The train's stopped on the tracks. Nothing but fields and rain and sheep for miles, although Mycroft says he can see what he thinks is Hadrian's Wall with his telescope. There's a problem with the engine. We've been sitting here an hour.
We got a brief glimpse of the stars last night before it clouded over again. Mycroft keeps talking about Utah. I keep wincing at the thought of seven hours on a plane with Sherlock. It makes me consider mad things like demanding his mum hire us a private jet, or buying about fifty of those eight-sided Rubik's Cubes.
Mycroft is teaching him simple sentences in ancient Greek now, things like I killed the brother of my mother with a long sword. You know, practical tourist phrases. The letters are starting to make sense to me, too. Mycroft's a good teacher.
It's times like this I really wonder if I'm doing the right thing by making Sherlock go to school. God knows they're not exactly challenging him intellectually there, and he hates it, and he's not making friends (though it's only been a month). His mum won't weigh in on one side or the other, says it's up to me, that I see him more so I'm better qualified to judge how it's working out for him. Which is logical, I suppose, and yet highly alarming. I do not feel well qualified at all.
And since Mycroft's otherwise engaged and therefore not reading this as I type it, let me just add that I'm equally worried about his schooling. I know he plans to go to Harrow, and obviously he's well prepared academically, but socially? Is there such a thing as a social tutor? Sometimes I feel I could use one myself.
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