Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Right, so even though the PM still hasn’t closed more than pubs and parties, every doctor I know is suggesting everyone shelter in place the way they’re doing in Italy and the US. COVID-19 is going to spread no matter what, but it would be nice to not be in the first wave to catch it. Mrs. H is old enough to be higher-risk, and I’m honestly not sure about Sherlock with his, ahem, “interesting” history. He’s not smoking anymore (much) but who knows what risk factors he might have. Wouldn’t put it past him to have caught some exotic flesh-eating parasite during his time being “dead” and not tell me about it.

Anyway, as of today, 221 Baker Street is essentially on home quarantine. Talked Mrs H out of her usual bridge club tomorrow - Sherlock offered to help her set up Skype but she says she’s too old for all that. He’s surprisingly calm about this whole thing, actually - he’s sprawled on the couch right now in an anatomically improbable position ordering a grocery delivery on his laptop. I didn’t realize he knew that groceries *come* from somewhere and don’t just appear magically on the shelves, so this is a good sign.

Hopefully.

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Everyone who had “John’s optimism is misplaced” on their bingo card (shut your mouth, Harry) gets a point. Things Sherlock ordered yesterday:

- 30 tins of beans, none of which are the brand we actually like
- 4 loaves of bread “for beans on toast” (not sure he knows how to work the toaster)
- Almond milk - we’ve never used almond milk before but he might not know the difference
- Two tins of his brand of tea and none of mine
- Ditto for coffee
- Coconut oil
- Olive oil
- Cocoa butter
- Shea butter
- Castor oil
- Avocado oil
- Mango butter(!)
- One bottle of each liquid soap Sainsburys carried
- 20 kilos of sodium hydroxide rushed overnight delivery
- 6 GIANT boxes of the poshest loo roll I have ever seen. Seriously, he got it in three different colors and I think it’s scented. 90% sure he didn’t acquire this legally, but you never know with Sherlock. I would get onto him about hoarding things we don’t have space for except I’m sure nobody else is buying the stuff. Nobody not in the royal family, anyway.

Right now he’s in the kitchen making a giant mess as he attempts to make his own hand soap that’s somehow more effective (according to his self-defined criteria) than the other brands on offer. He’s in a proper snit, too, because half the brands he wanted were sold out and/or never actually existed in the first place. Could have told him that - you wait to shop until everyone is holed up at home and this is what happens...

Anyway, Mrs. H has been kind enough to bring up tea and biscuits, and now I’m online putting together an order for both of us. She wants a number of odd things, too, but most of them will make their culinary way up to 221B once she’s baked them into combinations we recognize so I don’t mind the extra work to track them all down.

All in all, a reasonably successful second day. Sherlock’s experiments are actually making the flat smell nicer, for once. Fingers crossed the whole time goes like this.

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Today has actually been one of the nicest Mondays I’ve experienced in a long time. Due to the lack of essential oils in the flat--the smelling-good kind, not the strange combination of oils he ordered yesterday--Sherlock made all his hand soaps tea-scented. A few different varieties. The flat smells amazing. He says the results of his experiment are all up on The Science of Deduction should anyone care to educate themselves with something more worthwhile than my blog. (Those of you who know him can picture the exact intonation he used when he said that, I’m sure.)

The part that made today excellent, though, is that Sherlock cleaned. Quite a bit! All it took was me suggesting he needed to test his soaps on various surfaces and he was up until the wee hours of the morning cleaning everything in the kitchen and the loo. I know this because I wandered downstairs for a snack around 2 AM and he was scrubbing the toaster. (Turns out he DOES know where it is!) I was relieved to discover that the oil was, indeed, intended for soap-making, and not for some nefarious other purpose. I wouldn’t put it past him to brew his own homemade chemical weapons. Or lube. (Note to self: try not to think about it.)

Other than that, I’ve been poking about online and reading a novel I’ve been intending to get to ever since Christmas. Made him beans on toast for lunch, which he didn’t eat. Nice quiet day.

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Looks like the UK finally caught up with the rest of the world - official “shelter in place for the next three weeks” notice. I’m still on call for the clinic for “telemedicine” but I doubt they’re going to need me. Sarah knows how bad I am with technology.

In other news, Sherlock rarely reads this blog but apparently he did yesterday because now he’s sulking about having accidentally cleaned the flat. Still less cleaning than I do in a typical week, because SOMEONE has to be responsible for food debris and random viscera not attracting insects, but I have performed the unforgivable sin of putting one over on him and now must be punished by… being huffed at and ignored, mostly. He came out into the sitting room earlier to huff at and ignore me in person, then went back into his bedroom when I wasn’t giving him the reaction he wanted.

Finished my book without Sherlock spoiling the ending. It was nice.

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Harry, I say this in all sincerity--I owe you one. Without your suggestion I never would have thought to introduce Sherlock to Reddit’s AITA. It has been, without a doubt, the funniest thing to happen in 221B in years.

For those of you who don’t know, Reddit is a website with a whole bunch of different places where people can argue about things. As in, everything. In particular, one “sub-Reddit” is called “AITA” which stands for “am I the arsehole”--people post the strangest situations and arguments, usually between them and their significant other, and ask the internet to pass judgement on them. It’s like when Sherlock yells at the telly, but in real life, and the people he’s “yelling” at can hear him when they read the comments. He’s in whatever his irreligious little heart must consider heaven. So far he’s “deduced” three impending murders, half a dozen cheating partners, and a long list of behaviours he considers illogical and/or stupid and thus can vent about to me. I’m laughing my arse off over here. When he gets like this he has no concept of “inside voice” and the oddest things throw him completely for a loop. We’ve actually had some really good conversations about ethics and human behavior over the last few hours. He’s making noises about turning this into some sort of observational study and writing it up for The Science of Deduction but honestly I think he’s just enjoying the absurdity like the rest of us. (Although I’ve got to admit, https://twitter.com/AITA_reddit/status/1221936316776054785 sounds 100% like an impending murder to me too… If I were a woman I wouldn’t want to date men either, after reading so many of these. How are so many of us so bad at this?)

Mrs. H brought us up sandwiches at teatime again and commented on how nice the kitchen looked. Sherlock tried to glower at her but he’d literally fallen off his chair laughing not five minutes earlier so it wasn’t particularly convincing. I promised her I’d explain what was going on, but later.

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Did you know that there are 280 different underground systems and Sherlock can now identify >180 of them solely from interior shots of the cars? I didn’t, until Sherlock told me this morning, after having been up all night on Reddit (again). Apparently he lost interest in AITA and moved onto other, more esoteric sub-Reddits. All day has been things like this:

Him: There’s an entire forum for bread stapled to trees, John.

Me: Okay?

or

Him: Humans are idiots.

Me: Is this a surprise?

Him: One hundred seventy nine thousand people subscribed to a place they can argue that giraffes don’t exist.

Me: Ah.

Him: Not all of them are being facetious.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d forget to sleep when faced with THE ENTIRE INTERNET to absorb. Even the monologue about different cities’ underground systems only happened because he discovered a Reddit called “birds taking the train.” Apparently avians on other modes of transportation were acceptable too, which made him dig through all the pictures to see how many of the heavy rail systems he’d personally ridden on (73), which led him to deciding at arse o’clock in the morning that he simply HAD to remedy the massive gap in his knowledge which was “not being able to identify every underground solely by car design.” That info will solve thousands of cases, I’m sure. I texted this to Lestrade--the Yard DI we work with most frequently--and he called me back so I could hear him literally laugh out loud.

I’m finishing this update and then headed down to Mrs. H’s flat to watch some telly with her while Sherlock tracks down and memorizes pictures of the other hundred or so underground systems. Can’t wait to see what he’ll have come up with by tomorrow.

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Not much exciting to say today. Slept in, came downstairs to find Sherlock’s laptop upside-down on the couch with the battery removed and Sherlock snoring loud enough probably even Mrs. H could hear him. He does that sometimes, after staying awake for days on a case, although he’d never admit that he snores. Or sleeps diagonally on his bed with his feet sticking out from under the sheet and his face smashed into the pillow. I sent a picture to Lestrade to prove that my flatmate does, indeed, sleep.

Mid-evening he got back up and broke out the violin. He’s serenading me now, which is nice--he’s amazingly good when he does deign to play correctly, which is rarely. He told me he’s catalogued my favorites based on my reactions when he’s played in the past, which is flattering and honestly more thoughtful than I would have expected. Not that Sherlock can’t be a good and loyal friend--he absolutely is--but usually he’s pants at the social niceties part. So now I’m kicked back in my comfortable chair with a post-supper beer and a personal concert from my world-class violinist flatmate who just happens to know my favorites.

It’s times like this that make the surprises in the fridge worth it :-) Have I made you jealous yet?

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It occurs to me that, somehow, this blog has been more about Sherlock than about 221B as a whole. I’d like to say that’s incorrect, but in fact today has centered almost entirely around Sherlock. Who, despite the calm before the storm yesterday, is not coping with self-isolation well. He’s still in his dressing gown--as he’s been pretty much since this whole quarantine thing started--but today was punctuated by an exciting half-hour in which Himself stood at the window armed with a box of posh loo roll and threw them at passers-by. There aren’t as many people out as usual, but he has decent aim. Most of the paper projectiles were accompanied by “GO HOME!” and embarrassing deductions delivered at peak volume. The way one bloke’s dog held its tail apparently meant the bloke’s girlfriend was planning to leave him as soon as she could get her own flat. Another woman was cheating on her diet while out--Sherlock didn’t say how he knew that one--and “this is why your husband thinks you’re too fat and doesn’t want sex as often anymore.” Mrs. H came upstairs after that one, telling him to knock it off. Well, she said she wanted him to stop, but I noticed she did stay and chat with me for a while longer. Incidentally, the acoustics of Baker Street are better in our sitting room when we have the window open than they are in hers.

Sherlock did finally stop once he’d run through the whole box. I guess I’m glad now that he over-bought, if this is the rate at which we’ll go through necessities. I hope his creepy brother was spying on us and got some good footage from his security cameras because it’s patently unfair that Lestrade missed this. M--, if you’re reading this (or one of your minions are), please send him the tape? No need to bother with an explanation; he’ll get a kick out of it either way.

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Today I learned that there is a big difference between SnapChat and ChatRoulette. I have always considered myself too old and/or technologically backward for both of them, but I vaguely recall Lestrade talking about his kids being obsessed with SnapChat filters(?). Sherlock tends to know about these kinds of things, but I assumed it was… I'm not sure how I assumed he knew, actually, only that I never thought he’d actually use them.

ChatRoulette is, in short, a program in which you can use your webcam to see a random bloke’s willy from anywhere else in the world. You can see my confusion about Lestrade’s teenage daughter wanting filters for that sort of thing. Sherlock condescendingly explained to me that SnapChat is for cutesie photos of your dog wearing a digital party hat, and ChatRoulette is a platform for instant conversations with total strangers - an ideal hunting ground for new deductions, in other words. He then signed on and was confronted with about a dozen willies in varying states of tumescence, attached to men who took one look at Sherlock and pressed the “next” button on their chat windows. I tried to get him to deduce things about them but he just glowered at me with that look he does sometimes. I honestly don’t know what his past experience with that kind of thing is, or whether he’s gay/bisexual/asexual/who the hell knows, but presumably that’s not what he was looking for. I’m proud to say I didn’t laugh until I got safely back to my bedroom where he couldn’t hear me.

Ultimately he did find another, similar site - something starting with an O, I think - that allowed actual video chat and also didn’t have quite the same ratio of genitalia to actual users in want of conversation. Normally Sherlock despises strangers, so I thought it was odd he’d go searching for them, but it turns out he wanted to practice his American accent. It’s actually quite good, considering. I don’t know that I could tell as well as an American could, but to my ear he sounded no different than the American soldiers I served alongside in Afghanistan. His Australian is a bit affected, but ten minutes of chatting with a Kiwi bloke reminded me what an impressive mimic he is. He’s working on convincing some woman he’s South African now.

I helped Mrs. H re-install the light fixture over her kitchen sink this morning, and she thanked me with a homemade traybake. Not sure what’s in it but it was delicious. I’m giving Sherlock another half hour to eat. If he doesn’t, I’m finishing up his portion too.

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Bit of a shock this morning. I puttered in my room for a while before coming downstairs, only to find Sherlock still in his armchair on his chat program… but in a dress. A beautiful floral sundress with little purple bows on the shoulders. He had on makeup and did something with his hair to pull it back and tuck it under a headband. Other than the fact that he’s still bloody tall, he’d have made a very convincing woman. I think he even shaved his legs.

Naturally, this caused me to trip over my own two feet and fall down the rest of the stairs into the sitting room, at which point he looked up at me with this utterly bland expression and asked, “Problem?”

No, you berk, no problem with you casually wearing full drag at nine in the morning on a Monday while some people were still awaiting their daily dose of caffeine to finish waking up the rest of the way. I proceeded to pretend I didn’t notice anything different at all and he went back to pretending to be a Frenchwoman online. I have been informed that he’s had 45% more success in eliciting conversation when his chat partners think he’s female. He’s got a believable falsetto, surprisingly enough considering his normal vocal register. Sounds like a woman who’s a two-packs-a-day smoker, but plausible. I wonder how much time he’s devoted to perfecting this over the years. I now have a mental picture of him as a four-year-old in a frilly pink dress and with little butterfly barrettes in his curls and he would have been absolutely bloody adorable.

Ended up doing a ten-hour telemedicine shift after all - Sherlock helped me set up my laptop for it a few days ago just in case - and I’m exhausted. If he’s graduated to a clown suit tomorrow I’m going to have to sit him down for a talk...

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Not much to say today. Did another work shift this morning, then took some time to transcribe my notes from our case from the week before last - the one that ended up being our final “out and about” case, actually. I’ve been trying to get Sherlock to check his email and at least look at some of the requests we’ve received, but he’s declared the entire world “boring” and is off in his mind palace for some spring cleaning. Of course he leaves the ACTUAL cleaning to me. Hopefully the mind palace thing means he’ll stay put long enough for me to organize all the paperwork we have sitting around. Most of it is his and either useless or no longer relevant, but unfortunately both of us are bad about opening mail. We’ve occasionally had cheques sit around for a month because neither of us knew we’d received them. It will surprise approximately none of you that despite his bespoke suits and public school airs, my brilliant flatmate tends to forget that money is required for things like the electric bill. Luckily he’s got enough good qualities to make up for the less-than-helpful ones.

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I wouldn’t consider myself a prankster, per se, but I do try to stay aware of the date so I don’t make an idiot of myself. Mrs. H’s idea of an April Fools’ Day joke is to bake us something with jam hidden inside. That’s the kind of “prank” I can appreciate (and did, this afternoon. The jam was strawberry and the muffins were delicious.)

I thought about doing something, to amuse myself if nothing else, but I’m not going to be mean to someone as lovely and earnest as Mrs. H and Sherlock almost certainly doesn’t know what day it is. I don’t think I mentioned on here back when it happened—did I tell about how he accidentally took me on a date for Valentine's Day last year? There’s an Italian place we eat at sometimes with amazing food, and the owner is a friend of Sherlock’s so he always stops by the table if he can. I wasn’t even thinking about it being February 14th but we got there and we’re halfway through our regular appetizers when I realized there was a rose on every table and a violinist going around serenading everyone. Sherlock noticed the three fellow diners in the room who were planning to propose, but somehow didn’t put two and two together…

End result, his friend the owner dragged the poor violinist over and made him give us a 20-minute “concert” while we sat there trying to look politely enraptured. He then ushered the bloke off to give me and Sherlock time for a “special moment” (his words). I think he was genuinely surprised when Sherlock didn’t get down on one knee to ask me to marry him. As if a public proposal with a flower or a poem would be Sherlock’s style. For months after that, every time we ate there I got the impression Sherlock’s friend was blaming himself for having bolloxed everything up. I’ve never managed to convince the man we’re not a couple anyway, though, literally not since the day Sherlock and I first met, so the candle on the table “because it’s more romantic” isn’t new.

That’s all a very long way of saying 221B has been nicely quiet today and nothing interesting happened.

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I finally got entirely caught up on correspondence, paperwork, bills, and all the other crap that’s been littering our sitting room for ages. The desk is clear! Or I should say WAS clear, because while I was working this afternoon Sherlock took advantage of the situation and built a literal house of cards. The cleaning of the last few days turned up no fewer than four full decks and three partial ones. I suspect Sherlock wanted to be a magician once upon a time - he can still do the “pick a card” thing and make the card appear in your ear. Maybe the trick sometimes fails? That’s the only reason I can think of for one deck to be missing all the face cards, another missing all the aces, and the last one missing all the diamonds.

Doing that math, that gave Sherlock (4x52)+(52-12)+(52-4)+(52-13)= 335 playing cards to perform architecture with. I found him sound asleep with his head on the desk surrounded by something that looked like a cross between London Bridge and the Colosseum. I’m proud to report I did NOT make a loud noise right in his ear to see him jump and knock it all down. Instead I’m tiptoeing around the kitchen making supper and headed back up to my room to let him recharge in peace.

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Today felt like it was about a month long. I wasn’t needed at work (well, not AT work, but the telemedicine thing) today, so I had planned to potter around on the internet for a while and then go see if Mrs. H needed help with anything. Instead I woke up to find Sherlock’s face about six inches from my own. Here’s a fairly accurate transcript of what followed:

Sherlock: Ah, you’re finally awake!

Me: What the fuck are you doing in my room?

Sherlock: I got bored downstairs so I was watching you sleep.

Me: You don’t even know how creepy that sounds, do you?

Sherlock: Not like that. *insert exasperated sigh here* An observational study, John. Look, I’m taking notes.

And sure enough, he had a fancy leather-bound notebook full of the chicken-scratchings he calls shorthand. I think he does that on purpose - he’s capable of writing legibly when he bothers, but all his notes to himself are functionally in code. Best I could tell, he was timing my sleep cycles and REM episodes. The amount of writing on the page suggested he’d been sitting there watching me for hours.

Me: Bit not good, yeah? What did we say about you performing experiments on me without my knowledge and consent?

Sherlock, all righteously annoyed at being questioned: Observational. I didn’t touch you. I didn’t even peek under the covers, despite how you were thrashing around. And I considered going back downstairs before you woke up, but I stayed LIKE YOU WANTED so you’d know I’d been here.

I suppose I could have argued that the knowledge and consent both had to happen BEFORE the experiment took place, but the fact that he even realized I would care is a good step forward from where we were when we first got the flat together. Let’s just say there’s a reason he’s not allowed to put, leave, or hide anything in my bedroom. (No, it wasn’t a camera, but it’s not a story suitable for the entire world to know so I’m not posting it here. Sorry. If you know me in person and buy me a pint, I might be willing to tell you then.)

So after THAT auspicious start to the day, Sherlock trailed me around the flat like a particularly scientifically-minded lost puppy, scribbling things in his notebook and occasionally asking me odd questions like “What’s your pulse rate right now?” and “Does reading font that size give you noticeably more eye strain than it did two years ago?” Eventually I just started ignoring him. He’s still here, reading this over my shoulder (BACK OFF YOU BERK) and making little huffing noises when I’ve written something that annoyed him. Oh, now he’s chiming in to say that it’s my hunt-and-peck typing that’s driving him up the wall and please, if you have access to a nice interesting murder, send it to him at his website thescienceofdeduction.co.uk.

I’ll echo that - PLEASE send him something to do! If nothing else, I do need to shower at some point today…

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I mentioned the other day that I finally finished writing up my notes for our last case. It didn’t turn out to be as exciting as it seemed at first, but here’s what happened:

The Adventure of the Baron’s Cornet

We got a call from some familial friend of Sherlock’s parents--I’m not sure the actual connection--about a break-in that had already been, supposedly, solved. The man was a minor peer whose father had collected musical instruments and dedicated three rooms of his massive house to creating a personal museum. The prize piece was a cornet owned by Louis Armstrong the jazz icon, which was his primary instrument before he switched to trumpet and got famous. (Sherlock’s been listening to a lot of jazz recently.)
The man was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the burglar alarm and rushed downstairs to find his teenaged son standing in the garden with the cornet, now dented beyond repair. Local police concluded that the boy had tried to steal it either on a dare or as a joke. The teen refused to say anything in his defense, so the authorities decided it was a family matter and left. Our client was convinced there was something more to it - in part, because his son was severely agoraphobic and would normally NEVER go outside after dark.

Sherlock took a day or two to poke around, as he usually does, and to insult/interview our client’s family and staff. It looked for a while like there had been a large heist planned and something exciting might happen, but in the end the truth was dull: our client’s PA attempted to steal the cornet and was surprised in her attempt by the man’s son. The teen chased her out into the yard, fought with her over it - damaging the instrument in the process, unfortunately - and then had a panic attack when she got away and he found himself in the middle of the massive garden in the dark. He wouldn’t talk because for one, he was furious that his father suspected him of burglary, and two, he was sweet on the PA and didn’t want her to get in trouble. He seemed like a good kid and I’m glad we were able to clear his name. So was his father.

In the end we got a nice three days in Devon out of it, Sherlock got to drown himself in jazz music and trivia for the next week, and it turned out to be a nice last case before we hunkered back down in London. I also get to hear Sherlock’s jazz violin improvisations on occasion now, when he’s in the mood. No surprise he excels at jazz just as he does at everything else.

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No violin today, jazz or otherwise. The quiet and the boredom has obviously gotten to Sherlock, because this morning he did what he does best: a pointless experiment that rendered the immediate vicinity barely-habitable. Not sure exactly what it was - he did it in his room, presumably so I wouldn’t see in time to complain and stop him - but the flat smells strongly of burning plastic. It’s possible he really was doing an experiment, but it’s also possible he decided to melt a handful of pens or toothbrushes or toy dinosaurs for no reason whatsoever and didn’t bother to even come up with an excuse.

Either way, I closed the door to my bedroom to minimize contamination as much as possible and then escaped down to Mrs. H’s kitchen to wait it out. We watched the Queen’s speech together, had tea, and I’d nearly stopped noticing the lingering smell until I came back upstairs. I ought to mention two things:

1) Sherlock likes to pretend he can turn off his sense of smell at will, usually when he’s done something putrid and I’m mad at him about it

2) He CLEARLY forgot that this was only pretend

If I hadn’t been down with Mrs. H, I’m sure he would have wandered off to ramble around London until the wee hours of the morning and expected me to have cleaned everything up in the meantime, “shelter in place” or no. We would have heard him leave, though, and I suspect his pride wouldn’t let him give in like that, so he was trapped upstairs in 221B. I wish I could have spied on him, to see how long he kept up the nonchalant “you’re overreacting” act before finally giving in. When I came back upstairs, all the windows in the flat were open and the sitting room smelled like the nicest of his tea-scented homemade soaps from the other week. There’s still a faint eau de plastique lingering in the air, but I don’t mind as much now that Sherlock put some effort into mitigating the worst of it. Knowing that he had to clean is adequate revenge.

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Things I did not expect I would have to enforce rules about: no making soap from adipocere in the flat. No making soap from raw corpses period, whether they’re human or animal. I don’t care WHICH animal - soap should only be made from sources which have been through some sort of processing. Preferably vegetable-based and not smelling like death. I don’t CARE that the French made human fat candles in the 1850s. We are not in France and it is two thousand fucking twenty. You made perfectly good soap a week ago and this batch would NOT be an improvement. Even if smelled like tea. Even if it smelled like my FAVORITE tea and so help me, Sherlock, if you use up the little bit I have left...

Sherlock is, surprisingly, taken aback at my refusal to let him stink up the flat two days in a row. You’d think he’d have learned something by now. He tried to argue that he used up the previous batch in cleaning up yesterday’s “experiment,” but we have perfectly good cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Which he’d know, if he’d ever use them.

Luckily I caught the kid (Christ, when did someone in their 20s become a “kid” to me?) at the door and got the story out of him before he could leave the dead fox for Sherlock to play with. Learned that my lovely flatmate has a standing order - so to speak - with some of his homeless friends, whereby they bring him various dead animals they come across and he pays them cash for the carcasses. This particular “friend” was happy with a tenner and two of Mrs. H’s fresh-baked scones in exchange for taking the fox somewhere NOT our flat. I probably overpaid but honestly, what price does one put on not having their flat smell like rotting fox?

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His Royal Grumpiness is still sulking today so we’re on opposite sides of the sitting room, staring at our screens and ignoring each other. He’s got this strange relationship with furniture - I’ve seen him step right up and over the coffee table when pacing, for example, like it wasn’t even there. He’s upside-down on the sofa more often than he’s sitting upright. He rarely sits still while eating, preferring to prowl around the kitchen instead. (This may be part of the reason why he often forgets to finish his meal. The rest of the reason is because his poor brain is too over-stuffed with important facts to notice things like hunger or sleep deprivation.)

So an anecdote: when I first moved in, Sherlock had already filled the flat with his crap despite only having signed the lease twenty-four hours earlier. Among his furniture, he had a tan leather armchair - very posh, fancy carved wooden legs, the whole bit. I picked up a plaid monstrosity at a thrift shop for twenty pounds to counterbalance the sheer exorbitance of the room’s overall look and we put them on opposite sides of the fireplace. I assumed, as anyone would, that we might both SIT in our chairs on occasion.

I was wrong. *I* sit in my chair quite a bit, either to read or to work on this blog or just to stare off into space. Sherlock… perches. Climbs. He’s rather like a toddler in his inability to sit still, actually, regardless of whether there’s a case on. He flops, grumbles, rolls around like a cat sunning itself, and - occasionally - jumps clear from the kitchen doorway to land in his chair and flail around in a pointy pile of elbows and cheekbones.

One day he was already in a snit over something trivial, I don’t remember what, and he was trying to make a point. I was sitting at the kitchen table, probably snapping back at him, so he turned his back on me and leapt across the six feet or so of space from the kitchen to his chair. I remember he was wearing his dressing gown because it struck me that he looked like a very gangly Batman with all the brooding but none of the machismo. He miscalculated, hit the chair chin-first, and the whole thing went arse over teakettle accompanied by a lot of yelling and one of the only times I’ve ever heard him swear. He scrambled to his feet, sneered at me, and stalked off to his bedroom. The next day, that tan armchair was replaced by a modern-looking black and chrome one with a much lower center of gravity and a shorter back.

He’s sprawled in it right now, head hanging over the armrest on one side and a leg sticking straight out the other, with his other leg thrown over the back cushion. He’s got his phone right up to his face and he’s trying not to let me see that he’s glaring at me in between loud huffs and groans of unending boredom. Maybe not glaring - checking to see whether I’m paying attention, perhaps. I’m trying to pretend I don’t notice. We can do this all day, if he stays grumpy enough.

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So I mentioned that I got caught up on all the loose paperwork in the sitting room, right? I’m glad I did, because today I came downstairs after an afternoon of telemedicine to find that Sherlock apparently fancies himself an origami master. A whole bloody drawer of bills, receipts, correspondence, and other paperwork were transformed into an menagerie of cranes, turtles, dogs, and other assorted creatures. He didn’t even have the sense to look embarrassed that I caught him - just sat there on the floor with a YouTube tutorial open on his phone and directions for a different animal on his laptop, attempting to fold two things at once. He’s torn strips off most of the regular-sized pieces of paper, to make them square, so I’m glad I got them all done and taken care of first. I always take a photo of anything important, because *things* tend to happen in this flat and I can’t count on anything staying pristine, but he doesn’t know that. He’s not been keeping up with this blog lately, either, because he didn’t know I’d already finished with those papers. I confess we had a bit of a shouting match and now he’s sullenly unfolding everything and trying to match the torn strips with their original sheets because I told him it’s his fault if anything turns up missing. I may have threatened to take the matter to his brother if he doesn’t fix it - Sherlock and his brother have something of a rivalry, I’ll say. Understatement of the year. His brother WOULD take action, something specifically designed to piss Sherlock off the most, so I save that threat for special occasions.

In any event, the sitting room floor is becoming more or less clear again now. I did save a swan to put on the mantel next to his “friend” Billy (actually a human skull), just to remind myself of this one time Sherlock actually did what I bloody wanted him to.

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Last night I discovered that Sherlock does not know who 007 is. He’s “deleted” the entire James Bond oeuvre from his brain entirely. Not entirely sure how he does that, but it’s remarkably thorough. (He still gets mad when I bring up the solar system incident.)

Today, consequently, has been devoted to a Bond marathon. Mrs. H came upstairs and the three of us have been snacking and watching overblown action cinema. I made popcorn, as one does, and Mrs. H brought up biscuits and sandwiches and enough “snacks” to feed an army. Sherlock’s contribution was off-brand beans on toast with a truly inedible slather of Marmite underneath. I have almost the entire Bond collection - one of the few things I own on DVD - so we had a lot to choose from. The best part was Mrs. H soliciting Sherlock’s bewildered opinion on which Bond he thinks is the fittest / most dishy, and Sherlock both not knowing actors’ names and also not knowing what she was talking about until she broke it down for him. With many details about her own opinions. I’m sure some of you will appreciate knowing that he gets cute little pink blotches on his cheekbones when he blushes.

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I thought, after four Bond movies in a row yesterday, that Sherlock would have sworn off the telly for a while. When I went to bed he was just starting a solo viewing of The Spy Who Loved Me. When I got up this morning, though, he had the Wikipedia list pulled up and was in the middle of Octopussy, which is - in my opinion - the absolute worst of the Bond films and which I don’t even own because why would I bother? I assume he actually expended effort to find a copy to watch, which knocked me for a loop. This quarantine is starting to feel like - well, is there a word for when animals in a zoo stop displaying behaviors they would in the wild and start taking up neuroses? I think Sherlock finished off the jar of Marmite which had been half-full before, which means he’s ingested approximately two thousand percent of his daily sodium intake with his beans-and-Marmite-on-toast (and eventually on water biscuits, since he ate the rest of the bread). He did eventually wander off to bed around noon, looking a bit green. I put a bucket next to his bed for when he wakes up. I suspect he might need it.

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A big thanks to all of you who have reached out in concern since my last blog post. Yes, I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t have COVID-19. He hasn’t been out of the flat in three weeks, and I know this because I haven’t been out of the flat either. Vomiting is also not normally a sign of the coronavirus. Lack of taste is - no decor jokes, please - but he’s been eating beans + odd condiments on toast since before I’ve known him so it’s not the first time. It’s also not the first time he’s made himself sick with a lack of gustatory moderation, unfortunately. My brilliant flatmate learned the hard way that no matter how much he considers his mind superior to the rest of his “transport,” mind over matter doesn’t hold much sway when it comes to ghost pepper chili. It doesn’t help when it comes to food poisoning, either, which is why I have to keep insisting all science experiments of biological origin must be PROPERLY LABELED AND SEALED when in the fridge. You’d think that for someone so brilliant, this would have a shallower learning curve.

He’s been sleeping most of the day, which is probably good but has left the flat oddly quiet. I mean *actually* quiet - usually a “quiet” Sherlock is rather like a quiet small child, in the sense that the word is relative and also that sometimes I need to go check and see what he’s gotten into. Mrs. H came up for tea and a chat, and to deliver some home-sewn masks her sister sent her for the three of us in case we do need to go out. Sherlock’s is blue with little bees on it. Mine has caduceuses (caducei?) and stethoscopes. Apparently she got a giant bolt of medical-themed fabric and has been sewing masks for all the nurses and doctors at her local clinic, and was kind enough to share.So far we’ve done well with staying inside and keeping ourselves entertained, but it’s nice to know that we’ll have a little extra protection if we did need to get groceries in person.

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On a bit of an impulse, I added some Easter candy to the last grocery order I did with Mrs. H. Neither Sherlock or I are particularly religious, and Mrs. H is nominally C of E but obviously wasn’t going to service this year, and I thought it would be nice. Opened that bag last night only to find that two of the three chocolate rabbits had the ears damaged. Disappointing, but it gave me an idea - which ultimately made for an interesting day. Mrs. H was my accomplice.

A while back, Sherlock had a case involving a missing pet rabbit. This led to one of his caffeine-fueled reading binges, where he learns everything he possibly can about a subject over the course of seventy-two hours straight and the information comes leaking out of him for weeks afterward. In this case, I got to hear all about how myxomatosis was introduced into the Australian invasive wild rabbit population in 1950 and became the first virus deliberately released for the purpose of vertebrate population control. It worked, sort of, but ultimately the wild species developed resistance and now it’s a major problem for people who keep rabbits as pets. One of the results of extreme cases is some rabbits lose their ears.

Of course, this sounded perfect for cheering Sherlock up, so Mrs. H and I got a baking pan, some toothpicks, and a lighter, and proceeded to make a myxomatosis specimen for him. Slightly melting the chocolate around the eyes and what little anogenital region we could find on a candy rabbit approximated the swelling and edema symptoms, and a bit of honey on a toothpick suited to produce the ocular and nasal discharge. Mrs. H was the one who came up with heating a straight pin and dipping the tip in strawberry jam to make the red pinpoint lesions on other parts of the body. Now that I write it, this sounds morbid, but trust me - in comparison to the types of experiments Sherlock does when he’s bored, it was nothing.

End result: I have never seen Sherlock light up so much as he did when we presented him with his Easter present. It made all the extra effort worth it. I had to eat his rabbit’s broken ears to hide the evidence, of course, so that was a bonus! (Everyone knows the ears are the best part.) We gave Mrs. H the one intact rabbit but she said after we had so much fun mutilating Sherlock’s, she was going to have to put it aside for a while before she had an appetite for it. I suppose I don’t blame her.

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Sorry for teh barely-there update today, everyone, but it’s for a good reason - we have a case! Well, *I* have a case. S is being a berk. I’ve been up since 4 this morning (it’s now 2:30 AM) and am typing this on my phone in bed so Im sure there are typos but Im honestly too tired to be arsed. Will write more later.

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I left the flat today! I got approximately three seconds of muted sunshine in my exciting walk to… next door. Mrs. H is good friends with the landlady who owns that building, as well as another one a bit farther down the street where she actually lives. I don’t know if she’d approve of me saying anything identifiable here, so I’ll call her Mrs. T.

In short, Mrs. T has a couple renting from her who normally pay on the tenth of the month. Technically due the first, but she gives them a grace period, and they’ve always been very good about leaving her a cashier’s cheque in an envelope under her door. This month she didn’t receive anything, so she came around to knock them up yesterday morning and see what’s going on. No answer, AND they’ve apparently replaced the handle and lock since she’d been there last so her master key doesn’t work.

I think I’ve met one of them in passing a few times, a tall bloke with good fashion sense, but they’ve been here longer than we have and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his husband. I spent some of yesterday and a chunk of today sitting with Mrs. H, talking with Mrs. T on speakerphone and trying to calm her down. There are a few things that, added together, do make the situation a bit odd, but Mrs. T is convinced they’ve been kidnapped and murdered. I think Mrs. H has been telling her too many stories about Sherlock’s adventures. Of course, Sherlock can’t be arsed to get off the sofa, and in the name of decency I’m not going to repeat what he said when Mrs. H asked him to help.

Most likely our neighbors are just “sheltering in place” somewhere else, but I don’t mind poking around a bit if it makes Mrs. T feel better. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

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Well I can definitely say something odd is going on. Don’t know if it’s criminal, but it’s worth looking into even apart from the late payment. I mentioned that this couple has been here longer than we have? Apparently they’ve been renting from Mrs. T for eight years, and she hasn’t come face-to-face with the other partner yet either! The one I’ve met I’m going to call David, because that’s his name. The other I’ll call Goliath because why not? Mrs. T has seen him once outside, getting into a cab and all bundled up against the driving rain so she couldn’t tell a thing about him, and a few times she’s seen the couple in silhouette on the window shade when she takes a stroll in the evening. The man definitely exists, and apparently has a pretty large build - hence the nickname - but for all she knows he could be three monkeys in a padded trench coat.

Mrs. T let me pick up the small amount of paperwork she has on them, so that gave me another exciting opportunity to step out our front door. David is the only one on the lease even though they both moved in at the same time - Mrs. T thinks she recalls their reason having to do with gay marriage not being legal yet in the UK. Which sounds strange to me, because Sherlock and I are both on the form here and Lord only knows what a hellacious couple we’d make! I’ve given up correcting Mrs. H on it because she gets so disappointed every time I tell her Sherlock and I are not romantically involved. It’s true that I don’t often bring dates back here, but that’s mostly because Sherlock is rather a lot to take in all at once and he always seems to find a way to be maximally offensive at the worst possible times.

In contrast, there is nothing offensive about David. Nothing noteworthy at all, honestly. He’s a solicitor, Mrs. T forgets who for, and he wears a suit and tie every day to work. We arrived home at the same time once, a few years ago, and exchanged a comment or two about the weather. It was exactly as boring and trivial as you’re thinking. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember anything else I might know about him, tidbits picked up in passing from Mrs. H or Mrs T, but I’m drawing a blank. (Sherlock rolled his eyes at me, without moving from his armchair, and said I might want to start with a “mind hut” and work my way up to a palace like he has. Tosser.) I asked Sherlock if he knew anything about our neighbor but he either doesn’t and won’t admit it or is truly so bored he’s lost his powers of speech apart from insults.

My friend Lestrade is looking into the missing persons database for me and keeping an ear open, on the off chance David has gotten involved with the Yard since the last time Mrs. T saw him, but nothing yet. Will delve more tomorrow.

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I am nowhere near as proficient as Sherlock is with picking locks, but (with Mrs. T’s permission) I gave next door a try. Took me an hour and a half but I got it open. David and Goliath are well and truly gone. (For anyone who is wondering, COVID-19 doesn’t stay around on surfaces for more than a few hours, a few days on the outside. I wore gloves anyway. No danger on that front.) As far as I can tell, they left voluntarily but in a hurry - toothbrushes are missing, clothing drawers half-empty, no luggage anywhere in the flat that I could find. Milk and leftovers gone off in the fridge but nothing truly toxic yet. If I had to guess, I’d say they packed one valise between the two of them and left most everything else behind. Definitely two people - “Goliath”’s clothes are twice the size of David’s. I was hoping to find some pictures of the man, but no luck. Don’t know whether they took their photos along or never had any around the flat in the first place.

This was all with Lestrade’s blessing, by the way. No luck on the missing persons front, but Mrs. T started a report. I took a bunch of photos with my phone as best I could without actually moving or upsetting anything. No sense contaminating what may well be a crime scene. (Sherlock does that well enough on his own when he forgets to bother with things like sterile booties. Luckily he tends to solve things wherever he goes, though, so on balance Lestrade puts up with it.) Right now the Yard is having to prioritize more immediate issues, so a couple skipping out on their rent doesn’t merit an in-person visit. Sent Lestrade the photos, at least.

Sherlock has been back at the violin. When we first met, he warned me that sometimes he doesn’t talk for days. He failed to mention that he can still make just as much noise and be just as annoying when not speaking. I’m choosing to mentally title this improvisational composition “The Great Violin Massacre of 2020” because his violin may not survive the ferocity which which he is making it screech.

Really, really glad to have my own bedroom with a reasonably sound-resistant door.

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That fucking BASTARD. I spent TEN HOURS on a telemedicine shift, telling people that seasonal allergies are not a symptom of COVID-19. I came down this evening, exhausted and starving and ready to beg Sherlock to PLEASE look at the meager file I’ve put together for Mrs. T. (Missing persons report officially filed now, by the way, but nothing yet.) That utter cockwipe stood there looking at me, in his pajamas and dressing gown standing over the kitchen table with the REMAINS OF OUR MICROWAVE disassembled in tiny pieces all over it, and told me to my face that he was “too busy to be bothered.”

I’m proud to say I didn’t punch him. It was a close thing, though. Instead I grabbed my laptop, went down to Mrs. H’s flat, and have been installed on her sofa being fed pity snacks all evening and watching things blow up on YouTube. She said I can sleep down here tonight if I want, and I think I’ll take her up on it. I can’t face Sherlock right now.

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Long day. Still no working microwave. Sherlock is sulking and we’re not talking to each other but I can out-stubborn him any day - he loses focus easily when he’s bored. My boss’s husband is sick. Too soon to tell if it’s COVID-19 but he’s an ER surgeon so he’s been living out of a hotel room for the last week anyway. Really, really hoping he didn’t pass it to her - for the obvious reason but also because I’m a selfish bastard and I don’t know how many more of these ten hour days I can take.

Off to sleep like the dead until my next shift starts.

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I’m going to put this here as a public service announcement: there are other illnesses besides COVID-19. Your runny nose does not mean you need to go to A&E. Your back is aching because you stayed up all night looking at cat pictures on the internet. Your head hurts because you probably need a snack and a glass of water. Your usual routine has been disrupted and a lot of you need to re-learn how to listen to your body for cues about what it wants. If you have COVID-19 and you need urgent medical intervention, YOU WILL KNOW because you can’t take a full breath or walk across the room without your lungs feeling like they’re falling out. Anything short of that, my deepest sympathies, but arguing with me over the telemedicine call is not going to make me suddenly decide you get special privileges. Bitchiness is not a symptom.

If you haven’t guessed, I had a particularly frustrating shift today. I did forward a handful of people on for testing, but most of my day was spent explaining how viruses, the NHS, and medicine in general work. I stayed up in my room other than for a shower, getting food, and loo breaks. Microwave is still in pieces so I see we’re still going to have to row about that later when I’m not so exhausted.

I have been puttering along trying to find out more about our erstwhile neighbors, mostly by digging around on the web. I have David’s last name and previous address from his lease application, but still nothing on Goliath. David HisLastName doesn’t seem to have existed prior to about a decade ago, at least not that I can find. Luckily it’s a relatively unusual name and thus possible to track - not sure how much I could do with just “David.” Right now I’m trying to figure out whether he changed his name from something else or whether this whole thing is a false identity. I’m sure being a solicitor requires some sort of legal paperwork, which Sherlock could track down in ten seconds flat, but I’m stuck doing it the old(er)-fashioned way.

My boss did get an official coronavirus test, as did her husband, but it can take days to get the results back. Luckily they have no kids so she’s been home alone for the last week - no chance of infecting someone else. I’m not particularly religious but she and her husband are, so if you’re the praying type I’m sure they’d appreciate the thought.

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Fell asleep before updating this last night, still fully clothed and clutching my phone. Woke up at noon to find that not only was Sherlock being quiet, he a) brought me toast and coffee as soon as I woke up and b) called my boss first thing in the morning to tell her I wasn’t likely to be functional yet so to please let me sleep. He never apologizes in words, but this is a pretty nice second place. Mid-afternoon I took a shower and came back out to find a new microwave sitting on the kitchen counter. No packaging anywhere, so I’ll give Sherlock credit for sneakiness on that one. It’s appreciated, though. This new one hasn’t had viscera exploded in it yet and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

All told, I’ve done fuck-all today except sleep and it’s been wonderful. Didn’t realize how much I needed that. Tomorrow will be back to the grind, I’m sure, but for now I’m going to enjoy the lull.

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Yesterday did wonders for my ability to function without my head hurting, I’m pleased to report. I had another long shift today but for once I’m not feeling drained at the end of it. My boss’s COVID-19 test came back negative, too, so that’s good news! Her husband was positive - as expected - and it sounds like he’s miserable but still breathing okay. Misery is survivable; lack of a functional respiratory system is not.

I *think* I’ve found a trail in the David and Goliath case (is it still called a case if we don’t know for sure anything nefarious happened?). Right before David ThisLastName showed up in the UK, a David DifferentLastName was posting on a US forum asking questions about the process of British expats moving back home to England. In particular, he was asking about the process when one was in an American marriage with a same-sex partner and this partner wasn’t a UK citizen. He didn’t mention his partner by name, but I’m assuming he meant the man I’m calling Goliath. It's not conclusive, obviously, but it gives me new avenues by which to search.

Sherlock, by the way, heaved a big sigh while I was researching this and declared that if I insisted on being so dense as to not have solved this case yet, he could perhaps take a look and put me out of my misery. Nothing like enthusiasm, right? I declined, of course. If he wants in, he can damn well use his words like a big boy and ask without insulting me. I hid the file Mrs. T gave me down in Mrs. H’s flat, too, somewhere Sherlock won’t find it. I may be petty but I know he’s just bored and if he solves this in ten seconds flat I’ll never hear the end of it.

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BIG thank-you to longtime blog reader Pat, who - as it turns out - is an American forensic accountant and was willing to do a little digging on my behalf through systems I don’t have access to here. She pulled off some miracles and we now have a solid guess as to what happened to David and Goliath. I’m writing up an account of the case now, but I’m not going to post it until I’m sure they’re somewhere safe and that sharing the story of why they moved to London isn’t going to put them in more danger. I strongly suspect they fled their flat after being threatened by someone they used to work with in America.

Remember how I said Sherlock would have to ask like a big boy if he wanted to get involved in this case now that he’s too bored for everything else? I should have predicted it: Sherlock broke into my laptop last night while I was asleep and read through my correspondence with Pat. I guess it’s for the best, since he’s better equipped to chase down this villain from their past than I am, but it’s still annoying. It will almost certainly lead to a quicker resolution to this case, though, so the rest of you may not mind as much. Not much I can do, other than throwing out overly-grandiose blog post titles to annoy him.

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Sherlock succeeded in tracking down David and Goliath this morning. They are, thankfully, unharmed, although I’m sure they’d rather not have had to flee their flat with no notice. I’m pleased to note that my speculations as to why they left were spot-on - a man from their past turned up and threatened them, which left them little choice. Sherlock succeeded in procuring David’s mobile number and the four of us (Sherlock, David, Goliath, and me) had a bit of a long-distance chat. It cleared up a number of questions. As they are past the point of facing charges for the actions of this story, I am sharing this with permission and very few alterations.

To start at the beginning: David is originally from Leeds, but Goliath (whose real name is Leonardo) is a native of Miami, Florida. David moved to Florida in his early twenties, accepting a legal position for an American businessman named Rodger Merrilow. Rodger was a real estate tycoon whose holdings encompassed several businesses and properties in the UK, and he wanted a British solicitor on payroll to ease the international issues involved.

David met Rodger’s boyfriend, Leonardo, soon after moving to Miami. The two of them hit it off immediately. Leonardo’s father had been one of Rodger’s “business partners” - more on that later - and Rodger essentially decided Leonardo would be the perfect arm candy. From what I’ve heard, Rodger sounds like a terrible excuse for a human being, but he had money and influence and Leonardo was swept away. He moved in with Rodger the day he turned eighteen and promptly found himself a prisoner of the older man’s whims. Leonardo was, and still is, a large man, but that doesn’t matter much when you’re the victim of a sustained campaign of gaslighting, insults, and physical abuse. The way he tells it, Rodger particularly enjoyed laying into him both with words and fists until Leonardo was in tears and then making fun of him for his weakness.

It was in this situation, then, that David and Leonardo met. David was the first gay man Leonardo knew who wasn’t an abusive bully - as most of Rodger’s cronies were - and although their friendship started out as innocent, it quickly grew into something more. Rodger was suspicious, but David was one of the few in his employ who wasn’t scared of him. David also had amassed enough proof of Rodger’s shady legal dealings to cause the man problems, so that provided a bit of insurance.

Leonardo began helping David put the pieces together, including uncovering some things his own father - Rodger’s “business partner” - did. None of which were ethical and few of which were legal. The breaking point came when two things happened at once: Rodger beat Leonardo badly enough to send him to hospital, and Leonardo discovered that one of Rodger’s “investments” was in breeding and training dogs for an underground dog-fighting ring. The kennels were at one of Rodger’s subsidiary properties, some distance out of town, and Rodger regularly made trips to oversee the training himself.

That discovery brought something home for Leonardo and David: Rodger was not going to change. He was cruel by nature, he enjoyed being cruel, and he was never going to let Leonardo go. Florida did not allow same-sex marriage, at that point - was constitutionally against it until the US courts made it a federal law - but Rodger had always been ambivalent about following the law in other situations. He felt he owned Leonardo, to do with as he wanted, and the only way that would change was if Rodger were dead.

David and Leonardo were understandably sketchy on the details, at this point, but this is what happened according to the inquest: Rodger inexplicably decided to bring his young boyfriend along to visit the kennels on a rainy Wednesday night. The young boyfriend - Leonardo - was shocked and appalled at the conditions the dogs were being kept in, as he had no idea this was not a legitimate breeding operation. The two quarreled, in the ensuing scuffle some cages were knocked open, and the mistreated dogs promptly attacked and killed their master. They also attacked Leonardo and caused enormous damage to his face and upper body. A bystander heard the screams and called emergency services, who responded promptly and managed to save Leonardo’s life. Rodger was pronounced dead at the scene.

Leonardo emerged after several months of medical care with significant scarring to his face and torso. An inquest was made into Rodger’s death, but - partly thanks to David, I presume, although he never told us this directly - enough evidence of Rodger’s illegal dealings was uncovered that the entire thing was essentially ruled “it served him right” and the matter was closed. Leonardo received a moderate sum of money from Rodger’s estate to cover his medical bills and that was that.

Following Rodger’s death, Leonardo and David eloped to Vermont, which had recently legalized gay marriage. The two wed and started making plans to move to London. Leonardo’s facial disfigurement made it difficult for him to be in public, so they planned for David to resume being a solicitor in his home country and for Leonardo to do marketing work from home. I did not see him, since we were conversing via telephone, but I can attest he has a pleasant speaking voice. Presumably he was able to work just fine by only communicating via phone or email.

Most of the rest of the story you already know: they changed their last names, rented a flat from Mrs. T, and lived relatively quiet lives. They never did marry in the UK, but their US union eventually became legal. Nearly everything was done in David’s name because he was the one more comfortable with the paperwork and also because Leonardo didn’t want to risk being required to go out in public.

A few days before Mrs. T contacted me, a man they’d known in Florida showed up at their flat. He claimed to have proof that Rodger’s death was premeditated murder and attempted to blackmail them in order to keep him quiet. Given that the “shelter in place” restrictions were starting to be enacted, David and Leonardo chose to strengthen the locks on their flat - just in case - and quarantine elsewhere to avoid harassment. Sherlock called in some favors and was able to assure them that they are NOT in danger, even if this man had “proof” - the inquest already ruled the death accidental and the fatal damage was clearly done by dogs, not by Leonardo. They shared what information they had on the man, and I’ve passed it onto Lestrade for investigation into the blackmail attempt.

I will admit I’m a bit jealous of where they’re holed up - sounds like a gorgeous secluded cabin up near David’s family in Leeds, with acres of woodland and privacy. I don’t blame them for staying there until all this blows over. I’m shipping them a box of their things from their flat, at their request, since they did indeed leave with only one bag packed between the two of them. (They only own one, but I can box up some clothes and Leonardo’s work files just as easily). Mrs. H has also let it be known that she would like to invite them and us and Mrs. T over for supper sometime once they’re back in town. Not sure if they’ll take her up on it, but it would be interesting to meet them now that I’ve delved into their past in such detail. I wonder if this is what Sherlock feels every time he sees someone new and is immediately bombarded with personal details about their lives.

I was expecting Sherlock to be unbearably smug, having unraveled the last of this case when it’s taken me nearly two weeks to make what progress I did, but he’s been bloody decent about it. He must have been even more bored than I thought.

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It feels odd, not having David and Leonardo’s case taking up so much space in my head. Nothing much more to report on that front - apparently the man trying to blackmail them was another of Rodger Merrilow’s “business partners” and therefore attempted to disappear as soon as he realized the police were looking for him. Lestrade said they caught him staying with another model citizen in Croydon so he's now facing drug charges as well as the attempted blackmail. Our neighbors are planning to replace their lock, since Mrs. T is insistent on them getting the kind she’d fitted on the door in the first place, so they’ve given me permission to practice picking it in the meantime. (The fact that I got past it in the first place probably has something to do with their decision.) I can do it but only if I’ve got a spare half hour or so to stand around and look suspicious - good thing I’m not planning a career in burglary anytime soon.

Took Sherlock all of seventeen seconds, by the way. He made me time him. He’s now pulled out all the other locks and lockable things (including a small safe, two briefcases, and several pairs of handcuffs) he had squirreled away around the flat and has been happily jamming random straight pins and bits of wire into them for most of the day. I think that instead of reading after supper tonight, I’m going to challenge him to pick one with his toes. Sometimes you have to take your entertainment where you can.

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Answer: he can. He also has the longest toes of anyone I have ever seen. Goes with the long fingers and graceful hands, I suppose. I’m back on shift today but he’s working on his (pedual? pedal?) dexterity by trying to do everything today with his feet. I can’t even tease him for it because there HAS been at least one time he has had to use this skill with, literally, his hands tied behind his back. (It was before I met him, and quite honestly I’m shocked he’s survived all his peccadillos this long.) I doubt he will ever need to shower or use the microwave without the use of his hands in the future, but he’s sure amusing the both of us today.

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Riiiiiight as we were scheduled to devolve into “Sherlock’s boredom starts getting destructive” territory, salvation arrived in the form of an Inspector Stan Hopkins from the West Yorkshire Police. Sherlock has already blown through all the cold cases our friend Lestrade can get his hands on - some even he can’t solve, which frustrates him to no end - but Inspector Hopkins is apparently a Sherlock Holmes fan. We spoke with him on the phone when tracking down David and Leonardo and he was extremely helpful. Now he’s sending Sherlock a whole box of unsolved cases from all over Yorkshire in hopes Sherlock can shed some light on them.

Luckily, Sherlock’s brother has done some fancy government paperwork on our behalf so 221B is considered a “secure location” and Inspector Hopkins won’t get in trouble for sharing. (I highly suspect he would have sent them anyway, but it’s nice to know we’re official.) I think Sherlock’s brother got sick of Sherlock squirreling away bits of evidence that weren’t TECHNICALLY needed by the Yard at that point in time but that Sherlock wanted to run his own experiments on. 99% sure he’s got Sherlock under Big Brother-type surveillance most of the time anyway - the kind with capital letters, 1984-style - because he really does worry and Sherlock really does seem to attract trouble. For some strange reason.

Can’t imagine why.

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More telemedicine. More beans on toast. More falling asleep in my armchair while Sherlock mutters to himself about coagulation rates versus outdoor temperatures. He's solved four cold cases (according to him) and gotten frustrated with at least that many more. Lots of rants about shoddy police work, one of which just woke me up. Updating this from my phone before I go upstairs to sleep in an actual bed. Hope you all are hanging in there.

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Finally had the day off today, so I decided it was worth the effort to tidy the flat a bit. I’ve been barely keeping on top of the kitchen as it is - the sitting room and the loo are both positively frightening. So far I’ve figured that if I only have the energy to clean one, I’d like it to be the room where our food is prepared and stored.

Sherlock doesn’t usually see the point of cleaning, unsurprisingly, but I think even he is getting sick of tripping over his own debris. The shipment from Inspector Hopkins ended up being FIVE boxes, with what I suspect is every unsolved murder Yorkshire has ever had. As we’ve recently discovered, five file boxes of paperwork is enough to cover every surface in the sitting room and also a good portion of the floor. That’s not counting what would happen if Sherlock were to actually OPEN all those files at once - 221B would look like a casework snowglobe. At least the prat has the small amount of sense required to not go that far.

As it is, he grudgingly agreed to tidy with me. There may have been blackmail involved. Right now he’s scrubbing out the shower while I break out the Hoover for more than just my own room. (It rarely comes downstairs. I’m sure you’re all shocked at this.) Of course, any serious cleaning tends to involve Sherlock either taking something vital apart or mixing something caustic together, so I swear it’s like I’m trying to supervise a golden retriever. Maybe a standard poodle, given the brains and the curls and the arrogance? If poodles needed to be reminded of their goddamned chemistry degrees every once in a while so they stop pouring things in beakers together “just to see what would happen”... He KNOWS what will happen. That’s what the degree was all about.

I’m not merely talking about bleach and ammonia together, either - last time I strong-armed him into mopping the kitchen, he presented me with a bucket of homemade napalm. “What will happen” is I will sigh and grow a half-dozen more gray hairs, the fire brigade may or may not need to be called, and often I end up vacating the flat for a while while he airs it out. He IS usually pretty good about cleaning up anything actually toxic, but the rest of the mess is left for me.

Not today. If he uses up the last of our hand sanitizer I think he knows I’d social distance him right out onto the street.

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At this point, I assumed I’d seen everything there was to see when it came to Sherlock and the unexpected, macabre, and bizarre. Today he actually managed to shock me. He wore MISMATCHED CLOTHES. Not just clashing patterns, either - I came downstairs this morning and he was wearing flannel pajama trousers and a pressed tuxedo shirt.

Naturally I asked what was going on, because this was clearly a cry for help. He merely mumbled something about being out of everything else. I looked in his room, something I never do because I value my sanity, and DEAR LORD.

At this point I should mention that Mrs. H has a perfectly good washing machine in her flat. I do all my clothes and towels down there on a regular basis. Sherlock has his sent out with a service, because he’s poncy like that and because half his extensive wardrobe is dry clean only. I never realised HOW extensive it was, though, until seeing the numerous clothes dunes covering his bedroom floor. I don’t know how he even fits it all in his closet and wardrobe, because the cubic area of the dirty laundry on the floor surely exceeded that of his storage space.

As it so happens, the service he uses is currently closed down because of the pandemic. Sherlock made it through SIX WEEKS of life here at 221B on the clothes he owns, because the man is a serious clothes horse and also because he wears the same robe and pajamas for three days in a row when he’s otherwise distracted. He’s down to one pair of pants and a handful of mismatched socks, though, so apparently the tux shirt and pajama bottoms were all he had left.

Mrs. H and I consequently spent much of the day teaching him how to do his own damn laundry. He tried to talk her into doing it for him but she shut him down rather efficiently. I’m glad he knew to not even ask me. There was a large amount of exasperation involved, on all parts, but he now has a much smaller pile of garments to go to the dry cleaner when possible and a respectable stack of clean clothes to see him through until the next time he runs out. I predict this lesson will take a while to sink in, so we may have to explain the washer several more times, but I will enjoy every minute of Himself needing to hang up his own socks to dry.

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We’re back to accents, I see. Not sure where Sherlock got the list of top-secret phone numbers, but he’s spent most of the morning calling his brother’s powerful friends and their assistants and telling them in a bad Indian accent that their computer has a virus. You’d recognize some of the names on the list, probably. The really sad part is he’s gotten two of them to give him their passwords over the phone. It took less than an hour for his brother to call and tell him to knock it off, but Sherlock yelled “No hablo inglés!” and hung up on him. Expecting serious men with guns to show up any minute now, so I’m going back up to my room and keeping the door closed.

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My apologies, John, but I'm sure you understand the necessity of expedient retribution. - M

Ten seconds after I got that text from Sherlock's brother, Sherlock's phone rang. He hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise other than “Yes, Mummy” or “No, I understand” for the last two hours and I'm laughing my arse off over here. Sherlock's parents are two of the sweetest, most normal people you will ever meet, with the exception of his mother's propensity to talk your ear off. I truly don't understand how they could have produced Sherlock and his brother, the both of them as abnormal as you can get. M-- keeps in contact with them regularly, as you'd expect a reasonable person to do, but Sherlock has never quite gotten the hang of it. I think he's still trying to sort out how someone could love him and act as if he's a totally mundane part of their life instead of being constantly bowled over by his genius and the force of his personality. (I try to keep his ego in check, Lord help me, but it's a Sisyphean task.)

I've got my browser open right now to the local garden show his mother is lamenting being cancelled. Got to gather some details before I can start pestering him with questions like “Do you think Mrs. Knightly’s begonias will still win if the show gets pushed off until June?”

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Yesterday, “Mummy” Holmes requested a video chat for this afternoon because she had something very important to ask us about. I rarely see Sherlock visibly discomposed, but this was definitely one of those times. About twenty minutes before she called, Sherlock asked if we could do it sitting on my bed so his mother wouldn’t see the clutter or his esoteric attempts at decorating in the sitting room. As my bedroom is rather spartan (by choice) and I prefer to always keep it clean, that made sense. But then he sat at the foot of my bed and wouldn’t make eye contact and mumble-confessed that actually, his mother might be under the impression that we’re in a relationship, and he was panicking while trying to figure out how invasive her “very important question” would be.

To say that I was surprised would be an understatement. I’ve never known Sherlock to show more than an intellectual interest in anyone, male or female, and he’s never struck me as the kind of person who would tolerate being called a “boyfriend” anyway. Poor man was terrified I’d throw him out on his ear if I knew he was gay (or gay-leaning) so he’s never said anything about it.

I truthfully told him I’d always assumed he was somewhere other than the heterosexual end of the Kinsey scale, and that his restaurant owner friend essentially spilled the beans the very first dinner we had together by assuming we were a couple. The man knew Sherlock better than I did, at that point, so if he thought Sherlock turning up with a new boyfriend was plausible…

In those twenty minutes before Sherlock’s mother called, he was able to fill in quite a bit about things I’d always wondered:

- Yes, gay was as good a term as any, but he’d always identified with “asexual” more since relationships seemed like more trouble than they were worth

- Mummy knew this but had never given up hope her little “Lokkie” would grow up and start a family and produce 2.4 children. She wasn’t fazed at all by the gay thing, just refused to acknowledge the asexual part (and Sherlock’s disdain of relationships and most humans in general).

- She’s pushed about this before, and Sherlock has always insisted he and I were happy right as we are. She, naturally, assumed that meant we were in a relationship and being coy about it. She has since redoubled her efforts to make sure he knows I would be welcome at the Holmes estate even though I’m male. “Welcome,” in this case, sounds like it means she’d be hiding around every corner hoping to jump out and catch us snogging.

- His brother at least dates (women) on occasion, so Sherlock usually tries to refocus his mother’s questions on that. It only works sometimes.

- Sherlock’s father is supportive, too, but not so pushy about it.

- Sherlock is 100% okay with me putting all this on my blog, because it was going to have to come out sometime and hopefully it will stop people from pretending to be clients just so they can get into 221B and flirt with him. (I’ve noticed this, too. It’s painful to watch.)

In the end, we video chatted his mother while sitting side by side on my bed and giving no specific clues one way or the other. Sherlock’s always had a poor understanding of personal space, so honestly I probably wouldn’t have noticed that he sat closer to me than most people would find polite. I held his hand at one point - it was comical how his mother’s expression brightened.

After all that, the “something very important” wasn’t about us at all. The neighbors’ pug mix had puppies a few weeks ago and Sherlock’s parents were adopting one. There was one puppy left in the litter, and did we want it? This question took half an hour to get around to, after several digressions, and I almost laughed at how it was very much NOT the intrusive prying Sherlock was expecting.

We don’t need a dog - anyone who has seen our flat when Sherlock was in the middle of one of his experiments knows that - but I do have to say these are the cutest ugly puppies I’ve ever seen:

They look to be pug / dachshund mixes, so little old man faces with stubby legs and fifty percent more body than they actually need. After much haranguing, Sherlock promised he’d ask Mrs. H if she would give the final puppy a home. I rather hope she does - keeping on top of Sherlock’s mess is a full-time job as it is, but I wouldn’t mind having a puppy around for extra cuteness when I’ve had a stressful day. Sherlock had an Irish setter when he was a boy but the council flats where I grew up never allowed pets. Mrs. H has said in the past that she never had pets or children because her husband was a brute and she couldn’t trust him around someone who couldn’t hit back. She and Sherlock met when he ensured her husband got the death penalty (in Florida) and I can honestly say I’ve never heard of anyone who deserved it more.

I gather the holding hands bit is something we’re Not Talking About, but Sherlock blushed when I did it. Wouldn’t mind seeing him blush like that again…

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As far as I’ve been able to determine, there are two main reasons to have a boyfriend. One is to call another grown human being “pookie snookums” without risk of being assaulted, and the other is access to free backrubs upon request. Before today I would have said that neither of these seemed like Sherlock’s main areas of expertise. I underestimated the man’s ability to squirrel away vast datasets and eccentric skills in his giant brain, though.

He’s been deep in thought since the phone call with his mother yesterday, and I’ve mostly left him to it. Then I went downstairs this morning to help Mrs. H change a light bulb in the front hall and managed to do something awkward to my shoulder in the process. He took one look at me wincing as I came back upstairs and dragged me over to the sofa for a shoulder massage.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Talk about a hidden talent! I’m still not gay but I would give sodomy some serious consideration if it means more of this. I can honestly say my shoulder feels better than it has in YEARS. Since it acquired a bullet hole in Afghanistan, definitely, and possibly even longer.

We’re still not talking about it - whatever “it” is - but Sherlock was smiling to himself when I started my telemedicine shift this afternoon. He’s also been playing the violin properly for a whole two hours. One of my patients complimented my choice in music and asked what CD I had on. Usually anyone who overhears him is worried about our cat being in distress, so this was a nice change. (Still planning to call him pookie snookums if this gets to be too weird, though. Looking forward to seeing his “does not compute” face.)

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Good fucking god, people - the reference to sodomy yesterday was a JOKE. I am, and continue to be, heterosexual. Those of you who know me know that even if I WERE to “come out,” it wouldn't be through a throwaway comment on my blog. Those of you who don't know me as well - why would you assume I’d be telling you all about something so personal?

This isn't the first time I've received some questionable private messages as a result of this blog, and I admit I have never quite understood what the fascination is with my sex life. Wondering about Sherlock's, I can understand - the man is six foot two of bespoke suits and sarcasm and perfect hair. (Noticing that he’s objectively good-looking still doesn't make me gay, by the way. “Tall, dark, and handsome” is a well-known phrase for a reason.)

In contrast, I'm just a short bloke with mediocre fashion sense and an iffy temper. (Living with Sherlock is giving me lots of practice in anger management.) I admittedly haven't dated much since being invalided out from Her Majesty’s army, but that was true even in the months before I moved to Baker Street. Getting shot at - and eventually flat-out getting shot - tends to make you re-evaluate your life a bit.

Sherlock, who apparently can deduce the topic of my blog post solely from my facial expressions and typing speed as I write it, would like for all of you to look up the definition of the word “asexuality.” He also wants to remind you that, in the unlikely event he were to voluntarily exchange bodily fluids with another human being in a carnal manner, rest assured that a summary and analysis of the data produced would be posted on his website. Said website also currently hosts a rant about his fake scammer phishing attempt from last week in which he calls the entirety of his brother's peer cohort “A pack of self-aggrandizing idiots with less than zero common sense who shouldn't be running a microwave, much less a country.” It's higher on the vitriol and lower on the scientific jargon than most of his other posts. I, for one, found it entertaining reading.

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I apologize for my tone yesterday. The several of you who called me on it were right to do so. I wasn’t thinking in terms of homophobia or biphobia because those aren’t something I’ve ever really had to deal with, but I see now how my insistence on not being gay could feel hurtful to people in those communities. That was not at all my intent - I told Sherlock when we first met (and he dodged the topic of boyfriends/girlfriends) that “it’s all fine” and I truly mean that.

He read my blog yesterday. That rarely happens, but I guess I’ve been putting more time and attention into it than usual recently. Whatever the reason, Sherlock and I sat down and had a long talk. It was good. I’m not going to rehash everything here, because much of it was private, but suffice it to say I have a better understanding now of what being asexual means. Specifically, that it can have different nuances for different people. Sherlock is of the “never seemed worth the effort and not curious enough to try faking interest” variety. Don’t get me wrong, he’s as good at flirting as he is at everything else when he needs to for a case. That’s about achieving a specific result for The Work, though. He normally just… doesn’t see the point. And, well. I can’t envision many people being willing to accept the constant biohazards and mortal peril that accompany living with him, other than me. He said I like him because of the frequent mortal peril, and I’m afraid he might be a little bit right.

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Mrs. H said yes to the dog! I’m WAY more excited about this than I ought to be, considering it will be her pet and not ours, but she and I are having fun browsing for puppy supplies online. As luck would have it, the Holmes' neighbors have a son, Victor, who has been staying with his parents for the last few months. (I gather he usually lives in India?) He has to drive to London this weekend on business anyway, so he’s going to bring the dog along with him. It should be an interesting adventure. I’m insanely curious to meet him, actually, even if it’s just in the doorway from six feet away: he and Sherlock are about the same age and Sherlock’s mentioned a Victor once or twice, so I assume this is the compatriot from those stories. I seem to recall something about them being lost in the woods together once while hunting fairies, and a different time when they pulled a prank on Sherlock’s brother (who was obnoxiously stuffy even as a teenager). Hoping Victor will be more forthcoming with the embarrassing childhood reminiscences than Sherlock has been.

I have been tasked with the initial puppy prep in the meantime, on account of Mrs. H’s dodgy hip making it harder for her to do things like install a gate in the kitchen doorway. Pets are a LOT of work. I’ve got no doubt she’ll be the kind of owner who makes home-baked dog treats, playing to her skill set, but it’ll probably take all three of us to keep up with a nine-week-old pup. I can’t wait.

We still haven’t heard yet whether this final puppy is a boy or a girl, so I’m trying to help Mrs. H come up with ideas for names either way. Sherlock - with a totally straight face and zero context provided - suggested Pookie Snookums. Mrs. H just about choked on her tongue. Not sure whether that means it’s on the list or not...

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Dog gate is assembled, tub of kibble is ready, and Mrs. H’s flat is, as far as we can get it, puppy-proofed. Sherlock found an adjustable harness-style leash and collar online which should fit no matter what the puppy’s actual measurements are and still allow for it to keep growing. I’m honestly not sure how big a pug/dachshund/mutt mix is likely to get, but I’m sure its body proportions will always be odd.

I say “it” - I should say “he.” We have confirmation that the puppy is a boy. He will NOT be named Pookie Snookums, because the perfect name arrived from an unexpected source last night. Here’s how it went (and I’m transcribing my texts with my friend Mike here):

Me: So we’re (sort of) adopting a dog!

Mike: Seriously?

Me: Technically Mrs. H is, but she’s going to need help keeping up with a puppy. I emailed you a few pics

Mike: I can’t decide whether that dog’s forehead looks more like a Klingon or a Ferengi. Or if it’s just very, very concerned.

Me: Since when do you know Star Trek?

Mike: Since [his 12-year-old son] discovered TNG :-P

Mike: (That’s Star Trek: The Next Generation, in case you haven’t been subjected to the weeks-long marathon that I have.)

Me: And since when do you use smiley faces in your texts?

Mike: Blame [his 15-year-old daughter]. She is mortally embarrassed that I put NOSES on my emoticons instead of using the automated faces like a NORMAL person. I told her that when old farts like us first had to learn to text by banging rocks together, we didn’t have the luxury of screens with pictures.

Mike: AND THEN [his youngest, the 8-year-old] asked me quite seriously about “Colin Dashpea”

Me: ???

Mike: : - P

Mike: Colon dash pee

Mike: I am so ancient

Me: I think I know what I’m going to suggest Mrs. H name her dog.

And thus it was decided: Colin Dashpea it is. Mrs. H said it’s probably accurate, since puppies are known for dashing around and then peeing everywhere, but she’s not a fan of “people names” for pets so she’s planning to call him Dash instead of Colin. Unless he turns out to be a total slug, in which case who the hell knows. Just “P” would be interesting (and we could pretend it was short for Pookie Snookums). Sherlock is trying to act like he’s above being excited, but he’s the one who found the £40 harness/leash/collar “system” and just spent £30 of his own money and most of the afternoon buying dog toys so he’s obviously full of it.

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Victor arrived with the puppy around mid-afternoon today. Since Mrs. H can’t bear to NOT feed people, we shared an early tea. With Victor on the opposite side of the sitting room from us keeping at a physical distance, but still. Dash is, as predicted, tremendously cute in person. He’s two and a half kilos of wiggles and warmth, and Victor says he spent the whole ride here goggling out the window at how much countryside there was to see. He didn’t pee on the seats even once.

Sherlock’s parents have named their own adoptee “Bubbles,” because have I mentioned they’re shockingly normal people despite their genes having created a child like Sherlock? There were three other puppies in the litter - Bubbles being the only girl - and all have now gone to good homes. Victor was pleased to see how prepared we were and how well Dash took to Mrs. H right away. The moment she sat down, he bounced up into her lap and then curled into a ball to snooze while we chatted.

I did ask Victor whether he and Sherlock used to play together when they were little, and the answer was essentially “somewhat.” Apparently Sherlock positively WORSHIPPED his older brother when he was young - which makes me laugh now, as I’ve heard them refer to each other as “archenemies” - and thus he had little time for playing with the only other boy within walking distance from home. Eventually Sherlock’s older brother went off to boarding school, though, and Sherlock and Victor started getting into trouble together on occasion. Victor is an only child whose parents are first-generation Indian immigrants in a primarily white British area, thus he and Sherlock both were “other” enough to have a hard time fitting in with the other children in their village. Although Sherlock scowled fiercely through this whole story, Victor did give an account of The Fairy-Hunting Incident:

Three girls in their early primary school were best friends and - it sounds to me - generally bullies. These girls swore up and down they’d found a fairy ring of toadstools in a particular clearing in a nearby woods, and at twilight they saw a group of fairies come out and dance. One of the fairies had offered them matching crystal hair clips in exchange for some trinkets they had, and they produced the hair clips as proof. Sherlock was initially skeptical, but Victor was CONVINCED this was their big chance. He “borrowed” his father’s camera (which neither he nor Sherlock knew how to use, but that was a minor matter) and the two of them snuck out one night to go catch the fairies.

In a complete surprise to no one but them, the fairies never appeared. It got dark, Sherlock and Victor got lost on the way home through the woods, and they weren’t found until late the next morning. Sherlock had planned ahead as far as packing two sandwiches, but neither had thought to bring coats, torches, etc. They were cold, hungry, and miserable all night, and the girls teased them for YEARS afterward about being so gullible. Sherlock made a comment which I interpreted to mean he finished out primary school without ever talking to them again. Victor got in major trouble for taking his father’s expensive camera without permission. He and Sherlock drifted apart eventually, especially after Sherlock went off to boarding school a few years later, but it sounds like this was a “comrades in arms” bonding moment. Sherlock seems to have had painfully few of those.

Mrs. H and I took Dash for his first walk after Victor left. We didn’t get very far, between Mrs. H’s hip and Dash not fully understanding how a leash worked, but the posh harness collar thing Sherlock found did its job well. Nice weather for a stroll, if nothing else. Dash would have liked to play the rest of the afternoon, too, but he’s being restricted to Mrs. H’s kitchen until he is housebroken and I did eventually need to put in a few virtual hours at work. Sherlock is conspicuously absent in 221B, which I assume means he’s down in Mrs. H’s flat spoiling the pup rotten.

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I’m told Dash barked all night. Didn’t bother me because my bedroom is two floors away, and it didn’t bother Mrs. H because once she’s taken her nightly medicine she could sleep through a freight train, but Sherlock’s room is right over her kitchen and thus he got to deal with it. I may have made a comment about him never actually sleeping during normal nocturnal hours anyway and he may have attempted to throw a dish towel at my head.

Dash really is adorable, though. I got an excellent picture of him passed out on Mrs. H’s lap with his head hanging off upside-down over her knee and his little back legs pointing straight up in the air, but she won’t let me post it because she said her hair isn’t photo-worthy right now. (We’re all a little shaggy, no surprise. Except Dash.) Sherlock spent several hours with him today, both making observational notes and trying to teach him some basic obedience skills. Victor’s mother taught him “sit” already - but when Dash realizes you’re talking to him, his tail starts wagging so hard he can’t keep his little rear end still enough to sit on it. Sherlock’s been a surprisingly patient teacher.

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Sherlock and Mrs. H and I have been taking turns taking Dash out for his constitutional and so far he’s been doing pretty well. Sherlock’s training has progressed to where whenever you get out the treat bag, Dash immediately crowds as close to you as possible and sits on your foot with his little tail whipping back and forth like mad. I suspect “stay” and “lie down” and all those are going to take a bit longer, but he’s definitely learned “Sherlock is a big softie who often has food.”

Have you ever heard of touch deprivation? I never particularly put much credence in the concept of being “touch-starved,” but these last several weeks have made me reevaluate my stance. Sitting next to Sherlock on Mrs. H’s couch with Dash sprawled across both our laps feels like coming home, in an almost spiritual way. It’s never been a sexual thing between me and Sherlock, despite what the papers like to speculate, but ever since the video chat with his mother where we pretended to be dating, we’ve been closer. Emotionally and physically. I didn’t mention it on here at first because it didn’t feel right to say it out loud yet. Mostly it’s been little things like him putting his feet on my lap when we’re both on the sofa watching telly or me letting him pass out while leaning against my shoulder when he finally gives in to the consequences of never sleeping, but it’s been really nice. Mrs. H walked in on us once like that, Sherlock snoring and probably drooling on my jumper as I browsed the internet, and she gave a little squeak of delight when she saw it. Pretty sure she’s been trying to get us together for years.

This isn’t to say we’re “dating” or “boyfriends” or any of that rot, because Sherlock doesn’t DO that and lord knows I wouldn’t want him to try. It does feel like we’ve finally crossed some boundary that’s been looming for ages, though. Somehow, “heterosexual British man and asexual British git finally get over their stuffiness and acknowledge that cuddling can be nice sometimes” doesn’t show up as a step in most normal relationships.

Wow. So typing that in black and white was scarier than I thought it would be. (Sherlock in the background of my mind: “And you invaded Afghanistan!”) Going to post this now so I don’t lose my nerve. I assume all my regular blog readers will know this already, but homophobic comments will be viciously mocked by both my sister and Sherlock and/or deleted. Life is too short for that kind of judgement.

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Long shift of work + no caffeine in the flat = I fell asleep at Mrs. H’s kitchen table with a puppy in my lap today. Didn’t even notice that Dash apparently chewed or scratched a hole in the shoulder of my jumper. Sherlock carried me up two flights of stairs to put me in my own bed, which is extra-impressive because I’m pretty sure I outweigh him even though he’s taller. Woke up disoriented and starving, then discovered that he’d made me tea and beans on toast (NO Marmite) and left it on my bedside table. It's stone cold by now (2 AM), but I still consider it a remarkably romantic gesture.

I have not read the comments on my last blog post yet, but I trust that some combination of Sherlock, Harry, and my regulars kept the trolls to a minimum. Thank you all for that, and I’ll read your lovely comments tomorrow once I’m more awake.

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Wow, thank you for all the kind words! Reading your encouragement made for the start of a good day. It became an EXCELLENT day this evening, thanks to the following sequence of events:

1) Sherlock’s brother M-- had an obligatory phone chat with their parents because that’s what good sons do. Over the course of the discussion, Mrs. Holmes mentioned she was happy to have finally “met” Sherlock’s boyfriend after hearing so much about me.

2) He immediately called us to reprimand Sherlock for lying to their parents. Sherlock told him quite bluntly that what he and I do with our penises are none of his damn business... and just because of this call, we’re going to shag on the sofa right before M-- comes to the flat from now on so he’ll have to sit in the wet spot. He kept up with a surprisingly graphic play-by-play of what that would entail until his brother hung up. I don’t know why M-- still bothers trying, since it’s not like Sherlock has ever listened to one of his long-winded lectures anyway, but it’s one of the few times I’ve ever heard Sherlock use profanity. Looks like I’ve taught him something after all.

3) M-- called their mother back to inform her in a superior tone that Sherlock had been lying to her, it’s not possible for him and I to be dating, and he’s heartbroken that Sherlock would be so cruel as to get her hopes up. (I know it was a superior tone because that’s the only one he has.)

4) Mrs. Holmes, exhibiting the kind of parenting queer teenagers everywhere wish their mothers had, LIT INTO him. How DARE he believe that “Little Lokkie” not be allowed a committed relationship just because he’s dating a man, it’s homophobic to say otherwise, she will always and forever support Sherlock no matter who he chooses to marry and anyone in the Holmes family had damn well better respect that. She pulled out all the stops - the “I’m so disappointed in you,” the “why can’t you get along with your little brother,” even the “we’ve supported you in all your dating decisions so why can’t you do the same.” I imagine it was BRILLIANT.

5) She then turned around and called us, to warn us and to rant about M-- being a homophobic disappointment. Sherlock had a manic grin on his face the entire phone call, as he kept eliciting more and more details of how she verbally flayed M-- alive. He actually picked me up and pulled me into a few waltz steps after hanging up the phone, he was so giddy. (I’m god-awful at formal dancing, but he’s bloody good at it. I’m sure you’re all shocked.)

So yeah - Mrs. Holmes still has shown no sign of understanding the asexuality thing, but I think it's fair to say she's on our side. Safe to say, my parents would NOT have been as fervent in their approval if they had still been alive. They were downright awful to my sister Harry when she told us she was a lesbian, although to be fair her coming-out story involved an ASBO and a large quantity of alcohol. (Won’t tell it here - ask her yourself if you dare.) I’m having a lovely time imagining what my father would say if I introduced him to Sherlock - and more importantly, what Sherlock would have deduced about my father. Bet I’d learn some interesting family secrets...

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Nice day, if a bit chilly for long walks, so Dash and I made it a shorter loop. He’s starting to get the hang of the leash better, I think. Still not “heel” by any means, but he’s not choking himself whenever we go past something he finds interesting. Which, at this point, means everything except cars. Cars alarm him and this is going to be a problem seeing as we live in London. I hope he’ll eventually he’ll figure out that they’re not evil puppy-murder machines.

Dash was still bouncy when we got back to Mrs. H’s flat, probably on account of the shorter walk, and he was so excited by the sight of his water dish that he ran into it at full-tilt and fell with his face in the bowl. Cue startled puppy sneeze. I’m not sure whether puppy sneezes or puppy coughs are better. Sherlock would probably come up with some sort of objective observational study but I’m just going to go with “both.”

Other than that, it’s been a fairly routine day. Stay healthy, everyone.

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Okay, have made up my mind - puppy yawns > puppy sneezes > puppy coughs. A dozy Dash is warm and snuggly and his little belly moves up and down so fast even when he’s asleep. His favorite place to sleep, by far, is on Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is a distant second, and I rank third. His dog bed is at the very bottom of the list. I don’t think I’ve ever spent as much time in Mrs. H’s flat as I have been in this last week, and it’s mostly

This is Sherlock. I now interrupt this nauseatingly sentimental blog post with a lesson about asexuality, since so few of you seem to grasp the basic concept. John dislikes fielding inappropriate questions about our sex life from journalists and from the general public, so hopefully this will cut down on the demand that he provide details.

Point #1: Sexuality is a spectrum, same as sexual orientation. Some people exclusively like men, some exclusively like women, and some fall in between - I’m leaving alternate gender expression out of this example for the sake of simplicity because I don’t expect miracles of understanding - and sexuality works similarly. Some people crave frequent sexual encounters, some are happy with sex more rarely, some are not bothered either way, and some are actively repulsed by the idea. “Asexuality” is a term describing the latter end of the spectrum.

Point #2: As asexuality is highly variable upon the individual who identifies as such, best practice is always to verify with your partner that they’re comfortable with whatever sexual activity you intend to initiate. Personally, I have no interest in anyone’s bacteria-laden oral cavity being pressed to my person, and John respects that. I tolerate him pressing the occasional kiss to the top of my head when he walks past me sitting in my armchair, because there is no transfer of saliva and it makes him happy. I have never seen or touched his penis and he has never seen or touched mine - despite what John related about my conversation with my brother the day before yesterday - and we are both perfectly content for this situation to continue.

Point #3: The single most common question asexual people get asked is about our masturbatory habits. This, also, varies from person to person. I don’t care for the sensation of my body’s needs overriding my mind, so I liken it to scratching an annoying itch when necessary. Some asexual people avoid even that much. Some masturbate regularly but have little or no interest in sharing such an activity with a partner. Some are willing to physically gratify a partner but prefer not to experience orgasm themselves. Most people, asexual or not, shift a small amount along this spectrum over the course of their lives.

For those of you who are interested in a further in-depth study of this topic, I refer you to the early archives on my website for some monographs detailing my research from my university days.

SH

because I don’t want to miss him doing something cute. Mrs. H is spending ninety percent of her time either baking things or playing with Dash, and she’s been more active now than I’ve ever seen her. She even got down on the floor to play with him this morning, and usually her bad hip keeps her from even considering the possibility. I think I can conclusively say having a puppy has been good for her health.

Edited to add: Dammit, Sherlock, how did you lock my own damn blog so I can’t go back and delete this post, only add to it? I understand your need to eradicate stupidity in the world, but use your own fucking website to do it. Bloody Don Quixote.

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I have recently learned that my dear sister Harry, a fully grown woman with a goddamned law degree, thought until yesterday that “Don Quick-sot” was a literary classic and “Donkey Hotay” was… a story about a donkey? Who was named Hotay, I assume? I share this insight with you because it’s my contractual duty as a younger brother to embarrass the snot out of her sometimes.

Secondly, I learned that when I said I was sick of people asking me probing questions about our sex life, Sherlock primarily hears the word “me” in that sentence and not, you know, the implication that I ALSO don’t want them to get their answers from other sources. I’d say I also learned that he has no filter, but I already knew that.

So since the cat’s out of the bag - YES, I suppose this means we’re dating now. Someone at NSY has won a large betting pool, I’m sure. I wasn’t really thinking about labeling it because functionally we’ve been “involved” for years, just none of it in a “dating” way. I mean, we bloody well live together (albeit with separate bedrooms), cook together, split most expenses, and neither of us have plans to change this arrangement anytime soon. The snuggling and odd bits of romantic frippery (Sherlock’s term) are new, but most of the rest of the “relationship” part isn’t.

Sherlock does not like kissing. He also does not like pop music, mushrooms, or dealing with stupid people. None of these are things I intend to try to change about him, and none of them affect how I feel about him as a partner in any sense of the word. Asexual doesn’t necessarily mean aromantic - thank you, Google, for the help - and although I’m sure Sherlock would rather die than admit to having a romantic streak a mile wide, he definitely does. He merely expresses it with more sarcasm and viscera than most people do. I don’t want to change that about him, either. (Well, maybe the part about him dissecting roadkill in our kitchen, but my objection to that is less about the dissection and more about the fact that he never cleans up properly afterward.)

So that’s that. I have not reached my allotment of puppy time yet today, so I’m headed down to Mrs. H’s apartment to take Dash for his constitutional and hopefully to talk her into watching Dr. Who with Sherlock and me.

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Everyone keeps asking what has changed about our life now that Sherlock and I are together. Here’s my best hypothetical for how today would have gone if today had been a month ago:

It would still have been a lazy Sunday. I’d have made some sort of actual food for lunch, Mrs. H would have supplemented it with baked goods, and Sherlock would have picked the bits he liked best out and not eaten anything else. One of us would have walked Dash but probably nothing strenuous. I would have read in my armchair for a while. Sherlock would have painted each of his toenails a separate brand and color, worn different types of socks for precisely two hours each, then spent his day in the kitchen with the socks inside-out and examining the fabric for potential transfer. Maybe there’d be some violin-playing involved.

What actually happened: lazy Sunday. I made a fry-up, Mrs. H made muffins, and Sherlock picked the blueberries out of the muffins and the bacon off my plate in addition to his own. He and I walked Dash together, him telling me about the history of Baker Street in tremendous detail. I sat in my armchair reading for a little while, then Sherlock abruptly realized that if he conned me into joining his experiment he’d have TWICE as many toenails to paint. He still spent the day in the kitchen with the socks inside-out and examining the fabric for potential transfer. No violin, but I squeezed his shoulder on my way upstairs to bed and he put his hand on top of mine for a moment. Also I have magenta toenails now.

I know it’s not the lazy Sunday the rest of the world might expect, but it works for us.

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Day 2 of the toenail polish experiment. Woke up because my feet were cold, only to find Sherlock had peeled back my sheet and was examining my toes with a magnifying glass while I slept. This, by the way, is not the recommended way to awaken a veteran who has PTSD and an unfortunately quick temper. We may have had a bit of a row, enough that Mrs. H came upstairs to see what was going on. She must have been up already because that woman can sleep through anything, up to and including a police raid of Sherlock’s bedroom (don’t ask).

It took a lot of shouting on my part and sulking on Sherlock’s, but we eventually came to the agreement that us dating does not negate our prior standing rule that NO experiments are to be done on John without John’s prior knowledge and consent. Even if John consented to “step 1” of an experiment, he has not pre-consented to “step 2” if Sherlock hasn’t gotten around to mentioning what that step would involve (or that it even exists). We also agreed that John will listen to Sherlock’s ENTIRE experimental design before saying no, and will allow Sherlock to propose modified methodology if the new proposal can reasonably address John’s misgivings.

I really do feel bad about kicking him in the face this morning. It wasn’t intentional, but I would gotten him square in the nose if he hadn’t had such excellent reflexes. It usually takes me a minute or two to get my bearings when pulled from a deep sleep, and waking up flailing is unfortunately something I’ve never been able to train myself out of. My sister Harry used to play a lot of nighttime pranks on me until she got a black eye because of it. I was mortified but she squeezed toughness points from peers and sympathy from our teachers out of it for WEEKS.

Probably just as well Sherlock and I aren’t trying to share a bed. (That would presuppose that he actually sleep, which I suppose is the bigger reason it wouldn’t work, but still.) I do still get nightmares sometimes about when I was shot, and nobody should have to be near me when I’m going through those.

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Nothing much interesting today. Did my telemedicine shift, deep-cleaned my bedroom to the point I swept under the bed and cleaned all the baseboards, and wasted time on the internet. Sherlock has alternated between playing with Dash and lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling. Dash thinks Sherlock is the best thing ever, because he’s remarkably patient with puppy antics and generally just feeds him treats in the guise of training. Dash is now reliable about “sit” and “come,” though, so I guess it’s working.

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It’s driving me nuts being stuck in this flat with no end in sight, I’ll admit, but the idea of saying “fuck it” and going back to normal life simply because I’m bored is even crazier. Mrs. Hudson is still in touch with a few friends from when she lived in Florida and DAMN is America frightening right now. Are Americans seriously holding protests over getting their hair cut? I’ll be the first to say Sherlock is starting to resemble a sheep and my own look is shaggier than ever, but that’s just let me discover that my hair still has a little bit of curl to it once it gets long enough. (I haven’t had it long enough to curl since I was in primary school.) Mrs H, of course, still looks perfect as always. I think it’s her superpower.

I’m toying with the idea of ordering some nice scissors and attempting to perform some haircuts here in 221B, but I’m not quite that desperate…

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Okay, you all have convinced me. Ordered some GOOD scissors, a pair I can be sure were never used on caustic, toxic, or necrotic substances. I told Sherlock because, well, there’s something you may have noticed about him: he can’t STAND to not be good at things. He would rather pretend an activity doesn’t exist or is too plebeian for him to even contemplate doing if it’s between that and him not being amazing at whatever-it-is. I’m 95% certain that by giving him advance notice, he’ll watch “how to” YouTube videos and subscribe to Hairdressers Weekly or somesuch, then casually insinuate that he had a case once that required him to pose as a barber and would I like him to try? Bollocks, of course, but he’ll be bloody good at it by that point so it’s a plausible lie. Not that it makes a huge difference whether he’s good at cutting hair or not - I don’t really care if my patients see me with ridiculous hair, and honestly it can’t be much worse than it is now - but this way he gets to feel like he put one over on me.

(Things Sherlock is surprisingly, or not-so-surprisingly, good at: croquet, horseback riding, tennis, giving massages, and all forms of dancing. Including the type of dance moves I’m way too old and uncool to attempt. A partial list of things Sherlock WILL NOT DO unless very drunk because he’s not particularly good at them: singing, telling bawdy jokes, baking, playing darts. A drunk Sherlock, on the other hand, is HILARIOUS and I highly recommend getting him tipsy before you ever ask him to make banana bread. He will simultaneously show you baking, awful singing, good dancing, and how badly it’s possible to flub the punchline of a risque joke.)

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Since so many of you asked SO nicely, here’s the story:

A few years back, some of my old army mates were in town so we all met up at a pub to share a pint and take the piss out of each other just like old times. I had been there for maybe twenty minutes before Sherlock showed up all excited about a new case and I HAD to come that very instant!

Literally before I was able to chew him out about interrupting my ONE social activity I’d had for the entirety of the last month, he got another text from Lestrade saying never mind. The “kidnapped” child was merely hiding, not missing, and the case was now just a pile of waiting paperwork. My friend Bill clapped him on the back and more or less wrestled him into the booth, while Andy went and got him a pint plus a shot of whiskey “to catch him up with the rest of us.” Sherlock doesn’t often drink, but for whatever reason he decided to stay. I think he was hoping to hear embarrassing stories about me from my army days, but he’d never admit it.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sherlock is a TOTAL lightweight when it comes to holding his booze. I’m pretty sure he weighs less than I do despite being so much taller, but he also has no alcohol tolerance whatsoever. By the time we went home, he was well past “tipsy” and on into “so thoroughly sloshed he doesn’t know how sloshed he is.” I will note that his magical taxi-hailing skills do NOT work when he’s giggling so hard he can’t stand up, so for probably the only time in our acquaintance, I was the one flagging down the cab.

I don’t remember the context, exactly, but earlier in the evening I had mentioned something about how my mum used to try to teach Harry homemaking skills. It usually failed miserably, but Harry and I both love banana bread so baking it ended up being a frequent mother-daughter activity. Sherlock randomly remembered this exchange on the ride home and decided it was IMPERATIVE that he bake me banana bread. At one o’clock in the morning. Because we had four bananas left on the table which were past their prime and would be wasted otherwise. He spent the rest of the trip Googling for recipes online and quizzing me about my preferences. I don’t HAVE preferences about banana bread - I don’t care whether it has nuts in, and Mum never baked it with me because I’m a boy and therefore don’t need culinary skills to bag a good husband. (Joke’s on her - Harry’s a lesbian and I’m nominally dating a man.)

So we got back to Baker Street and Sherlock is all energy, buzzing around the kitchen getting out ingredients and having to ask me where half of them were. I remember him sneaking down to Mrs. H’s flat in the dark to borrow baking soda at one point. He’s still remarkably graceful, even when three sheets to the wind. I teased him about it, and he dragged me from the sofa and into a full-on waltz in the middle of our sitting room despite being absolutely COVERED in flour.

Somehow, probably due to his chemistry background, he managed to produce two respectable loaves of banana bread. Sure as hell wasn’t his culinary experience, as evidenced by his “beans and Marmite on toast” streak last month. I had sobered up substantially by the time the bread was in the oven, but he was still giggly and so full of energy he literally couldn’t hold still. More dancing ensued, me sitting safely in my armchair and naming all the various styles I could think of and him demonstrating a few steps from each one. He had several years of dancing lessons as a boy, I gather. Eventually he tired of that and flopped on the sofa to sing at me instead. He’s not got a TERRIBLE voice, he’s not tone-deaf or anything, but I lost it when he got to the high part in “Bohemian Rhapsody” and he got all huffy about it. Eventually he accepted me singing it along with him as my apology. (I DO have a terrible singing voice, and have no illusions to the contrary.)

When the bread was finally ready to eat it was something like 3 AM and we were both dead on our feet. We ended up lying on the sitting room floor, juggling chunks of hot banana bread from hand to hand because it was still too hot to eat but we wanted it anyway, and swapping terrible jokes. Most are hit or miss with Sherlock, because he doesn’t always have the pop culture background necessary to get the punchlines, but I remember him finding one so funny he rolled over twice while laughing too hard and he bonked his head on the underside of the coffee table.

He fell asleep like that about thirty seconds later, so of course I had to send a pic to our friend Greg before I chivvied him up and poured him into his bed. The next day he claimed to remember the drinking, the banana bread, and the debate with my army mates, but mysteriously did not recall the singing or mangling any jokes.

The banana bread was amazing.

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I am a goddamned psychic - Sherlock saw where I prominently left the scissors on the kitchen counter and casually mentioned that he actually has some hairstyling experience from going undercover for an old case, and would I like him to give my overgrown mane a shot? I don’t stalk his browser history the way he goes through mine when he’s bored and wants something to harass me about, but I’m 99% sure I’d find “how to cut hair at home” instructionals in there if I went looking.

It’s not quite my usual style - a little longer on the top and shorter on the sides than I’m used to - but it’s even and he did a nice job. He likes it better and he’s the one who has to look at me, I guess. The haircut came with a fabulous scalp massage so I’m not complaining! We both went downstairs to see what Mrs. H thought and she approves. (Dash does too, but he approves of anything.)

I was hesitant to try anything on Sherlock, for fear of badly screwing up his gorgeous curls, but Mrs. H volunteered for me to “practice” on her first under Sherlock’s watchful eye. I don’t know if her cut is BETTER now but it’s definitely shorter and at least it’s not noticeably worse.

Sherlock is sick of his hair being long enough to catch his attention out of the corner of his eye when he moves his head too fast, though, so he went to shower so it will be wet and told me to watch a YouTube video or two. Mostly it seems to boil down to “go slow, make multiple passes, and hopefully you discover you have an eye for this sort of thing.”

Going to go ahead and post this now, but wish me luck.

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Probably not the best cut Sherlock has ever had, but I succeeded in taming his mane without accidentally shaving his head. He’s satisfied with it, at least. God, why is this the level of excitement we aspire to nowadays?

Other than that, the best thing that happened today was Dash seeing Sherlock get out the treat bag in preparation for a behavior lesson and getting so excited he peed all over Sherlock’s foot. Mrs. H says he was wagging his tail so hard his accident was probably a result of the G-forces from his hindquarters being dragged back and forth. I was up in my room working, so I missed it, but I got the thrilling play-by-play afterward. (From Mrs. H, obviously. Sherlock was busy taking a shower.) I suppose this is functionally a final exam for how well Sherlock learned to launder his socks…

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Not literally stormclouds, mind you, but Sherlock spent most of the day watching Jeremy Kyle reruns and shouting at the telly. Usually this precedes a lot of sulking, pouting, and verbal explosions of unwanted deductions at whoever is closest, namely me. He only watches trash talk shows when he wants to be thoroughly disagreeable and ran out of real-life things to have emotions about.

For the first time ever, though, I was able to mitigate some of the damage - I’ve discovered Sherlock REALLY likes it when I play with his hair. (He’ll probably hate me telling the world this, but screw it.) He claims to have unusually sensitive follicles; I think he just likes being petted like a spoiled cat. He still yelled at the telly, mind you, but it was with fewer gesticulations and less volume.

I still give it less than forty-eight hours until our next row unless a case comes along first. At least I’m never bored.

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Shit. We’re onto the “lying on the couch and sniping” stage. I don’t think he can help it but I’d still rather not deal with the fallout. Have texted both our DI friend and Sherlock’s brother to beg for something, anything to keep his attention. When he’s too grumpy to even play with Dash, that’s BAD.

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Sherlock and his brother take sibling rivalry to an art form, but they really do care about each other in their own odd way. Shortly after my text, a couriered package arrived on the doorstep. It turned out to be an eclectic collection of antique titration equipment and old chemistry glassware, most with strange residue still crusted onto the inside. Sherlock lit up when I presented it to him. He even thanked me for it with a hug. (The excitement dimmed a bit when he read his brother’s accompanying note, but tough.)

Apparently this was among the estate of a “person of national interest” who had recently passed away, and who may or may not have been involved in some sort of terrorist plot back in the 90s. Not anything you might be thinking of - this was a plot that was foiled before it actually got off the ground and thus never made the press - but dangerous nonetheless. M-- thought Sherlock might enjoy playing with the remains and possibly identifying what the different types of residue were. I PRESUME there’s nothing actively pathogenic or radioactive in there, but with the Holmes brothers you never know. I asked Sherlock to please not cross-contaminate our cooking supplies and got a distracted huff in reply.

Right now he’s at the kitchen table, thoroughly engaged in scraping some bits of brownish-yellow stuff from the inside of a test tube into a fresh beaker and muttering to himself. I’m opting to eat lunch with Mrs. H downstairs, just in case.

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I’ve already forgotten what Sherlock said the nasty brownish-yellow residue was, but he was excited. Sounded like polysyllabic Latin mumbo-jumbo to me. Chemistry was always my least favorite of the sciences, though, so I have no idea how esoteric the substance actually turned out to be. Gray powder from the bottom corners of an Erlenmeyer flask is up next, followed by some red flaky stuff in a sealed test tube. I’ve been trying since yesterday to come up with a reason that a) a domestic terrorist would have left his glassware unwashed, and b) Sherlock’s brother would have ended up with it c) sitting in a drawer for 20+ years. Caught in a raid and never got to finish the experiment, maybe? I suppose this could be him just testing the quality of his water softener and not related to the terrorist activity at all… but then Sherlock wouldn’t be making those little excited noises, so who knows. I have this mental image of Sherlock as a little boy, all wide eyes and wild curls, taking samples of his big brother’s sweaty gym socks and proudly announcing at the family dinner table what kind of foot fungus he was able to culture from them. (Sherlock’s brother would never do something as pedestrian as sweat nowadays, of course, but I assume he went through an awkward teenage phase just like the rest of us.)

Dash is now up to short jogs in lieu of walks, despite his stubby barely-there legs. I wish I had that much energy.

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It was a gorgeous sunny day today, so I was more than happy to be off of work. Sherlock and I put on our masks - his with bees and mine with caduceuses/caducei, we are SO stylish - and took Dash out for a three-hour ramble. Sherlock won’t tell me the details of what he’s working on, but he had a long list of plants he needed samples of and of course he knows exactly which dentist’s office has a particular type of shrub growing next to the door or what alley has specific weeds in it. Mostly we wandered around Regent’s Park. Dash and I were dead on our feet by the time we got back; Sherlock was simply eager to get back to his sorcery in the kitchen. He washed out the mystery glassware - by himself, even! - and I think he’s using it for its intended purpose now. That’s rare in this flat.

After much prodding, he confessed that the current project was inspired by the conclusions he came to re: the weird chemical residue, and he’s working on a reciprocal gift for his brother. I’m honestly not sure whether that’s meant as a positive thing or not, but I’m keeping the fire extinguisher close at hand just in case.

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Holy shit - Sherlock was actually serious. I don’t know whether the constellations have aligned oddly or if the fumes finally went to his head, but he produced a legitimate, THOUGHTFUL present for his older brother. He’s been tinkering since last night and has finally let me in on the secret. It’s not his brother’s birthday, but it is ten years this week since M-- did something particularly life-changing on Sherlock’s behalf and rescued him from what could have been a terrible (and self-inflicted) dangerous situation. Will post the details of the gift here tomorrow, assuming M-- is okay with that. The man is practically omniscient, and I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise by giving it away too early! Courier is en route to his office now…

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Okay, I promised yesterday. I don’t even have the words to describe what Sherlock made - a sensory cologne, of sorts? Not for wearing, but for triggering old memories of specific places. To wit:

- The bakery M-- used to take him to every time he was home from school for breaks, which had fabulous ginger spice cake and lemon biscuits
- A particular antique bookstore M-- spent a lot of time in as a young man
- A woodsy, outdoors scent Sherlock merely labeled “home”

I’m not surprised that Sherlock has an organization system for smells and their chemical components locked away in his massive brain, honestly. I’m merely surprised that he’s opted to keep the details of these particular meaningful locations fresh. I don’t know how accurately he reproduced them, but all three smell lovely. The bakery one honestly made me come downstairs nose-first yesterday morning because I assumed Mrs. H had brought by some baking. (She hadn’t, more’s the pity, but my mouth was watering for hours.) The bookstore one smells like tea and old books and a roaring fire and comfort in a way I don’t really even know how to define. And the one called “home”... dew and petrichor and fresh-mown grass and open windows. He put all three into tiny spray bottles, just like perfume, but they work more like air freshener.

I sincerely hope that M-- likes them - Sherlock put in a lot of thought and effort. M-- must be a difficult person to buy a gift for, so presenting him with the memory of treasured locations he can’t go visit in person was a genius idea.

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Wow. Just… wow. Watching the news - please stay safe, all of you but especially those of you in the US. I’ve carried many guns over the years, I’m more comfortable with them than most, but the scenes coming out of your country right now are terrifying. SO many people armed who shouldn’t be.

Baker Street has been quiet, but London herself feels like she’s on the edge of something similarly explosive. Has been for some time, in small ways, but I don’t see how we can get any further into 2020 without the big reveal. Act I is everything normal, Act II is everything goes to hell… I really don’t want to see what the third act of this farce will be. I’m going to stay here in my relatively quiet flat, snuggling with my landlady’s puppy and my sometimes-prickly partner, and keep watch.

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I’m reminded today of a conversation I had in Afghanistan. A man named Mohammed was one of our translators. He’d been doing it for years and was as close to “family” as it gets for the locals over there. His wife had gone to university in America and his two daughters were in a residential school in Turkey. Mohammed and his wife spent every penny they had to keep their daughters there, away from the violence, and he was always telling anyone who would listen whatever tidbits they’d mentioned when they last wrote home.

I knew him casually, seeing him around the base, but I got to know him better after he was caught in an explosion right outside the gate and ended up in my care for about a month. We were able to sew him back up and although he will always have the scars, he recovered about as well as anyone could have hoped for.

The conversation that stuck with me, though, was one from right after I was first able to deliver him a positive prognosis. He said “You can’t stop ideas with bullets.” He was so proud of his daughters having their education, and even getting torn up with shrapnel wasn’t enough to keep him from the satisfaction of knowing he was working against the fundamentalist insurgents to make that possible for more girls like them. Daughters of others he knew, people who couldn’t stop their world from literally blowing up around them but who could still hold onto the hope that in the bigger picture, things would get better. Even if he’d been killed, he told me, that couldn’t stop others from working for what they thought was right.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot on two fronts - both the fight against COVID-19 and the fight against government brutality in the US and elsewhere. You can’t stop ideas with bullets. You can shoot protesters, but you can’t stop them from reacting when they feel they’ve reached their breaking point. And - on the flip side - you can institute all the curfews and warnings you want but you can’t stop people who believe they’re above the reach of science from going out and infecting others.

I wonder how Mohammed and his family are doing. I wonder if his wife’s contacts in Chicago are feeling now like he did every day in that one small village in Afghanistan. I wonder what it’s going to take to make basic epidemiology precautions and “racism is bad” the default positions again. We're so far removed here from all that's happening, and that's not something everyone is able to say. Stay safe.

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For those of you who aren't technological geniuses like I am (ha!), “TIL” stands for “today I learned." Things I learned today include:

1) Sherlock is extremely ticklish but ONLY on the bottoms of his feet. He fell asleep barefoot on the sofa today and I was curious. He’s also got a fantastic startle reflex.

2) Spaghetti with peanut butter and curry powder is surprisingly edible. Spaghetti with peanut butter and Marmite is, unsurprisingly, not.

3) (Related) Sherlock is a crap cook, which is not REALLY a new thing I learned but damn he proved it today.

4) Being served supper while you're engrossed in a movie because your ultra-perceptive partner realized you lost track of time and don't know how hungry you are and also you won't want to get up is romantic as hell, even if said partner has questionable taste in flavor combinations.

5) I'm still not as good with shoulder massages as Sherlock is, but he appreciates the thank-you attempt anyway.

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Sherlock involving me in strange and occasionally alarming science experiments of dubious value isn’t a NEW thing around here, but today’s has been one of the rare times I’ve actually enjoyed it. Following yesterday’s foot-tickling discovery, Sherlock decided he wants to further investigate his haptic responses. In plainer English, that means he put on some classical music, flopped face-down on his bed, and had me poke/touch/tickle him in 25 predetermined areas of his body and then write down the magnitude of his response on a scale of 1-10. His assertion that he wasn’t ticklish was apparently based on a choice he made as a child: at age ten he decided he wasn’t going to react in ways his brain didn’t authorize and that was that. He truly has mostly managed to train himself out of the startle reflex and a handful of other expected reactions. Personally, I think that has more to do with not wanting to be embarrassed in front of other people than it does with superior brainpower, but then I’m just a bear of little brain. (Not that he’d get the reference.)

From what I’ve been able to infer from previous conversations, I think Sherlock’s always been fairly touch-averse from anyone except a small handful of people. He allows Mrs. H to hug him and buss him on the cheek occasionally, he’s okay with me, and I suspect his brother is on the list despite their sibling rivalry. Dash of course gets a pass! Today’s experiment really was useful, though. We’ve been doing a lot more leaning against each other on the sofa, him putting his feet in my lap when I’m watching telly, etc, but I appreciate knowing which touches he dislikes and which he gets comfort from. I know that for my part, I’m enjoying this new aspect of our partnership more than I would have ever dreamed.

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I suppose the reverse “experiment” was inevitable. As I finished work today - which I usually do sitting on my bed with my laptop because my room is the only guaranteed quiet place in 221B - Sherlock brought me tea and a spreadsheet and asked to reciprocate for yesterday. I admit I ended up dozing a bit, lying in bed with him ogling the scar I got when I was shot. He had me use the same 1-10 scale for the rest, though, while he poked/touched/attempted to tickle me. Unlike Sherlock, I AM ticklish on more than just the bottoms of my feet. I won’t say where because my sister Harry reads this blog. She’s used my ticklishness (is that a word?) against me often enough in our childhood that I don’t want to give her further ammunition. Suffice it to say, Sherlock greatly enjoyed being a bastard and I probably laughed more today than I have in months. I finally sent him down to Mrs. H’s flat with instructions to try a cross-species analysis, i.e. go pet Dash. Doubt the puppy is particularly ticklish but if anyone could find that one spot that might make him thump his back leg a lot, it would be Sherlock.

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While helping Mrs. H de-clutter some storage bins, we came across a box of board games that probably haven’t been touched since the 70s. She and her friends used to have board game nights when she and her late husband were first married, before the whole him being an abusive bastard and getting the death penalty for murder thing. I have sworn never to play Cluedo with Sherlock again - the board now has a knife wound in it from being stabbed to the mantel - but there were a handful of others I had never heard of. We pulled out “Séance” and gave it a shot. Sherlock got WAY more competitive than I expected for a game about bidding on your dead Uncle Ernie’s possessions and then communing with his spirit to find out the true value. There were estate taxes involved. Mrs. H said the game was a lot more fun after several glasses of wine and possibly some illegal substances. (I get the impression she had a MUCH wilder young adulthood than I did. I’m also less surprised that she ended up married to a homicidal drug lord.)

To my amusement, the only game in the box that Sherlock recognized, besides Cluedo, was “Uncle Wiggily.” I’ve been trying to picture a young Sherlock browbeating his brother into playing it with him and am completely failing at it. He mumbled something about “house rules,” which - giving the Holmes brothers - could have involved either calculus or Greek philosophers but almost certainly did not involve 100% random chance like the original did.

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Did a video call with Sherlock’s parents today. Ended up walking my laptop downstairs so we could let Dash and Bubbles (the puppy they adopted) see each other. Dash didn’t seem to care one way or the other, but Bubbles was fascinated by the fact that Dash apparently lived in Mr. Holmes’ iPad.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have been enjoying the peace and quiet during quarantine. They live out in the country, technically in a small village but you can’t actually see any neighbors from their house. I doubt there’s ever a time their house ISN’T quiet - not since Sherlock grew up - but they sound like easygoing people. Mrs. Holmes loves gardening and we got to hear all about the changes she’s making to the front flower bed. Mr. Holmes took his iPad, and therefore us, on a short tour of the house and of his shed-turned-workshop. It used to be Sherlock’s “lab” because he wasn’t allowed to bring most of his experiments indoors, but Mr. Holmes now uses it for woodworking and to tie flies for fishing. I’ve never been fishing, fly fishing or otherwise, so he promised to take me out to the stream next time we visit.

Sherlock was fairly reserved through all this, which didn’t surprise me. I think he was nervous about me not liking his parents or his parents telling me about all his worst traits and scaring me off. Joke’s on them: even if they tried, I doubt they could come up with childhood mischief worse than some of the crap Sherlock has pulled since we moved in together. Learning how to share a flat had a STEEP learning curve.

By the time the conversation ended I was instructed to call them Siger and Violet instead of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and we’re planning a tentative trip to visit them sometime in the next few months (coronavirus permitting). I can’t wait to see what Sherlock’s childhood bedroom looks like.

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Sherlock had never seen “Kingsman: The Secret Service” prior to today, which is a goddamn travesty. Mrs. H and I invited him to our semi-regular “split a bottle of wine and too many sweets while tipsily riffing on the movie” night to fix this issue. Sherlock laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair and decided his brother must have been a consultant for all the stuffy bits. Dash also got ample attention (as he so richly deserves).

My mad flatmate is improving on the theme song on his violin now, despite it being so late and him still being a bit sloshed. It's ridiculous how he can still play so beautifully even while randomly dissolving into giggles at the thought of his brother doing “field work.”

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Sherlock took delivery of a dead badger while I was upstairs working. I asked him what the bloody fuck he was doing, but he informed me - via hand signals and my rudimentary understanding of BSL - that he's decided I need to learn French and thus will be providing an immersive language environment. He explained it verbally too, but fuck if I could understand any of it. I can swear fluently in English (British, Australian, and American), Welsh, Gaelic, German, Pashto, and Farsi… never needed French. I know a few other words of Pashto and Farsi but honestly swearing was the closest to a universal language we had on the front lines.

Mrs. H doesn't speak French either, so she was willing to commiserate with me when I fled down to her flat to escape the smell and the squelching noises. Dash is normally intimidated by the staircase up to 221B - we put up a baby gate although we haven't needed it yet - but now that the upstairs smells like deceased badger he's all eager to come up and explore. Mrs. H and I ended up taking him to the park to get us all out of the flat for a while. When we got back, the windows were open and the eau de corpse (see, you bastard? FRENCH) had noticeably dissipated but was definitely still there.

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Thanks a bit to Sherlock but mostly Google translate, I can now swear in French. Specifically, I looked up ways to insult him and he corrected my pronunciation. I'm actually kind of enjoying how due to his self-imposed language restriction, I can completely ignore everything he says and he can't do anything other than get louder and more French-sounding.

Me: “Vous êtes un salaud total avec un putain de complexe de supériorité” (You are a total bastard with a fucking superiority complex)

Sherlock: *long string of nasally nonsense syllables*

Me: “Prochaine putain de roadkill je trouve, je vais en mettre des morceaux dans votre shampoing poncy.” (Next goddamned roadkill I find, I will put pieces of it in your poncy shampoo.)

Sherlock: *reply trails off into a dirty look as he slowly realizes what I tried to say* “Prosh-EN, pas prosh-ANE.”

Me: “Why does everything translate to “putain?” That's the one word I've learned now.”

Sherlock: *long sigh*

Anyway, if anyone's got some good French insult idioms I should know, leave a comment. Especially if I can pronounce them badly enough to make Sherlock twitch. That's been my primary entertainment over the last twenty-four hours.

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Keep the suggestions coming, everyone! I didn't get to use many because I ended up pulling a double shift (of sorts) but I'm making a list. I only actually talked with Sherlock for a few minutes today - we've both been in our rooms, me doing telemedicine and him doing god knows what - but I pretty much just answered “Putain” to everything. He resorted to BSL again. Not sure what he said because I was making tea and didn't bother to watch. A man has to have priorities.

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I gave Sherlock a minor concussion this afternoon via the power of poorly-translated French. He was coming up to my bedroom to bug me about something, already chattering a mile a minute even though he must have known I wouldn't understand. I was TRYING to say “Fuck you,” but “baise-toi” and “baise moi” are only one consonant apart and apparently I propositioned him rather forcefully instead. He tripped over nothing and fell halfway down the stairs before he caught himself. This is a topic we haven't discussed much - I don't want to be one of those arseholes who interrogate asexual people about their bedroom habits and he hasn't volunteered any info - so I think I took him by surprise. He's been avoiding my gaze all evening. Eventually we're going to have to Talk About It, but I'm certainly in no hurry. His head is going to be fine, though my dignity may never recover.

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I remembered that our friend Lestrade - the DI at Scotland Yard we most often work with - grew up spending his summers in France with his grand-mère, so I gave him a call. His French accent is better than mine will ever be and he owed me a favor anyway. He was patient with me, which I appreciate. I strongly suspect I’m too old to learn a new language by osmosis, no matter how magnanimous my partner is in helping me, but I DO appreciate that he’s trying. It may be driving me around the twist but ultimately he’s doing it to be altruistic and I love when he tries. (It’s that damn romantic streak again, the one he’d never admit he has.)

Anyway, Lestrade coached me through a few phrases I wanted to be able to say to my now-boyfriend - “I love you” being the main one. Neither of us have said it to each other out loud before, but it’s been heavily implied in SO many ways over the years. I’m getting all soppy just thinking about it. “Je t’aime” isn’t too hard to pronounce, luckily. Hard to say, in English, but I’m hoping French will make it easier.

Sherlock is out taking Dash for a walk, so I’ve got a few minutes to build up a nice case of nerves before he gets back. Going to try to subsume my anxiety in a good homemade alfredo sauce to go with the half a box of linguine we still have left in the cupboard. Fingers crossed the pasta and the small attempt at sentiment will go over well.

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He came back inside last night already chattering away, albeit with a fair amount of pantomime illustrating how Dash got the crap scared out of him by some bloke revving his motorcycle. I was all ready to announce the “pâtes alfredo” (I looked up the word for pasta) was almost ready, but then I actually started LISTENING and realized I recognized a few of the words. In particular, “je t’aime” and “je t’adore.” The sneaky berk was using my idea! Oh, he sandwiched it in among a bunch of other patter and pretended it wasn’t anything important, but he repeated both phrases twice and I know what I heard. Obviously I’m not the only one who was nervous about being the first one to say it.

Given the situation, I really had no other choice than to tackle him to the couch in a bear hug and repeat “je t’aime too” and “j’adore you right back” until he realized I’d figured out what he was saying. I asked him how long he’d been using French to confess his feelings to me and he wouldn’t give me a straight answer, so this may not have been the first time. He’s adorable when he blushes.

The linguine alfredo was excellent. So was falling asleep on my boyfriend’s shoulder while he murmured sexy French endearments into my ear. Best day ever.

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Mrs. H surprised us today by draping a giant rainbow flag in front of the door to 221B. Sherlock discovered it when he opened the door and essentially walked into it because he wasn’t paying attention. She told me this evening that she’d ordered it to get here by June 1st but the shipment got delayed. I think it’s sweet that she’s so eager to show her approval of “her boys” finally being official - she’s been assuming we were together for ages, but she’s finally correct.

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We finally sat down and had that talk I knew was brewing - in English, thank Christ. I don’t know whether Sherlock gave me up as a lost cause or is merely planning to talk French at me whenever I’m asleep and hope my subconscious picks up on it, but it’s nice to be able to communicate again.

Anyway, it was good to get some more solid data on Sherlock’s boundaries when it comes to the whole sexuality thing. We’ve agreed on casual touches, some kisses but only when no saliva is involved (he’s got a point about the germs, I just usually try not to think about it), some other odds and ends, and some ways to safely bring this up again if/when we need to adjust our agreement. I’ve been instinctively wanting to kiss him hello and goodbye for a while now - years, if I’m being honest with myself. Not in a romantic sense, but because it always feels odd to leave for work with a generic “um, bye, see you later” when our lives have been so intertwined for so long. Nowadays I keep getting two steps towards him and then remembering. He’s been tolerant of me being a slow learner, which I appreciate. Sherlock IS the only man I’ve ever dated, in any sense, but I think he’d be in a league of his own even if that weren’t the case. I’m trying to break my bad boyfriend habits when I can. The conclusion was that a peck on the lips, cheek, forehead, shoulder, etc. are all fine, even if he’s focused on something else (usually his experiments), as long as I don’t go trying to use it as a stepping stone for something else. Any “something else”s will be happening on their own merits.

(This blog was one of the topics of conversation, too: I assumed there would be specific personal things he wouldn’t want me to share with all of you, but Sherlock has surprisingly few hidden secrets in that regard. I guess it goes along with deductions spewing out of you even when you don’t mean to - you assume everyone else can read the same details of your life as you can of theirs. You’d think thirty-odd years of being proved wrong would nullify that somewhat, but he still keeps assuming I got twice the information from interviews as I actually do.)

Fortunately (or unfortunately), all the talk about kissing and oral bacteria has given Sherlock an idea for another experiment. Namely, chewing thirty different flavors of gum, kissing his microscope slides, and then checking to see if he can differentiate the residue by chemical signature. I’ve never seen him chew gum before, other than as part of a disguise, and I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye and being surprised that he’s eating something. Hopefully this will keep him busy for a day or two.

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Sherlock actually read the news part of his news feed this morning, not just the weird bits, which means I’ve been subject to a day-long rant on the stupidity and innumeracy of our current Prime Minister. Not sure he knows who the Prime Minister IS, just that he’s bad with graphs. And facts. (Google the terms “poor chart rating UK COVID” for the graphs in question.) It’s not MISinformation as much as it’s “portraying the lack of anything useful but in pictorial form.” It should be obvious that it’s best for everyone to self-isolate and to wear masks until COVID-19 isn’t lurking around every corner… but somehow half my work time is spent convincing patients that even though they’re not sick YET that doesn’t mean they won’t get it LATER if they take my “it’s just a cold” to mean everything is back to normal.

In conclusion: wear a damn mask.

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We left the flat today! Lestrade had a kidnapping case he’s been working for a few days but wasn’t getting anywhere with, and he finally asked Sherlock to come to the scene (now that it’s been processed) and take a look around. It was conveniently within walking distance of Baker Street. After three months of lounging around in his dressing gown and pajamas, Sherlock got all excited over the chance to wear a suit. Because he’s the kind of bloke who wears suits just for the hell of it. (He color-coordinated it with his bee-patterned mask.) His hair is still a bit fluffier than normal thanks to his less-than-perfect barber (me), but overall he still looks very handsome when all dressed up.

He did solve the case, although it took him longer than he’d like and he’s grumpy about it. Fortunately it all turned out well; unfortunately the Yard was already pursuing what ended up being the correct suspect so all Sherlock was able to do was to point out some nuances at the scene that they’d missed. They’d have gotten the right man but possibly had a bit more trouble in getting a confession than they ultimately did. I’ll write up the case tomorrow but don’t expect anything too dramatic.

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As promised yesterday, the short case (with names changed):

Ella Glasscock was nineteen and worked as a live-in nanny for the Brooks family - Mr. Brooks is an ex-footballer, the wife Dr. Brooks is a obstetrician, and their twin sons are three and a half years old. A few days ago, Mr. and Dr. Brooks were awakened by their children climbing into bed with them much earlier than they’re usually allowed to be downstairs. Normally Ella took care of the boys until breakfast - got them up, dressed, teeth brushed, etc. - and then all five of them ate together. Dr. Brooks went up to check Ella’s room and found her missing. Her personal belongings were thrown haphazardly around the room, as if there had been a fight, but nobody in the Brooks family had heard any noise. Her purse and phone were missing. Mr. Brooks received a text from her number, saying only that an urgent personal matter had arisen and she would be back soon but needed some time off first. He replied “That’s fine,” but found the note suspicious - it had misspellings which was unusual for her - and contacted the police.

Sherlock poked around a bit, sifted through the clothing both strewn around the room and in the wardrobe, and came to the conclusion that Ella had left voluntarily but in a hurry. He determined that she did, in fact, take at least one change of clothes and her hairbrush with her, but hadn’t bothered with other toiletries because that would have meant going past the boys’ room to the shared bathroom at the end of the hall.

The two obvious venues to examine were if she had a significant other in her life and to see whether there was something happening at the Brooks household that might have driven her to flee. Lestrade did NOT let Sherlock talk to the family, which is probably a good decision. Sherlock and tact are rarely on speaking terms. Lestrade had tracked down Ella’s long-distance boyfriend, Stephen, and persuaded Stephen to come to London for questioning at around the same time he called us in. Ella and Stephen had been dating since February and chatted via phone and Skype but never face to face. They’d been planning to meet until the current lockdown put those plans on hold.

Stephen knew nothing about Ella’s disappearance other than that she hadn’t been responding to his texts like normal. Sherlock asked him to send a carefully-worded message to Ella, informing her that he’d come to London to surprise her but was now being held at the police station as a suspect in her disappearance. Ella showed up less than an hour later.

Her story: shortly after putting the boys to bed, she received a call from an unfamiliar number from someone claiming to be Stephen borrowing a friend’s phone. His voice sounded a bit odd but not enough to make her leery. The caller said he was in London for business, was outside her house now, and really wanted to see her in person. He hinted that they could go to his hotel to talk and she could be back before the Brooks family even knew she’d been gone.

She threw a change of clothes in her purse - no violent struggle, just debate over what to wear in case their chemistry sparked and she ended up staying overnight - and ran out to meet him. There was a car in front of the Brooks house, but the driver wasn’t Stephen: it was his best friend Mark. Mark had been utterly convinced that Ella was being untruthful about herself and the romance was an elaborate catfishing attempt. Since he really WAS in London for business, he decided to find out.

He and Ella went to his hotel’s bar, had a long conversation over several drinks, and ended up going back to his room together. Ella woke up the next morning hungover and angry with herself for having cheated on Stephen but couldn’t regret having met (and slept with) his friend. I took that to mean the sex was exemplary, but she was understandably cagey about that bit. Mark had given her a less-than-flattering picture of Stephen during their conversation so she resolved to break up with him… when she figured out how to say it.

Over the subsequent two days, Mark and Ella ordered a lot of room service and shagged like bunnies. She was normally a responsible young woman but since she HAD given the Brooks a note (albeit while still hungover, thus the typos) and they’d previously emphasized that she was welcome to take personal time when necessary, she opted to enjoy the moment. She didn’t realize the Brooks family were worried about her until she got Sherlock’s text.

Stephen and Mark’s friendship won’t survive this incident, but everyone else came out all right. Mark was being brought in to verify the story when we left. Since no crime occurred, nobody will be charged. Ella was thoroughly apologetic to her employers and will be quarantining herself in a spare suite of rooms until she can be sure she won’t pass anything on to the boys. She and Mark are also planning to meet again for what I presume will be lots of sex and the occasional conversation. They’re both nineteen - I feel for the hotel housekeeper having to sanitize the room after they go. Sherlock is pouting because Lestrade’s team had already pulled Ella’s phone records and started looking for the owner of the mysterious number that called her the night she disappeared, so they’d have found Mark sooner or later. Luckily I’ve had lots of practice pulling him out of a sulk.

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Sherlock is still sulking for England. Lestrade texted to say that Mark confirmed Ella’s story so that case is officially closed. Mrs. H and I ended up baking all afternoon so I could get out of the flat. (Well, she baked and I “helped” by reading the gossipy parts of the paper out loud so we could snark at them together). Sherlock usually has a hard time staying grumpy when presented with blueberry crumble.

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Things abruptly made sense today. No particular inciting event - Sherlock has been brooding steadily since the case ended - but I woke up at two in the morning and realized what the problem was: he’s worried. This case was all about a young woman happily cheating on her partner whom she wasn’t sleeping with in favor of someone who could (presumably) deliver better sex. Sherlock is asexual and I am not, therefore he rationalizes that I’m going to leave him next time a passably pretty woman looks my way. I’d like to think I’m not shallow enough to throw a partner over for not being good in bed, but I’m ashamed to say I did get a bit of a reputation my first few years in the army for being willing to shag any female who showed the slightest interest. None of those relationships lasted very long, but the ones who weren’t interested in sex tended to not last past a week or two.

Sherlock was still up despite the late hour, so I dragged him away from his laptop and upstairs to lie in bed with me. He was reluctant at first, expecting me to start yelling at him, but lying on our backs in parallel and staring at the ceiling makes it easier to have a serious talk somehow. I’m complete pants at it - as are most British men, or so I’m told by all my female friends - but he’s worth the effort.

Not a huge surprise to me that I’m the first person Sherlock has ever dated and actually cared about. He’s not one for “sentiment” anyway - at least not consciously - and the idea of someone else being able to control his happiness scares the crap out of him. Me too, when I think about it that way, but that’s part of what a relationship IS. You have to trust that the person you’re dating will take care of your heart while you take care of theirs. I don’t think Sherlock has had anyone he trusted like that in a long time. He’s trusted his brother with his life several times - we both have - but that doesn’t necessarily translate into believing his brother will spare him unnecessary pain. The relationship between those two is even more complex than what’s between me and Harry, and that’s a whole other post.

End result, we talked in the semi-dark for almost two hours without actually touching or even looking at each other. I think I have a better understanding of where his concern is stemming from, and I think (hope) he feels a bit more comfortable that I’m not planning to up and leave him merely to outsource my orgasms. Most of the content of our conversation wasn’t the kind of thing I generally share on this blog but I will say it was a much-needed exchange on both our parts.

Honestly, the best part was waking up this morning to find that Sherlock was still in bed with me. We both fell asleep about dawn, me under the covers and him on top of the duvet, but I woke up to his arm thrown over my back and his over-long curly hair up my nose. I would happily wake up like that every morning for the rest of my life - and when he finally emerged from bed at noon, I told him so.

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David and Leonardo got back to London today. David came over to thank us in person and to bring some chocolates from his favorite candy shop in Leeds. (Easy way into Sherlock's good graces - the man has a ridiculous sweet tooth. Which is probably good, because he doesn't eat near enough for less calorie-dense food to keep him functional.) We had a nice chat on the front stoop. David and Leonardo had heard of a detective called Sherlock, because of course everyone has by now, but never associated the name with us or the odd assortment of people who tend to show up at our door. He did say that he and Leonardo had occasionally bickered over whether they thought we (as their neighbors, not the blokes from the papers) were “together” or not. For once I was able to give a straight answer, so to speak. It was nice. I extended a dinner invitation on behalf of Mrs. H and he's checking with Leonardo. Would be a nice first social engagement in three months.

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Thanks to a brilliant suggestion from one of you lovely readers, I’ve started Sherlock on a new “experiment” to see how accurate his taste buds are. Mrs. H and I are putting together small quantities of his favorite dishes and running them through the blender, then seeing what he can identify. It sounds - and looks - disgusting, but I tried a few and the taste really is quite similar to the original even if the texture is more like toothpaste. So far he’s accurately identified blueberry cobbler, lemon pepper salmon, and “that thing with the peas” I make sometimes (cottage pie), but drew a complete blank at beans on toast until I put Marmite in it. Was tempted to see whether he could tell the difference between Marmite, Vegemite, and a smashed bouillon cube, but Mrs. H pointed out he might die of hypertension before the experiment was over.

Normally I try not to mother Sherlock too much over his eating habits, because he DOES eat eventually and it’s his body, not mine… but I’m still pleased to see him eat about two days’ worth of healthy calories over the course of the afternoon and evening. It makes up for him forgetting to eat on Saturday while he was busy brooding.

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Quick follow-up to yesterday’s post - even Dash wouldn’t eat Sherlock’s beans-and-Marmite slurry. I know because somehow this small puppy with stubby legs managed to get into Mrs. H’s kitchen trash and licked everything clean EXCEPT that particular paper cup.

In other Sherlock-related news, my sneaky bastard of a partner/flatmate took over half my wardrobe while I was downstairs checking on Dash and dealing with the natural consequences of him gorging on trash (i.e. little piles of puppy puke all over Mrs. H’s carpet; I know you wanted to visualize that). Sherlock’s argument was the following:

a) half my clothes need to be thrown out anyway because - in his opinion - they make me look like a grandfather

b) I wasn’t using the whole space anyway (true, because I’m not a goddamned clothes horse like he is and I also know how to do my own laundry so I don’t need a month’s worth of suits held in reserve)

and c) he’s made the decision that he likes sleeping next to me so he might as well leave a few things upstairs. You know, in case a client shows up in our living room and we were both upstairs in our pyjamas for some reason. Not that this has EVER stopped him from wandering around the flat in his dressing gown before, including - no lie - showing up at bloody Buckingham Palace wrapped in a bedsheet because his brother was the one requesting our presence and Sherlock is petty enough to go meet royalty mostly naked instead of putting on a suit at his brother’s behest.

Sharing a bed (in a literal sense, not the euphemism) has actually been going pretty well. He doesn’t always sleep, but the last few nights he’s come upstairs to lean against the headboard and flip through chemistry journals or read something on his phone while I try to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. He said he likes to feel my presence next to him.

I was worried I’d wake him up sometimes with the occasional PTSD nightmare that still shows up occasionally, but those haven’t been an issue for a while now. Fingers crossed that hearing his heartbeat next to me helps my subconscious too. He doesn’t snore or hog the covers, and so far the worst he’s done is to “vent a toe” out from under the blanket and then stick his chilly foot up against my calf while stretching. I can live with that.

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Still far from being back to business as usual, but Sherlock and I actually went to Tesco’s in person this morning. We were out of milk again (he goes for ages without touching it and then… I don’t know, bathes in it or something? Anyway, we run out frequently) and he wanted some specific obscure things I wouldn’t have gotten right on an online order. Yes, we wore our masks. Was pleased to see that Tesco’s was still less full than usual and most of the people there were masked too.

Came out with the milk, some groceries, the weirdly specific products Sherlock needed, and about eight new toys for Dash. That dog is spoiled rotten and yet somehow is still better behaved than most children I know.

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Sherlock and Mrs. H are up to something, which has me worried. He went down there this morning when I started my work shift and was still downstairs when I finished. I assumed he went down to play with Dash, like he does frequently, but training lessons tend to be about five minutes long - the limit of a puppy’s attention span - so clearly something else has caught his attention. I ended up falling asleep in my armchair all evening and am now cranky and hungry. If he has taught that dog to pick locks I swear I won't be responsible for my actions.

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Pop quiz! What was Sherlock doing in Mrs. H’s flat for eight hours yesterday?

A) Laundry
B) Playing with Dash
C) Watching porn

I’m sad to say the answer is D) All of the above. I mean, yes, he did a load of his laundry and I’m sure Dash got attention, but mostly he sat at Mrs. H’s kitchen table with his laptop and watched Xtube while she bustled around making scones and giving advice on what aspects of his videos were, and weren’t, realistic. He took about four pages of notes.

I didn’t know the details of this before last night, but Mrs. H met her late husband when she was working as an exotic dancer in Miami. She got to know Sherlock when her husband was in prison for an impressive laundry list of mafia crimes plus a handful of extra-curricular murders - Sherlock helped her prove he deserved the death penalty. I get the impression he was not a nice man. Sherlock was in Florida for about a year and a half, well before I first met him, and it sounds like Mrs. H happily took over a mothering role while he was there. Her life calmed down substantially after she moved back to the UK and bought 221 Baker Street. The mothering stayed; the “colorful lifestyle” didn’t.

Which is all a long way to say that - and I’m reading between the lines here - Sherlock is still uncomfortable about the fact that he’s asexual and I’m not, so his answer to everything is always to do science. I think he was trying to catalogue all the potential sexual situations I might ask him to be in and figure out his thoughts on them in advance. Mrs. H was trying to talk him down and reassure him that no, porn is not a good observational study of human sexual behavior, and her experience with the sleazy American underworld makes her somewhat of an expert on knowing the difference.

A month and a half ago I was still insisting (on here and elsewhere) that I’m 100% heterosexual thankyouverymuch and everyone can just stop the speculation on Sherlock’s and my intimate lives already because we aren’t going to have one. It feels like a lot has happened in that last six weeks. I’ve gotten less prickly about people’s snide comments, and I can admit now that I’m at least a LITTLE bit bisexual. Biromantic, at least. Sherlock and I had a good talk last night before falling asleep - a lot of things that needed to be said. Including reassuring him that I’m not going to be going down his porn checklist and marking off things I expect him to try. I won’t say we’ll never do ANYTHING physical, because it’s possible we’ll happen into something we both enjoy, but I truly am content to snuggle next to him on the sofa and listen while he verbally flays whatever movie he consented to watch with me that evening.

For some odd reason, they never make porn of that.

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Tonight’s movie was Hot Fuzz. I 100% stand by yesterday’s closing statement.

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BABY PICTURES! Sherlock was being a git when his mother called so I ended up chatting with her for a bit, and she was kind enough to send me a whole virtual album of Sherlock and his brother’s baby pictures. I’m sure it’s no surprise that he was an adorable toddler:

And as a bonus for those of you who know his brother and need a laugh:

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I hate talking about it, but part of destigmatizing PTSD is normalizing the symptoms: last night I had another one of my eerily vivid nightmares. Screaming nocturnal terrors would be more accurate. Used to have them every damn night (and sometimes flashbacks during the day) shortly after I was discharged from Her Majesty’s service. After getting sucked into Sherlock’s highly active and often dangerous orbit they lessened in frequency, until I only had one every several months or so. They returned with a vengeance for a period of about two years when I thought I’d just seen my best friend and flatmate commit suicide before my eyes - I’m sure anyone who’s bothered to find this blog knows how THAT turned out. The nightmares, now featuring Sherlock and Afghanistan both, slowly started tapering off again once he and I sorted things out. Last night was the first I’ve had since February. It was also therefore the first I’ve had since Sherlock started… well, I won’t say SLEEPING in my bed since he goes dormant like a shark instead of actual slumber, but at least spending time physically next to me on my mattress while I’m somnolent. It’s one of the reasons I was hesitant about attempting to share a bed in the first place - I don’t want to lash out in my sleep and hurt him. (See also: when I nearly kicked him in the face during the toenail polish incident from a few weeks ago. Or months ago. Time has lost all meaning since March.)

Luckily, Sherlock’s extreme resistance to actually going unconscious at any point during the night seems to have come in handy - he’s a light sleeper when it’s not the first shuteye he’s had in four days. Add to that his quick reflexes, and I barely had time to start flailing before he was out of bed and trying to talk me down. I hate the feeling of snapping out of those dreams - the cold sweats, the racing pulse, the full-body tremor - but his words really did help. He ended up lying next to me and describing utterly boring pastoral scenes in intricate detail until I fell back asleep and dreamed of peaceful British meadows.

I still have PTSD. I probably always will. But now I have a Sherlock, and it’s fair compensation.

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Given that we’re now halfway through 2020, I feel like it’s time to start examining those New Year’s resolutions. This year I decided to install some sort of storage solution for our sitting room. A lot of the clutter is transitory, but too much seems to accumulate like sediment in a river, mounding up in the lees of our lives. Mostly Sherlock’s life, really, because my life includes hoovering on occasion.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, has no interest in online furniture shopping with me. I’m 99% certain he’d pretend to not understand how a hammer worked if it got him out of installing shelves. First step is a major de-junking, followed by a deep clean, and then - hopefully - some more permanent way to deal with obscure journals and experimental bric-a-brac. Fingers crossed.

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We’ve settled on a process, sort of. First step is Sherlock flopping conspicuously on the sofa while I start to tidy things, purely to moan at me about how boring I’m being. Second step is having a row that is mostly me yelling and him ignoring me. Third would normally be me dumping his moldy forgotten “experiments” on his head and storming out of the flat until my temper cools down, but current circumstances make this step less than ideal. Instead, I informed him - through metaphorically clenched teeth - that even if this relationship isn’t traditional, it’s supposed to be a goddamned partnership and if he refuses to declutter with me he can bloody well come up with something else equally useful to do while I clean. I then took Dash out for a walk without even yelling once.

When I got back, Sherlock had retrieved sandwiches from the cafe next door for lunch for both of us and was sitting at the desk sorting through old papers. He’d also finally washed my second-favorite mug (which had previously been germinating algae and living on the kitchen counter as a relic in our cleaning cold war) and had put the kettle on. I still ended up doing the bulk of the actual decluttering, but he accumulated a good-sized bag of papers and journals to recycle and even got us caught up with our mail and joint bills. It’s not the first time EVER he’s done that, but it’s the first in well over a year.

I wasn’t expecting miracles, so today was a thoroughly acceptable outcome.

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Took an after-work nap on the sofa and ended up sleeping for six hours. Woke up with a headache and my biorhythms thoroughly thrown off. On the plus side, Mrs. H sent up some homemade soup for supper and it was just as good at midnight as it would have been fresh. Also Sherlock took the rubbish out while I was asleep and waited to play his violin until I stumbled blearily upstairs for a more comfortable bed. Now I'm too awake to sleep but too asleep to do anything useful, so I've got my bedroom door cracked so I can lie here in the dark and listen.

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Thank you SO much, American friends, for normalizing household explosions as a reasonable summer activity. Sherlock is on the hunt for exothermic reactions among our kitchen and cleaning supplies now. Not that we British don’t do fireworks for other occasions, but today celebrates England getting our arses handed to us so it’s not normally the kind of thing we celebrate. Sherlock may be celebrating someone getting one over on his brother-by-proxy on principle, despite being a few centuries off.

Dash is not impressed. He and Mrs. H and I are watching Red Dwarf with the sound turned way up so we won’t hear and thus will have plausible deniability if the police get called. On the plus side, the kitchen sink and table are now clean enough that Sherlock is unlikely to set the flat on fire via proximity to flammable debris…

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I’m happy to report that Sherlock survived his experiment yesterday with all fingers intact. There was a noticeable smell of sulphur when I got back upstairs, and this morning I noticed a slight yellowish residue on everything which will necessitate wiping down all the surfaces in the kitchen again, but the char mark on the ceiling isn’t any bigger than it was two days ago. (The one above the table, I should say - there’s a smaller one over the stove as well. Not sure how that one got there and I don’t want to ask.)

Thankfully, Dash seems to not be bothered by loud noises, explosion-based or otherwise. We had a loud thunderstorm come through a few weeks ago and yesterday Mrs. H told me Dash woke her up that night but settled right back down once she let him sleep at the foot of her bed. I think this explains why he’s so reluctant to go back on his bed in the kitchen - he’s got her curled around his little… finger? Paw? Stubbly little excuse for a front leg? Anyway, the only person Mrs. H is really good at saying “no” to is Sherlock. Which still puts the number of people who can effectively stand up to him in “can count them on one hand” territory. Me, Mrs. H, Sherlock’s brother, and - sometimes - our friend at the Yard. I’m DYING to see how he and his parents relate to each other when actually in the same room.

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Sherlock woke me up at arse o’clock this morning because he realized in the middle of the night that it was Mrs. H’s birthday today and he needed me to help him make a cake right that very instant. I told him to fuck off, kicked him out of bed because he wouldn’t shut his gob, and went back to sleep. He set off the smoke detector an hour later and I’m really hoping it wasn’t in retaliation because I’m going to kill him if it was. Luckily he’s done this enough times that I’d already rewired the alarm over the stove to only sound in our flat - if the smoke reaches anywhere else it will still alert Mrs. H and any theoretical tenant in 221C, but we have fire extinguishers in every room for a reason. None have reached their expiration date yet, but luckily we’ve also never had a fire (or an “unexpected experimental result,” in Sherlock-speak) that needed more than what we could do ourselves.

The second try went better and by lunch he had a passable rum cake for us to present her at teatime. It wasn’t as good as Mrs. H’s usual bakes, but that goes without saying. I love the rare times when Sherlock manages to remind me that cooking is essentially chemistry but more useful.

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I’m kind of glad I didn’t know this yesterday - the rum cake was a result of Sherlock bribing one of his homeless contacts to go acquire rum for him in the wee hours of the morning. As in, four largish bottles. I suppose it’s a good thing he overestimated, since it took him two tries to get the cake right. We now have an unusually extensive quantity of alcohol in the flat, though, of a type neither of us generally drink. Sherlock’s brother must have been spying on him - he does that a lot - because I noticed the latest text on Sherlock’s phone said “Playing pirates, are we?”

Not everyone knows this, but Mrs. Holmes confirmed: when Sherlock was a boy and anyone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he always told them he was going to be a pirate. For YEARS. Well past when other children stop wanting to be a princess or a puppy and start anticipating actual careers. I’m not at all surprised that the git then went and made up his own job so he could be “the world’s only consulting detective,” because he’s precious like that (and high seas piracy is dreadfully impractical these days).

I found some black tagboard while cleaning the other day, so I might have made an eyepatch and a tricorn hat to leave on Sherlock’s armchair this afternoon when he went to take a shower. I wrapped them around one of the untouched bottles of rum and added a little paper speech bubble saying “Arrrr!” Hearing him laugh absolutely made my day. He just went downstairs to take Dash for a walk - while wearing the hat. Can’t wait to see what Mrs. H says.

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Sherlock REALLY took to the pirate thing - I just wanted to make him laugh yesterday, but he wore the hat until bedtime. Today he even went online to look up terrible pirate jokes to make me laugh too whether I wanted to or not. Naturally I had to transcribe them for this blog:

Why are pirates called pirates? They just ARRRRRRR

What do you call 1000 pirates in a room? Avast conspiracy

Where did the pirate go to college? OxfARRRRRRd

What do you get if you cross a pirate and a ninja? A ninjARRRRRRRRRRR

What do you call a pirate that skips class? Captain Hooky

There once was a pirate who wanted to be a Private Eye. Unfortunately, he was blind. So he became a privateer!

How much does it cost a pirate to get his ears pierced? A buck-an-ear

Where do you find very few pirates? The ARRRRRRRctic

What does a pirate say when he has a heart attack? "Arrrr, me heartie!"

What does a dyslexic pirate say? RAAAAAAAAAAAA!

What’s a pirate’s favorite letter? You’d think it’d be R, but his first love is always the C

Of course, as soon as he’d had a chance to try them all on me, we went downstairs to tell them all to Mrs. H. She gave him an orange (“to prevent scurvy”) and I think that’s the only thing he’s eaten today. Going to see what Chinese takeout is pirate-approved.

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While I was tele-doctoring today, Sherlock was busy setting up a crime scene in his bedroom. I was SUPPOSED to notice the faint trail of dirty bootprints leading from the sitting room to his bedroom door, but I didn’t notice because… well. Hoovering has never been our strong point.

Once he let me know what the exercise was, I caught on. He’d jimmied his window open - complete with mud on the windowsill - and stomped around for a bit before exiting through the sitting room. That part was obvious. I wasn’t able to tell him what was “stolen,” though, because a) I haven’t memorized everything he keeps in his room and b) it’s usually a mess anyway. I said the thief had obviously taken most of his clean socks and pants because he was down to about two pairs, but in retrospect that may have had more to do with his hatred for doing laundry (and the fact that I refuse to wash anything for him because he’s a goddamned adult and completely capable of laundering his own poncy shirts.)

I’ve now been tasked with memorizing everything in the sitting room because Sherlock “expects the thief to return one day soon” and I’m supposed to be sharpening my observation skills. Instead I “observed” that a new volume of his favorite chemistry journal had arrived and we spent a satisfactory evening reading instead.

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Sherlock is having his semiannual migraine today. We are, therefore, ALL miserable. Please send biscuits and/or interesting cases.

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Thanks for the well-wishes, everyone. He hasn’t had one this bad for ages - I guess it was due. So far the only thing that’s helped is me playing with his hair, so I’ve been sitting here on the sofa in the dark for coming up on eight hours now while he dozes with his head on my thigh and emits occasional pained whimpers. I’ve been reading my backlog of ebooks I bought and never got around to, and I have my phone propped awkwardly on his shoulder to type this right now. I think he’s still too out of it to mind. Going to have to get up sometime soon because my battery is almost dead and I really really need to use the loo, but my boyfriend/flatmate/partner makes a surprisingly comfortable lap cat when he wants to.

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His royal highness is feeling well enough to snipe at me for breathing too loudly, so I think he’s getting better. Exiled him to his own bedroom so he can lie on his bed and play mournful violin in the dark without me having to be there for it. Funny how Sherlock can go from sweet to a complete arsewipe over the course of half an hour when he’s in the mood for it.

Mrs. H baked us scones again. I love that woman.

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Those of you who are regulars probably know my sister from her comments on this blog. Harry and I have never been close, but honestly we’ve talked more in the last four months than in most of the previous decade. She broke up with her girlfriend of ~18 months this winter and has been quarantining alone, working from home and slowly going stir-crazy, so I guess video chatting with me has been the best social interaction available given the circumstances? A rough approximation of our conversation this morning:

Me: *some comment about when she finally feels ready to get back onto the dating scene and how tough that is given the current state of everything*

Harry: Oh, actually, I have a girlfriend.

Me: Whom you’ve never mentioned to me? For how long?

Harry: About two months now. She lives in Canada, so it’s not like you’d have gotten to meet her.

Me: Ha! You have a secret girlfriend, a wonderful girlfriend, who lives in Canada?

Her: ...I feel like I’m missing a reference here.

Me: *laughing even harder because Sherlock - who’s finally feeling better - is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head*

So that’s how I got to introduce both my sister and Sherlock to the American musical “Avenue Q.” Harry has been in unusually good spirits lately so I’m guessing the girlfriend in question must be real despite living in neither Alberta nor Vancouver. She texted me this afternoon to say she mentioned this exchange to her girlfriend who subsequently laughed herself silly and then sent her a copy of the soundtrack.

Things are going okay.

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Happy Bastille Day, everyone who's not stuck on the wrong side of the channel during this Brexit nightmare. I hid Sherlock's chemicals (at least, the ones he blew up last time) so he doesn't make homemade fireworks again.

Sherlock has decided he’s not a fan of Avenue Q, or of musicals in general. He has this astounding knowledge base of classical music in all types, can tell you who the principal violinist was for the opening night performance of dozens of operas, but draws a complete blank when faced with Andrew Lloyd Weber or Hamilton. (He knew “Hamilton” is a musical - I’m surprised he got that much, honestly.) I’ve never been much for musicals either, seeing as I was determinedly heterosexual for most of my life, but at least I know the basics.

Mrs. H and I roped him into watching “Victor/Victoria” with us this evening. He did not know who Julie Andrews was, but he was intrigued by the gender dynamics and the portrayal of a gay main character. It happens to be one of Harry’s favorite movies, so I’ve seen it a few times. Still was worth a rewatch.

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Nothing much exciting today. Dash didn’t try to jump up on me when I went down to chat with Mrs. H, which is progress. He usually settles down quickly but has to get in a few good leaps first. Sherlock’s been working with him on it. Dash does have those stubby little dachshund legs but he’s grown quite a bit since coming to live at 221B - when stood on end he can reach up past my knees now. He’s also figured out that doing tricks equals getting treats but hasn’t quite sorted out the WHY yet - meaning any time he sees you make a move toward the treat jar, he does an impressive sequence of sit - offers a paw to shake - lie down - roll over - jump back up and bark. Always in that order. Takes him a bit to realize you only wanted one trick at a time.

In a great surprise to absolutely no one, he behaves the best for Sherlock. By FAR. Then me, then Mrs. H. She coddles him and he follows her like a shadow when she’s baking because she’ll occasionally drop crumbs or bits of dough on the floor for him. He’ll hush or “leave it” long enough to receive a treat and then go right back to barking, so hopefully Sherlock can work on that with him next.

Other than that, I slept in this morning and worked all afternoon. Quiet day.

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CASE! It’s been far too long. This one is likely to be heavy on the legwork and lighter on the opportunities for brilliant deductions, but Sherlock has been pestering our friend at the Yard for weeks now and I suppose he’s finally willing to help with something that’s less than a 7 on his completely arbitrary 10-point scale. We still regularly get email queries about cheating husbands, requests for espionage against business rivals, etc, but Sherlock usually either deletes those outright or replies back with something scathing but useless from a problem resolution perspective. The Yard invited us to come see the crime scene tomorrow morning since it’s already been cleared. As in, we’ll be properly supervised by someone actually on the force so no one can accuse Sherlock of nicking anything. Sherlock was all ready to go over there ourselves and break in, chain of evidence be damned, but he always gets like that when he’s fidgety so I hid both his pairs of shoes so he won’t sneak out at 2 AM while I’m asleep. If he tears up the flat searching, he gets to clean up the mess AND I’ll yell a lot AND he won’t find them anyway, so he’s just going to have to learn some patience.

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As a general policy I don’t share the details of current cases on here until they’re solved and an arrest has been made, but today was a long slog trying to figure out if there even IS a case. A woman contacted the Yard yesterday about her husband disappearing. Or maybe he didn’t. She claims he’s been acting oddly for the last week, sleeping in the guest room and locking himself in his office for “meetings” at odd hours even though she doesn’t hear any voices. He’s barely talked to her and keeps avoiding her questions. Out of the blue a few days ago he disappeared and left a note saying he had to go on a last-minute business trip and “don’t worry.” Obviously, she worried.

We got the chance to inspect his home office and to talk to the wife. Sherlock was his usual caustic self but she seemed too anxious over her husband to care whether Sherlock insulted her or not. Sherlock’s conclusion is she's telling the truth about not knowing where her husband is. Also that the man wasn’t forcibly removed from the house - he left voluntarily - but there’s definitely something hinky going on and the bloke is probably in some sort of trouble. Not sure what, yet.

Being the world’s best (and only) consulting detective means a 0% chance that Sherlock will go to sleep tonight, so I went on upstairs without him. I expect he’ll be another three or four hours of pacing the sitting room and muttering to himself before either waking me up with an inane question or spontaneously cracking the case. Hard to tell sometimes. Going to doze while I can.

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I’m glad the Yard is paying us now - they haven’t always - because I think our stipend will just about cover the amount of cab fare Sherlock has racked up by dragging me all over London today. He says he’s figured out what happened but wants to find and interview the husband first before telling anyone his conclusions. Ponce always needs an audience for his brilliance. (Doesn’t make it any less brilliant.) Hoping to write everything up tomorrow.

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As predicted, this case involved a lot of running around to prove something Sherlock deduced from the first five minutes at the victim’s house. He’s feeling all smug about being right, though, and since we did probably save the bloke’s life I suppose he’s allowed to be.

The case (with all names changed to protect the people in question): a Mrs. Jamie Emsworth contacted Scotland Yard because her husband Godfrey had been acting strangely and then disappeared on a “business trip” leaving nothing but a note. Their relationship was normally amicable but recently he’d been avoiding her, sleeping in the guest room, hiding in his office for supposed video meetings which never seemed to occur, etc. One morning she woke up and found a note on his desk, in his handwriting, saying he had to go out of town “for a business trip” and not to worry. He’s a solicitor and almost never has to travel for his job, she told the Yard, and especially not during this pandemic. Occasional trips to the office for a few hours but that was it.

The case got bounced around among junior constables until it landed on the desk of our friend Lestrade, who decided it was at least worth investigating. His team inspected Jamie and Godfrey’s townhouse and concluded that the man was clearly missing, the wife seemed genuinely distressed, and maybe it was time to call Sherlock. Not clear if there was a case, per se, but they had a duty to at least investigate. Since they finished processing the scene (well, the man’s study and the guest room) late in the evening, they invited us to come the following morning.

Sherlock, as usual, managed to insult the only non-police human being at the scene within ten minutes of us arriving. To her credit, Mrs. Emsworth answered all his questions plainly and without getting as angry at him as he deserved. She explained that although neither of them were particularly demonstrative people, after twenty-five years of marriage, they got along “well enough” and even when Godfrey was busy with a case they’d still eat supper together and go to bed at around the same time. In the last week or two - she wasn’t sure exactly - he’d started eating in his home office before staying up late and ultimately sleeping in the guest room. He’d sleep in, barely speak to her in the morning, and lock himself in his office again. On balance, he was more grumpy than preoccupied, although he was certainly capable of both.

She called the Yard when he hadn’t emerged from the guest room by eleven o’clock and when she went to check, the bed was unoccupied. She then looked in his office and found the note. Sherlock determined that Godfrey had managed to pack a small suitcase (without Jamie noticing) and the note he left seemed genuine and unforced. Obviously Godfrey had been bothered by something and left of his own accord.

The rest of that day and most of the next involved haring all over the city, tracking down places Godfrey had used either his personal or his business credit cards. His employer knew nothing of any “business trip” and furthermore, there’s been less work than usual lately due to COVID-19 so Godfrey’s extra time in his office wasn’t related to his profession. The big break came when we went to see a small restaurant Godfrey often frequented even though it was forty-five minutes from both his home and his work: the owner recognized him, by photo and name, and was able to give us the name of his regular female companion.

With a small amount of probably-not-quite-legal research on his phone, Sherlock identified the man’s mistress and we went to have a chat. The young lady, Angela, had done some temporary secretary work at Godfrey’s firm last year and the two of them started an affair. I detected definite overtones of a “sugar daddy” arrangement - they didn’t spend that much time in each other’s company, but they chatted online constantly (often by webcam) and Godfrey was paying for Angela’s college tuition. The only other person who knew about their relationship was Angela's flatmate, Shawna, who worked at a strip club and was in a similar relationship with a few different gentlemen and thus saw no reason for censure.

Unfortunately, Angela had not seen Godfrey recently either. Ah, but when they last did meet? Godfrey took her out to their favorite restaurant (the one we visited) and then they went back to her flat for sex. (Reading between the lines, this was Godfrey’s “occasional visits to the office” since March. It never actually involved the firm’s office.)

This specific time, Shawna was gone for the day. Godfrey and Angela decided to spice things up by copulating in Shawna’s bed. (Sidenote: eww.) Godfrey kissed Angela goodbye, went home, and they made vague plans to meet up again the next week.

Unfortunately, Angela found out the next morning that the reason for Shawna’s absence was that she was in hospital after having fainted at work. Tests showed that she had an unusually harsh case of COVID-19 and her heart and lungs were under extreme stress. As of right now, Shawna is still in a medically-induced coma and on a breathing machine.

Angela, of course, told Godfrey as soon as she found out. His response involved a long string of expletives and then radio silence for days. Angela did test positive for COVID-19 too, eventually, but was asymptomatic. She tried to reach Godfrey and got no response.

Lestrade got someone at the Yard to do some digging and with Sherlock’s help was able to locate a holiday home in Brighton owned by one of the partners at Godfrey’s firm - a home Godfrey had keys to. At this point I put my foot down and told Sherlock we are NOT riding a crowded train to Brighton to interrogate a man who was probably positive for coronavirus. Instead Lestrade called the local police to do a wellness check. They did, indeed, find Godfrey Emsworth hiding out in his boss’s holiday home, running a high fever and nearly too delirious to speak. He was rushed to hospital in Brighton and although not out of the woods yet, is responding well to treatment.

His side of the story is exactly what Sherlock predicted: after hearing from his mistress that they’d accidentally had sex in the bed of someone who was deathly ill with a highly contagious disease, he purposely tried to avoid his wife at home so as not to accidentally pass the disease on to her if he were infected. When symptoms finally started showing up, a week and a half after his visit with Angela, he panicked and took refuge in Brighton where he thought no one would find him. He was in denial of his worsening symptoms until it was too late for him to proactively call for help. If the local police hadn’t found him, he very well could have perished from fever.

Obviously his wife now knows about the affair. Once she gets over her initial reaction at hearing her husband almost died, I expect she’ll have a few more words for him about his mistress. Lestrade informed her that she was unfortunately not going to be able to visit Godfrey in the hospital in Brighton and her response was, and I quote, “Such a goddamned shame. I might have finished him off myself.”

Solving a case always puts Sherlock in a good mood, so tonight we’re eating Mrs. H’s lovely lemon cake and snuggling with Dash while letting Sherlock pick a movie. (Mrs. H and I may regret that, but it’s always interesting to see what Sherlock chooses.)

I’m proud of him.

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Like usual after a case, Sherlock crashed hard. This one wasn’t even that long but he did stay up for two and a half days straight so I’m not all that surprised. One positive change to our post-case routine: he can take Dash for a run in the park and burn off some energy without pissing me off. (Well, run - light jog, really. Dash tries.)

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I should have guessed that everyone would want to know: the movie Sherlock picked was “Clue.” He HAS seen it before - I required him to watch it after our disastrous Cluedo Incident a few months after we first met, which resulted in me never allowing the game in the flat again - but he’d clearly deleted the memory. He kept trying to use deductions on the characters to figure out the culprit and the fact that the film had three different endings with three different murderers, all one right after another, threw him off. (He was just as contemptuous about it last time we watched the film, too.)

I've not heard any updates on Shawna’s condition - that was the other most frequent question from yesterday's blog post, and I find it interesting that so many of you asked about her even though clearly nobody gives a crap how Godfrey is faring - but I promise I will update here if there’s any news. I don’t expect there to be, since we’re not in the loop, but I promise in the subjunctive anyway.

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I knew this was coming sooner or later, but I suppose the fact that we’re four months into self-quarantine made me lower my guard. Sherlock doctored my tea today - no idea how, since I don’t think I actually set it down between steeping and drinking it - and waited to see how long it would take me to notice that he’d put dye in it. In theory, this was to examine salivary droplet spread “without me biasing the results.” In practice, it meant half an hour of my laptop screen getting slowly harder to read from me breathing on it while Sherlock made a nuisance of himself by staring at me the whole time. It’s not the first time he’s done that, so I didn’t pick up on it. (The staring, not the dye. Although he has doctored my tea before too. That brought out a bit more than a row.)

This is STILL making my blood boil because WE HAD AN AGREEMENT. Most people wouldn’t need one, but most people aren’t living with Sherlock Holmes. Our agreement was that he would ASK me to participate in an experiment before involving me in any way. He is supposed to get full verbal consent to the ENTIRE experiment before doing anything, and respect my refusal if I don’t want to participate. On my side of the deal, I promised to seriously listen to his experimental design, not dismiss him out of hand, and give him a chance to alter the parts I have an issue with before the topic is declared over.

He did create the dye himself to be taste-free, safe to consume, and generally harmless. I appreciate that. He did NOT test the dye on fabrics before deploying it. I’ll admit I yelled a bit (okay, a lot) and may have gotten right up in his face about it while expressing my dislike of the situation. As he often does when he’s trying to butter me up, he was wearing his favorite suit today. Including a white shirt that probably costs more than I make in a month at the surgery. Good luck to him getting the suit clean again.

Took me twenty minutes and the death of my current toothbrush to get my mouth looking normal again. Sherlock seems genuinely baffled that I’m mad - in his mind, the experiment didn’t actually require me to DO anything other than what I was doing normally so it somehow didn’t count. It's in pursuit of the greater good, research on COVID-19 dispersal, etc. He’s going to be sleeping downstairs tonight, for sure.

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A co-worker was sick today (not COVID-19) and I ended up with an all-day telemedicine shift. Sherlock brought me a sandwich and was kind enough to bring the tea, kettle, and cup separately so I could make my tea myself. It’s more thoughtful than I expected, which means he may have finally realized why I was so upset yesterday.

Going to bed early and trying not to dream of septuagenarians with mystery rashes.

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This may be a first: Sherlock actually apologized to me, in words, for the tea thing. He didn’t even need Mrs. H to point out what the issue was. This is a really big deal and it means a lot to me that he was willing to not only try to understand my point of view, but to actually admit he was wrong.

I’m less and less surprised that we haven’t killed each other while holed up here yet.

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If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed that Sherlock brought his violin with him to take Dash to the park today. I did notice that they were gone an awfully long time - much longer than Dash can handle on an actual walk - but I assumed they had stopped to smell and/or eat the flowers. (Mostly Dash with the eating random vegetation thing, but Sherlock still surprises me sometimes.)

Instead Sherlock apparently set up shop under a tree in Regent’s Park and composed for two hours. I presume Dash rolled around in the grass and chased whatever butterflies he could reach while still on a lead. He came home noticeably greener than he was when they left. Sherlock came home all giddy because he made thirty pounds accidentally busking - he wasn’t paying attention because he was off in his own little world like he gets when he’s completely focused on something, but apparently people were stopping to pet Dash and to leave money in the violin case.

The new piece is officially called “Etude no. 26” if Sherlock is being stuffy about it. (He’s catalogued and numbered all his compositions since he was seven years old.) When he’s not being stuffy, its more programmatic title is “Song For John.” It’s beautiful and he damn well earned every one of those thirty pounds from strangers. Despite his protests otherwise, he does have a sweet and romantic side. One I appreciate very much.

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The world picked a lousy time for our fridge to go out. I had JUST restocked with a big grocery order yesterday, so Mrs. H and I were only able to fit three-quarters of it in her fridge and freezer and we had to accept the rest as a loss. Apparently something in the electrical something-or-other went out overnight so we didn’t notice until this morning. I put my foot down and told Sherlock that under NO circumstances would anything that had not come from an approved food source (i.e. the grocery store or takeaway) be allowed to migrate to Mrs. H’s flat. That includes roadkill acquired from his homeless friends, half-finished experiments from months ago he stuck in the back of the freezer and forgot about, and any chemicals which have no common household name and/or would cause injury or death to human beings when ingested. Luckily those categories made up most of the remaining fridge space so we hardly had to throw out any actual food.

Sherlock is in a snit now, which is to be expected. I pointed out that this gives him the perfect opportunity to analyze the rate of temperature failure from various points inside the fridge and freezer based on which disgusting experiment bits were the warmest when we found them. He’s now got slowly spoiling remains all over the kitchen table again, which I hate, but it’s keeping him busy and he’s promised to bin them all when he’s done or at 9 PM tonight, whichever comes first. Rubbish lorry comes by tomorrow and I don’t want anything stinking up our sitting room and/or the rest of Baker Street.

Right now I’m hiding in Mrs. H’s flat to get away from the stench and looking up refrigerators online. I fully expect Sherlock to accuse the deliverymen of being spies from his brother sent to install hidden cameras in our flat, but I’m not going to let that stop us from having functional food storage back as soon as possible.

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For all I rag on Sherlock’s brother, it’s nice to have connections. Two helpful young men brought us a refrigerator this morning, carried it up the stairs for us, and got it installed - all on Sherlock’s brother’s dime. Maybe the thing about the hidden cameras had some merit, but at this point I don’t care. The new fridge is a bit bigger than our old one and MUCH nicer. More importantly, it’s never had cadaver pieces in it and I’d like to keep it that way.

(I’m not entirely kidding about the cadavers - I’m sure someone would get in serious trouble if their superiors knew that Sherlock occasionally nicked extra parts from anonymous John Does who were set to be cremated at the Crown’s expense. He does use them for experiments and sometimes those experiments have meant the difference between a solved crime or not… but I have Major Ethical Issues with it anyway. I only mention it here because I’m 99% sure the source in question is not, in fact, likely to get caught by their superiors.)

Luckily, staying at home means Sherlock has limited access to unsanitary experimental supplies. I suggested that he get a mini-fridge for his own bedroom to keep experiments in. Better yet, he could set up a lab table in there so he doesn’t keep needing to contaminate our kitchen. We’ve been sleeping upstairs for a while now (when he does bother to sleep) and his bed is much more comfortable than mine is. Seems reasonable to swap out the beds, make his ex-bedroom into a mad scientist lair, and everyone will be happier. The main reason we haven’t done the two fridge thing already is because Sherlock claims the humming noise keeps him from falling asleep. I call bullshit - the man has slept through both gunfire and the building across the street getting struck by lightning - but he’s comfortably snuggly when he’s not fully awake so I’ll humor him and his made-up reasons why he has to sleep next to me.

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Sherlock’s been in his room all day. I’m cautiously optimistic that this may mean an experiment-free kitchen soon. Told him this morning that while I love his thinky-type romantic streak, cleaning the flat so I don’t have to do it again is also goddamn sexy (in an asexuality-appropriate way). I don’t think he’d ever thought about “doing something I’d rather not do because it would make my partner happy” quite in that manner before. I mean, he does thoughtful things all the time, but he rarely chooses to analyze his own motives anywhere near as closely as he does everyone else’s.

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Public service announcement: my friend Mike is fantastic. He teaches at Barts - we were in medical school together way back when - and saw my post earlier this week. Apparently one of the labs is being redone before the term starts up again so there was a lab table AND a fume hood (albeit with a broken fan) that was ours for the taking as long as we picked it up soon-ish.

Unfortunately I don’t drive and even though Sherlock CAN, in my opinion he really SHOULDN’T. For the safety of other motorists on the road and also of my mental health. Instead, Mrs. H was kind enough to drive the rental van for us over to hospital and back. Mike and I got everything into the van okay and then David from next door (who featured in a sort-of case a few months back, those of you who read this blog regularly may remember, and with whom we’re starting to form a casual friendship) helped me get it inside and up the stairs. I made Sherlock finally help me get it from the sitting room to his ex-bedroom now-lab. Which, I have to say, is looking much better than I’ve ever seen it. He’ll still need the closet space because the upstairs bedroom only has a wardrobe and his suit collection could probably rival the PM’s, but at least that will give him an incentive to keep the air clean of strange decaying substances.

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Okay, maybe not literally, but video chatting with Harry and her “girlfriend who lives in Canada” felt similarly implausible. Quinn is even taller than Sherlock, very pretty, and could probably take on anyone in the Yard one-on-one in a fight. She plays hockey and is on a roller derby team because she’s really going hard on the Canadian lesbian thing, I suppose. She has a massive rottweiler mix named Rufus and doesn’t actually live in a log cabin but does maintenance for a bunch of cabins/cottages when tourists and snowbirds come up for the summer. I think she either owns or manages a heat and air conditioning repair company the rest of the year. (A little vague on that still - do Canadians even have air conditioning?) Most importantly, she gave Harry shit just as well as she got it and I think she’s wonderful. She even impressed Sherlock, during the two minutes he consented to sit still today and say hi.

The new lair (Sherlock calls is a lab but I feel like “mad scientist lair” is more appropriate) is all set except for getting the fume hood fan fixed. Quinn even volunteered to help talk me through taking it apart to diagnose the problem, which was nice of her. New non-food mini fridge arriving sometime soon. In the meantime, Sherlock transferred our one freestanding bookshelf in there and spent all day arranging a display of esoteric and outdated equipment he couldn’t possibly need but which definitely add to the mad scientist vibe. He has posted a few pictures on his website for those of you who are interested.

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Covered the Saturday morning shift at the last minute for a coworker. Got a call from a lady whose 30-year-old son tested positive for COVID-19 two days ago and is now in hospital on a breathing machine. She was concerned she might have caught it from him. Her son lives in Texas and she hasn't seen him in person since Christmas, but she'd heard you can get it from family members and was concerned.

In conclusion, wear your fucking mask and stay the fuck home. This isn't over yet.

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Have I mentioned that Sherlock’s parents are lovely? We’ve been doing semi-regular phone and video calls for a while now. At first Sherlock was all prepared to be outraged and embarrassed by everything they said, like a grumpy teenager, but I think he relaxed a lot when he saw how well his mother and I get along. Which is a surprise to me - my own mum was always so focused on fighting with Harry that I usually got overlooked - but it’s nice to see what having supportive parents would have been like. Sherlock’s father is a quiet man, does a lot of nodding along with his wife as she talks, but when he does have something to say it’s usually either hilarious or brilliant. Genetics clearly coming through strong.

I finally managed to convince Sherlock we should take his parents up on their offer for us to visit. I can’t wait to see his childhood haunts and meet Mr. and Mrs. Holmes (and Bubbles, Dash’s littermate) in person. We’re going down sometime next week to stay for a few days unless a major cases intervenes. Sherlock and I both like London, but sometimes - like most of this summer, honestly - it gets to be suffocating.

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Looks like we’re going to take the train down on Friday or Saturday and will stay a few days. Or more than a few - I told my boss I can fill in on a true emergency basis but she’s going to lean more heavily on their other locum until we’re back. Sherlock can be his sweet abrasive self from anywhere.

There were conditions:

1) His brother is not to be invited or even contacted while we’re there. If he attempts to contact the Holmes household, Sherlock has categorically refused to be in the room or acknowledge the conversation.

2) Mr. Holmes is to pick us up from the station so I don’t have to suffer through Sherlock renting a hire car. (This was my contribution).

3) Mrs. Holmes is not to hint about weddings, civil unions, babies, me needing to “feed Sherlock up a bit,” or anything involving “a particular topic; she’ll know what I mean.” I don’t, but I suppose that’s the point.

4) Sherlock gets to pack for both of us, since my fashion sense isn’t as refined as his. (He’s not wrong, but he’ll have a hell of a hard time trying to make me look “good enough” by his standards. Even if he were to buy me an entire new wardrobe. Which I specifically told him not to do.)

5) I consented to #4 above but only if I get veto power over the final contents of our luggage. No biological remnants or parts of experiments allowed.

I realize that this sequence of negotiations is perhaps unusual for most couples… but then most people aren’t dating Sherlock Holmes.

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I may have made a mistake in allowing Sherlock input into my wardrobe. He was all eager to start packing, so I took my laptop downstairs to do my telemedicine shift at the kitchen table. When I got back up to our bedroom, there were a grand total of THREE (3) jumpers not on Sherlock’s reject list. Not even rejected for this trip specifically - just rejected in general. Luckily he no longer “accidentally” ruins my clothes with half-arsed experiments he claims needed a particular blend of wool or whatnot, so all I needed to do was go down to the alley and retrieve the bag he’d tossed out the window toward the rubbish skip. (He missed, which made it easier.) We’ve had some rows about unilaterally binning something the other person owns - in short, don’t bloody do it - but I see he’s going to need a reminder.

I therefore packed my ugliest jumpers with clashing trousers and then padlocked the duffel shut, simply to make him sulk. He’d get the lock open in moments if I left him alone with it, but so far this evening I’ve been carrying it around the house with me and sitting it in my lap while I read. He’s been glaring a lot.

I may be childish but he started it.

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Behold, the power of science! Sherlock proposed an experiment I found acceptable: this morning I blindfolded him, handed him my jumpers one at a time to rub his face against, and he sorted them in order of scratchiest to most pleasant. Rated on a ten-point scale with precision to two decimal places. His rationale was that I wear a button-down under my jumper most of the time so I don’t notice the texture, but he’s the one laying his head on my shoulder (true surprisingly often nowadays) so he’s entitled to an opinion.

I don’t know how much of this was him cheating and how much was a legitimate experimental result, but the jumpers he rated as uncomfortable were mostly the ones I didn’t like anyway. Some were gifts I could never quite justify binning, some were colors or patterns that don’t match any of my trousers, and some were just objectively ugly. (Sherlock’s explanation: OBVIOUSLY the ones I wear more often get softer the more they get washed. I suggested maybe I have an unconscious preference for softer fabric and he sniffed at me, which means I’m right and he doesn’t want to admit it.)

Anyway, the end result is I did concede to giving away about half my jumpers and a handful of my button-down shirts. Sherlock has promised to buy me a few new ones - probably not in time for this trip, but sometime soon. I made him promise to buy himself one too. AND to wear it on occasion, so I can put my head on his shoulder instead. I fully expect it to be made from the under-wool of miniature albino kangaroo rats or something equally ridiculous and expensive, but I’m sure there’s at least one fuzzy jumper out there in the world that would look good on Sherlock Holmes.

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Arrangements have been made for the Friday afternoon train. I’m doing an extra-long shift today and tomorrow - after that I’m free to take time off and my boss will still owe me a favor. It feels odd leaving Mrs. H and Dash here on their own, now that we've been in closer quarters for so long, but Mrs. H has gotten the hang of Zoom so we might arrange a virtual playdate between Dash and his sister while we’re there. I’ll be curious to see what Dash thinks of us suddenly living in the computer…

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Work goes slower when there's somewhere else you want to be, I've found. Sherlock presented me with three new jumpers this morning. One is “the same blue as [my] eyes,” which is bloody lyrical of him. All three are brighter colors than I usually wear but are unquestionably soft and cuddly. “Everything else” will arrive while we're gone - I'm afraid to ask. We may find Mrs. H buried under a pile of boxes when we get back.

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Am napping on the train while Sherlock reads something on his phone and mutters to himself. Didn’t end up wearing one of my new jumpers anyway because it was bloody hot out. Will update more about our adventures tomorrow.

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Sherlock’s parents are delightful. Our train got in two hours late because of course it did, and His Brainliness forgot to bring his phone charger so we ended up picking one up for double the reasonable price on the way, but we made it eventually. Was pleased to see that most people were wearing masks and less than 50% of them had dickface (where their nose sticks out over the top because they don’t know how to wear a mask properly and/or don’t know that humans breathe through their noses). I wonder if they’re that inept at wearing condoms, too.

Anyway, I’m sure all of you are more interested in Sherlock’s childhood home. Their house feels huge to me, but then I lived in council flats growing up and afterward I was always in tiny bedsits when not in custody of the Army. I think 221B is the first place I’ve lived that had a kitchen and not just a kitchenette.

Speaking of which: Mr. and Mrs. Holmes LOVE to cook, and their kitchen is incredible. I get the impression that the culinary arts are something they’ve started exploring together in their retirement - they’ve taken cooking classes and everything. Last night’s ravioli was amazing; Sherlock even ate some.

I’m not sure what, exactly, the Holmeses think of Sherlock’s and my relationship, but they’re clearly excited he’s found someone. Mrs. Holmes put me in his old bedroom and him in his brother’s… and then made a point of telling us that Mr. Holmes snores so “we won’t hear any nocturnal foot traffic, just so you know.” Sherlock turned bright red and I nearly choked holding in an entirely inappropriate giggle. (The end result: we went to bed separately, then Sherlock showed up in my doorway ten minutes later to whine that he can’t POSSIBLY sleep in his big brother’s room even though it’s functionally a guest room now, contains none of his brother's possessions, and has a double bed. His own bedroom has a twin which involved sleeping pretty much on top of each other, but we managed.)

Will post more tomorrow - I didn’t get the grand tour yesterday, so Sherlock is taking me out for a walk today to see the rest of the property. Apparently the house is in one corner but they have a lot of land on two sides, so he roamed free when he was a little boy. I can completely picture it.

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Even in the era of COVID, the English tradition of the village church on Sunday mornings is not one to be ignored. The Holmes’ worship center of choice is currently a weird sort of hybrid affair - the minister held the service outside in the churchyard to an assortment of old people in properly-distanced folding chairs, but apparently they also record it for anyone who wants to relive the excitement later from the comfort of their own wi-fi. Sherlock predictably pushed for the latter option, probably in hopes he could skip it entirely. Mrs. Holmes is a member of the flower guild despite being twenty years younger than anyone else there, though, and was on the roster for today, so we went in person (with masks of course).

I don’t think I’ve ever actually been to a “normal” church service before. The occasional Christmas, sure, and a wedding mass or two, but today was everything that BBC reruns led me to expect about religion and village politics. I *think* it was C of E, but I could be wrong on that? My family wasn’t exactly the holy type. All the service needed was a bloodless murder and Agatha Christie showing up to make it complete. Sherlock managed to not get struck by lightning but I’m betting his inner monologue was thoroughly blasphemous (judging from his expression at being dragged along to the whole affair).

I’m glad we did go, though, because I got the pleasure of meeting a Miss Panosh. She’s ninety-four and a half and proud to be at the age where you start counting your years in fractions again. She was overjoyed to see “Little Lokkie” come to visit, although I got the impression she thought he was still in uni. She was also effusive about Sherlock having brought a “special someone.” I admit I was shocked she was so accepting of him dating a man… until a few comments later it became clear to me that she had misheard my name as “Joanne” and couldn’t see well enough to tell the difference at six feet away. Definitely one of those times where it was easier to say nothing and let the interaction draw to a close. Sherlock cracked a halfhearted short joke on the way home, but I think he wasn’t sure what to say either.

We took Bubbles (Dash’s sister, whom Sherlock’s parents adopted) on our walk yesterday and barely made two circuits around the house before her stubby little legs were ready to give out. She clearly doesn’t get as much exercise as Dash does. Going for a longer ramble this afternoon, without the dog.

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Bloody hell, the Holmes estate is massive. Is that normal, those of you who grew up in the country? It’s still blisteringly hot here, but most of the land is shaded so we had a good walk yesterday and went for another, shorter one this morning. I think it’s more exercise since I’ve gotten since March - my thighs are complaining but it was worth it.

My favorite landmark, by far, is the pond in the northwest corner of the property. It’s a good fifteen minutes from the house but comes as a total surprise - you’re following a barely-there path through dense woods and suddenly there it is. I gather the path was better-defined when Sherlock was younger, since he spent most of his boyhood summers swimming there. The best part is the “pirate ship” his father and brother built for him - essentially a platform in the middle of the pond, but bearing a painted skull and crossbones “flag” and a plank (wooden diving board) for walking landlubbers off of at swordpoint. Sherlock even let me have a turn at the ship’s wheel. Sadly rusted and squeaky nowadays, but still good for avoiding imaginary cannonfire.

We hadn’t actually planned to swim, but did I mention it was a hot day? I was shocked to discover that Sherlock had never been skinnydipping before. I thought that was a rite of passage. Playing naked pirates probably sounds more racy than the experience actually was, but Sherlock has never had much use for modesty and, well. I was in the Army. I also didn’t want to have to explain to Mrs. Holmes why we went for a ramble and came home in soaking wet clothes. I had a blast splashing around with Sherlock and wouldn’t mind coming out here again (with or without swim trunks) if we get the chance. We didn't get time this morning, but maybe tomorrow...

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I’m writing this because I promised myself I’d post every day, but right now I’m being snuggled by a snoring octopus consulting detective who wore himself out today showing me all his favorite hidey holes and old haunts. Sorry, all, but Sherlock takes precedence!

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Another peaceful day today - Sherlock found some old abandoned experiment in the shed, so he puttered out there for several hours. Once upon a time the shed was for garden tools, but apparently when Sherlock was a boy he commandeered it for his experiments and it never quite recovered. Mr. Holmes uses it nowadays for the occasional woodworking project and ties his own flies for fly fishing - he's taking me out to the nearby river in the morning. EARLY in the morning, judging from how quickly Sherlock opted out of the excursion. I'm looking forward to the experience. Not expecting to actually catch anything, but Mr. Holmes swears the fish are pretty active up until dawn so it's worth a shot.

I browsed a few of the books Sherlock had in his room - two shelves of murder mysteries, what a surprise - and managed to find one I hadn't seen before. Spent the morning reading that and a good chunk of the afternoon in the kitchen with Mrs. Holmes, baking a mince pie for dinner. I'm nowhere near the baker she or Mrs. H are, but I'm learning things here and there. Mrs. Holmes let me make my mum’s berry crumble - one of the few recipes I know by heart - using some of the berries Sherlock and I picked on our walk yesterday. I was relieved that it turned out as well as could be expected and all of us except Sherlock went back for seconds.

Starting to wonder whether it wouldn't be nice to live out in the country like this someday, maybe when Sherlock and I get too old to go chasing down criminals. I haven't heard a lorry honking since we left London.

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I have learned that going fishing at dawn is a) cold, and b) amazingly relaxing. I’ve also learned that fly fishing is a skill that I will mostly likely never acquire, but wouldn’t mind trying someday. It will definitely take a while - Mr. Holmes got a few bites, but after two hours I was still lucky to land my hook in the river instead of in a tree. We did have a good chance to chat. The whole man-to-man deep discussion is something I never really did with my own father, so that part was a novelty too. Mr. Holmes is surprisingly easy to talk to. He’s a man of few words - unlike both his sons - but the words he does share are good ones. I get the impression he understands Sherlock a lot more than Sherlock realizes.

Really not looking forward to going back home tomorrow.

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Made it safely back to London. Dash missed us. Mrs. H missed us too, and she shows it by presenting us with the most thorough tea spread I’ve ever seen. Sherlock didn’t eat, because he’s too cerebral to stoop to human food when his brain has been atrophying on a train all day, but I did notice Mrs. H put the leftovers away in our fridge with what was basically a Sherlock-sized plate of all his favorites right at the front. It’s nice to have someone around who knows him so well.

I get one more day off work tomorrow, barring any coworker emergencies, so I’ll probably spend it doing as little as possible and wishing we were still somewhere quieter. Apparently I’ve become one of those old men with creaky joints who whine about how the world is too busy these days.

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I told Sherlock before we left that he could get me a FEW new items of clothing to replace the ones he absolutely hates on me. My mistake - I should have specified. “Everything else” arrived while we were gone and now I may need a bigger wardrobe. He won’t let me see the shipping receipt, which probably means I’d have a heart attack if I knew how much he paid for clothes.

Not sure if I’ve said it here explicitly, but Sherlock and I have a bit of an odd arrangement when it comes to finances. There’s some family inheritance involved, from a great-uncle I think? The money comes with strings, though, and Sherlock had addiction issues when he was younger which made everything more complicated. His brother took over managing it for him at that point and they’ve been slowly working out the kinks ever since. In practical terms, this means Sherlock owns suits worth more than I make at the surgery in a month and his shampoo is hand-distilled from virgin French yak milk but we eat Tesco brand and get cheap takeaway instead of dining out at fancy restaurants with white tablecloths. (I’m exaggerating about the yaks, mostly, but not about the snobby-sounding French shampoo part.)

Cases have been an occasional point of contention between the two of us, because Sherlock volunteers his (and therefore both of our) time to the Yard when a case sounds interesting enough. Unfortunately, the excitement level of a case is not at all correlated with how much potential clients are willing to pay. Some people offer eye-watering sums of money and Sherlock turns them down - usually after insulting them and their parentage - because their problems are “boring.” He’s also spent the better part of two weeks solving a case for which he was paid with a single pack of cigarettes. I happen to be of the opinion that paying rent and the electric bill is nice, actually, and maybe it’s worth tracking down a cheating husband or a missing dog every once in a while so we can keep the lights on. He’s of the opinion that I’m an idiot. Every once in a while I convince him to just solve the fucking case already because he’d be bored all afternoon anyway, but my success rate with that is frustratingly low.

Which is all a long way to say: I’m sure he spent an obscene amount on the clothes currently taking up most of my bed (large pile of jumpers, six button-down shirts, five pairs of trousers, silk pyjamas, and socks in textile combinations I didn’t even know existed) and I’m torn between being bothered at his lack of fiscal sense and flattered that he knows my taste in clothes so accurately. I’m never going to look as effortlessly gorgeous as he does, but apparently I do clean up well.

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Goddamn it - WHY is the first day back to work after vacation always such a terrible one? I obviously can’t share details here because even the stupidest of patients still have a right to privacy, but SHERLOCK IS RIGHT; WE ARE SURROUNDED BY IDIOTS. Please, everyone, don’t let yesterday’s rant about boring cases put you off - even a boring case would be better than this.

(I have never before so regretted my family’s history of alcoholism, because I would love to cope with today’s workload via inappropriate quantities of booze. I’m scheduled to be back online at 8 AM tomorrow morning.)

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Today was a lot better. Had a chat with my sister, whom I don't talk to often enough - even when a pandemic assures we won't have to see each other in person. Ever since she and her now-ex split a few years back, she's been having a rough time. Nowadays, though, she's still over the moon about her Canadian girlfriend. It's nice to see her happy again.

I joked the other day about Sherlock's posh shampoo, but one of the nurses at today's virtual staff meeting was telling everyone about this supposedly amazing sun cream that smells good, works miracles, and doesn't leave your skin feeling gummy or greasy. I ordered some for Sherlock because he burns faster than anyone I've ever met. Must be those high cheekbones intercepting all the UV rays.

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Let me set the scene: I’m up in the bedroom, on the phone with my boss, trying to sort out scheduling for the next few weeks. She’s incredibly tolerant of my other obligations (read: Sherlock’s cases), but she and Sherlock don’t usually see eye to eye. It might have to do with the one time I tried to take her on a date, back when we first met, when Sherlock invited himself along and got all three of us kidnapped. That was the fastest and most thoroughly I’ve ever been dumped, and shortly thereafter we decided we function better as friendly co-workers than as anything that might put her through that experience again. (I, apparently, don’t learn.)

So: I’m negotiating how many hours she’ll need me this month, being all professional and trying to impersonate a reliable employee, and Sherlock comes thundering up the stairs and yelling.

Sherlock: JOHN I BOUGHT A FISH TANK

Me: ...Why?

Sherlock: FOR OUR NEW FISH. YOU LIKED FISHING SO YOU WON’T MIND THEM.

Me: That doesn’t necessarily follow, I don’t know why you’re shouting, and also did you notice I’m on the phone?

Sherlock: THE FISH SHOULD - the fish should get here tomorrow. Should I set the tank up in the sitting room, or do I need to put it in my workroom downstairs?

My boss, on the phone, obviously overhearing everything because even Sherlock’s inside voice is loud when he’s excited: Did he just buy you a pet fish because you went fishing? That’s so sweet!

Me: I guess I don’t object, Sherlock, but I’m not getting stuck feeding them when you lose interest and forget.

Sherlock: I won’t forget! I ordered [latin name of what I assume is a fish species] because they’re native to central England and their metabolism is FASCINATING. They’ll eat nearly any organic matter, including human remains, so I’m measuring the rate of viscera consumption in comparison to--

Me: STOP. You bought fish to feed them bits of corpses?

Sherlock: Based on published studies, I expect the water chemistry to--

Me: SHERLOCK.

My boss: I’m going to let you get off the phone, John. You’ll need all your focus for this upcoming domestic.

Forty-five minutes later, we still have a new fishtank and some unknown quantity of fish arriving tomorrow. The tank is going in his former-bedroom-now-mad-scientist’s-lair, because any “water chemistry” involving fish shit and decaying meat is not going to look or smell like something I want to look at while eating breakfast every morning. Sherlock promised he will limit himself to feeding them things that are commercially available and legally obtained via conventional pet and/or grocery stores. (You’ll note a lot of qualifiers in the previous sentence. Past experience has proven that they're all necessary.)

Hopefully this experiment will keep Sherlock happy until the next case comes along. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt - he may very well keep up with feeding and properly caring for the fish. I would even consider moving the tank back to the sitting room once he’s done dumping rotten meat in it. For the meantime, though, I plan to just avoid his workroom and spend as much time as possible outside.

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There is, indeed, a new fishtank. There are also four smallish mud-colored fish in a mixing bowl on the kitchen table. The reason they’re on the table and not in the tank is because Sherlock is down at Regent’s Park with a bucket, collecting authentic British water from the lake to assure the correct pH or somesuch rot. Luckily he’s planning to feed them regular fish food for a week or two, to establish a baseline, before he starts throwing rotten hamburger in there.

Am amused at the idea of Sherlock carrying 120 litres of water from the park all the way to 221B, one 5-litre bucketful at a time. It’s not a long walk - three or four minutes at most - but 4 minutes times both directions times (120 / 5 =) 24 trips equals three hours of slightly soggy laps. I will be sitting here on the sofa, laughing.

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I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that Sherlock bribed some of his homeless network to essentially form a bucket brigade from the lake to our front door. They all got paid twenty pounds and a sack of Mrs. H’s homemade lemon scones because she “baked too many.” (There are only the three of us in the flat, but somehow she made enough for ten people to each get several and still had a bunch left over…) We are now the proud owners of a murky fishtank, four murk-colored fish, and a dozen buckets we have no use for.

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Fish and lake water both smell. Not as bad as some of Sherlock’s past experiments, but still something I’m glad to not be dealing with in the parts of the flat I actually use. Sherlock has been watching the fish for two hours now. It keeps him happy, I suppose? Somehow crimes are boring but fish in murky water are scintillating in that brain of his. I will never understand. (I like him anyway.)

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Sherlock got me a gift today: reading glasses. I’m ashamed to say I may have blown up at him a bit and it was mostly undeserved. (He could have been more tactful in the presentation, but it took me a few minutes to get past that and see it in the spirit it was intended.) I’ve been in denial, I suppose - I hate that glasses make me look old, that I leave them lying around and forget them, and that I no longer have the perfect eyesight I did all through my Army years. Sherlock quite accurately, if bluntly, pointed out that all my squinting at my laptop screen when I write and at my book when I read is probably related to the headaches I keep getting. (Constantly having to take paracetamol isn’t helping me feel young, either.)

The berk was right, of course - the glasses help a lot. So now I’m a washed-up minimally employed ex-surgeon who can’t operate anymore, is going grey, and has to wear bloody glasses half the time just to go about his bloody day without needing extraneous medication. I’m an absolute fucking prize.

Probably just as well Sherlock doesn’t have a long string of past partners for me to measure up against - then it would be even more obvious what a poor bargain he’s getting.

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I don’t know whether Sherlock is regularly reading this blog or if one of you nudged him in that direction, but he and I had a long talk at about two in the morning while in bed and we couldn’t sleep. Why is it always easier in the dark? Anyway, neither of us are particularly adept at discussing emotions or any of that rot, but for him I’m willing to try.

I guess I never really put it into words before - even in my head - but I don’t anticipate leaving anytime soon. Or ever. Sherlock and I may be new to the whole “romantic” aspect of our relationship, sexual or no, but I threw my lot in with his a long time ago. I didn’t realize he wasn’t aware of that. I envision us retiring from chasing criminals someday, getting some little place out in the middle of nowhere with some land like his parents have, and pottering around the village solving local mysteries. Sherlock might keep bees, I might take up fishing, and we’d be those eccentric ex-Londoners the neighbors would gossip about. Hopefully by then it won’t be such an oddity for two men to be partners in a personal as well as a business sense. Or maybe it will still raise eyebrows among the old biddies at church - who knows. The point is, whether I’m the one being a complete arse or Sherlock is, we can pull through it.

He may not believe me yet, but I’ve got plenty of time to convince him. Because I’m not going anywhere.

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I can tell Sherlock is deathly bored, because he’s taken a break from observing fish to actually work on a maybe-case for his brother. Don’t expect a write-up on it because even Sherlock’s dumbed-down description was too much technical computer lingo for me to follow, but it’s got to be something good because that’s the only circumstance in which he ever voluntarily does case-related favors for his brother. It’s also possible there are national security issues in play - those tend to come up sometimes, and I never know when Sherlock’s brother is being serious and when he’s having me on. Sherlock takes great pride in completely ignoring security procedures, of course. The good news is, he doesn’t do it when the effects of a breach would actually be important and not just embarrassing to his brother.

I’m back to work, same old same old, except now I have Sherlock muttering at his own laptop next to me whenever I’m not actively on a video call. If hijinks from 221B for the next day or two seem a bit subdued, this is why.

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“Case” turned out to not actually be a case. Sherlock would like me to assure everyone that your personal data is just as safe as it always is, no matter which bank you’re a customer of, and everyone in the British government tasked with keeping it that way are idiots who don’t know the difference between cyber-hacking and regular old ineptitude. I think this is his favorite type of not-case, honestly, because he gets to investigate but then can still insult his brother’s intelligence afterward.

Dash really, really missed us while we were gone. Mrs. H took him on a few walks, I gather, but when her hip gives her trouble the walks tend to be rather short. I took Dash out for a drag today (he drags me along for the first half and I drag him home) and I think I managed to wear him out. My own dodgy leg hasn’t given me trouble for ages, which I appreciate. Nowadays it mostly only aches in the winter and when Sherlock has annoyed me to the point I kick furniture.

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Work today. Sherlock’s back to watching the fish, now with added biological matter in the tank to measure the chemical changes. Or the changes to their feces, which I think is what his original intent was? Either way, I’m not going in there. Mostly I’m trying not to watch the news because it seems like a “who’s the most fucked?” competition between us and the US and I don’t want to know who wins.

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So a new public health announcement from your friendly neighborhood locum (since I’ve gotten sick of my “wear a damn mask” speech): don’t be a selfish bloody idiot. If you know you’ve been around someone who has tested positive for COVID-19, stay the fuck at home. Do not go to the park. Do not go shopping. Do not take your bloody mother to church because she’ll nag you if you don’t and “I don’t need a vaccine; I’ve been injected with Jesus.” (Seriously.) And, more germane to my specific frustration, call any service people who are slated to come to your home and FUCKING TELL THEM TO RESCHEDULE.

In other news, Harry’s girlfriend is now having to self-quarantine while waiting for the results of her COVID-19 test. Because a selfish arsehole of a client wanted her to come fix their A/C and couldn’t be bothered to mention that oh, by the way, they were under quarantine themselves but didn’t feel like abiding by it. She’s probably okay - she wasn’t at the house long, apparently - but my sister is a grand champion worrywart and is now beside herself. I reassured her that Quinn’s chances of contracting COVID-19 were low (Quinn was wearing a mask, good for her) but low is not the same as zero. And of course, now she has to call all her OTHER clients, everyone she’s seen between that appointment and now, and tell them to get tested too.

At this rate, Sherlock will make a misanthrope out of me yet.

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I had totally forgotten about ordering some fancy sun cream that one of the nurses recommended a few weeks back. It came today, so that was a nice surprise. It actually smells good, which I didn’t know was possible for sun cream, and my co-worker was right that it doesn’t feel greasy at all. I took Dash out this morning, Mrs. H made us a fantastic lunch, then I talked Sherlock into taking a long stroll around the park with me this afternoon minus the short-legged pup. I swear I have a goddamned medical degree I didn’t get out of a cereal box and DO know how to avoid sunburn, but I ended up putting it on Sherlock’s face and he put it on mine because it’s easier that way and long story short, we both burned the nape of our neck and the tops of our ears. Oops. Nowhere near as awful as some mates of mine in the Army, who came to basic training with a “sun cream is for wimps” mentality and spent their first free weekend playing shirtless football. Those of us with medical training - who had been telling them they were idiots all the way along - had very little sympathy. At least in my and Sherlock’s case, sunburned ears led to Sherlock giving me a lovely scalp massage while regaling me about his less-than-lovely fish poo findings so far. Still comes out as a net positive, in my book.

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It absolutely astounds me how Sherlock can be so perceptive in some ways and so utterly DENSE in others. He felt the urgent need to assault his violin at arse o’clock in the morning so - in order to not annoy Mrs. H - he broke it out IN OUR BEDROOM. While I was sleeping. And he didn’t start with nice classical lullabies, either - he jumped right into the damned screechy all-over-the-place piece he’s been composing recently. I’m sure my response was mostly incoherent swearing, but I ended up sleeping on the couch. Which is lumpy and awful. I was sore all day and Sherlock is still snippy because he was “trying to be considerate” by not bothering Mrs. H and therefore I'm the unreasonable one.

Why can’t he ever be considerate of me?

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Sundays SHOULD be for relaxing. They’re for reading a book in front of the fire, getting takeaway, and watching a movie. They should not be for chasing down four escaped fish (yes, you read that right) who may or may not legally constitute biohazards. Sherlock wanted me to crawl around his dump of a “lab” on my hands and knees looking for his stupid fish while he… I don’t even know. Researched fish runaways, perhaps?

I’m headed out for a long walk - ALONE - and I sincerely hope the fish are dealt with by the time I get back.

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Dear regular readers of John Waston’s Blog:

This is Sherlock Holmes. John went for a walk on Sunday and has not returned. Camera footage shows him following a short man with dirty blond hair, glasses, a khaki jacket, and dark jeans into an off-camera section of York Terrace and a white van with an obscured license plate leaving the area shortly afterward. His mobile was turned off and has not reconnected since that point.

I am offering a 500 pound reward for any information you may have pertaining to John’s current whereabouts or the blond man he was last seen with. My contact information is all on my website, which John has linked on the right-hand side of this blog.

Please, help me find him.

- Sherlock Holmes

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The last few days have been more than a bit crazy, but I am now safely back at 221B! Solid 6/10 as far as kidnapping experiences go, honestly - I’ve had much worse. (Somehow it doesn’t even feel weird to say that, given how much my life has changed since I’ve come into Sherlock’s orbit.) Obviously I missed Sherlock, but I missed this blog as well. I actually found myself writing up the case in my head whenever I had a quiet minute. “The Adventure of the Pensioner’s Thumb” will be up tomorrow. For now, I intend to eat my weight in pasta from our favorite restaurant, snuggle with Sherlock on the couch, and reassure him that I’m okay. I did sprain my wrist, a bit, but that had nothing to do with the kidnapping and everything to do with me being a clumsy bloke who slipped on a wet patch right outside the flat. Sherlock has been extra-helpful and tactile all evening and I intend to take full advantage of it.

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As promised, here’s what happened to me this week:

While I was walking off my frustration with Sherlock being a berk, I was approached by a bloke in his twenties saying he recognized me from my blog so he knew I was a doctor. His da tripped down some stairs just around the corner and landed wrong on his leg, and could I please come take a look and reassure him it’s not broken? I’m not used to being recognized without Sherlock by my side, so it was rather flattering to be asked. I figured I’d go see if I could help.

I already suspected something was odd because…. well. Nobody ever recognizes me when I’m alone. By the time he pulled a knife on me, once we were away from the main street, I wasn’t entirely surprised. It was pretty clear he wasn’t comfortable using it, though, so I decided to go along with the ruse and sort everything out once I found out what was going on. If nothing else, it would make for something to tell Sherlock about when I got back.

I was 95% sure the other man waiting for us around the corner WAS his father, honestly, based on how much they looked alike. The father put a bag over my head - burlap, so it wasn’t exactly opaque - and ushered me into the back of a van. The son took my phone and didn’t even destroy the SIM card before throwing it into some bushes. In short: amateurs, who looked genuinely distressed to be kidnapping me but were determined to do it anyway. This made me even more curious.

We ended up at a house in South Croydon, which I know because Sherlock drilled into me the ability to identify different parts of London by the sounds alone. Although they didn’t even bother driving in circles first in this case. Point #2 for amateurs. This is still broad daylight, mind you, but they bustled me into the house with the bag still on my head. Point #3.

To be fair: they were more than decent to me while I was their only-somewhat-willing guest. Three meals a day, frequent opportunities for the loo or a shower, and a reasonably comfortable lilo to sleep on. And they really did need my help: the owner of the house, an elderly pensioner who turned out to be the uncle of my senior kidnapper, had burned his hand quite badly on the coils of the stove in the kitchen earlier that day. My kidnappers had a decently-stocked first aid kit but no knowledge of what to do for second-degree burns.

The old man was a Col. Lysander Stark, a WWII veteran and career military man whose name I vaguely recognized as having received several honors and distinctions for his service. He had to have been in his late nineties. Not unsurprisingly, given his age, he was also in poor health overall and showed significant signs of dementia. No doubt his mental state led to his burn injury.

It took a few days, but I eventually managed to put the story together - in particular, why the nephew and grand-nephew had resorted to kidnapping me instead of taking their uncle to hospital. As it turned out, Col. Stark HAD been living with his daughter Edith, an ex-schoolteacher in her seventies. Edith passed away recently. The nephew and grand-nephew moved in a few months ago - ostensibly to help care for her and their uncle, mostly because they were broke. Col. Stark has a fair amount of money stashed away but Edith didn’t trust her cousin and left no information as to how to access the old man’s finances.

(This all came out in bits and pieces, by the way. I wasn’t kidding yesterday when I said I spent much of my free time putting this blog post together in my head.)

So: Col. Stark had significant funds. His nephew and grand-nephew, my kidnappers, had an unspecified but significant need for funds. Col. Stark had access to his accounts via an app, which he didn’t remember the password for but could still unlock with a thumbprint scan on his phone. This allowed his nephew and grand-nephew to siphon off money on a small scale even though they couldn’t make any significant transfers.

This all went swimmingly until, of course, Col. Stark had one of his memory episodes and placed his hand on the hot burner of the stove. They couldn’t bring him to A&E because someone would notice that this elderly veteran had no business living on his own. They couldn’t access his phone anymore because it no longer recognized his thumbprint. Somehow, the two geniuses put their heads together and decided to kidnap a doctor. Abducting someone at a clinic was problematic because hospitals are busy places and most smaller clinics are doing telemedicine right now. Then I posted on the blog about going for a walk, the grand-nephew knew he’d recognize me because he’s a regular reader, and they set out to find me somewhere near Baker Street. They succeeded.

I’m pleased to say that Col. Stark’s hand should make a good recovery. His fingerprints may be permanently altered, but he should have reasonable finger strength in a month or two. It took me four days to convince Tweedledee and Tweedledumbarse that I was quite literally unable to restore his thumbprint to its previous state… and that their uncle was in serious danger of death if he didn’t get seen at a real hospital with access to strong antibiotics and an fMRI machine. (I may have exaggerated that part.)

I don’t know whether it was concern for their uncle or my reminder that my beloved partner Sherlock Holmes would quite literally tear down all of Croyden in search for me that finally swayed them. I noted how they’d always worn masks so I never saw their faces, and (other than kidnapping me, which I omitted to mention) they hadn’t actually committed any crime beyond wanting to care for their dear elderly relative. I also pointed out how the houses on their street were close enough together that if I opted to yell my head off, the police WOULD come knocking. I never bothered because, well. 1) Col. Stark did need care, 2) the nephew and grand-nephew were as decent to me as possible considering the circumstances, and 3) I figured Sherlock probably already knew where I was so there was no need to panic.

They put the bag over my head again, loaded their uncle into the back of the van beside me, and drove us back into the city. The older of the two kidnappers shoved me out the back of the van near the West Croyden station and - I presume - continued onward to West Valley Hospital. Luckily they’d never taken my wallet and I still had my Oyster card. Forty-five bloody minutes and fifteen pounds to get home.

Sherlock had, of course, rescued my phone. I tracked down the house on Google maps so he and I immediately set back out via cab for a visit. I think Sherlock needed some reassurance that I was telling the truth about having been safe the whole time. We found the street with no problem. We were NOT able to get to the house, because - in a painfully ironic twist - the house was on fire and being doused with multiple hoses. Sherlock did some charismatic magic and was able to ascertain through conversations with a few firefighters that the stove had been left on and the burners caught some rubbish and eventually the cupboards on fire. No one was home.

I choose to assume that this means Col. Stark is safely at hospital and the nephew and grand-nephew are either in police custody or currently on the run and frantically trying to figure out what to do now that the sum total of their worldly possessions has shrunk down to a single vehicle and nothing else.

It was a quiet ride home.

I do feel bad that I wasn’t able to get a clearer message to Sherlock that I was safe. I assumed - wrongly, it turned out - that he’d have easily tracked me to the house and drawn the conclusion that since I walked in under my own power and chose not to call for help while there, that I wasn’t in danger. I didn’t realize the van’s license plate was unreadable and that there are simply too many plain white vans in London for Sherlock and his omniscient brother to track every one.

We’ve spent most of the last twenty-four hours within an arm’s length of each other. I think it’s helping him - it’s definitely helping me. I'll be okay with no more adventures for a while now.

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Thank you, everyone who sent well-wishes and concerned comments. I had no idea so many of you would notice my lack of updates and would worry about me! I’m so used to Sherlock declaring he doesn’t do sentiment - but then I see that not only did her post here for help, he even said please. One of these days I need to start listening to what he does instead of what he says. I don’t think I can promise not to be kidnapped again, but I’ll see if I can hold off until at least next year…

A few addenda to yesterday’s story, based on questions everyone has asked:

1) I have no idea what happened to the fish. Sherlock was vague when I mentioned them, so I suspect they’ve gone to that great pond in the sky. I only hope they did that via the rubbish bin and aren’t going to be found months from now underneath the floorboards.

2) A little judicious research uncovered that my kidnappers are, indeed, father and son. Both have records for thoroughly stupid crimes like public intoxication, trespassing, attempting to taunt an officer of the law into a bare-knuckles brawl (the father), and violating noise ordinances via an unsanctioned performance in a public street by the world’s worst death metal band (the son).

3) I checked on Col. Stark as soon as I was able to cut through the bureaucratic red tape of me not technically having the right to know a damn thing about him. (When I say “I,” I mean “Sherlock.” Red tape rarely gives him pause.) I was pleased to learn that Col. Stark is being evaluated for acceptance at the Royal Hospital Chelsea, which I think would probably be an excellent place for him given his current circumstances. The program is geared specifically toward aging veterans like him and - based on my brief experience with his lucid moments - I think he’d enjoy it there.

4) Tweedledee and Tweeldedumbarse were apprehended in Guildford with very little trouble. As I understand it, they essentially drove around outer London for a few hours after dropping their uncle off at hospital and then just… gave up. Sherlock wants to go talk to them in person but I’ve had enough of their faces to last me a while.

5) I don’t THINK I was exposed to COVID-19, but Sherlock and I are keeping our distance from Mrs. H for the next few weeks anyway. My kidnappers wore masks most any time we were in the same room. They were probably trying to keep me from identifying them, rather than heroically shielding me from germs, but the effect was the same.

6) Yes, Dash missed me. I missed him too. I’m going to keep missing him for as long as I’m avoiding Mrs. H.

I think that covers all the recurring questions. Sherlock and I sat side-by-side on the sofa for most of today, again, on our respective laptops. He finally went out for a walk (and I suspect a smoke as well) in the late afternoon. I’m shocked he stayed still this long. I’m not complaining, though.

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Sherlock woke me up this morning with our very first kiss… and a ring. That’s where he went yesterday - to call in a favor from a jeweler for whom he caught a thieving employee a few years back and who had put forth his services for “whenever you find the right young lady.” Sherlock dismissed the offer at the time, girlfriends being not exactly his area, but apparently the jeweler didn’t mind being brought into the shop on a Sunday afternoon for a good cause.

I’m sure it’s no surprise to most of you that Sherlock’s proposal wasn’t exactly the usual. His exact words were, “We’re not doing that again.” And then he gave me an awkward peck on the lips and a ring box. “I want us to be each other’s legal next-of-kin. And to grow old together. Objections?”

Reader, I’m marrying him. As soon as possible. He was all for hying off to the nearest country that allowed same-sex marriages with no waiting period, but I pointed out that doing so would involve asking his brother for help and why would we want to be anywhere but London?

We’re headed to the registry office tomorrow. Apparently there are some additional restrictions in place because of COVID-19, so I’m spending today reading up on paperwork and Sherlock is spending it on the phone listening to his mother tell him how proud she is that her little Lokkie all grown up now. We’ll see which task takes longer.

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It turns out you need to have your date and venue finalized before you can even sign the paperwork to give notice. I’m not sure who exactly pulled strings - I suspect Sherlock’s parents via guilt-tripping his brother - but we’re down in the book as getting married on October seventh in Regent’s Park. Notice is required for twenty-eight days, so twenty-nine days’ lead time is about all Sherlock was willing to tolerate anyway. We’re either allowed two guests, six, or thirty depending on which website I find and how up-to-date the COVID-19 restrictions are. Sherlock is hoping for two or six so we can exclude a certain brother. I feel like since his brother is PROBABLY behind the sudden vacancy at the York Lawns on the exact date we wanted it, the man has earned himself an invitation regardless of any sibling rivalry.

Now we just need to… plan a whole wedding. In a month. The only wedding I’ve ever been a participant in is my sister’s, and hers wasn’t exactly the most traditional. (She and her now-ex wife got married in jeans at the registrar’s office, just me and her ex’s best friend as witnesses, and the four of us all went and got tremendously pissed afterward.)

Breaking the news to Mrs. H involved quite a bit of yelling (us), squealing (her), and barking (Dash). The yelling was because we’ve been trying to stay up in our flat in case I was exposed to the virus while acting as the guest of Col. Stark’s kin. Sherlock ended up standing at the base of the stairs and shouting for Mrs. H until she came to see what the fuss was about, then she started squealing and sobbing at the same time. Dash isn’t allowed on the stairs or in our flat - for his own good - but he ran laps around Mrs. H’s feet and barked his head off before excitedly pissing on the carpet and thoroughly ruining the moment.

Harry has “helpfully” signed my email address up to several wedding planning sites. I opened my inbox to discover two dozen sales on dresses this morning. If anyone needs a wedding dress, I can recommend some sources - I don’t think we’ll be needing one, though.

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Seems like we’re getting the best of both worlds - Sherlock’s brother is stuck somewhere on the continent for the next two months for some super-important meetings, so the chances of him making it back for our wedding are slim. Sherlock’s mother has promised to live-stream the ceremony for him. Not that we’re planning a particularly fancy ceremony, but still. Sherlock's ecstatic. I wouldn't mind his brother being there, but I get that there's more to their relationship than it looks like on the surface.

His mother sent us a wedding-planning guide with some nicely solid checklists to work from. I joked to her when we video chatted yesterday about Harry setting me up for all those bridal gown sales and that Sherlock would look gorgeous in a lacy white dress. I didn’t mention that I’ve SEEN him in a dress, a handful of times over the years, and he looks damn good in anything he chooses to put on. I may have inadvertently given her the idea that cross-dressing is a regular part of a homosexual relationship, though… which means now she’s got the idea in her head, she may never accept Sherlock’s “it’s for a case” again. I don’t think she understand the asexuality thing yet, either. She was lamenting the inadvisability of a honeymoon in the middle of a pandemic and the lengths she went through to avoid actually saying “you won’t get to have sex on a beach” were highly amusing to exactly one of us. (Me.)

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Goddamnit - eloping is starting to sound good after all. Is Gretna Green is still a thing? I swear every woman in my life right now is sharing ALL her wedding opinions with me. Most of my coworkers at the clinic are female, as is my boss - who announced the engagement at the virtual staff meeting this morning. Just as well it was virtual, because all those squeals in one place would have shattered windows. (It’s not ONLY women, to be fair, but every single woman I’ve told has responded with advice, anecdotes, warnings, or all three.)

Sherlock has thrown himself into this wedding planning thing with far more enthusiasm than I expected, despite not having had a case for days. Right now he’s practicing with his new calligraphy pens so he can hand-write the invitations even though the handful of people we want there with us already know. He’s being adorable, but don’t tell him I said that.

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Sherlock is ordering a new suit. Sherlock also wants ME to also get a new suit. Which I don’t object to, in theory, but I don’t have the advantage of a private tailor who already has my measurements on record. I’m also not used to spending more on one suit than the rest of my wardrobe costs combined - and that includes all the new jumpers from Sherlock’s meddling earlier this summer.

I don’t object to the idea, in theory. It’s not like I haven’t worn suits before. I could wear my RAMC mess dress, I suppose, but it feels wrong - my time in the military and my time with Sherlock have been two totally different things. Both were/are dangerous and exhausting and amazing, but VERY different.

I finally just told Sherlock he can take my measurements here at home and have his tailor make up something for both of us. He was enthused at the prospect, to put it mildly. We spent the next hour with a measuring tape, him bossing me around. He kept humming and saying “oh, interesting” and writing things in a notebook he wouldn’t let me see. I’ll just say that if this is what getting measured at a civilian tailor’s shop is like, I’m extremely thankful I was able to do this at home with Sherlock instead of in a store with a stranger. Sherlock was PHENOMENALLY thorough. He’s the one who always manages to look like a model and alternates interchangeably between formalwear and his dressing gown, though, so I’ll grant the slim chance he may know what he’s doing.

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I wasn’t kidding about the formalwear and dressing gown thing. Sherlock’s clothes depend more on his mood than his plans for the day. He wore a bloody sheet to the palace once, because he couldn’t be bothered to change before we left. He also lounges around the flat in a tuxedo sometimes. He doesn’t do any of his own laundry anyway so why be practical?

Suits have been ordered and should be delivered by next week. Sherlock won’t tell me what color. He and Mrs. H have been set downstairs for hours, Sherlock hanging off the bottom stair and Mrs. H a few metres away in her sitting room for safety’s sake, chattering on about rentals and reservations and all the trappings of a wedding I couldn’t care less about. I think if we weren’t in the middle of a pandemic and doing this all in less than a month, Mrs. H and Sherlock’s mother would have us getting married at St. Paul’s with a guest list of thousands.

Bet they’d turn inside-out if Sherlock showed up in a dressing gown.

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Sundays are for long naps on the sofa with your head in your boyfriend’s lap while he does a deep delve into the chemistry of recyclable plastics and occasionally rants about it. This is all.

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I twisted my ankle today, despite not leaving the flat. I’d like to say it was because I was doing something adventuresome and suave. I’d be lying. The embarrassing truth is, I shifted my weight while brushing my teeth and caught my heel on the corner of the rug, then overbalanced and got my ankle stuck sideways under me when I fell. Sherlock came tearing in when he heard me swear. He was trying not to laugh, I could tell, but I can read him too easily by now. Gave him a royal bollicking which helped my embarrassment a bit but didn’t do a damn thing to make him stop snickering. He felt bad about it but that means fuck-all when I’m grumpy.

So now I’m stuck in bed with my foot taped, iced, and elevated, trying very hard to look to my virtual patients like I’m an intelligent and competent medical professional and not the type of idiot who can injure himself by brushing his teeth. Sherlock brought me beans on toast for lunch - it’s the one thing he can reliably cook. I suggested we serve beans on toast to our guests after our wedding ceremony and he took a good thirty seconds to realize I was teasing him. I don’t think he’s ever had someone in his life who subjected him to good-natured teasing before - he gets all flustered and it’s adorable. Luckily I grew up with a sister who made me an expert at it.

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Day two of trying to stay off my ankle. It’s doing much better - no torn ligaments - but it still hurts like hell if I put weight on it with any lateral force. Luckily I keep a pretty well-stocked first aid kit around here. Also luckily (?), I still had my old cane at the back of Mrs. H’s coat closet downstairs. I relied on it for everything when I was first invalided from the Army and sent back to London. Within forty-eight hours of meeting Sherlock, I actually forgot my cane at a restaurant and ended up chasing a murderer with him - on foot - for a solid kilometre or two. Only realized I’d forgotten it when the owner of the restaurant, one of Sherlock’s friends, stopped by 221B to deliver it to me. Psychosomatic injuries are a bloody nuisance.

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He spent all day on the violin, composing. I didn’t even mind hearing the same melody over and over for hours because it’s gorgeous - haunting and emotional and kind of happy and sad at the same time. I don’t even know how to describe it, other than to say that Sherlock is bloody talented and I’m a lucky man to have him in my life.

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I’m not up to running any marathons yet, but my ankle seems almost back to normal. Sherlock says once it’s fully healed, he has a surprise for me. I’m not sure whether to be excited or concerned. Sometimes his surprises are lovely, but sometimes they’re… well. Nobody’s mind works quite like Sherlock’s does. In our initial days sharing a flat together, we came to a series of compromises. Things like:

1) Live animals, plants, fungi, bacteria, and/or viruses of any kind, when intentionally brought into 221B, require your flatmate to know about them AND give his approval. Mrs. H has veto power.

2) Chemicals with explosive properties under normal conditions (i.e. anything a flatmate might be doing in his day-to-day life while not expecting to be exploded at) need to be properly labeled and stored. This includes all possible connotations of the word “explosive.” Also, “properly labeled” involves using words like CAUTION or DANGER or PHOTOSENSITIVE; WILL DRASTICALLY EXPAND WHEN EXPOSED TO LIGHT or something other than just the substance’s chemical name and/or molecular formula.

3) Biological materials must be labeled with the species of origin and under no circumstances can go in the meat drawer in the refrigerator unless intended for human consumption.

4) Items and substances which might be reasonably mistaken for experimental supplies but are not intended as such should be stored separate from experimental apparatus. Conversely, experimental apparatus should be stored separately from clothing, food items, furniture, books, and personal items belonging to the flat’s other inhabitant.

5) When in doubt, ASK before ingesting.

It may seem fairly obvious which flatmate needed which rules, but a few of the caveats were my fault rather than Sherlock’s. I had refilled an unlabeled spray bottle with cleaning solution when the regular container broke, for example, and Sherlock for some ungodly reason decided to soak the entire kitchen with the mystery liquid after an experiment got a bit messy and he ran out of the normal kind. I would think a chemist would recognize the smells of bleach and ammonia and know not to mix them, but apparently not. (If you’re assuming that most of these rules were made by me, though, you’d be right.)

Anyway, Sherlock has assured me his surprise doesn’t violate any of these written or unwritten flatmate agreements. Not sure what degree of “healed” he needs before he’ll tell me what he’s been plotting, but I’ll admit to being curious.

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The suits are here! Sherlock’s been secretive about them all week, but I was right to trust him with the decision - they’re GORGEOUS. Mine is navy with a thin grey pinstripe and makes me look ten years younger. He won’t let me see him wearing his yet (I thought the superstition about it being bad luck to see each other before the wedding was supposed to be for brides?) but the suit itself is a soft greyish-blue. I predict we’ll both look quite sharp.

It’s been a solid two weeks since my “kidnapping” with no COVID-19 symptoms in sight, so I let Mrs. H come upstairs and help me try my suit on. She went through all my ties and declared none of them would do but she’s got just the thing in mind. I’d be more concerned that everyone’s got input into what I’m wearing except me, but it’s been long-established that I have less than zero sartorial instinct so I’m trying to be appreciative that Sherlock and Mrs. H are both so willing to help. I’m sure Dash would too, if we let him.

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Those of you who predicted that Sherlock’s surprise for me would involve dancing, well done. I assumed that idea was ludicrous because I have something like two left feet when it comes to that sort of thing - “something like,” because saying “two left feet” suggests a nice, solid integer and that implies more predictability in that area than is warranted. Maybe more like “e” left feet, or pi. Possibly “i”, since the likelihood of me dancing well is entirely imaginary.

Whatever my affliction, Sherlock is still generously trying to teach me to waltz. My lack of dancing skills may be a plus, here, because I never learned how to properly lead so it’s not much of a hardship to let him do it. He is taller than I am, after all. Hopefully with a good twenty-minute romp around the sitting room each day between now and the wedding, we can ensure I don’t permanently injure my husband-to-be. We may not even dance at the wedding itself - the schedule for the big day is in constant flux due to COVID-19 safety concerns - but a newlywed dance is in at least one of Sherlock’s contingency plans.

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As I should have guessed, Sherlock’s new composition is intended for the wedding. He finished and recorded it today so we can dance to it (both in practice and at the wedding itself). Feeling superbly smug that not only do I get to marry this gorgeous and talented man, I get to dance with him to a song that literally nobody except us has ever heard before. Take THAT, Felicia Abernathy.* I win.

*The girl I had a massive crush on when I was 13, whom I got up the nerve to approach at our first ever school dance and who laughed in my face because I wasn’t popular enough and she was taller than me

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Mrs. H has volunteered to make a wedding cake for us. This is going to be delicious. Sherlock asked for red velvet “because it’s John’s favorite” (it is)... and then spoiled the romance with “and because it looks the most like mammalian entrails.” Incidentally it’s his brother’s least favorite flavor, which doesn’t even matter because his brother CAN’T COME due to being out of the country so I don’t know why he felt the need to point that out.

In any case, Mrs. H is making plans. I reminded her we’re only inviting a handful of people, and we’re not having a proper reception as much as just dishing up cake and dancing to the single song Sherlock wrote, but I think she takes that as a personal challenge. How much superlative excellence can she pack into a single tier baked good? The success or failure of our reception weighs almost entirely on her baking skills!

(I predict resounding success.)

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I may have mentioned on here before that I’m the one who pays all the bills because Sherlock can’t be bothered with such mundane things as the TV licence or keeping the electricity on. Most of the time this isn’t a problem, because - even though the amount he gets paid doesn’t seem to have any bearing on whether he’ll accept a case or not - Sherlock does occasionally make some very rich people happy with him and those cheques balance out the times he refuses everyone and sulks on the sofa for a week straight. Naturally he swans off and leaves me to accept any payment due. I usually split off enough to pay our expenses and then deposit the rest in our separate accounts.

Getting married changes that, though: we’re finally opening the joint bank account the rest of the world seems to assume we already have. We’ve also got to sort out wills, “lasting power of attorney” in case one of us has to go to hospital for something more serious than we’ve suffered so far, paperwork for various types of insurance, and god only knows how many other legal documents.

Luckily for us, my sister is an expert at this sort of thing and is helping us to sort through it all. She does contract law at her day job so she does know what she’s doing. That’s half her wedding present to us - the other half is a good-sized crate of booze she’s been given by clients over the last year or so. She’s a strict non-drinker (a hard-won choice) but apparently wine and other spirits are traditional gifts you get your legal team so she’s accumulated a bit of a stash. Sherlock seemed impressed, so I assume at least some of the bottles were expensive. I expect we’ll break them in sometime during our stay-at-home “honeymoon” to do drunk science and bake banana bread while tipsy, then donate the rest to the Yard’s Christmas party. They’ll get more use out of poncy bourbon than we ever would.

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Well fuck. I should have anticipated this, seeing how Sherlock seems to pull money out of nowhere when he wants to buy something expensive, but I was completely unprepared for his brother to (metaphorically) hand me the key to Sherlock’s trust fund and tell me “go for it.” Harry and I grew up in council flats, for fuck’s sake - I have no frame of reference for how to handle this.

I’ll back up: Sherlock’s “trust fund” isn’t really a trust fund in the usual sense of the phrase. His parents are financially comfortable but by no means rich. Sherlock went to Cambridge because he’s a bona fide genius, then proceeded to nearly fail all his non-maths and non-science classes because he couldn’t be bothered. He gravitated toward chemistry over the course of his rocky university career. He and another student - someone a few years ahead, I think in an advanced program? - did some not-entirely-sanctioned experiments and ultimately invented a new technique for purifying a particular chemical which is notoriously difficult to isolate. (This is the part where my medical background fails me, but picture Sherlock talking very fast and using very long words and you’ll understand what this part of my conversation with him this morning was like.)

Through some judicious politicking by Sherlock’s brother, Sherlock and his partner gained a patent on this procedure, which is apparently in common use today among the kind of people who purify obscure chemicals for a living. The result was an income stream which allowed Sherlock to make rather more bad choices than most uni students get the chance to. These choices primarily involved cocaine. Cambridge was put on hold, Sherlock wallowed in the cosmic unfairness of his life for a while, and eventually - after several false starts - he got himself clean. Part of that transition was putting the proceeds from his patent into a trust managed by his level-headed brother. Sherlock is reimbursed for basic expenses related to food, clothing, lodging, etc, but that’s all. (Now that I think about it, this may be the source of his thousand-pound suits even when he lived in a shithole of a flatshare prior to living with me. Suits are technically clothing…)

Anyway, Sherlock’s brother is sending my sister whatever financial wizardry she needs to put me on the accounts. Sherlock has been clean for years now, barring the occasional cigarette when he thinks I won’t notice, but he refused to take control of his own money. I don’t entirely understand why. I also don’t understand why he thinks I would have a goddamned clue how to do any of this - paying the bills on time doesn’t require the same know-how as managing a financial trust.

Mostly, I wish he’d just TOLD me about this situation a long time ago. It could saved a lot of anxiety over whether we’d have enough to pay the rent that month. He probably never even noticed how stressed I was, at various points, because I estimate he’d only have a 50/50 shot of noticing if the electricity got cut off anyway. Sometimes it’s like living with a giant toddler. I know it’s irrational for me to be angry, especially over discovering that my soon-to-be husband makes more from sitting on his arse than I do working as a locum (albeit part-time), but… ugh.

I put up with a lot of crap to stay in Sherlock Holmes’s life. I just wish he’d acknowledge that.

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Re: all the comments on yesterday’s post:

1) Yes, I know it’s irrational to be upset that my future spouse has more money than I thought. That’s why I said I was irrationally angry.

2) No, I won’t send you money. (For multiple values of “you, person I’ve never actually met but who reads my blog sometimes.”) It’s not my money to spend even if I were so inclined.

3) Sherlock and I have actually had multiple conversations about this in the last two days. I do appreciate that he’s been willing to let me shout at him a bit and then talk at him a bit more. He still doesn’t get what the big deal is, and after talking with him I’m sometimes not sure either. Doesn’t stop me from being grumpy about the extra stress, though.

4) I can’t imagine our chances of getting kidnapped could be any higher than they are already… so no, I’m not worried about some criminal thinking we’re “rich.” (It’s a chemistry patent, not a lordship.)

5) Would it have changed things? Possibly. I damn well would have liked to know that we weren’t splitting rent evenly, that’s for sure. 221B was presented to me as “the landlady owes me a favor and is giving us this excellent rate.” Which is true, but Sherlock didn’t mention that the “excellent rate” still involved him paying four times the amount I do every month. The trust does, rather - lodging being one of the things the trust will cover - but it puts paid to his cover of “together we should be able to afford it” and needing me as a flatmate from a financial standpoint. I now understand that he DID need a flatmate, because his brother put conditions on the payments - “you must live with someone who isn’t on drugs and could intervene or alert me if you get yourself addicted again” - but Sherlock didn’t exactly mention it upfront.

Finishing up the rest of the forms this evening, hopefully. Harry was predictably blunt: she laughed in my face and asked if he was still worth it.

He is.

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I suppose it was inevitable - as of Monday, the clinic I do locum work at is going back to entirely in-person visits. For the last month or so it’s been a split model, where they held reduced in-person hours for patients who wanted or needed them and telemedicine for the rest, but that has been deemed unnecessary by the powers that be. My boss was apologetic but said it’s not her call. Not really sure whose call it is, honestly - I don’t think it’s a general NHS mandate. It’s a bad idea, though.

I’ve gotten out of any in-person shifts so far through a combination of being at Sherlock’s parents’ house, being kidnapped (such as it was), and self-quarantining after that. Several of my co-workers have equally valid reasons to stay at home. I expected to be put on the schedule immediately - locum work means accepting the shifts nobody else wants - but I was surprised to find I’m being granted three weeks of vacation time instead. In particular, my boss and co-workers were kind enough to note that me being exposed to COVID-19 less than two weeks before my wedding would be very bad. Apparently JOHN YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED *insert squealing noises here* trumps the locum thing.

I was further surprised to see my boss show up here at Baker Street this afternoon. She said the rest of the staff wanted to wish Sherlock and me well but knew I wouldn’t want a wedding shower like they’ve done for people getting married in the past. (They're right.) Instead, they put together a nice gift certificate to the Indian place they know Sherlock and I both love. They also sent my boss with a wrapped present, which I insisted Sherlock be there to open.

And, I admit, I just about fell down laughing. Some of my craftier co-workers took a Cluedo game and redid the board to be a rough floor plan of our office. The potential murder weapons are all things we usually have lying around - tongue depressor, defibrillator, reflex hammer, etc. The look on Sherlock’s face was PRICELESS. I’m 95% sure my boss has heard the story of The Game That Shall Not Be Named In This Flat at least once, and probably told everyone else. We’ll never actually play it, but I’m putting the box on the mantel next to the remains of our original copy. My co-workers understand my sense of humor all too well.

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Sherlock found a pair of earrings for me this morning. They weren’t my earrings, of course, but he tracked them down on my behalf and I thought it was quite sweet. The earrings’ owner is a headache of a former client whom Sherlock and I both vowed we would never work with again. Apparently she emailed last night with a plea that he find these particular missing earrings, though, and a proposed fee large enough to substantially ease my anxiety over the whole "our finances have strings attached" thing. Sherlock normally would dismiss emails like this out of hand - finding rich people’s lost jewelry is not how he likes to spend his time - but today he got up at 2 AM to go break into the lady’s personal assistant’s boyfriend’s workplace and steal the earrings back from the lad’s locker. I presume there was some combination of intuition, deduction, and social media research that went into following that particular train of logic. He’d prefer I think he’s just that psychic, so I didn’t ask.

I only learned about the case when he took the cheque he got for returning the lady’s prized earrings to her doorstep, cashed it on the way home, then handed the envelope to me on his way back upstairs for a post-case nap. No explanation but I guess I didn’t need one. Sometimes he just gets it right.

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Despite the oh-so-brilliant in-person medicine mandate from my clinic, I keep hearing rumors that London is facing another resurgence of COVID-19 and we might all have to quarantine. AGAIN. If this affects our ability to hold a wedding, I swear I will sic Sherlock on the registry office and let him just forge a marriage licence like he’s been threatening to do ever since he proposed. Also I’ll let the registry official be the one to tell Mrs. H that we can’t all eat her cake because we have to social distance.

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I’ve noticed that Sherlock’s been more moody than usual the last few days. I assumed it was stress, or depression, or boredom - all three tend to have the same symptoms - but I wasn’t having any luck jollying him out of it. This afternoon I finally caught him at a good time when he was tired enough to stay put but not stroppy enough to snap at me. He loves scalp massages and I love playing with his hair, so we ended up with him lying sideways across the bed with his head in my lap and it was all painfully domestic while we talked in exactly the way good British men don’t.

I guess I never put it into quite these words before, but Sherlock needed to hear them. Still needs to, probably, since I’m sure they’re reassuring no matter how many times they’re said:

Sherlock, I’m not leaving you. Not if you’re manic, not if you’re sulking, not if you’re talking a mile a minute about obscure Australian octopus poisons. (I love when you talk about obscure poisons.) Not even when you insult me and everyone around us and act like a total bastard, because I know you don’t mean most of it and the parts that you DO mean, generally are true. And when you give me a back-handed compliment that’s also an insult but you never thought about it that way, I’m going to tell you I love you back because I don’t mind being the Sherlock-to-English translator. Eventually you’ll believe me.

Anyway, we spent a lazy but productive afternoon chatting and dozing and daydreaming. Turns out we were mostly on the same page when it came to what we envisioned for retirement: a little cottage somewhere (Sussex, he tells me), where he can turn the garden shed into a chemistry lab with shockingly lax safety protocols and we’ll have an orchard which is mostly an excuse to keep a few beehives. I might help out at the local clinic on occasion, locum tenens or otherwise. It will help keep us on good terms with the coroner. We’ll be the local eccentrics and trade Sherlock’s deductions for our neighbors’ homemade jam. Sherlock will continue to take up random hobbies and I’ll write about them, and him, and us. Every once in a while, a curious child from down the lane will end up sticking around, shadowing Sherlock in his makeshift lab and me as I potter around the cottage, and his or her parents will never quite understand the appeal of the bits and bobs of trivia that formal schooling will never touch. They’ll ultimately decide that we’re a queer old couple but generally harmless, and we won’t do anything to disabuse them of that notion.

That’s still a long way off - we have a lot of London to get through yet - but it’s comforting to know that he’ll allow me to be there at his side when we get there.

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There was apparently a second facet to Sherlock’s anxiety: Mrs. H mentioned to him how she was sure our “you may now kiss” moment was going to be photogenic and she wanted to put a framed picture over her mantel. Wouldn’t that look lovely, dear?

The thing is, we hardly ever kiss each other on the mouth. It’s one of Sherlock’s asexual aversions, along with passing oral bacteria in general. I sometimes drop a kiss on his hair when he’s sitting and I walk past him, or he’ll buss me on the cheek in the morning when he’s all sleepy and adorable, but we just don’t DO the whole lovey-dovey tonsil hockey thing. (Thank you, Quinn via Harry, for that incredibly Canadian turn of phrase.)

So Sherlock has been stewing on this issue for a few days, without telling me, until he finally asked me last night if we could practice making out on the sofa. This is so out of character I actually thought I misheard him at first. (Sherlock dozing while sprawled over me and the rest of the sofa, yes. Intense kissing and pre-sexual groping, no.) We did kiss a few times, just to see if his feelings toward other people’s saliva have changed, but eventually I convinced him that the big kiss wasn’t ACTUALLY a required part of the wedding ceremony. We could do a reciprocal peck on the cheek, or a hug, or bloody high five if we wanted to.

The high five is out (thankfully) but I think we’ll sort out the rest later. In the moment, if necessary. I’ll just be glad if we can make it through the vows without any murders.

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Figured I’d do some tidying today while I’m still sane. Didn’t get as much done as I’d intended because I’ve been subject to the strangest guerrilla campaign ever - Sherlock popping up behind me all over the flat, nuzzling or kissing some part of my person, then whipping out his notebook and asking me to rate the experience on four different axes. I nearly kicked him in the nose when he snuck up on me napping and kissed the (ticklish) sole of my right foot. You’d think he’d have learned not to startle me awake by now. Actually, now that I write that, I think I remember him doing a similar experiment when we first started “dating.” Time since March has essentially lost all meaning…

I asked if this was related to the wedding kiss thing and he said yes but wouldn’t elaborate. If he wants to end the ceremony by rubbing his nose on the inside of my knee, I suspect we might actually manage to shock everyone.

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Almost forgot to update but having virtual bachelor party right niw. Me, Sherlock, Mike, Greg, Zoom, and lots of alvohol. Am planning to introduce Sheelock to Never Have I Ever and other fun drinking games. May emd up with bansna bread, who kniws.

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First off: fuck you, Harry, for calling at 7 AM and cheerfully asking if I regretted any decisions yet. You didn’t actually SAY “I told you so” but you definitely implied it.

Secondly: I am in awe of how much alcohol our friend Mike can put away and still be sober enough for his wife not to notice when she comes in to kiss him goodnight. He’s a sneaky bastard like that.

Thirdly: Sherlock is TERRIBLE at Never Have I Ever. I don’t mean “terrible” like “haha, he’s secretly done all this crazy stuff” - I mean terrible as in 90% of his suggestions made at least one of us say “why the fuck would anyone ever do that?”

Fourth: Apparently Sherlock learned a lot more about me during that game than I expected. He also REMEMBERED a lot more, which is blatantly unfair. Probably because he didn’t drink for most of the usual stuff (accidentally flashed someone, sworn in front of his grandmother, etc) and only got tripped up when Greg started in on “Never have I ever ruined my shoes by stepping in viscera at a crime scene because I refused to put on protective gear” and the like.

Five: An (eventually) inebriated Sherlock is delightfully tactile. Drunk John likes this just as much as sober John, but doesn’t get embarrassed about it even when our friends are cooing over how adorable we are. Sherlock eventually fell asleep draped over my shoulder like an over-large cat while petting my hair.

Sixth: No banana bread, but we slept in today (after Harry called, that is) and it was lovely.

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Mrs. H brought biscuits up for tea today and sat with us to dispense some excruciatingly detailed advice about how to make a marriage work. Sherlock pointed out that her husband ended up executed by the state of Florida for various capital crimes including murder; she said that makes her advice even better because she’s telling us the exact opposite of what her husband did and/or would have done.

For the curious, here’s the general gist of Mrs. H’s Foolproof Guide to Wedded Bliss:

- You should both be willing to feel like you’re doing 90% of the work. The truth will probably be you’re each doing somewhere closer to half, but it will never be exactly 50/50 and you will drive yourselves crazy trying to fine-tune the differences.

- Never go to bed mad (if you can avoid it).

- If you share which things are emotionally important to you with each other, you’ll be less likely to step on each other’s feelings by mistake.

- Don’t have arguments just for the make-up sex, even though make-up sex is spectacular. (Sherlock made a hilarious face at this one.)

- It’s important to be involved enough in each other’s lives that if one of you decides to become a crime kingpin, say by positioning himself as the leader of the local drug cartel and feeding the competition to alligators in the swamp, the other won’t be caught by surprise when implicated in the criminal investigation later on.

I’ll admit, some of these may seem more specific to 221 Baker Street than others, but they do all sound like good suggestions.

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Holy crap, it’s THIS WEDNESDAY. As in, this week. I’m going to be a married man. Can’t decide whether I’m a genius or insane for marrying Sherlock Holmes, but it’s definitely one of the two.

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Sherlock’s parents got into town this morning. They’re staying at his brother’s house while the brother is off… negotiating world peace or something, I have no idea. I think he’s somewhere on the continent? Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have been avoiding people for the last two weeks, specifically so they’d be SURE they were coronavirus-free in time for the wedding. Mrs. Holmes brought baby pictures and Sherlock’s first-ever suit to show me. (He’s a bit big for it now, unsurprisingly.)

We went over for supper, with Mrs. H as chauffeur and honorary family member, and - as expected - Mrs. H and Mrs. Holmes got along like a house on fire. I gather they’ve talked once or twice but never had time to chat about how adorable Sherlock is up until now. (For the record: Sherlock blushing because his mother just pulled out pictures of him as a toddler in a smart little suit but with mud on the knees? Incredibly adorable. Both the picture and Sherlock’s reaction.)

Tomorrow they’re coming to 221B for lunch and last-minute strategizing, although I doubt there’s anything left to plan after Sherlock and Mrs. H got ahold of things. The wedding will still be small - the two of us, Mrs. H, Sherlock’s parents, Harry, and then our friends Greg and Mike acting as our official witnesses. We did invite a few others - close friends - but they and Sherlock’s brother are either unavailable or will be “attending” via video call. The ceremony itself should be short, since we opted for as few frills as possible, but then there will be an outdoor party of sorts during which we can eat Mrs. Hudson’s cake and dance to the song Sherlock wrote. It’s possible there will be more to it than that, but I’m content to be kept in suspense as long as it’s Sherlock writing the schedule. At the end of the day we’ll be married, and that’s the important thing.

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Sherlock is fussing. Mrs. H is fussing. Mrs. Holmes is fussing. Mr. Holmes is showing me pictures from his fishing trip to Scotland last summer and wondering what the big deal is. I get the impression he didn’t fuss at his own wedding, either. Sherlock is staying the night with his parents at his brother’s house, because there’s some tradition about not seeing each other on the wedding day before the ceremony? I thought that was just for brides, but I guess I don’t mind as long as he’s happy with it.

Mr. Holmes agreed to help distract Sherlock for a few minutes while I went into his garment bag and replaced tomorrow’s socks with a pair I bought a week or two ago that have tiny bees on them. They’re still dress socks, mind, and the bees would look like polka dots to anyone not already sitting at his feet, but HE’LL know they’re there and I’LL know they’re there and he’s only bring the one change of clothes for overnight so hopefully he’ll go along with the swap. I can’t see him voluntarily borrowing a pair of socks from his brother’s drawer…

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When I was a boy and envisioned my wedding day, it was nothing like this. I assumed I’d be marrying a woman, for one - someone sweet and pretty and who would seal my sack lunch with a lipstick kiss every day before I went off to save the world as an A&E doctor. I was always ambivalent about having children, but assumed that was the kind of thing one did after growing up and getting married. Maybe two blonde kids like me and Harry, who would get into trouble on occasion but would generally appreciate the white picket fence life.

Joining the military was a bit of a last-minute decision, as a way to pay for medical school. I never anticipated getting shot. I didn’t expect to get shuffled back home to London, or to fall in with a mad consulting genius like Sherlock Holmes, and I DEFINITELY didn’t anticipate putting on a smart suit and a face mask on a random Wednesday in October and walking three blocks to go marry my male best mate in a park with half a dozen friends and family bidding us a socially distanced congratulations. The weather is gorgeous - couldn’t have asked for better - and I’M GETTING FUCKING MARRIED TO SHERLOCK HOLMES. I am the luckiest man alive.

This should feel like the end of an era, but it really doesn’t. Sherlock and I will continue to be “Sherlock&John” or “John&Sherlock” no matter what our legal marital status is, or what our last names are. (Watson-Holmes, as of this afternoon if all goes well.) I don’t have to lament my bachelorhood because I’m not giving anything up to marry him - I’m gaining so much more than I’m losing.

I need to head out in a few minutes so I’ll wrap this up here. There IS one semi-major change in the works - as I am no longer named John Watson, this blog will be moving from JohnWatson.co.uk to JohnWatson-Holmes.co.uk. I’m leaving the archives here for the time being, but it feels right for my new married life to be chronicled in a new place.

Wish me luck!

- John Watson(-Holmes)