#anintricateanalysis

He is pretty cute, isn’t he.  

We’re all well.  We went over to George and Linda’s so Willa could play with Olivia today, and just got back.  Now I’m making our supper.  Just some soup and sandwiches.  We had a good lunch at George and Linda’s, so no one is all that hungry.

Hello.  We are doing well.  I do believe that Spring is finally here, and it has been perfect weather for working in the garden.  I got the beds tilled up and the lawn raked, and cut, and we’re going to the garden centre tomorrow to get some annuals, and some perennials to replace some that are looking as though they’re on the way out after the winter.

The best thing about Spring is Watson and Ada having the opportunity to be outside more.  They run off all their energy, and fall asleep early, which means that Sherlock and I have been having more time to ourselves in the evenings, something I think we both have needed.

As for the bees, Sherlock is beside himself.  There are beekeeping books everywhere, and if ever I can’t find him I can usually find him out at the hives.  I think he’s double, triple and quadruple checked them.  He’s a bit like a kid at Christmas.  It makes me happy to see him so excited about something.  It’s a bit like when he used to get a serial killer case in the old days.  Same level of energy and anticipation, but a lot less grim.

Hard to limit it to just one, so I’m going to give you two:

His honesty.

The way he loves.

He’s more human than anyone I know.  And once it became safe for him to be honest and to love openly, he did and does it so beautifully.  Feels like a miracle to have him in my life sometimes.  

You’ve always seen me, you’ve always shown me to myself, whether I liked it or not, and you keep doing it, even when my reactions aren’t ideal, even when I give you every signal to stop.

Guess that could be considered a bit not good, that.  Probably is.  But it’s my fault, I know, because I tell you no, but I don’t mean it, and that’s not fair to you.  It’s not honest.  It’s not true.  It’s not loving, is it.  I’m sorry.  I need to get better at recognizing what I need, and verbalising that, and I don’t know why, but that’s still the hardest thing for me.

So thank you for reading me and understanding me, even when I don’t understand myself.  Thank you for being patient with me, when I continue to make things so unnecessarily hard between us.

I don’t mean to be the way I was with you today.  I hate it really.  In those moments when I lose my patience, snap, shout, have to walk away, I hate myself, because I am being the very opposite of the way I want to be with you.  

You deserve so much, Sherlock.  You deserve so much tenderness, so much kindness, so much love.  I wish I was the kind of man who could give you all your deserve.  I’m not.  I’ll likely never be.  But for some reason you still love me, and you are satisfied with the crumbs I am capable of giving.  

I don’t know what kind of man it makes me that I’m relieved by that.  A very selfish one, no doubt.  Don’t know what I would do without you, I just don’t.  I tried that--life without you.  I hated every breath of it.  It was a half-life.

Therapy is hard these days, Love.  I’m not going to lie.  I feel like I’m walking in circles, and if I do get anywhere with it, it’s just two steps back.  I balk against everything my therapist says, and he’s a decent bloke, so I don’t imagine that’s his fault.  

He’s had a lot of good things to say, but I find myself just dismissing it all, out of hand, because it I can’t face it for some reason.  I can’t bear to sit with it.  Talking about my dad feels like blaming to me, feels like me trying to make excuses for my own failings.  Talking about Mary seems odd, like a dream, another life.  Talking about you and Watson seems wrong somehow, like I want to keep what we have private and safe.

I just come away from therapy angry, and then I come home and take that out on you.  Fuck that!  I don’t want that, Sherlock.

Thank you for knowing what I needed today, for coming after me.  I know we have a rule that when I go off on my own you let me be, and it’s a good rule.  It’s been working for us, but I did need you to come after me today.  I needed you to hold me, and let me cry and get all that out.  And I know I shouldn’t be getting it out with you, I know I should be doing that in therapy.  It’s not your job to be that for me.  But--you just feel safe in ways I don’t quite understand.  

I always thought I loved you because you were dangerous.  But now I think that I was attracted to you because you felt dangerous, but I love you because you feel safe.  Don’t know if that makes sense.  It hardly makes sense to me.  But you were my safe place to fall today, Sherlock (and have been so many times this last year or so), so thank you for that.

We are all quite well.  Decided to sit tight, and not try to go to Friston until Monday.  The roads just aren’t safe.

Ta.  I have a feeling that Cat may be an escapee who somehow evaded the fate of his siblings.  He was all tangled in the brambles, wet, and coated with mud, and there was a pond nearby.  You know how it is in the country sometimes.  People do what they feel they have to to get rid of unwanted litters.  Christ, I hope that isn’t the case here, but the evidence seems to suggest it, and people can be funny about black cats, too.

He’s such a good cat, though.  Just won’t leave my side.  He’s currently curled up on the pillows, between Sherlock and me, sound asleep, and a little while ago he was prowling about the bed, pouncing on my toes moving under the blankets, and then kneading my belly.  

He gets along well with Ada and Watson, too.  Watson is just smitten.  She keeps asking to pet him, and when I can get him off my shoulder, he seems to like it.