Some of the book titles people came up with in the comments were so good I thought I'd put them in the poll. There's fifteen (if you did more than one I picked the one I liked best - I know, it's terribly objective and scientific), so I'll do them in three sets of five, and then I suppose the final three to find the ultimate winner. Maybe there could be a prize? I don't know what though. Let me know if you've got any ideas.
I hardly know how to talk about this weekend. Lestrade's been more amazing than usual. He doesn't seem to even realize that most people wouldn't have had that talk with Sherlock, that most people would just about tolerate the boys, if that, much less tell them stories and arrange fake crime scenes for them and try to help them grow up. I'm not sure he even sees there's anything for me to thank him for, and perhaps it's silly to thank him for being who he is, but I am incredibly thankful for that nevertheless.
And now I'm going to tell you two stories, one about L and one about Mrs H. There was going to be one about Mycroft as well, but he's grown a little paranoid about his future schoolmates finding this blog so I've promised not to say anything remotely embarrassing (when you're 13 most things adults say are embarrassing).
The one about Mrs H is from Friday night, before L had joined us. Sherlock was asleep in my lap, and Mycroft was asleep curled up by his telescope. Mrs H had just wandered back up from the edge of the sea. I offered her a blanket, and she said she wasn't cold (which, if true, must've been some sort of thermodynamic miracle). She said she'd come here with her husband once, when Mycroft was only two, that they'd stayed on the beach all night too, but that he'd had to leave just before dawn. She didn't say why, and I didn't dare ask. "There," she said. "Put that in your blog. God knows I'll never find a way to tell them otherwise." So, there. I have put it in my blog.
...And now that I have, maybe I'll save the Lestrade story for a another day. This one seems like it should stand on its own, short as it is.
I hardly know how to talk about this weekend. Lestrade's been more amazing than usual. He doesn't seem to even realize that most people wouldn't have had that talk with Sherlock, that most people would just about tolerate the boys, if that, much less tell them stories and arrange fake crime scenes for them and try to help them grow up. I'm not sure he even sees there's anything for me to thank him for, and perhaps it's silly to thank him for being who he is, but I am incredibly thankful for that nevertheless.
And now I'm going to tell you two stories, one about L and one about Mrs H. There was going to be one about Mycroft as well, but he's grown a little paranoid about his future schoolmates finding this blog so I've promised not to say anything remotely embarrassing (when you're 13 most things adults say are embarrassing).
The one about Mrs H is from Friday night, before L had joined us. Sherlock was asleep in my lap, and Mycroft was asleep curled up by his telescope. Mrs H had just wandered back up from the edge of the sea. I offered her a blanket, and she said she wasn't cold (which, if true, must've been some sort of thermodynamic miracle). She said she'd come here with her husband once, when Mycroft was only two, that they'd stayed on the beach all night too, but that he'd had to leave just before dawn. She didn't say why, and I didn't dare ask. "There," she said. "Put that in your blog. God knows I'll never find a way to tell them otherwise." So, there. I have put it in my blog.
...And now that I have, maybe I'll save the Lestrade story for a another day. This one seems like it should stand on its own, short as it is.
18 comments:
I'd suggest another piece of art by Sherlock as a prize, if he likes to draw another.
By the way, will you guys watch Eurovision Song Contest? I'm already so excited about it. It's this weeks MUST for me.
Lestrade is pretty amazing but that he doesn't seem to have a clue, that he actually thinks that he's not good enough on so many things is astonishing!
You're both amazingly lucky to have one another and the boys to have both of you!
Shouldn't you change Mycroft's age on the blog, age 12 to age 13 is a BIG thing to a kid :)
Anonymous, I'm not thirteen until tomorrow, actually. But then I hope John will change the title.
Yes, you are silly to thank me. But it is nice to know you don't think I'm doing everything wrong.
You do realise it's total double standards to not only let Mycroft off having embarrassing stories told about him (a plea that's never saved me), but then to taunt me with a story in the same sentence - when I'm sure I've done nothing noteworthy for ages!
I thought Mrs Holmes had been there before. She seemed to know her way around. And when I say she terrifies me, I don't really mean her - she actually seems very nice. It's the power she wields that terrifies me, I suppose.
Ps. Can Mycroft fit me with a tracker, so that when Sherlock returns from our walk without me, you can find where he's buried my body? Any clue what he wants?
No, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve burying your body in a park somewhere, don't worry. I think he just wants to talk. You may have made a bigger impression on him yesterday than you thought.
Okay. I'll take your word for it. I'll change first anyway, so you can use my shirt to give the dogs a scent to work with if you're wrong.
And Anon is right, I am amazingly lucky to have you. And the boys.
Danger, we just walked past one of the statues with the inscription 'To all protectors of the helpless'. Sherlock said "Like you and John are." (Not, he hastened to add, that he or Mycroft were helpless. but other people we help/have helped are.)
Sometimes he's just like every other 5 year old, and sometimes he's so insightful.
Yeah. He did check with me that even though he kicked Danger, he couldn't go to prison for it (following my comment earlier that the bloke who hit me will be going to jail). And asked why people hurt police officers, especially when they've already been caught (we still have a way to go on 'doing something wrong' vs. 'getting caught'. He honestly seems to think not getting caught is the point...)
Like you and John are.
Like you are, anyway. Not sure who he thinks I'm protecting if not him and Mycroft.
And the story about you is potentially embarrassing only to me, I promise. You worry too much. It's not like I've posted embarrassing childhood photos of you... Oh wait.
Well, you have protected people, and he knows you protect them - he just doesn't want to admit it!
I think I worry just the right amount, thanks all the same.
Was it your phone Sherlock had? Or Mycroft's?
I've arranged to go in an hour later tomorrow, to have birthday breakfast with you all.
Mycroft's, unless he managed to return mine without me seeing.
Oh, excellent. What are we having?
We're having whatever Mycroft wants. With the proviso that there isn't a masdive range in the cupboards. Scrambled eggs? American style pancakes and fruit? A sort of semi Not-Full English? Up to him.
As one of my friends regularly tells me, "your last life must have sucked because you landed in roses this time."
True family is a wonderful thing, whether they're the one to which you are born or the one which you create. Good on you all.
Later gator,
Bronwyn
The blog of John Watson, professional nanny to Sherlock (age 5) and Mycroft (age 12).
Your blog is officially behind the times, John. :)
Far too late for any kind of polling, but hey, I took a while to find a book title I was really amused by.
Practical Magi
Instead of gold, frankincense and myrrh, the three wise men rocked up with a camel load of nappies, bottles, steriliser and a breast pump.
Ha! That is genius. I'll find a place for it on one of the polls.
*bows*
I get there eventually. Sometimes.
As for the current poll, I really couldn't go past Three Men In A Boa. Is it an entry from the Sydney Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras? Or a previously unknown play by Samuel Beckett? WHO KNOWS.
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