morning's at seven

It's nearly seven, and L is still asleep. I'm shocked and mildly concerned. Or I would be if he hadn't been up chatting with you lot at three in the morning. Still. Seven. That's like ten for normal people.

Sherlock wanted to wake him up so they could make coffee together as usual. Sweet, but no. He and Mycroft are making breakfast instead. Mycroft's being quiet so as not to wake L, and Sherlock's being noisy very quietly, so as to wake him if at all possible and still not get in trouble for it.

If he manages to sleep through this, he might get breakfast in bed, which I assume will be a lifetime first for him.

We're digging more of the pond today. I don't think we'll finish, but maybe we can at least finish the hole if we've got more help. Should be a fun day. 

the short arm of the law

Since L's super gave Sherlock (and Mycroft, but Sherlock is the one bent on abusing it) that NSY card, he's been treating it like he did the birthday boy badge Mrs Hudson gave him, i.e. a symbol to bend the rest of the world to his will.

Uses to which he has attempted to put it today:

1. Arresting the girl who got to the swing he wanted before he did.

2. Arresting the tree that dropped an acorn on his head.

3. Threatening the man at the fish and chips shop with dire legal consequences if he shorted him on chips.

I put a stop to the first one, and the tree was not impressed, but he got what he wanted out of the third encounter, which was to tell someone new the story of how he got the card.

I asked Mycroft if he planned to tell anyone at school what happened. He said no one would believe him, and he's probably right. 

well, that was exciting

I imagine you've seen Sherlock's post. Perhaps a...wider perspective is in order. So. Let's recap.

We were having a very nice lunch, the four of us, with sandwiches and coffee and crisps and other civilised things. There would've been cake as well, except that, before we got that far, Lestrade spotted someone at another table, someone they've been looking for.

His plan was to step out and phone for backup, which was a good plan. He told me about it, quietly, but not quietly enough apparently (or possibly he can lip read?), because the next thing we knew, Sherlock was on his feet, pointing at the man in question, and shouting, "MURDERER!"

Everyone froze for a second, I suppose because even if you've killed someone it's not ofter you get accused by a six year old, and then the suspect took off, L took off after him, and I tried to prevent Sherlock running after both of them...for about ten seconds. And then the man's friends decided they'd join in.

L had, as Sherlock said, tackled the suspect, and didn't need the man's mates piling on top of them, so I had to do something about them, and Mycroft, bless him, grabbed Sherlock and kept him from running over to help. And by help, I mean kick them with his pointy little feet.

Someone called the police, and there was some mild confusion at first, but L had his warrant card of course, so it was all sorted out in the end.

We're all fine, mainly. Sherlock's uninjured, I suspect Mycroft has some bruises from restraining him, and L bashed his elbow pretty hard on the floor jumping the guy and has assorted bruises and scrapes but nothing serious.

I'll let Sherlock sum up:

"BUT NOW HE'S LOCKED UP AND HE CAN'T MURDER MORE PEOPLE AND THAT'S GOOD AND WE DID THAT AND IT WAS FUN."

pond digging

A surprising number of people showed up to ogle Lestrade help us dig this morning. Six mothers, four fathers, one confused Swedish au pair, plus L and I, Sherlock and Mycroft, and an assortment of everyone's children, who ranged in age from Barely Walking to Old Enough to Use a Shovel. The dogs of war came too, and I think they must have some herding dog in their dubious lineage; they're not much at digging where we want them to dig, but they're pretty good at keeping the little ones out of trouble.

I'm pleased to report that no one turned up in high heels or a suit and tie. I did have my doubts. No one except L and the Landscaper had much idea what we were doing, but fortunately digging is not a complicated or mentally strenuous activity (my sergeant in basic training would've said, "If it was, we'd get real soldiers to do it!" - he said this about nearly everything we did), and L supervised the construction of the raised beds.

cabbages and condoms

No, really. Cabbages and Condoms. It's a restaurant in Bangkok, apparently. I was googling cabbage, thank you very much.

Sorry about yesterday. I tend to assume no one reads my tags but me. Which isn't really an excuse, since it's absurd to...express myself through tags anyway.

Do you see how absurd that sentence was? Even more than I'd feared, sadly.

Anyhow. If I'm going to say something, I ought to just say it, but I suppose I'm not, since I don't know what to say. I'm just restless. At loose ends. Not sure what to do with myself. It's nothing anyone should worry about.

Mycroft's home today, and we get to keep him until next Sunday, so that'll be nice. I've really missed him, and I never know how much of that to say when he phones. Don't want to accidentally make him feel guilty for going away to school, obviously. I'm probably silly for worrying about it - he's more sensible than that.

In theory, we're digging the pond at Sherlock's school next week, possibly with carnivorous plants, if anywhere around here sells them. No tiger pits though. Or quicksand. Or a selection of insects from the Amazon.

Oh, and this is my 203rd post. 200 was the drunken one. I'm glad, actually, even if it didn't make a lot of sense. It was, as L said, from the heart. 

leather daddy

As in the father of one of Sherlock's classmates, wearing leather, because he showed up on his bike. Nice man. He pulled up this morning to drop his son off and recognised and we chatted a bit. I think we met him briefly at Sherlock's sports day a few months ago, but the bike is new (and I suspect inspired by Lestrade's). Who knows, maybe Mrs T will be next...

I've been walking since I dropped Sherlock off, more or less. Stopping in parks and cafes and so on. Might just stay out until it's time to pick him up. L - you want to get lunch at any point? 

a brief note of thanks

Yesterday, L and Sherlock made:

- biscuits
- cupcakes (pink, chocolate, and vanilla)
- a small cake with the leftover batter from the cupcakes
- fudge (also in pink, chocolate, and vanilla)

As well as three meals. I made tea and icing for the cupcakes.

Thanks, Mrs H. As usual, you've given us just what we needed most. And I hope you like pink cupcakes, because Sherlock's valiantly refrained from eating the last one in order to give it to you.

No, I don't know what flavour pink is. 

champagne

This is reatlyy great you know, good champagne and Lestrade and boxers and all. Especially Lestrade. Try to tell him how much i love him but I think it comes outwrtong maybe, or not enough, or something. Anyway it's alot. I mean, singing in mpublic and ridiculouls storeies and everything. just everything. Yeah. It's important.

And he's got pretty eyelashes. Going to sleep now. 

cocooned

It's not really necessary to get out of bed today, right? At least not until lunch time?

Our bed at home isn't bad, but this one's much superior, besides being warm and full of Lestrade and on the correct side of a locked door. I hadn't realised it was a luxury not to be jumped on by someone with small pointy elbows first thing in the morning, but it definitely is. Which doesn't stop me missing him, of course, but there you are. Human beings are contrary like that.

Hi, Sherlock. Hope you're having too much fun with your mum to be reading this. It sounded like she had some good plans for you.

Hi, Mycroft. I hope school's going well still. Maybe we can come and visit some weekend soon? We miss you.

Right, going back to sleep until L wakes up. 

visiting

Mrs Holmes told me a few days ago that, when L and I went to Bath, she'd take Sherlock to stay with her. It's a good thing all round, since Mrs Hudson finds him exhausting after more than a few hours, and with Anthea not here to help, it's really not fair to ask it of her - not that it was particularly fair before, since Anthea's security and it was never her job to make sure he brushed his teeth and went to bed on time.

Sherlock wants to bring his art things and his chemistry set and another peculiar fish to show her the skeleton and 'a real suitcase with wheels to take it all in' and his bike, and and and. The list grows ever longer.

I'm hoping I'll get to drop him off, as I've never seen her house before, not even from the street. I don't even know the address. That's strange, I suppose. Hadn't really thought about it until now.

Lestrade's doing much better. Still coughing a bit, but his breathing sounds a lot better. Sherlock looked quite disappointed when he listened with the stethoscope this morning and said they sounded almost normal. We did our best to convince him this was a good thing... 

frog ponds and e-readers

Right, clearly my next poll should be on e-readers! Apparently they're like opera; either you love them or hate them.

Mrs T is glad the frog pond project is finally getting somewhere. If nothing else, she now has a focus for all her little baby genius to concentrate on apart from actual schoolwork, something that will get them outside and likely running around madly as they stick sticks in the ground and wind string around them and create an impassable spiderweb like Sherlock did in our bedroom that time.

It will be the most impressive pond ever, and I can't wait to see everyone's drawings of it. I imagine Sherlock's rendering will have man eating plants and traps for the unwary.

Sherlock and I had lunch with L today, or L had lunch, and Sherlock had an after school snack, and I had...well, cake. This has got to stop, honestly. (L, are we running when you get home?) Sherlock is now in proud possession of a very large measuring tape from Scotland Yard, which he carried home clutched to his chest, talking about the pond the whole time.

He's just asked me if it can have piranas...and carnivorous plants. 

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.