Shopping accomplished, despite the Weather. Mycroft thinks the Dogs of War need coats. We did stop at the petshop to check out the possibilities, but somehow I can't see Phobos and Deimos in pink tartan. Any road, I don't know what they are, but they don't look like delicate hothouse flowers to me, despite Phobos' new habit of trying to get most of himself in my lap while I'm trying to write.
"Get off, you immense slobber fountain."
Phobos: *wounded look*
"...Look, go find your frog and I'll throw it for you, all right?"
John Watson, soft touch for prodigies and mythological animals.
It iced. Which is to say, it rained, and the entire landscape instantly froze the rain into a sort of crystal coating over everything. London under aspic. Beautiful and treacherous. Actually, yeah, a lot like the aspic my grandmother used to do. (Sorry, Gram.)
We got, among other things, self-raising flour. Not that I intended to try the biscuits again, you understand, but once Mycroft read about our failure, he gave us both a look that ought to have petrified a few limbs at least, if not outright turned us to stone from shame.
"It's just chemistry," he said.
If my life were as satisfying as a sit-com, he would've failed utterly as well, and we would've all had a nice bonding moment followed by a pizza, but this is Mycroft we're talking about. Of course his bloody ginger nuts were perfect.
(I'm actually quite stupidly proud of him, despite it being "just chemistry".)
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