dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones...

I'll be honest, I never expected to have much to do with kids - apart from a few relations. By the time anyone I knew was talking about them I'd long known that girls didn't do anything for me, and that was before the days when you could be gay and think about adoption. Of course, things changed, society changed, and by the time I was in a civil partnership a lot of people asked if we had any plans to adopt. And we always answered no, for a few reasons, not the least of which was my job.

So at the age of forty-something (not going there), it was a bit of a surprise to be woken up by a hyperactive Sherlock jumping on the bed with knees and elbows that should be classified lethal weapons.



I was pretty content dozing with an armful of Danger until he did some sort of ninja-leap onto me, which was quickly followed by a large dog deciding to lick my foot. I'd almost have preferred a mobile call about a body...except for the body bit.

Anyway, Sherlock decided to tell me he'd found out more about people having epileptic fits in bathtubs (from last night's story about murders), and to tell John we'd run out of milk after he'd drunk the last of it and Mycroft was cross.

Once I'd encouraged the most painful parts of him off the most delicate parts of me and John had managed to wake up enough to tell Sherlock we'd be up in a tick, we managed to start the day.

And because it looked pretty grey we figured the Natural History Museum it was. Sherlock asked if all the animals in it had been murdered. I supposed they sort of had been, but told him I didn't think most of them would mind too much. Of course he asked if there was a stuffed person there.

Mycroft was more interested in the new bit of the museum - The Darwin Centre. Because scientists were actually working there, examining specimens, running tests. He had conversations with them during which I swear I understood about one word in ten. Or maybe the words they were using were just so long it sounded that way. Anyway, real scientists, with real equipment, finding out things, he was in heaven. John and Sherlock went off to look at creepy crawlies in the end (they can keep them - don't mind spiders, don't like things like millipedes. Seriously, that's more legs than is strictly necessary, right??), whilst Mycroft and I stayed in that bit. He did explain a bit to me afterwards, but I'm not sure I was as good a pupil as he hoped.

Anyway, it was a really nice day out. The sort of thing you never do when you're a single bloke - sometimes you need reminding of all the things you quite enjoyed when you were a kid.

The only...I don't know, 'incident' of the day was when some little child - 8 or 9 yrs old? very loudly asked his Mum why two men were holding hands (it wasn't because I didn't like the creepy-crawlies. Whatever John says.) Mycroft gave him a look that could have killed. And Sherlock loudly asked why it mattered. Which made me feel better. I don't think the kid meant anything by it, but it certainly got people's attention and we got quite a few sideways glances. And made me wonder what people thought of us, two guys with two kids. Not that it matters. Old habits are hard to break, though, and being a young copper in the 80s I kept very quiet about my preferences, I can tell you. So it feels a bit...strange, now. It's more in my head than anything else, I think.

Wow, that was long. Hope I left something for John to say or he'll be on here editing the good bits out! Maybe he's created a monster...still, all his own fault, eh?

Work tomorrow, sadly. People should lay off killing each other on Sundays. But hopefully I'll get out early.