We were meant to get a Christmas tree today. I had a plan. Drop Mycroft off with Ms P for his maths lesson. Take Sherlock to school. Clean the flat, top to bottom. My mum used to do that for the New Year, and somehow I think this is the last chance I'll get. She used to put out silver to catch the light of last year's moon and the new year's moon too, but I think trying that in London would be like walking around with a Please Mug Me sign taped to my back. Besides which, I haven't got any silver.
Well. Best laid plans and all that.
Sherlock disappeared from school today.
He's fine (I say, ruining the suspense), not kidnapped. No, he decided to run off to Harrods and go Christmas shopping with my bank card.
Just let me repeat that.
He left school, took the tube to Harrods by himself, stopped at a cash point machine some time in there, racked up about £500 of presents, and do you know how he got caught? He didn't have enough left for this one jumper, the last in that size, so he took it with him out of the store to get more cash. Planned to come back and pay for it, of course. And, of course, he got caught. He's very clever, but as I keep reminding people (including myself) he's only five.
The jumper was for me. He didn't get a damned thing for himself.
I made him return the lot and apologize (to me, not Harrods; he did pay for the stuff, after all, and, well, he was asleep on my shoulder when I took it all back). I think he understands why it was wrong, but it's bloody hard to tell with him sometimes.
I can't even say how relieved I was when he called me - from Lestrade's office - to say he was all right.
We did get the tree in the end, but you'll have to hear about that another time. I'm shattered. Oh, and there's a Detective Inspector asleep on my sofa.
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