And I can hear it breathing - It's such an eerie feeling, darling.

I've no idea what to write about tonight, so here you are:

Greg The Florist - Part I have no idea because John's last part said he had no idea.

It's been a very long time, but we last left our heroes in the kitchen of their castle, having had an odd day in the local village...

Something scraped slowly across the glass of the window. There was a faint shape, a deeper shadow in the darkness outside the warm glow of the kitchen. And then it was gone. 

John swallowed. "What," he said, adjusting his sentence carefully. "the hell was that?" He got up and moved to the window, Greg beside him. 

There was nothing there. 

They tell you not to hang around and learn what life's about

Sherlock was, predictably, up at the crack of dawn. He leapt on us, burrowed between us, and talked. Just about non-stop, for quite a long time. Mainly about chickens, butterflies/moths, trousers/shorts, degus, the allotment and motorbikes.

Once I'd woken up enough to stand, we got up and went to have breakfast and bake some biscuits. John managed to appear shortly after breakfast and sort of...drape himself over me in a very sleepy hug while I was mixing up biscuit dough. He also managed to drink tea, taste dough and eat toast.

Sherlock was ready to go, in full biking gear, on the sofa, about half an hour before we were leaving. But he wasn't excited or anything. Naaaah.

We headed to meet Mycroft, who was just getting back from taking the dogs out when we arrived. He decided we should go for a ride, and get lunch out somewhere, so we did exactly that. Sherlock probably didn't stop talking the entire ride. I'm not sure if Mycroft kept his headset on or not...

So, basically, we had a lovely day together. We get him back for the Bank Holiday weekend next weekend, too. He wants to go allotmenting - we showed him pics of what we've done.

And I wondered if Sherlock thought we should have this for our wedding cake...what do you think, Kiddo?

The cycle cycling, There's a face with new eyes

I'm tired. Was completely knackered last night and then didn't sleep too well.

Anyway, today's been a world of excitement for Sherlock - the eggs at his school hatched this morning, and it sounds like those poor chicks had thirty odd school kids staring at them as they took their first steps into the world.

He says they're different colours, and he's not sure yet if they'll grow into different types of chicken or not. I guess this is all the big plan to have the kids study them and note down the changes and stuff.

Can't remmeber what I was going to say now.

Oh, eggs. I found this the other day -

Your lovin' give me a thrill, but your lovin' don't pay my bill.

So...this sort of follows on a bit from John's post last night. And also from some of the recent comments, which I've found...helpful in understanding myself a bit better, I guess.

I'm sure this won't be comfortable reading for anyone, but, well, I don't want to upset any of you either, so don't worry, I won't be offended if you choose not to read.

Basically, this is an example of one of the 'controlling behaviours' Bryan used. And how that felt then, and now. And you know, if this helps anyone else have it not happen to them, then all the better.

But now their faces follow me, And all their eyes look shady

I've got two days off :) And I got home today to find a very gorgeous John, a very excitable Sherlock and a big bunch of red roses.

Sadly I didn't get one of these, which, frankly, I've got my eye on... cool, right?

I think it'd be pretty useful in London!


And...on to more serious blogging.

I talked to John and...he said he wouldn't mind if I wrote this.

So, the pictures Bryan put in the show. One's of me in our kitchen, standing at the worktop, reading the paper and making a mug of coffee. One's me in the bath. You can't see anything, but, well... I suppose the thing that bothers me isn't that it's...me, it's that they're, y'know, intimate pictures. They're the sort of pictures, candid, of that part of my life. And he's...putting that out there, as if, like that's still a thing. That's what bothers me. People won't be looking at them thinking I'm here with John and the boys and that Bryan's a scheming fuckwit. They'll be thinking that's...that's the truth.

John said earlier he didn't know what sort of pictures Bry took.

I think I've said it before, somewhere...he is a good photographer. He's won awards. People like his images.  He used to...well, was supposed to...take pictures at weddings and portraits and stuff. He was usually too lazy to do it, after I met him, but he did a few. And the reason people liked his work was that he could really capture people, important moments, emotions. He was good at it.

And I didn't mind, at the time, that the camera came out at home. In some ways, it was nice, then, to think we'd have those memories. Because at the time, we were ...well, I was, in it for good.

I guess pictures only tell the truth in that split second they're taken. And not even then, sometimes.

And now they feel like lies, up there for all the world to see and take as the truth - when the truth is so very, very different. And that's what I don't like.

And that's taken me about two hours to write and I'm still not sure it's really...that.

Bright light, dark room

John and Sherlock have been working on the allotment today. John's feeling mainly better, glad to say.

Sherlock is annoyed he wasn't allowed to bring home any worms, and that John didn't have a spare apple tree about his person to plant.

We've got a shooting to sort out - one with over 100 witnesses, none of whom want to talk to us. So that's always helpful. I'm sure we'll get there eventually, but...it's a frustrating job. And we're still working on a murder/suicide too, which is also frustrating. And prepping a few cases for court, trying to get warrants, the usual. Too much reading when my body's trying to rebel against me. But better than running around, I suppose.

And tomorrow is the marathon, so...well, who knows what'll happen? We know there will be people who get distracted and forget their bags, and we know that people will be more vigilant than usual, so we fully expect at least some chaos. It seems...I don't know, there's a big generational split, isn't there, regarding who is seen as a threat, and how we react. It's taken a long time for me to stop expecting the coded phonecalls - in fact, that's a lie. I still expect them. Hard to remember the kids coming up through the ranks today don't know what it's like, hearing one's come in, chucking yourself in the nearest panda car and driving as fast as you can to where you know, for sure, there's a bomb.


Jo got in touch today. Most of you will probably have seen John's blog. Apparently Bryan's got a show in a gallery. And two of the pictures are of me. As John would say 'So that's a thing that's happened'. Or maybe he'd say 'which has happened'...

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. I want to feel nothing.

I hear you're feeling down. Well I can ease your pain.

John's been laid low by something he ate. Might go an arrest the chef.

Anyway, he let me know in time that I could gather up enough paperwork to wallpaper most of the street and pop in to see him on the way to fetch Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson had said she'd do it, but I'd promised Sherlock I'd go and see his painting from art club, and I'm not sure when I'll next get the chance, so I thought it'd be nice if I went.

John seemed mainly pale and tired and trying to convince me he was fine when I came back to change and drop work off. So...well, sleep was probably more useful than anything I could do.

Sherlock and I went up to the allotment. I dug out a veggie bed. Sherlock dug a deep hole.

A lady was working nearby, tying up canes. Sherlock, being Sherlock, headed off to interrogate her.

She was very nice. She has an exceptionally neat allotment. Which is something we aspire to. Only ours has more holes which look like bomb-craters.