I'll just say it and hope it comes out right. I never really understood before why people whose partners or spouses were hurting them wouldn't just...leave. I mean, I understood intellectually that there could be practical or financial reasons, but I never understood emotionally why someone would choose to stay if they didn't have to. 

Maybe that's a failure of imagination on my part, because it took having my life and heart so thoroughly entwined with L's to realise exactly how horribly wrenching it could be leave someone you love, or even used to love, or still want to love. And that sounds like I'm...comparing him to Bryan or something, which is awful and not what I mean at all and why I hesitated to try to say this. I suppose I just mean...you can't stop loving someone like flipping a switch, and the visceral realisation of that has made me see things differently. I suspect it's fairly obvious to people who aren't me, but I've led quite a solitary life up to now, emotionally speaking. Anyway. That's all. Good night. 

roses and invisible fish

Transparent fish:

No reason. Just because I liked them. More about them here.

Beautiful day. Chilly, but sunny. L had to work, unfortunately, but Sherlock and I had breakfast with him before he left (both of us, perhaps cruelly, still in our pyjamas...). Got the flat tidied (because if this isn't done on a daily basis, it devolves into complete chaos almost immediately) and then we went to get some plants. Not, as Sherlock would've preferred, all the plants they had, but possibly still too many.

Highlights include a blueberry bush in a pot (which I'm told we should get a few berries from late this year but which should do much better next year), tomato seeds, two roses, delphiniums, and sweet peas. And nasturtium seeds. And some other things. Also extremely small gardening gloves for Sherlock with bugs printed all over them. He showed them to everyone at the allotment...and then took them off and put them aside so they wouldn't get dirty.

We planted things and positioned and repositioned the blueberry bush and dug enormous holes for the roses to fill with compost and things roses like. Late in the afternoon, an amazingly handsome man pulled up on a motorbike and became the talk of the allotments by kissing me and then shortly afterwards taking his top off... All in all, quite a good day. 

hexaflexagons

Mycroft sent me this. I think Sherlock will want to make one as soon as he sees it...



I spent yesterday mostly vomiting and drinking water (repeat as necessary) and L was kind enough to fetch Sherlock from school and take him to the allotment where he apparently dug an enormous hole that he wants to show me tomorrow. I'm mostly better today. Just tired and wary of food. L's migraine is still hovering though and all in all we're not in the best shape. And I feel like I should've timed my food poisoning better, which is...absurd.

That's it, I think. Too tired to think of anything else at least. We're going to eat, two of us cautiously and Sherlock ravenously and then have a quiet evening.

catfish

I had another interview yesterday, the last one. I can't remember which letter doctor I'm on... I think it might be E, and I've already got a Dr E, so this one will have to be Dr F. He's probably a bit older than Lestrade, used to be a medical officer aboard a submarine (not the Army, but you can't have everything...). He's been doing this about ten years. 

He talked a bit about the differences between this and treating people in the military - a lot more drugs, for one thing, which I'd expected, although possibly not to the extent he implied. More of people attempting to hide weapons in various orifices, which I don't think I ever saw anyone in the Army try to do unless you count one young man and the barrel of his rifle, but he wasn't trying to hide it. 

Anyway, I think we'll do pretty well together. I asked him if he'd take me on, and he said yes, so there we are. Of course, I still need an actual job, but one thing at a time...

Here are some glasses that make 3D movies 2D again.

And here's a poem I just read for the first time and really like.

Your Catfish Friend
Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond?It seems like
a perfect place for them."

late nights and early mornings

I just got Sherlock back to bed after a nightmare. He said things with teeth were chasing me and Lestrade and he couldn't warn us, which is...a pretty terrible dream. We got up for a little while and had tea (me) and warm milk with honey (him) and talked on the sofa. I tried to convince both of us that the world isn't really a terrible place even though it seems that way sometimes.

He called Mycroft's school stupid roughly thirty seven times and said he'd never go there, he'd go to 'the other one'. I wonder how Eton feels about being the other one. He even said he missed Mycroft, which he'll hardly ever admit.

It was a big change, straight from motorbikes and guests and Mycroft and the dogs and Anthea all being there to a very quiet flat and school. I need to manage that transition better for him next time somehow.

I have a headache and an interview tomorrow, so I suppose I have to try to sleep again. I hope all of you are all right and so is everyone you love. 

it's a...thing

What is it? Strange underwater creature, artificial eyeball? You can guess if you want to and I'll put an explanatory link up tomorrow - someone remind me if I don't.

We were planning to pick up Carla and Paul after Longleat yesterday for ease of taking them to the off road place today, which didn't happen, because Paul had a thing (not sure what) that he had to do today. He and Carla came on the train today, and we will do the off road place tomorrow.

Today was a restful day of planting things in the allotment and getting dirty and cleaning up and then going to meet Paul and Carla's train...after which Carla and Paul and Mycroft and Sherlock were set loose upon London together. On their own. And by 'on their own' I mean with security trailing them, thank goodness.

And I spent part of the afternoon thinking about parents who don't have a security team following their children around (most of them) and wish they did (again, I'm going to guess most of them). It's an odd thing, and I know Mycroft's tired of it already, even if he's far more accepting of it than most boys his age would be. Me, for example. I had no sense whatsoever at fourteen and would've escaped every chance I got. And Sherlock, for now, doesn't care, because he wouldn't care if the entire city of London paraded after him everywhere he went as long as they didn't get in his way and perhaps bought him ice cream every now and then, which the security team has been known to do. But we can't expect that to last forever.

I don't think I had a point there; it's just something I think about every now and then, because it's a strange situation and one I often feel grateful for, but I'm aware that possibly I shouldn't feel grateful for it? Because they need to ordinary kids and learn to navigate the world on their own, but then again...I worry. I can't help it.

Well. That was...a lot of words I didn't expect to write today. Anyhow, they're fine, and they're almost back now, and we're going to be making pizza. We'll have to invade Mrs Hudson's flat to bake it because our oven is still broken, so I'd better go and warn her. 

be grateful this title is not a thyme pun

Allotment pictures. Here is a slightly sad stone frog guarding Reg's old thyme patch, which is on our side, so he says we can have it. He wants to try some new sort of thyme. So we need to pull the leaves out I expect and maybe cut it back? Need to ask him. Or get a book. Or ask you lot. Any of you gardeners? 

And here are some onions that aren't ours, for variety. Except for the thyme, our patch is pretty much just bare earth at the moment, if well dug over earth. Hopefully the pictures will improve as things start to grow. 

We're going to Longleat safari park tomorrow, which should be a lot of fun if we don't lose Sherlock in a maze or let him get devoured by a bird of prey. L's home for the whole weekend, starting today, which is lovely, especially since this is Mycroft's last weekend at home - he and Sherlock are both back to school next week and of course L's at work, and I have another interview...back to what can loosely be called normal around here. 

Also, here's this: 

 O sweet spontaneous

 O sweet spontaneous
 earth how often have
 the
 doting

           fingers of
 prurient philosophers pinched
 and
 poked

 thee
 ,has the naughty thumb
 of science prodded
 thy

       beauty      .how
 oftn have religions taken
 thee upon their scraggy knees
 squeezing and

 buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
 gods
         (but
 true

 to the incomparable
 couch of death thy
 rhythmic
 lover

           thou answerest


 them only with


                         spring)

-- e e cummings

abandoned

Royal Marines out of Afghanistan. I'm pretty happy about that. I know a couple of those guys in 40 Commando and I've patched up more than a couple. Glad to know they're coming home safe.

In totally unrelated news, the comment in my last post from Kate L about abandoned places reminded me I'd come across this:

It's an abandoned hotel in Japan. There are a lot more pictures at the site. Very interesting. He has a link at the top to more places like this that he's documented. 

L and Sherlock are making chocolate and raspberry cupcakes. L has told me I'm not to eat all of them this time, which is really not at all limiting. Five isn't all of them. Ten isn't even all of them. I'm only saying. They smell really good.

Mycroft took Sherlock to the museum today, which is the second outing they've been on alone together without any major property damage, fire, or other catastrophes. I'm very proud - I mean, really, I actually am. They don't always get along perfectly, but I'm so happy they can go out and have a good time together, especially as both of them start growing up.

I almost literally cannot believe they'll be eight and fifteen in few months. Terrifying. 

murray

So, that was Murray. I'd told him about L and the boys and life in general obviously, but not about the blogs because I knew he'd be on here in a flash with every embarrassing story about me he could think of. He was surprisingly restrained though. Not just in that but in general. I suppose it comes of being home and trying to decide what to do next. Because you can't do that sort of thing forever, no matter how...essential it feels. You have to pick when to get out, or the choice gets taken away from you.

We talked a lot, mostly in the middle of the night, so that I feel about as sleep deprived as L does after those night shifts. Yawning my head off. I'm really glad he came to visit, mockery and all.

L and Mycroft have been baking - making cherry and almond cupcakes for Nicky and her family, and banana ones for his mum. It will be a struggle not to eat them before dinner. Or instead of dinner.

For Sherlock (who's been very good today after yesterday's episode of theft, hostage-taking, and coercion into ponds) an old medical illustration with various ways of stitching wounds:

guest post

Hey, this is Murray. Sherlock says I've got to post this bat.


I guess it is pretty cool. Look at the length of that tongue. Damn. What I could do with a tongue the length of my bloody arm...anyway.

Soooo. How does this work exactly? 3C says just say stuff.  Except not that, he says. And with less swearing than usual. Right. I slept on their sofa last night. It's not bad as sofas go and I am a connoisseur of sofa sleeping. I just had to ask a seven year old how to spell that, by the way. What is my life, god. We had french toast for breakfast, that Greg's an amazing cook.

Went to see the allotment just now that Greg got Watson for his birthday, which is... I dunno. John Watson. Allotment. Not two things I would've thought went together, but he's really into it, so that's good. All their glasses match too. When did you grow up, Johnny? I only left you alone for a couple of years and nothing in your emails led me to suspect this level of adulthood although I guess getting shut down by op minimise in the middle of every other conversation made things a little weird. Started feeling like I shouldn't talk to anyone off Bastion for a while there. Like it would help or something.

Although being ancient (over forty) now I suppose matching glasses and allotments and proper jobs are age-appropriate, thank god I am still younger than you and always will be. This is bizarre, this writing thing. Makes you say things you wouldn't otherwise. Like: I'm thinking about not going back. I'll probably regret it if I don't but the way it's been since I got home, maybe there's only so much fucking over a bloke's head can take and I should stop while I'm ahead. Whatever.

Why don't I have a tag? I am giving myself a tag. 

unexpectedly exciting

L's been sent off to interview someone at HMP Frankland, which is much too far away. He'll spend the night there (not at the prison, in a hotel nearby). So will Sherlock. He was begging to go along, L and I were saying no, because where would he stay while L was doing the interview? Sherlock insisted he was old enough to stay in the hotel alone (no), and then one of the security people said his mum lived up there and he hadn't sent her an Easter card and he could go along and look after Sherlock for a few hours while L was doing the interview...

And suddenly, I was packing Sherlock an overnight bag and they were off to the train station. Sherlock was wildly excited, and there were multiple updates from the train, including one about how he could fit into the luggage rack... They're at the hotel now and asleep - at least Sherlock is, and I hope L is by now.

I think Mycroft and I are going to the Soane Museum tomorrow and maybe out to breakfast beforehand - despite having been instructed that we're not to do anything fun while Sherlock's away. It's the house he built for his family to live in but there's also a sort of fake monk's cell and yard:

Soane pretended that he had discovered the remains when digging the foundations of his new house: in medieval times, he explained, this had been the hermitage of a monk named Padre Giovanni. In fact had had assembled the ruin from pieces he had salvaged in his role as architect to the old Houses of Parliament. 

Also:

The tomb itself is is inscribed 'Alas  Poor Fanny!' as if Padre Giovanni had withdrawn into seclusion because of a broken heart. But Fanny was Mrs Soane's beloved pet dog, and its tiny coffin still lies in the Monk's Grave.

(both quotes from In Ruins, by Christopher Woodward)

He sounds like an interesting man... 

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. 

hungry like the wolf

I've been ordered upstairs to bed while L prepares something for tomorrow morning, so I'll just take this opportunity to say briefly how wonderful he is and how much I love him. And how...constantly amazed I am at my good fortune.

And I'll also post this, just in case Sherlock needs something else to occupy himself with in the morning, or more to the point, in case Mycroft and Anthea need help occupying him. The youtube channel belongs to someone who works at a natural history museum in Montana and this is the first in a series of videos in which they acquire a wolf that was hit by a car and prepare it for...display, presumably, but I haven't watched that far yet.

All this one has is a dead wolf, but the subsequent episodes are more graphic, so proceed with caution. Eventually, I believe, there will be flesh-eating beetles involved. You're welcome, Sherlock.

baggage handling

After lunch, L took me on a mystery tour of London. He said we were going to pick up one of my birthday presents...somewhere. I was surprised he didn't want me on the back of his bike so he wouldn't have to give me directions, but as it turned out, my bike was a necessary part of the proceedings, because I was getting real, rain-proof, lockable luggage for it: 

Obviously it looks better on my bike (because it's my bike), but this gives you a general idea. It's all somehow coded (magnetically? Electronically? Magically?) to open with my ignition key, which is amazing - how do criminals get by these days? Stealing things must be much more complicated - and it all fits perfectly. It's made by BMW so they ought to know how to put things on their own bikes. It'll be perfect for the FME job; I can keep all my things in it and not worry about someone wandering off with them if I turn my back for a minute, and there'll be conferences and so on I'll need to travel for (and Spider fits, I checked, although she does take up almost an entire bag on her own). It's a wonderfully thoughtful gift, and I have an amazing fiancé. 

-

On a completely different note, here's the story Sherlock wrote for school a little while ago. He asked me to post it here. 

-

reading is fundamental

Auto-complete map of the UK (it'll get bigger if you click on it):  

I particularly like 'Edinburgh is a mad god's dream'. Much more interesting than 'London is funny'. Although at least we're not hellish (Oxford) or a dump (many places, apparently), or Swansea (the graveyard of ambition, which has to be the worst of all). 

L had to be at court at what seemed like a truly unreasonable hour this morning. Surely judges don't wake up that early? But he also got out in time for Mycroft to send us both away to have lunch and leave him to finish up studying. He came with us to pick up Sherlock on the bikes afterward, and they've been getting along...slightly better than yesterday. For the most part. Until Mycroft's voice cracks a bit and Sherlock feels it necessary to make fun of him. Mycroft rises above it usually, which is more than I managed when Harry was mocking me for the same thing. 

If anyone knows where spring went, please send it our way. 

barbican

We went to the Barbican conservatory today. It was much nicer in there than it was outside. Parts of it looked like the aftermath of an apocalypse...in some more temperate country than ours.

Zombies not included, although Sherlock hid in the foliage and groaned for a while in an attempt to convince us otherwise. 

Orchids. I can't remember what kind, but they're lovely, aren't they? Made a nice change from the grey brown outside. 

Speaking of outside... 

You can picture Sherlock tearing around this very cold lake, right on the edge, despite being repeatedly told not to. I don't think even he wanted to fall in today though. Tiny bits of snow, vicious wind. Hard to believe it's almost April. 

Mycroft's guessed where L's taking us all for my birthday. He says it's obvious, given what Lestrade's said about it. I think he must mean obvious if you're a genius...or possibly obvious if you're a teenage genius, since Sherlock hasn't got it either and it's driving him mad. If he does get it, I'll be the only one in the dark, but that's all right. I'm not generally that fond of surprises, but I like all of L's, so I can wait. Probably. 

I'm so glad L's home this week. And not just because his cough still sounds like a seal. Or an asthmatic swan. Or some other animal that needs medical attention. It's nice to have him around during the day. 

dot dot dot

Sherlock's after-school art class started today. L and I both went and were forced to participate (all right, I was forced, L did it of his own accord), and I'm glad. It was fun, although I am just as terrible as I thought I would be. We did watercolours this time, which makes sense with kids this age - relatively easy to clean up.

The teacher brought in a few different flowers and some fish (yes really, dead fish) to paint. I did a sunflower...more or less. Three guesses which Sherlock picked and the first two don't count. L did a fish with a flower for its eye which I thought was nice.

And the rest of this post will basically be a letter to L, because I feel like I could've handled this last...thing...that we went through better. Not that I necessarily know how. But sometimes typing is a lot easier than talking.

So...L. I know you think that I just don't like to talk about things...until later, when we're both miserable. It's really not that.

It's more like I'm convinced the only things I can think of to say are...things I feel would not be helpful to the situation, so I don't say them, but then I can't say anything else, so I just say nothing. I get scared of making things worse. Terrified, really. Which is...not helpful in thinking of things to say.

Do you think I used enough...ellipses in that?

Anyway. I don't know if hearing any of that helps. Or potentially makes things worse. But that's what's actually going on in my head when you're thinking I don't want to talk about it. I still don't know how to not do that next time, but maybe we could think of something? Sorry. I am trying. 

a few things

Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman, has been done as a radio drama, and first episode is available. It actually says it will be available soon, but it was available a few hours ago, because I listened to it. So, not sure what's going on, but I imagine it'll be back shortly. It has that guy from Cabin Pressure in it, and Christopher Lee, Bernard Cribbins, Tony Head, and a number of other impressive people.

I thought this was really nice, and practical:

whitstable

L has the day off tomorrow. I asked where he wanted to go, and he said how about Whitstable, and now we both have this song stuck in our heads. Maybe forever.




We will be buying vegetables while we're there, obviously.

that's why we don't hug kale

At the supermarket a few days ago, I saw a little girl and her mother. The girl, about four, was helping unload things. Her mother handed her some kale, and she hugged it, which was rather sweet, but caused it to slip out of its plastic bag and land on the floor. Her mum helped her get it back in the bag, and then said, And that's why we don't hug kale.

I have a feeling some of the conversations around their house may rival ours for oddness.

Caves full of massive crystals, near Chihuahua, Mexico

Sherlock brought his bloodstain pattern book to school today, which in retrospect was perhaps not the best idea. I didn't even think of it this morning when he asked, but Mrs N had words with me after school. Though apparently the problem was more that the kids found it fascinating than that anyone was upset by it. Some of their parents may not appreciate it.

His parents evening is tomorrow, and while it won't go quite as smoothly as Mycroft's, I don't think we have any unpleasant surprises in store. It does make me feel slightly sorry for my own parents though, thinking of them going to these things for Harry and I. Getting told Harry was smoking or leaving school after lunch and not coming back, or that I was starting fights again (which wasn't true, I never started them). It's like Judgement Day.

I've also got another interview coming up, speaking of judgement. Wish me luck. 

home alone

L and I had a very nice day (helped along by the fact that England won the rugby). I lazed about, he cooked, neither of us got much accomplished. We rang our mums, which went all right. We ate, watched the match, I dozed on him... Perfect, really.

Mrs Holmes picked up the boys this morning fairly early. Sherlock had a giant sparkly card for her, and Mycroft had a less sparkly one, and they had their respective instruments because they'd planned a duet for her on guitar and violin. L got a text from Mycroft saying it went well, and I got seven from Sherlock - a sort of play by play.

She's taking Mycroft back to school tonight, and Sherlock's staying the night with her. L's just been called out. I am, for once, alone - although not really, because Mrs Hudson is downstairs, and there's someone down in security all the time now I think since we had that break in. And, of course, two enormous hounds, to be picked up by Anthea tomorrow and return to Harrow with her. And two degus, who I need to feed, and a partridge in a pear tree (no, Sherlock, no partridges. or pear trees). And to think now that's my definition of alone...

I prefer it this way though. I think part of what disconcerted me so much about being out of the army was going from four in a room (or 30 in a tent) to just me, not even a plant. I'm glad it's not like that for most people when they come home.

fulgurite

L sent me this picture of fulgurite, which looks amazingly like a dragon about to eat someone. It's made when lightning strikes sand and fuses parts of it together. 

Quite a lot happened yesterday. Today. Depending on how you look at it. Mycroft's parents' evening went pretty well. All of his teachers had nice things to say about him. I tried to pay attention and ask useful questions, although how useful anything I had to say would really be is debatable. I mean, it's different at Sherlock's school, but I don't really think Harrow takes anything any of the parents say all too seriously. 

L claimed to be nervous, but looked suave and cool, if slightly damp from the ride. He made it extremely difficult to focus on what everyone was saying. Mrs H looked like she was trying not to scare anyone, which I must say is not her usual look and does not come naturally to her. She's very charming when she wants to be though. 

Afterward, we got to take Mycroft home...into the sugar-fueled disaster zone of hurricanes Sherlock and Harry. They made a batch of cupcakes with edible glitter. Mrs Hudson got two. Mycroft got one. L and I got none. The entire batch of cupcakes was gone before dinner. I don't know how Sherlock and Harry didn't explode, but a walk afterwards was necessary. 

Things happened. Harry is now apparently planning L's stag do. I am sensibly terrified. 

Woke up around three and had a chat with Harry, who was sleeping on our couch. It was...good. We'll probably never be close the way L and Nicky are, but maybe we can do better than we have been. 

car punching

I had another interview yesterday, with Dr B, who thankfully did not google me. He was a bit older and called my phone an infernal device, so I have a feeling google is not top of his list for information sources. He's been doing this a long time though and had some interesting stories. Not sure we're going to suit though. I suspect if he had read the blogs, he wouldn't have approved.

Today, lunch in the park with Lestrade, who could speak and was not wheezing, so that was lovely. Beautiful day.

On the way to pick up Sherlock, I saw someone get cut up in traffic. He started shouting at the man who'd done it and got out of his car at the next light. I thought there might be trouble, which...I suppose there was. Of a sort. He walked up, punched the other man's car, got back in his own, and drove away when the light turned green. He made no impact on the car. I hope he didn't break anything in his hand.

I also looked at more wedding bands.

It's white gold, and the centre bit rotates. Does that make sense? The raised part is not attached to the inner part, so they sort of spin around each other, but they're still connected. There's an animation showing it on the site, but you can only really see it with the one with the diamond in. Anyway, I thought it was nice. Unusual. 

souffle success

I made this. It...worked? Bit dense maybe? I don't have extensive souffle eating experience, so it's hard to judge, but Sherlock ate two of them, so it must've not been too bad. It was actually a pretty simple recipe. It made six, so Mrs Hudson got one, and security got the other. Hopefully they shared and didn't go for a fight to death or anything. They're more used to L's desserts, which are worth fighting over. Hopefully this has erased the shame of the cheese and vinegar incident from everyone's mind.

And here's a tiny bat for Sherlock (and everyone else who wants one):

Lestrade's feeling better, which is wonderful. Sherlock's not even fake-coughing, despite school tomorrow. There was sun today and it looks like there might even be more tomorrow. Things are looking up...and I'm reading about tasers. Or, really, TASERs, since it's an acronym. There's an entire chapter on them in Clinical Forensic Medicine.  Apparently the man who invented them named them after his favourite character: Tom A. Swift and his Electric Rifle (TASER). So, there's something I'm willing to bet most of you didn't know. And will never have occasion to use now that you do know it. 

slow day

Harry sent me a link to this article: We Found Our Son on the Subway. Lovely. You couldn't get away with writing this sort of thing in fiction; everyone would call it unrealistic. I kept expecting something awful to happen as I was reading through it and was very pleasantly surprised. I am so happy for them. And glad to live in a world where things like this are, occasionally, possible.

Lestrade's still ill. Sherlock, thankfully, is not, though he tried coughing and looking pathetic this morning in case I'd let him stay home from school. He couldn't maintain it though. He has too much energy to pretend effectively; it breaks out and suddenly he's jumping up and down on the sofa and singing about orange juice.

Lestrade is looking wan and pale without any effort at all, but I think feeling slightly better today, judging by his slightly renewed interest in coffee. He's mostly been on the sofa with a duvet and an endless supply of case files and autopsy reports. There are so many that I literally don't know how he got them home with them. I think the interior of his bag may be a Tardis. The coughing at night is the worst part, but at least he's had some rest today.

I've been making him tea and reading my new book, Clinical Forensic Medicine: A Physician's Guide. Not an exciting day, but there you are. How are you all doing?