uncharted

Dramatic clouds that have nothing to do with this post: 

Sherlock's been amazingly reasonable about not getting degus for his birthday, after the initial shock. I think Mrs T had a talk with him, which made it a lot easier for me to have a talk with him, about why we're a bit concerned he might end up treating his degus like he treats his colored pencils.

Of course he said he wouldn't, and that he'd take care of them and clean their cage and all, and I have no doubt he means it, just like every child who wants a puppy really means it when they say they'll walk it every day, 'yes, I swear, even if it's raining or really hot out or my favourite programme is on!' My parents didn't really buy it from Harry, but she got the dog anyway.

Last night we did a chart of chores he'd to do without being reminded. One of them is walking Mrs Turner's dog. I'll have to go with him for that one, of course, but it's his job to remind me. We'll see how it goes. 

low tide

We went away for the weekend to...a fort.

as requested

One year today, I let Dr E bully me into starting this blog, mainly because it was easier than doing anything else she wanted me to do, like discuss my feelings or get on with my life.

...It seems to have worked unexpectedly well. Good job, Dr E. 

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

Hello it's Sherlock again, I'm posting from John's phone because I'm BORED and stuck in stupid traffic and no one will tell me what my surprise is. School was fun and I guess I'm glad I went because Mrs T brought in cake and Mendia and Peter even gave me presents.

One was this massive dead bug she found which was really brilliant and I'm going to dry it out and pin it to a card like the bugs in the museum, and Peter's was a water pistol, but Mrs T said I couldn't fill it up until I got home and I'm not home yet because John and I never went there after school, we walked around and got a snack and went to the park. He said I was bothering the ducks, but I only wanted to see their feathers better to see how the water slides off them.

And after my surprise we're going to have pizza and liquid nitrogen ice cream and it will be amazing. I hope we get ice cream and then pizza because I don't want to be too full of pizza for ice cream. 

my favorite tag

Sherlock and I and some rather crumbly shortbread went to fetch L from the airport yesterday. Sherlock, as you've all heard, launched himself at him like a flying squirrel or some sort of flaily-limbed projectile, and L caught him just in time.

We met Hannah briefly before her grandmother took her off home. She seemed...well, tired, mainly. If Sherlock looked like that, I'd be sending him to bed right after dinner, but I don't imagine it'll be that easy for her. I'm glad she's got her grandmother with her now.

Today was pancakes and getting to see Mycroft again for the first time in 'literally forever' according to Sherlock and kites and frisbees and dogs. It was everything back to normal for a day, and it was wonderful fun. Anthea unbent far enough to have ice cream with us (strawberry for her, you can probably guess everyone else's choices by now) and tell us that Mycroft's a lot less trouble than we are. Ha. I think we all knew that.

karma and cheese

To the at least one of my ex-girlfriends who reads this...sorry about that whole going off to war thing and forgetting to email you for weeks at a time. Lestrade has the defense of probably being out of mobile reception range and I usually didn't.

Sherlock and I have been to the park and then home to make sort-of cheese straws out of this frozen pastry stuff from Tesco, salt, dried oregano, and grated parmesan. It's our contribution to the dinner Mrs Hudson's making. I think I might've said we could get ice cream afterward.

My mum called a bit ago, and Sherlock answered the phone, so they've met now, in a manner of speaking. Telephonically. The first thing she said after Sherlock handed me the phone was, 'I thought you were exaggerating!'

Ha. No. I was not exaggerating. 

questions regarding truffles

It's apparently National Cupcake Week, by the way. Just so you know.

Lestrade has been unreachable all day, which I hope means some movement on the case and not that he's been eaten by enormous slavering Italian hounds.

He and Sherlock were discussing truffles last night on the phone. Sherlock was confused at the thought that one found truffles underground with the aid of dogs. He was thinking of the chocolate sort of course, and has not quite yet fully grasped that in addition to being delicious chocolate blobs (filled with ganache, his new favorite word), they are also a form of rather smelly fungus. He has many questions. I do not have many answers.

He also thinks the dogs of war should be trained in truffle hunting, as this would keep us all in ice cream money for the foreseeable future.

In Mycroft news, he says to tell you all he's doing 'all right'. I'm hoping for a slightly fuller report at the weekend. 

home alone

I'm not actually (see title), because Sherlock's home from school now of course, but I have spent a lot of time alone since Lestrade left for Italy. It's odd. The Army doesn't generally leave you a lot of time to yourself, and before that I always had flatmates. On leave I usually went home or to stay with the current girlfriend. I've been trying to think, but I'm not sure I've ever properly lived alone, except for those few months between getting out of hospital and moving into Baskerville Hall with the boys. That seems like it can't be right, but I can't remember more than a few weeks at a time on my own before that. It's...really quiet.

Anyway, just random thoughts. Time for dinner. I think we're having takeaway of some sort. 

r. hero, p. taker

Right, I think I said I'd talk about Sherlock's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, although really it was only from about three in the afternoon on. Mrs T had him for the first part, and I'm surprised she didn't call me sooner.

It wasn't so much the yelling, kicking, loudly objecting to life, the universe, and everything. That's not all that uncommon for him. It was the duration. Usually there's a short period of that followed by crying, sniffling, and hugs, but it was like he couldn't get past that this time.

viking funeral

I ended up keeping Sherlock home from school today. He was tired and cranky and on edge and completely prepared to wind himself back up into a tiny maelstrom of fury, and I didn't want to put Mrs T through that again.

Seems to have the been the right choice. He was so shocked when I said he didn't have to go that it reset his whole attitude. We went for a walk instead. A very long walk that included croissants for breakfast, several parks, a shop for more drawing paper, a kite, lunch, and a paper boat launch.

Kira suggested yesterday he draw out his feelings and then set them adrift/alight, and he was so taken with the idea of setting something on fire... Well. We found a small pond surrounded by damp, non-flammable foliage, folded the paper up into a boat, and lit it up. I'd meant to fish out the soggy remains, but it drifted out of reach, and actually burned pretty thoroughly as well.

So, a lot of walking, minor literring, and we've only just got home.

Some people asked what worked in the end yesterday and I'll try to write more about that later. Just too tired right now. 

better and better

I was just back from seeing L off at the airport when Sherlock's teacher rang to ask me to come and pick him up. He was shouting, wouldn't sit still, insulting the other kids, not listening to a word she said. She couldn't have him there with that kind of behavior, it wasn't fair to everyone else. And of course she's right.

I went to pick him up and found him standing on a desk singing Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines over and over. The perils of letting young children listen to Cabin Pressure. Well, I say singing. More sort of shouting the lyrics. Might've been funny if he'd looked like he was enjoying it, but honestly he looked like he was barely holding himself together.

We're home now. He's alternating between sticking to my side like a limpet and running off to kick walls and cause unexpected havoc. I know he's miserable and scared, and I know why. I just wish I knew what to do. I'm about five minutes from phoning my mum to see if she has any ideas. 

dammit

Lestrade's work called earlier, wanting him to come in for some unspecified purpose. It turns out the purpose was to tell him he's being sent to Italy on a kidnapping and murder case. Again, for an unspecified period of time. Until they catch the bastard, basically. Lestrade doesn't want to go, and we don't want him to, obviously, but he's not being given a choice.

Sherlock very nearly experienced nuclear meltdown when Lestrade had to go back to work, so you can imagine how he's reacted to this news. Or maybe you can't. For you sake, I hope you can't. There was a lot of shouting and shrieking and angry, frustrated tears when it turned out, once again, that his temper couldn't change the course of the world. I wish it could, this time. It's really not fair, not today, and yeah, life isn't fair, but I don't think the universe really needed to drive that point home quite so hard.

I called Mycroft to tell him so he didn't read it on the blog first. You'd think this flat was twice the size it is for how empty it feels without him.

family portrait

Hello. It's Mycroft again. I wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been leaving comments wishing me well. It's really very kind of you all. I'm going to read them again when I get to school. I don't know how anyone went off to school without computers and email and Skype; it must've been dreadful.

Here is the picture Sherlock drew for me, or at least drew and eventually decided to give me. He got really angry that he didn't have the right colour pencils for anyone's skin, or for John's jumper, or Mummy's hair. But I think it looks like us anyway.

Thank you, Sherlock. I like it a lot, and it's better than a photograph because Anthea won't let us take pictures of her, and the dogs won't hold still.

I'm going to try to sleep now. 

incomprehensible tennis blather

It's the US Open, though I've managed to miss a lot of it. I saw Federer play today, and I've no idea what was going on with some of those shots he was hitting - not just into the net, but completely wild. Really appalling. He pulled it together to win anyway.

Dolgopolov, whom I've mentioned once before, beat Karlovic, after a bit of a struggle. Pretty good match. As is the one I'm watching now - Tsonga vs Verdasco. Verdasco just hit it so hard it looked as if it knocked Tsonga right over when it his his racquet, though I imagine he was off balance already. Tsonga just won the second set though, and I expect he'll win the match. That's good, it'll make things more interesting later on.

Tomorrow...Andy Murray is playing Feliciano Lopez. Who will Judy Murray be pulling for I wonder?

Anyhow. Day out tomorrow, Sherlock back to school Monday, Mycroft off to Harrow Tuesday. It'll be...strange. 

non-newtonian disaster

What was it you all said about the incident with Sherlock, the dogs, the jam, and feathers not being the last?

Oh, yes. That it would inevitably happen again. And I said, I believe, that as long as it wasn't so sticky I could cope.

There was no jam this time, but I'm not sure it was significantly less sticky.

the honest sausage

We went to get Mycroft's school things today, as planned. Anthea drove, Mrs H and Mycroft chatted on the way, and I tried to deflect Sherlock's attempts to ask her if we could have ice cream every five minutes. At the shop, Mrs H handled everything while I hung back and attempted to look as if I hadn't put on a ridiculously posh accent last time I was there. I'm pretty sure he recognised me anyway, but maybe he looks at everyone like that.

We got...everything. And picked up the laundry labels, which we ordered a while back. Mrs H said she could get someone else to sew them on, and I declined because...I'm an idiot? Sort of regretting it now, but not entirely.

like a very small boss

Mycroft's out with the dogs, Sherlock's drawing, and I think L's seriously considering a trip to the Yard to fetch more paperwork. Carla and Mycroft hugged each other goodbye, which was very sweet; Mycroft is not generally a hugger. Sherlock gave Paul a sheet of paper with notes on...something. If it was a stink bomb, I'm very very sorry, Nicky.

I'm going to Tesco soon, because we have literally nothing in the fridge except condiments, and even Lestrade can't make a meal out of jam, mustard, and siracha. First, the substance of what Sherlock said to L's mum. L said he didn't mind if I shared it.

It started with Nicky explaining to Paul and Carla that their grandmother wasn't feeling very well, to which Sherlock's response was, "She smells like alcohol. Lestrade said if you drink alcohol a lot it makes you sick and Harry said it makes you throw up, is she going to throw up?"

off again

Writing this from bed while L delivers his paperwork back to the Yard, though I may end up posting it later if he's back soon. Mycroft's still asleep. Pretty sure he was up till all hours playing with the new computer. Sherlock woke up when L left, got in bed with me, and fell back asleep. He's a very small lump under the covers. I suspect L will sleep most of the way to Nicky's. It's going to be a sleepy day.

It'll be lovely to see Nicky and everyone again and to meet L's mum. Speaking of which - thanks, Harry, for making meeting our family sound so dire in that comment last night. I'm sure it won't be that bad.

Hm. What else. Oh, corset beat Dorset - not really surprised, given how enthusiastic some of you seem to be about corsets. I'm having a hard time thinking up the next poll. Any ideas? General themes? Also, sorry I haven't been answering comments so much lately, I'll try to do better once this little bit of madness is over. 

official

So, to sum up: Lestrade's moving in with us, officially, and letting out his flat, which is wonderful, and I get what I suspect is a really stupid grin whenever I think about it.

We had a very nice holiday, full of sand and sea and stars, but mainly, I've discovered in doing the wash today, sand. Phobos and Deimos keep looking mournfully at Mycroft, as if to ask why he moved the sea and all those convenient strangers they could terrify into giving them bits of sandwich.

Mycroft's off to school on the 6th, which is suddenly very very soon, so we're starting to get organised for that. His mum sent him the new computer he wanted. Here's a picture with a tea mug for scale:

head on

I never thought I was over the nightmares. Just thought I might be able to depend on my subconscious to save the screaming ones for home. Where I have...walls and things. And there aren't other campers quite nearby to wake up and require an explanation of who's just been bloodily murdered.

No, no, nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. Just me and my permanently buggered psyche.

Everyone was very kind, of course. My three in particular. Sherlock made sure I had Spider, and Mycroft offered me one of his dogs, and Lestrade was...Lestrade. Solid and reassuring and doing his best to look be calm, which I imagine was fairly difficult, given how he'd been woken up.

I ought to be back in the tent with him now. I will be soon. Just needed some air. And apparently to unload on the internet re: current utter self loathing. But it's actually really chilly and I'm not wearing shoes, so. Off I go. 

postcards from the edge (of dorset)

Swimming was freezing and wonderful, both. Had to haul Sherlock out eventually or he would've stayed in till he turned blue. He and Mycroft are looking for wildlife now. I'm hoping Mycroft's sense of self preservation will make him stop Sherlock from loading his pockets with whatever they find, since it'll be in their part of the tent until we leave.

The dogs love it. They may abandon us and stay here to swim (they don't seem to notice the cold) and run and beg strangers for bits of their picnic lunches. They're usually far too well mannered to bother strangers at home, but they seem to know we're on holiday, so all bets are off. Mycroft kept having to call them back and apologize. Deimos in particular seems to forget he's actually rather large and threatening even when he wags his tail and tries to sit in people's laps. Maybe especially then.

Heading back for dinner soon. It's early, but there's something about the sheer volume of fresh air that really brings on an appetite. 

in trouble again

I'll start with the bad news - Lestrade's flat was broken into tonight. They took about what you'd expect them to take, electronics and so on. The place is a mess, things tossed about, but not too bad apart from that. We sat around and ate takeaway while it was dusted extremely thoroughly for fingerprints, and now we're all home again. L's asleep already, and the boys are now too.

Going back one day...as Lestrade said, we won the match, had a great time afterward in the pub, right up until it was time to go when Sherlock decided it would be a great idea to throw a fit over whether he got to sleep in the fort or not. Which was...

ft. zinderpillow

L's still asleep. In a last ditch effort to keep Sherlock from waking him, I suggested we build a pillow fort. Sherlock needed the concept explained to him, and then he got this look of wonder on his face and I knew I was in trouble.

An hour later, all the furniture is pushed round to serve as walls, every pillow in the flat is employed as either floor or interior dividing walls except the ones L is currently sleeping on, and all manner of blankets, sleeping bags, rugs, things... Lots of things. Everything, possibly. It's like a tornado went through a soft furnishings shop and dumped it all here.

Only it was a very careful tornado and seems to have laid everything out in a maze. I know Sherlock and Mycroft are in here with me somewhere. But where? 

practice makes...embarrassment

Rugby practice went all right. On the whole. I'll just quote Lestrade to start with:

Picture the scene - 20 odd cops, practising rugby...

Sherlock swinging around, holding hands with Sal, wearing shorts, t shirt...and his wings. And in a quiet moment he chooses to shout 'when are you all going to KISS, like John and Lestrade do when they play with each other in the park??'

Most of the time I don't think twice about the things he says and it takes L to remind me that it would really be better if he didn't say a lot of them quite so loudly and in public. This one...I was fortunate to have a coating of mud that probably disguised the colours I was turning. Except for the tips of my ears, Mycroft informed me. Thanks, Mycroft. 

L was, of course, also covered in mud, but it looked good on him. (Wait, he'll now accuse me of harbouring secret mud wrestling desires.) 

Anyway, I'm glad, in a way, because it was odd not having anyone but Sally know we were together, and they certainly do now. Now I suspect they're wondering where L was hiding Mycroft and Sherlock all those years. And, according to one conversation I overheard, if Sherlock is a boy or a girl. 

I was going to say more but I forget what it was and also L's both commented and texted to tell me to go to sleep, so I'll give it another go. I have Alice the Spider to keep me company of course, but it's not quite the same. 

waiting

Lestrade's out in the madness that's currently Croydon. The boys were asleep before he left. Small blessings. I'm not, obviously. Nor likely to be. He said to call if I was worried, which is clearly absurd since I'd be calling every five minutes.

I don't know. There's nothing else to say really. I suppose I should at least try to sleep. Watching the news footage certainly isn't doing any good. 

malmaison

Just a short post before we leave, with some pictures.

This is where we stayed. It used to be a prison and does still look like one from the outside, but it's much nicer inside now, as the pictures on their site show and mine mostly don't. However, here is the shower, which is very nice indeed:

birthday dinner

Happy birthday, Gregory Martin Finchley Lestrade. I love you, and I'm so lucky to have met you.

Even if you did think I was a serial killer at the time.

rugby

All right, so...I still like it, but rugby at 40 is significantly different than rugby at 25, which is the last time I played with any kind of regularity. Still, with Sally in charge, I feel like we'll have a decent chance. Definitely need to be more regular with the running though. And possibly other things.

...But not until Sunday, because right now I feel like I've been stepped on by something large. I think his name was Ian.

After that, the park, Sherlock and Mycroft running around and trying out newly acquired rugby skills on each other while I lay very still in the grass. Ice cream. Mycroft got vanilla and chocolate, Sherlock got mint and chocolate, and I got something called goji berry...I don't know, it was pink and nicely tangy.

And then we came home. And, I know you'll all be shocked to learn, I cooked actual food. 

the four horsemen ride to victory

It was close, but the four horsemen of the apocalypse are apparently going to win the NSY vs City rugby match, according to you lot. I hope you all realise you'll be next. I mean, I don't think they're going to stop at one match. At the very least they'll go for the Six Nations Championship, and then it'll all be rains of toads, plagues of locusts, and general doom.

We went to visit Eton today. Because of the reschedule, we were the only ones being shown around, not that there weren't enough of us to fully occupy our poor tour guides, especially when Sherlock started asking about the quantity and quality of their dead things in jars vs Harrow's dead things in jars. The consensus was that their dead things in jars were of roughly equal scientific interest, but Sherlock's still declared his intention to go to Eton because he's "not going to Mycroft's stupid school."

combine harvester

For L's entertainment, more Greg the Florist. He won't talk about the case he's working on at all, so it must be pretty bad. Hope this manages to cheer him up a bit...

As they walked up the road, towards Greg's flat, above the shop, Greg turned to John. "So, before you gave in to your life long urge to be a florist, what did you fill your time doing?"

"I repaired farm machinery."

"What, really? Threshers and--"

"Combine harvesters, yes, don't sing the song."

due to some confusion

Explanations:

1) In the poll, NSY = New Scotland Yard (i.e. Lestrade & Co.). City of London is the City police force. The four horsemen are, of course, the four horsemen of the apocalypse, but they're only reserve players.

2) Innie asked on L's post yesterday if I had any tattoos, and I admitted that I had, once, but it was small, and then I got shot, and what now remains is a scar and maybe a fleck or two of black ink. L guessed what it was (eventually, with some help). A target, a bullseye. To which everyone's natural response was, "Seriously?" Yeah. What can I say? That's the way my life works.

I said I'd explain how that happened.