not too spotty

Sherlock continues tired, not too spotty and intermittently cranky, which is to be expected. He has consumed his entire body weight in homemade ice lollies several times over. I hope L keeps making them all summer. The lemon-basil ones were not a hit with Sherlock, but I love them.

Speaking of basil, it exists in the allotment. Our little non-producing blueberry bush looks happier this year, so perhaps we'll get some actual berries out of it (although Sherlock informs me that most things we call berries are technically droops drupes, but he doesn't know if that includes blueberries or not, and Johnnnnnn stop typing so I can look it upppppp why can't I use your phoneeeeeeee [answer: because of the 38 texts he sent L in a two hour period before I took it away from him]).

We will also have these enormously long Thai red beans:

They stay that color when you cook them, which Sherlock is very pleased about. Most of them that aren't green to start with turn green when you cook them. They also apparently get about as long as your arm, which should be something to see.

I'm going to let Sherlock look up droops now. Talk to you all later.

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.

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? 

la belle dame sans merci

Mycroft rang this evening and told me off for never admitting I was ill and trying to carry on regardless even though I won't let anyone else do that. Probably tells you all you need to know about my day. I honestly don't feel that bad, just tired, scratchy throat, etc. I plan to be better tomorrow, but meanwhile Drs Holmes and Lestrade have made me promise to rest. 

And this still isn't Greg the Florist because I can't find the last bit of it on L's blog and search box won't load. I don't suppose anyone has a link to it? 

-

No laughing at 'her elfin grot', I know you people. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats

sneezles

I'd meant to write Greg the Florist today, but got a call from Mrs N instead, telling me to come and fetch Sherlock. He's not too ill - at least there's no vomiting (yet) - just quiet, cranky, and miserable, poor kid. And then L came home with a headache, and he and Sherlock napped on the couch in between demanding orange juice (Sherlock) and insisting he was fine (Lestrade). Mrs H came up and force fed everyone tea, and then I was putting Sherlock to bed, and...the day has gone very quickly. 

-

Sneezles

A.A. Milne

not just ugh, contagious ugh

brb, coughing up phlegm and lungs for the foreseeable future. 

how i got arrested in egypt, twice

Once was a case of mistaken identity. Someone who looked like me (by which I mean: was English, not a giant, and had sort of indeterminately coloured hair) had started a fight with a man who was selling chickens. I presume over the price, but that was never entirely clear. Anyway, he hurt the chicken seller pretty badly, got laid into by a couple of the chicken seller's friends, and then ran off.

Meanwhile, nearby, a friend of mine had lost her dog (chihuahua, named Biscuit). I was running after Biscuit. Biscuit was so small as to be pretty much invisible to the naked eye. The police saw a man fitting their suspect's description running away.

They shouted, and when I realised it was me they wanted, of course I stopped. I'd lost sight of Biscuit in the crowd by then anyway. Things were complicated by the fact that their suspect spoke Arabic and I didn't. They thought I was being difficult. I was completely confused.

They took me in, and I was there for about eight hours, even after the chicken seller came to have a look and said I was not the man in question.

Everything worked out in the end. They found the man who did it. Biscuit found her way home. I was released, albeit with some resentful looks for not being who they thought I was.

The second time I don't remember very well. I was pretty ill. I suspect the food at the hotel where I was staying. I'd gone out to get bottled water and something I could stomach, but it was all too bright, too loud, I was dizzy, there was vomiting. Not pretty. I was taken in for being (they thought) drunk and disgusting in public.

It was probably for the best. They realised their mistake pretty quickly and gave me water and crackers rather than throwing me out on the street, which was kind. By that evening I was all right to get back to the hotel on my own, and a few days later I was fine. 

sturgeon?

Well, he wasn't joking about the nightmares. The latest must've been quite something. He kicked me straight out of bed with a well placed foot to the arse. I woke up halfway down and manage to roll when I hit the ground. More or less. Lestrade sat straight up, said, "Sturgeon!" and went immediately back to sleep. Can't wait to hear him explain that one.

He seemed perfectly peaceful after that, so I left him to it. Myself, I need some tea and bad late night television before I give sleep a second chance. It's nice, actually. The quiet, and the sitting very still. My "brutal cleaning regimen," as Lestrade put it, has been keeping me pretty busy. It was the thought of Sherlock picking this thing up. I think he would've ended up in hospital, apart from being completely miserable of course. I'd worry less about Mycroft, but only slightly.

Lestrade, I have to say, must have the constitution of a horse. Is that a real phrase? Constitution of a horse? Sounds wrong, but I'm not really awake. I hope the other man's doing as well as he is, and that his wife's keeping him in bed. That sounds entirely wrong, but you know what I mean. God, maybe Harry's right and I actually do worry about everyone.

Right, back to bed. I'll say this for his fever - it keeps my feet warm. 

hubba hubba

Back again. I was not half as ill as Lestrade would have you believe and at no point was there whining of any sort, especially not for ice cream. I was stoic.

I completely agree with Lestrade's self assessment in the comments of the last post ("Damn right I'm hot") and offer the following completely accurate photo as proof:

the plague, day 7

Lestrade here again. John is an unsurprisingly terrible patient, but I can't blame him. I'm always the same way. It's hell not being able to do anything when you're used to being up and about every second of the day.

Another science joke from the comments (Mycroft is still slaying his maths tutor with these, and even I found this one hilarious):

the plague, day 6

Hi, this is Lestrade. I'm sorry, John can't come to the internet right now because he's a silly bugger who doesn't take proper care of himself or sleep, ever as far as I can tell, and now he's in bed with a fever. I won't say he deserves it because he looks like death and I feel sorry for him but I might say it later when he's feeling better.

I don't know how he writes in this thing every day. I don't know what else to say.

the plague, day 5

We're almost in the clear. Sherlock's tearing around the flat telling terrible jokes to make his brother laugh (One atom says to another atom, "I think I lost an electron." "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm positive.") and trying to ride Deimos, who's refusing, quite sensibly, to do anything but lie in front of the fire.

Mycroft is demanding real food for dinner tonight instead of more chicken soup. Mrs Hudson, thank god, shows no sign of getting ill. I have a bit of a scratchy throat, but the air's dry in here, especially with the fire going.

the plague, day 4

Sherlock's feeling better, and Mycroft's feeling worse. You can tell by the way his eyes glaze over when I'm reading. I think he's more at a Dr Seuss level than Camus at the moment. Or perhaps that's not the thing to read a child with a fever and an already-vivid imagination. All his books seemed to me as if they might well have been written under the influence of some sort of hallucinogen.

the plague, day 3

Mycroft's got it. They spent the day on either end of the sofa, two unhappy, snot-filled bookends. Poor kids. To the anon who suggested grated fresh ginger in the hot lemon, Sherlock loathes it, and Mycroft thinks it's the best thing on Earth. I like it myself, so, two out of three. Not bad.

I'm reading them Camus. The Plague. Mycroft's idea. I've never read it before (should I be ashamed to admit that? Probably), and it's a surprisingly good plot. I'm surprised Hollywood hasn't made some blockbuster action/thriller/romance out of it. Nice it remembers where the real blame lay too. Everyone talks about the rats, but it of course it was the fleas.

the plague, day 2

Sherlock's a bit better, but still home from school. Slept most of the night last night. Only woke me up around 3am, quite warm with fever, and unsurprisingly thirsty. Water, something for the fever, and I had one clingy, sleepy little boy. I let him sleep in my bed, which led to a bit of drama when his mum let herself in around 4am and went to his room to find his bed empty.