(no subject)
Before I begin, I should like to thank Matt for giving me chocolate, Kate for giving me homemade sloe gin (x2!) and Spacedmonkey for sending Sherlock Holmes to visit. Without those three things I would have been a sorry wreck indeed.
Part I - the Consulting Detective.
Himself turned up when Delilah and I were hiding behind the curtains and slaying imaginary monsters. He joined in and was epically slain several times, dying very nicely.
He did very well all round apart from the occasional snigger or passing sarcasm and I had to sternly remind him monsters didn't know sarcasm and dead monsters most certainly didn't muffle snorts of amusement with their hats.
Delilah simply peeked out from behind the curtains and squealed, "There's another! Is alive! Need a sword!" and started it all off again. (Thankfully Louis helped clean up the gallons of spilt monster gore and sundry corpses.)
Strangely enough he sloped off somewhere when we had to watch Beauty and the Beast, lucky devil. Reappeared for tea. He is currently lounging on my bed being what he fondly imagines is satirical, but what the rest of the world just calls 'rude'. Despite this he seems to be perfectly happy.
When SH despises a film, he begins by swearing at it inventively.
I believe a phrase which may or may not have been 'cock-spittle' was directed at the screen.
After that he degenerates entirely into a derisive mumble of cant like a toothless old hack in a penny gaff who is bemoaning how this 'entertainment' is depriving him of decent drink...
Not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed my cant isn't half as good as Emmy's...
Commented cock-spittle and worse to 'Anonymous'.
Played the violin for a while and pottered about. Came into my room at about 4am and crashed on the bed. Then got up again, stole the last of my laudanum cough medicine, and crashed out fully-clothed on top of the duvet. He grabbed a corner, rolled over and started to snore. Thankfully I was too exhausted to care.
He remained unconscious, occasionally mumbling things that were both oddly apt and very surreal at intervals throughout the morning. He awoke at noon-ish, whereupon there was an argument about bathing. I gave him the choice of hot bath or freezing hosepipe. He snorted and made it clear thanks to his greater strength and marshal prowess I would not be able to get him under a hose. I raised my eyebrows and gave him the sort of blank 'so you think you're clever?' look I've been dishing out to Delilah rather a lot. "I'm very persistent. And yes, you're very kick arse. Lovely. Are you really telling me, you'd rather beat me up than have a hot bath?" Something flickered behind his eyes, changing attitude and expression in an instant. "Don't be obtuse. Do you have clean towels and a shaving kit?"
"You have a shaving kit in your bag. The towels are clean - as well you know, you saw me carry them up yesterday. And I'm going downstairs to make mince pies so you won't be interrupted. Have a bath."
He reappeared whilst I was cooking and quizzed me on my life and attitude. He said that these days I was saner and less interesting. I smiled queazily. "I thought I'd give sanity a shot." A further grimace. "Trouble is, if there was any poetic justice in the world I would now find my perfect vocation and my true love - as if my insanity was the only thing holding me back."
He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the cupboard beneath the sink. "He's dead," he said, in what for him was a gentle tone.
I know. And I'm pissed off that I can't talk to him any more.
You're talking to me, he pointed out reasonably.
You're not dead! I griped.
He looked slightly wounded, as if i'd pointed out a failing.
There was a tap on the french windows at 10. I ignored it. Two minutes later SH let himself in, hunched and shivering.
Where the hell have you been?
A diamond grin. Your local dear girl.
I managed not to utter the ravensbourne? as that would just have been silly.
The Cuckcoo Nest.
What? That's deralict!
He shrugged and shuffled to the fire, folding himself into the lee of the chimney-breast and holding his hands alarmingly close to the flames.
I've been typing this and he is dozing, slumped contentedly against the chimney.
I understand now how he is set alight so often.
when the fuck is witsuntide?
Part II - The Vanishing.
Benjamin had not appeared and Holmes had disappeared. I didn't immediately link these two happenstances.
Part III - Christmas.
Part I - the Consulting Detective.
Himself turned up when Delilah and I were hiding behind the curtains and slaying imaginary monsters. He joined in and was epically slain several times, dying very nicely.
He did very well all round apart from the occasional snigger or passing sarcasm and I had to sternly remind him monsters didn't know sarcasm and dead monsters most certainly didn't muffle snorts of amusement with their hats.
Delilah simply peeked out from behind the curtains and squealed, "There's another! Is alive! Need a sword!" and started it all off again. (Thankfully Louis helped clean up the gallons of spilt monster gore and sundry corpses.)
Strangely enough he sloped off somewhere when we had to watch Beauty and the Beast, lucky devil. Reappeared for tea. He is currently lounging on my bed being what he fondly imagines is satirical, but what the rest of the world just calls 'rude'. Despite this he seems to be perfectly happy.
When SH despises a film, he begins by swearing at it inventively.
I believe a phrase which may or may not have been 'cock-spittle' was directed at the screen.
After that he degenerates entirely into a derisive mumble of cant like a toothless old hack in a penny gaff who is bemoaning how this 'entertainment' is depriving him of decent drink...
Not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed my cant isn't half as good as Emmy's...
Commented cock-spittle and worse to 'Anonymous'.
Played the violin for a while and pottered about. Came into my room at about 4am and crashed on the bed. Then got up again, stole the last of my laudanum cough medicine, and crashed out fully-clothed on top of the duvet. He grabbed a corner, rolled over and started to snore. Thankfully I was too exhausted to care.
He remained unconscious, occasionally mumbling things that were both oddly apt and very surreal at intervals throughout the morning. He awoke at noon-ish, whereupon there was an argument about bathing. I gave him the choice of hot bath or freezing hosepipe. He snorted and made it clear thanks to his greater strength and marshal prowess I would not be able to get him under a hose. I raised my eyebrows and gave him the sort of blank 'so you think you're clever?' look I've been dishing out to Delilah rather a lot. "I'm very persistent. And yes, you're very kick arse. Lovely. Are you really telling me, you'd rather beat me up than have a hot bath?" Something flickered behind his eyes, changing attitude and expression in an instant. "Don't be obtuse. Do you have clean towels and a shaving kit?"
"You have a shaving kit in your bag. The towels are clean - as well you know, you saw me carry them up yesterday. And I'm going downstairs to make mince pies so you won't be interrupted. Have a bath."
He reappeared whilst I was cooking and quizzed me on my life and attitude. He said that these days I was saner and less interesting. I smiled queazily. "I thought I'd give sanity a shot." A further grimace. "Trouble is, if there was any poetic justice in the world I would now find my perfect vocation and my true love - as if my insanity was the only thing holding me back."
He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the cupboard beneath the sink. "He's dead," he said, in what for him was a gentle tone.
I know. And I'm pissed off that I can't talk to him any more.
You're talking to me, he pointed out reasonably.
You're not dead! I griped.
He looked slightly wounded, as if i'd pointed out a failing.
There was a tap on the french windows at 10. I ignored it. Two minutes later SH let himself in, hunched and shivering.
Where the hell have you been?
A diamond grin. Your local dear girl.
I managed not to utter the ravensbourne? as that would just have been silly.
The Cuckcoo Nest.
What? That's deralict!
He shrugged and shuffled to the fire, folding himself into the lee of the chimney-breast and holding his hands alarmingly close to the flames.
I've been typing this and he is dozing, slumped contentedly against the chimney.
I understand now how he is set alight so often.
when the fuck is witsuntide?
Part II - The Vanishing.
Benjamin had not appeared and Holmes had disappeared. I didn't immediately link these two happenstances.
Part III - Christmas.