XXXI: London 2012, Part One

Arrived early this morning.

But let me go back a bit and point out that we started out in San Francisco, then spent a night in Boston at the Taj Hotel:

Jim is our ward; we're bringing him back to London
for prosecution on various crimes.

It was a king size bed, but put The American in with us, and it got cozy.

We managed to make it work. And then we flew to London and came to the flat in Eccleston Square. You can guess where John went first:

A lot of books, but none of them are interesting:

History and decorating, not a single one
about violent criminals.

I don't know what he's doing, and I don't
particularly care so long as he stays put.

So here we are then.

(Why are you always asking why you have to be in the middle, John? I don't know what you're talking about. Go have another drink.)

Oh, yes, and her.

She went to the supermarket. She'd never gone to a British supermarket before. I leave you to imagine how that went.

We did go out for a bit this afternoon, the weather being so nice. Just started walking, ended up on Victoria Street:

Then went on to Westminster Abbey. She didn't bother going inside, just sat on the grass with the pigeons.

Westminster Abbey, March 2012

And of course there's the clock:

Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside.

As if there aren't already a million plus pictures of it. As if no one has ever seen a big clock tower before.

(Yes, John, I do find it aggravating. Why do we need another picture of the goddamn clock? No, I don't want a drink.)

And then we rode on the London Eye, had ice cream, and—it being five o'clock by that time—we chose to avoid the tube and walk back to the flat.

Notice, however, she took no pictures of us. Jim stayed locked in the flat, and John and I stayed in her bag. She says it's because of the crowds and there being no good, safe place to stop for pictures, but—

(All right, John, fine. Pour me a drink if it will make you feel better.)

I've made her promise to take us out tomorrow if the weather is dry. She can't write forever, after all.


XXX: John. Finally.

The American and I arrived in San Francisco almost two weeks ago. I was expecting John shortly thereafter, but as previous entries here show, he was waylaid.

He did arrive today, finally, in a sarcophagus of sorts and wrapped in plastic besides. I thought Moriarty would be with him, but the villain had clearly made good his escape prior. Not surprising, but the idea that he was loose irked me.

He was nice enough to send along some of my things, though. My heavier coat, a shirt, and my death Frisbee (which John insists on calling a deerstalker).

Just a bit late on the coat, mind. It's spring already. Though I've been known to wear it even in summer because I look so damn good in it. And it's not that hot yet. I am, that is, but the weather isn't.

(Yes, John, that was me being funny. But you only seem to think I'm funny when I don't mean to be.)

Meanwhile, beware of evildoers bearing, well, bears:

But at least we have a good photo to work from.

I showed John around the place, and we discussed our options for capturing dear Jim.

Ever get the feeling . . . ?

There are plants here. John will have to tend them, since I'll forget and then they will die.

One only needs a deerstalker when stalking deer.
(John has pointed out these plants are plastic and therefore need no watering. So much the better.)

We had some coffee . . . They drink a lot of that here.

And then . . .

No, I was not planning a "romantic candlelit dinner."

End game. For now. Though it's almost more fun when he's out and about.

I'm letting John keep the bear.

Special thanks to Lynn S. Beaver, my second mom and supplier of Sherlock-inspired dolls.


XXIX: Some Things I Could Do Without

Like this.

Although the thought his head might actually have been separated from his body holds a certain amount of appeal.

XXVIII: Agitation

John was supposed to meet us in San Francisco. Instead I've received the following picture:

Along with a couple text messages:


"I think John looks good in scarlet. Don't you?"

Doesn't take any amount of brain work to figure this out. Just wish he'd put some effort into it. Poor John must be bored to tears by him. And it's not as if I don't already have enough to do.


XXVII: Moving

They descended on the house and began boxing things yesterday.

I managed not to end up in a box. Instead, I was taken out to the car . . .

Not that much more comfortable than a box, really. Although maybe for her.

Not even our car, the one she named after me, because that one had been taken away already. So this one is just some hire.

There goes my namesake. And the one the kids call "Moriarty."
Those children are evil, more so even than most.

More comfortable now, thank you.

Fine then. With everything packed away, we spent the night in a hotel. It has, of all things, a basketball court . . .

You want me to throw it where, exactly?

. . . And at least one or two almost interesting guests. After all, I do need to pass the time.

I know what you're thinking, John,
and the answer is no.

We fly tomorrow.