Worked late. Wanted to get on and interview a suspect we'd found inconveniently late on in the shift.
Came home to find the flat at DefCon1, with some sort of cold war of glaring going on.
Apparently Sherlock climbed on the back of the sofa, the sofa decided that was above and beyond it's call of duty...one large crunch later and Sherlock was on the floor, and the sofa is...well...not exactly sofa-shaped any more.
This is partly because Sherlock is no longer a little waif. He's a strapping young lad. And partly because the sofa is probably older than him.
Up side, we're getting a new sofa... downside, we currently don't have one.
Anyway, Sherlock blamed the sofa, John blamed Sherlock, the sofa remained silent, I blamed...me, probably, and told Sherlock he wouldn't be watching any more programme likes the one last night, if he can't behave the next day. So he decided he blamed me too. And a degu (won't say which one), for 'probably eating some of the sofa and making it weaker'. And Mycroft, for sitting on the sofa...ever.
Now Sherlock is sulkily in bed. And I am attempting to massage the frown creases from John's forehead.
What else... Mycroft is home at the weekend. We may or may not own a sofa by then... more room for everyone, if not? But most of us will have to sit on the floor...
Work is...work. Some good, some bad. I have to go on a firearms refresher, which is...well, inevitable. Given I've barely had to use my skills, it's not too bad, I suppose. It's come in handy, so can't complain.
Good news is, my ankle survived a run...well...slow jog, the other night. As long as I'm careful, it seems fine. And don't do any silly sudden direction changes or anything.
Oh, and Sherlock's volunteered us to clean the pond up...which is kind of him... and get it ready for all the critters to turn up in the spring.
Right...I'm going to....not sit on the sofa.