a-cumberbatch-of-cookies: darthstitch: The Tumblr Crackficlets Headcanon - Gran Of course, John Watson knew the stories about his Grandma Peggy or just “Gran,” as all the grandchildren called her.  She was a tough, no-nonsense woman who actually saw action during World War II and there was that whole story about her work for the SIS and the Strategic Scientific Reserve that everyone was strongly encouraged not to talk about.  But as a boy, John would sit and listen to her telling the stories about the Yanks she’d ended up fighting alongside and he giggled at the antics of the ones she called the “Howling Commandos.” She had pictures of some of these men.  John’s favorite was of the one she called “Steve” because he was, like John, small and slight and didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a “tough guy,” as Gran put it.  But according to Gran, he was the strongest and bravest of them all.  But she’d also tell him about how she met Granpoppy, who was an Army doctor during that terrible war and he’d see those dark brown eyes soften and she’d always say, “He brought the smiles and the laughter back to me again, Johnny-darling - he was such a funny man, your Granpoppy.  And recklessly brave too, though he’d tell me I’d no right to scold him for that, as I was as bad as he was.”  John never had the chance to know this man and perhaps he wouldn’t have known anything about his Grandfather the Army doctor at all, if his Dad had his way.  John’s father, for some reason, always hated it when Gran would tell stories about the war.  John vaguely remembers or thinks he’s simply dreamed, an argument between his Gran and his Dad, once.  Dad had been at the drink again and that always rendered him in a foul temper. “It’s because I’m not his son!  And you always wanted me to be, instead of being my Father’s boy!” He’d shouted.  Gran had slapped him and her eyes were blazing with both anger and disappointment.  “I loved your father.  I always will.  And if I’m disappointed in you now, it’s because you won’t even try to be half the man he was and has absolutely nothing to do with a man who’s been dead long before you were even born!”  His Dad said nothing after that and John does not remember this but he had, in fact, toddled towards his Gran, not wanting his Dad to shout at her anymore.  It was Gran who had shushed him, kissed his brow and put him back to sleep.   Gran had been many things - she had been stories and hugs and delicious biscuits and she made the best hot cocoa in the whole world.  It was Gran who also put a gun in John’s hands. He was twelve years old.  And he’d declared to one and all that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up like his Gran and a doctor like his Granpoppy.  She’d been a strict teacher.  This was a weapon, not a toy.  And if her grandson wanted to put himself in harm’s way because he wanted to genuinely help people, then by God, Peggy Carter Watson would not have him be defenseless.  So she taught him how to shoot, how to fight and how to survive and John, after seeing his Gran’s marksmanship skills even at her advanced age, made not a single complaint but listened to every single blessed word and then some.  “You are coming home to us, John Hamish Watson and you are coming home to us alive, do you understand me?” Gran had told him sternly and John knew an order when he heard one so he said “Yes, ma’am” as quick as you please.  His beloved Gran had lived long enough to see her grandson in uniform and long enough to see him come home, from his first posting, safe and sound.  And when he invited his Gran to a dance, because she’d made him promise that he’d dance with his Gran the first time he made it home, the look of joy on her face was something he’d never forget for as long as he lived. *** Note:  John had to inherit his Mad Shooting Skillz from somewhere, right?  PICTURE SOURCE: Katiescaps at LJ for the Peggy Carter Screencap Aithine dot Org for the John Watson Screencap Oh my god. My heart can’t take this.
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a-cumberbatch-of-cookies: darthstitch: The Tumblr Crackficlets Headcanon - Gran Of course, John Watson knew the stories about his Grandma Peggy or just “Gran,” as all the grandchildren called her.  She was a tough, no-nonsense woman who actually saw action during World War II and there was that whole story about her work for the SIS and the Strategic Scientific Reserve that everyone was strongly encouraged not to talk about.  But as a boy, John would sit and listen to her telling the stories about the Yanks she’d ended up fighting alongside and he giggled at the antics of the ones she called the “Howling Commandos.” She had pictures of some of these men.  John’s favorite was of the one she called “Steve” because he was, like John, small and slight and didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a “tough guy,” as Gran put it.  But according to Gran, he was the strongest and bravest of them all.  But she’d also tell him about how she met Granpoppy, who was an Army doctor during that terrible war and he’d see those dark brown eyes soften and she’d always say, “He brought the smiles and the laughter back to me again, Johnny-darling - he was such a funny man, your Granpoppy.  And recklessly brave too, though he’d tell me I’d no right to scold him for that, as I was as bad as he was.”  John never had the chance to know this man and perhaps he wouldn’t have known anything about his Grandfather the Army doctor at all, if his Dad had his way.  John’s father, for some reason, always hated it when Gran would tell stories about the war.  John vaguely remembers or thinks he’s simply dreamed, an argument between his Gran and his Dad, once.  Dad had been at the drink again and that always rendered him in a foul temper. “It’s because I’m not his son!  And you always wanted me to be, instead of being my Father’s boy!” He’d shouted.  Gran had slapped him and her eyes were blazing with both anger and disappointment.  “I loved your father.  I always will.  And if I’m disappointed in you now, it’s because you won’t even try to be half the man he was and has absolutely nothing to do with a man who’s been dead long before you were even born!”  His Dad said nothing after that and John does not remember this but he had, in fact, toddled towards his Gran, not wanting his Dad to shout at her anymore.  It was Gran who had shushed him, kissed his brow and put him back to sleep.   Gran had been many things - she had been stories and hugs and delicious biscuits and she made the best hot cocoa in the whole world.  It was Gran who also put a gun in John’s hands. He was twelve years old.  And he’d declared to one and all that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up like his Gran and a doctor like his Granpoppy.  She’d been a strict teacher.  This was a weapon, not a toy.  And if her grandson wanted to put himself in harm’s way because he wanted to genuinely help people, then by God, Peggy Carter Watson would not have him be defenseless.  So she taught him how to shoot, how to fight and how to survive and John, after seeing his Gran’s marksmanship skills even at her advanced age, made not a single complaint but listened to every single blessed word and then some.  “You are coming home to us, John Hamish Watson and you are coming home to us alive, do you understand me?” Gran had told him sternly and John knew an order when he heard one so he said “Yes, ma’am” as quick as you please.  His beloved Gran had lived long enough to see her grandson in uniform and long enough to see him come home, from his first posting, safe and sound.  And when he invited his Gran to a dance, because she’d made him promise that he’d dance with his Gran the first time he made it home, the look of joy on her face was something he’d never forget for as long as he lived. *** Note:  John had to inherit his Mad Shooting Skillz from somewhere, right?  PICTURE SOURCE: Katiescaps at LJ for the Peggy Carter Screencap Aithine dot Org for the John Watson Screencap Oh my god. My heart can’t take this.
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a-cumberbatch-of-cookies:

darthstitch:

The Tumblr Crackficlets Headcanon - Gran

Of course, John Watson knew the stories about his Grandma Peggy or just “Gran,” as all the grandchildren called her. 

She was a tough, no-nonsense woman who actually saw action during World War II and there was that whole story about her work for the SIS and the Strategic Scientific Reserve that everyone was strongly encouraged not to talk about.  But as a boy, John would sit and listen to her telling the stories about the Yanks she’d ended up fighting alongside and he giggled at the antics of the ones she called the “Howling Commandos.”

She had pictures of some of these men.  John’s favorite was of the one she called “Steve” because he was, like John, small and slight and didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a “tough guy,” as Gran put it.  But according to Gran, he was the strongest and bravest of them all. 

But she’d also tell him about how she met Granpoppy, who was an Army doctor during that terrible war and he’d see those dark brown eyes soften and she’d always say, “He brought the smiles and the laughter back to me again, Johnny-darling - he was such a funny man, your Granpoppy.  And recklessly brave too, though he’d tell me I’d no right to scold him for that, as I was as bad as he was.” 

John never had the chance to know this man and perhaps he wouldn’t have known anything about his Grandfather the Army doctor at all, if his Dad had his way.  John’s father, for some reason, always hated it when Gran would tell stories about the war. 

John vaguely remembers or thinks he’s simply dreamed, an argument between his Gran and his Dad, once.  Dad had been at the drink again and that always rendered him in a foul temper.

“It’s because I’m not his son!  And you always wanted me to be, instead of being my Father’s boy!” He’d shouted. 

Gran had slapped him and her eyes were blazing with both anger and disappointment.  “I loved your father.  I always will.  And if I’m disappointed in you now, it’s because you won’t even try to be half the man he was and has absolutely nothing to do with a man who’s been dead long before you were even born!” 

His Dad said nothing after that and John does not remember this but he had, in fact, toddled towards his Gran, not wanting his Dad to shout at her anymore.  It was Gran who had shushed him, kissed his brow and put him back to sleep.  

Gran had been many things - she had been stories and hugs and delicious biscuits and she made the best hot cocoa in the whole world. 

It was Gran who also put a gun in John’s hands.

He was twelve years old.  And he’d declared to one and all that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up like his Gran and a doctor like his Granpoppy. 

She’d been a strict teacher.  This was a weapon, not a toy.  And if her grandson wanted to put himself in harm’s way because he wanted to genuinely help people, then by God, Peggy Carter Watson would not have him be defenseless. 

So she taught him how to shoot, how to fight and how to survive and John, after seeing his Gran’s marksmanship skills even at her advanced age, made not a single complaint but listened to every single blessed word and then some. 

“You are coming home to us, John Hamish Watson and you are coming home to us alive, do you understand me?” Gran had told him sternly and John knew an order when he heard one so he said “Yes, ma’am” as quick as you please. 

His beloved Gran had lived long enough to see her grandson in uniform and long enough to see him come home, from his first posting, safe and sound.  And when he invited his Gran to a dance, because she’d made him promise that he’d dance with his Gran the first time he made it home, the look of joy on her face was something he’d never forget for as long as he lived.

***

Note:  John had to inherit his Mad Shooting Skillz from somewhere, right? 

PICTURE SOURCE:

Katiescaps at LJ for the Peggy Carter Screencap

Aithine dot Org for the John Watson Screencap

Oh my god. My heart can’t take this.

(via ayantiel)

Source: darthstitch

  • 68,744 Plays
  • Sherlock & Jawn Get It On!SherlockH0rnyHolmes

sherlockh0rnyholmes:

*This is NSFW! Put some headphones on to avoid embarrassment*
So this is the little treat I have been talking about! :D Think of it as, ‘Audio Sherlock Porn.’

I tried my best to get rid of the background noise, and add a little story to it as well :D I promise you that I ONLY used audio from the TV series, no extra audio has been added, what so ever!

And here is the download link that people have been asking for: http://www.mediafire.com/?8saj29bv4qwb5ud

Enjoy!! <3


Sherlock & Jawn Get It On!

- In 221B

“I looked you up on the internet last night. Found your website.”

“What did you think? Any good?”

“Very good.”

“What to see some more?”

“Oh god yes.”

*Undoes pants. John starts inserting..his.. into.. Sherlock.*

“You doing it?

“Yes”

“You done it?”

“Yeah, hang on!”

*Sherlock and John get at it!*

“yes….careful!……….Oh, John”…….”YES!”…..”OH GOD!!”……………

“Ahhh Sherlock…”

“Please come.”

*They finish up.*

“You ok?”

“Me, yeah, fine..I’m fine..fine….

That, ah…thing, that you, ah.. that you did with, um… that was, umm….. good.

But I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

(via diningwiththeasquiths)

Source: sherlockh0rnyholmes

pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
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pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
Zoom Info
pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
Zoom Info
pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
Zoom Info
pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
Zoom Info
pati79: thisblogismynote: BBC Sherlock —&gt; Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.  (The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle) It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.  John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.  Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.  The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.  “Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.” Can this happen?
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pati79:

thisblogismynote:

BBC Sherlock —> Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university. 

(The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle)

It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched. 

John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over. 

Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals. 

The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting  in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness. 

“Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.”

Can this happen?

(via moon-cookie)

Source: thisblogismynote

theinsultingdetective: When someone passes, they leave behind a thousand tiny unfinished things; half-full cans of beans, coffee rings, receipts and shampoo bottles and hair in the shower drain, a bedroom light left on, a sock in the back of the washer, the slightly irritating debris of everyday life.  Sherlock is no different, except as well as all the normal relics there are other things, ridiculous things, cultures and test tubes and unidentified petri dishes that John has no idea what to do with. Somehow these things become offensive to him. He is reminded of a documentary he once watched on the Mary Celeste, a ship from the 1800s that was found floating unmanned on the ocean  with everything from meals to half-finished sewing left exactly in place, as if every passenger stood up as one and threw themselves overboard. He feels a stranger in his own shared space. He’d never really realised before how much room Sherlock took up; his clutter blankets the living room and kitchen (his bedroom is pristine), a hundred surfaces that John cannot touch because Sherlock has already claimed them. Once he tries to find somewhere to put his tea and can’t find an available surface; he yells for Sherlock to come and shift some of his rubbish, and when there is no answer he is enraged— not because Sherlock is gone, but because he just left, and he could have at least cleaned up his mess before he threw himself off a roof. Before he can stop to think he has grabbed a bin bag and started throwing things in—wrappers and Rubix cubes and sheet music, a half-eaten biscuit, a glass he couldn’t bear to wash because it bore his fingerprint, all of the little signs that tell him that Sherlock will be back any moment, because they’re lying. He straightens Sherlock’s unmade bed, switches off the bathroom light that has been burning for god knows how long, clears the table, throws out the dirty washing (he could wash it, give it to charity, but the idea of someone else wearing Sherlock’s clothes makes him ill) and finally he stands barefoot in the living room with three bulging black bags at his feet, breathing hard and fighting back tears. Of all the things in the flat it is the empty chair opposite that stops him. For a wild moment he feels like throwing that away, too; like breaking off the legs and ripping open the cushions and tearing out the stuffing, burning it in a disused lot somewhere and scattering the ashes. But he doesn’t.  Instead he realises that it’s pointless. He could rip up the carpet, tear down the wallpaper, leave nothing but a scarred and empty room and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. The flat is no longer his. It’s Sherlock’s, probably always has been, and if he got rid of the chair where would Sherlock sit? Why would you write that.
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theinsultingdetective: When someone passes, they leave behind a thousand tiny unfinished things; half-full cans of beans, coffee rings, receipts and shampoo bottles and hair in the shower drain, a bedroom light left on, a sock in the back of the washer, the slightly irritating debris of everyday life.  Sherlock is no different, except as well as all the normal relics there are other things, ridiculous things, cultures and test tubes and unidentified petri dishes that John has no idea what to do with. Somehow these things become offensive to him. He is reminded of a documentary he once watched on the Mary Celeste, a ship from the 1800s that was found floating unmanned on the ocean  with everything from meals to half-finished sewing left exactly in place, as if every passenger stood up as one and threw themselves overboard. He feels a stranger in his own shared space. He’d never really realised before how much room Sherlock took up; his clutter blankets the living room and kitchen (his bedroom is pristine), a hundred surfaces that John cannot touch because Sherlock has already claimed them. Once he tries to find somewhere to put his tea and can’t find an available surface; he yells for Sherlock to come and shift some of his rubbish, and when there is no answer he is enraged— not because Sherlock is gone, but because he just left, and he could have at least cleaned up his mess before he threw himself off a roof. Before he can stop to think he has grabbed a bin bag and started throwing things in—wrappers and Rubix cubes and sheet music, a half-eaten biscuit, a glass he couldn’t bear to wash because it bore his fingerprint, all of the little signs that tell him that Sherlock will be back any moment, because they’re lying. He straightens Sherlock’s unmade bed, switches off the bathroom light that has been burning for god knows how long, clears the table, throws out the dirty washing (he could wash it, give it to charity, but the idea of someone else wearing Sherlock’s clothes makes him ill) and finally he stands barefoot in the living room with three bulging black bags at his feet, breathing hard and fighting back tears. Of all the things in the flat it is the empty chair opposite that stops him. For a wild moment he feels like throwing that away, too; like breaking off the legs and ripping open the cushions and tearing out the stuffing, burning it in a disused lot somewhere and scattering the ashes. But he doesn’t.  Instead he realises that it’s pointless. He could rip up the carpet, tear down the wallpaper, leave nothing but a scarred and empty room and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. The flat is no longer his. It’s Sherlock’s, probably always has been, and if he got rid of the chair where would Sherlock sit? Why would you write that.
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theinsultingdetective:

When someone passes, they leave behind a thousand tiny unfinished things; half-full cans of beans, coffee rings, receipts and shampoo bottles and hair in the shower drain, a bedroom light left on, a sock in the back of the washer, the slightly irritating debris of everyday life.  Sherlock is no different, except as well as all the normal relics there are other things, ridiculous things, cultures and test tubes and unidentified petri dishes that John has no idea what to do with.

Somehow these things become offensive to him. He is reminded of a documentary he once watched on the Mary Celeste, a ship from the 1800s that was found floating unmanned on the ocean  with everything from meals to half-finished sewing left exactly in place, as if every passenger stood up as one and threw themselves overboard. He feels a stranger in his own shared space. He’d never really realised before how much room Sherlock took up; his clutter blankets the living room and kitchen (his bedroom is pristine), a hundred surfaces that John cannot touch because Sherlock has already claimed them.

Once he tries to find somewhere to put his tea and can’t find an available surface; he yells for Sherlock to come and shift some of his rubbish, and when there is no answer he is enraged— not because Sherlock is gone, but because he just left, and he could have at least cleaned up his mess before he threw himself off a roof. Before he can stop to think he has grabbed a bin bag and started throwing things in—wrappers and Rubix cubes and sheet music, a half-eaten biscuit, a glass he couldn’t bear to wash because it bore his fingerprint, all of the little signs that tell him that Sherlock will be back any moment, because they’re lying. He straightens Sherlock’s unmade bed, switches off the bathroom light that has been burning for god knows how long, clears the table, throws out the dirty washing (he could wash it, give it to charity, but the idea of someone else wearing Sherlock’s clothes makes him ill) and finally he stands barefoot in the living room with three bulging black bags at his feet, breathing hard and fighting back tears. Of all the things in the flat it is the empty chair opposite that stops him. For a wild moment he feels like throwing that away, too; like breaking off the legs and ripping open the cushions and tearing out the stuffing, burning it in a disused lot somewhere and scattering the ashes. But he doesn’t.  Instead he realises that it’s pointless. He could rip up the carpet, tear down the wallpaper, leave nothing but a scarred and empty room and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. The flat is no longer his. It’s Sherlock’s, probably always has been, and if he got rid of the chair where would Sherlock sit?

Why would you write that.

(via consulting-ood)

Source: sherlockspeare

ihavebeensherlocked: A follow up to this art/ficlet. I’m sorry. Also a lot longer than I’d intended. Wish I could do readmores with Photos :| After the funeral, John shares a taxi back to Baker Street with a sniffling Mrs. Hudson, but still insists he can’t go up to the flat, despite her tearful pleas and promises of biscuits. The first three weeks after are the worst for him. He gets calls every day, not always the same people, but a regular enough rotation that he quickly works out a pattern. Lestrade phones every Friday evening to ask him out for a pint. John accepted on the second invitation, but after a night of awkward, stilted conversation Lestrade does not invite him again. He still calls John and tells him mostly about the mountain of paperwork Anderson and Donovan are having to work through, and John doesn’t hang up, but he doesn’t really listen either. Harry calls every Tuesday and Saturday night. He answers on Tuesdays and lets her talk to him about Clara, but he never picks up on Saturday nights. Mycroft calls once, from a phone in a coffee house he was sitting in. John tells the server no, he does not want to accept the call, and sits and looks at the black car outside for nearly two hours before it drives away. He calls Mrs. Hudson every Sunday afternoon. He worries about her, and feels guilty that he hasn’t helped her with the flat. She hasn’t asked again if he’ll come back, doesn’t mention 221b at all, actually, which he’s grateful for. They make idle chit-chat about nothing in particular, but it’s the most comfortable thing John’s found since….since. —— A month Since, he gets a call on a Wednesday afternoon while he’s at the surgery. He feels the phone buzz in his pocket as he’s inspecting a young girl with what he’s now sure is an ear infection (poor mother doesn’t look like she’s slept properly in days) and lets it ring out (because it’s not him calling him and there’s no one else he would have put work aside for). Once he’s written a prescription for the girl and sent her and the tired mother away with a sympathetic look, he digs his phone back and feels a brief stab of guilt when he sees it was Mrs. Hudson who had try to call. He dials her back then, at this point worried that she’s calling when she knows he’s at work.  She’s started packing more of Sherlock’s things, she tells him, and he tightens his grip on the phone and he’s sure he knows that she’ll ask him to help again. And he knows he should, there are too many dangerous objects, a hundred different things in the kitchen alone for an old woman to handle by herself. He begins to mentally resolve himself to going back to at least help clean out the body parts. His breath catches when instead she tells him she needs help with Sherlock’s wardrobe. She knows John had stopped by the flat before the funeral to pack up his own clothing and essentials, so she’s confused to have found so many of what she had thought were John’s jumpers mixed in with Sherlock’s clothing and would he be a dear and help sort it out? Only she doesn’t want to risk donating one of John’s jumpers by mistake. He finds his breath again and manages to murmur something about being over soon. He makes his excuses to Sarah who still only looks at him sadly and leaves the surgery early for the day. His taxi ride to Baker Street is spent in a daze, and his hand is trembling where it rests on his knee. He feels a twinge there, in his knee, and begins to worry that his limp actually is returning. —- Mrs. Hudson greets him outside of Speedy’s and ushers him up the stairs and she’s saying something to him, but his head is buzzing and he’s trying not to look anywhere except his feet and it hurts to be here, to feel this raw again and he’s not ready for this after all. But she’s steering him through the kitchen now, back to Sherlock’s room. He stops in the doorway and tries to reassure her that he’ll be fine by himself and her face scrunches up for a bare second and then falls slack again when she sees the pain on John’s face. She leaves him. John stands there a moment, taking in Sherlock’s room again. The green damask wallpaper. The posters on the wall that he quietly laughed at the first time he saw them (he teased Sherlock for thinking Poe was a heart throb for far longer than he would have though Sherlock could tolerate).  He breathes in the air that is Sherlock, breathes in what is left of him here and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed before his legs can give up on him. The closet door is open and John can tell where Mrs. Hudson has disturbed the clothing and sure enough, John can see the sleeve of at least one of his jumpers. He’ll go over and sort through clothes soon, but he still needs a moment.As he sits there, his hands have begun to smooth out the sheets on the bed, and he encounters a lump under the bedding that won’t be pressed down. He pulls back the sheets and sees the familiar purple of Sherlock’s favorite shirt, wadded up and now hopelessly wrinkled. His hands are shaking more than ever as he brings the shirt close to him, rubbing the familiar fabric between his fingers. A choked sound escapes his throat as he raises the shirt to his face and he buries his nose in it, and he thinks Yes Yes Yes because it’s Sherlock’s scent, so perfectly there, so strong and he forgets for a moment that he’s sitting by himself and Sherlock is not spread out on the bed behind him, his feet resting against John’s back as he recites the properties of one thing or other. ———- Mrs. Hudson thanks him later for packing up all of Sherlock’s clothing for her, and for taking it with him in one large box. She assumes he’s donating it. He smiles at her reassuringly and says little because he’s still trying not to start shaking again. The box is clutched in both of his hands, well sealed with lots of packing tape and John will not let go of it, even in the cab back to Sarah’s flat. Later, John transfers the clothing from the moving box that smells too strongly of cardboard and will mold easily with the slightest bit of damp, and into a new plastic bin that slides easily under his bed. For weeks John Watson has the pleasure of being able to open the lid of that box and inhaling the familiar smell of Sherlock Holmes. On the bad days, or when he wakes from a particularly violent nightmare, he carefully selects a shirt from the box and sleeps with it pressed to his face. But despite his careful rationing and efforts to open the box of clothing as little as possible, the smell of Sherlock slowly fades to nothing.
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ihavebeensherlocked:

A follow up to this art/ficlet. I’m sorry. Also a lot longer than I’d intended. Wish I could do readmores with Photos :|

After the funeral, John shares a taxi back to Baker Street with a sniffling Mrs. Hudson, but still insists he can’t go up to the flat, despite her tearful pleas and promises of biscuits.

The first three weeks after are the worst for him. He gets calls every day, not always the same people, but a regular enough rotation that he quickly works out a pattern.

Lestrade phones every Friday evening to ask him out for a pint. John accepted on the second invitation, but after a night of awkward, stilted conversation Lestrade does not invite him again. He still calls John and tells him mostly about the mountain of paperwork Anderson and Donovan are having to work through, and John doesn’t hang up, but he doesn’t really listen either.

Harry calls every Tuesday and Saturday night. He answers on Tuesdays and lets her talk to him about Clara, but he never picks up on Saturday nights.

Mycroft calls once, from a phone in a coffee house he was sitting in. John tells the server no, he does not want to accept the call, and sits and looks at the black car outside for nearly two hours before it drives away.

He calls Mrs. Hudson every Sunday afternoon. He worries about her, and feels guilty that he hasn’t helped her with the flat. She hasn’t asked again if he’ll come back, doesn’t mention 221b at all, actually, which he’s grateful for. They make idle chit-chat about nothing in particular, but it’s the most comfortable thing John’s found since….since.

——

A month Since, he gets a call on a Wednesday afternoon while he’s at the surgery. He feels the phone buzz in his pocket as he’s inspecting a young girl with what he’s now sure is an ear infection (poor mother doesn’t look like she’s slept properly in days) and lets it ring out (because it’s not him calling him and there’s no one else he would have put work aside for).

Once he’s written a prescription for the girl and sent her and the tired mother away with a sympathetic look, he digs his phone back and feels a brief stab of guilt when he sees it was Mrs. Hudson who had try to call. He dials her back then, at this point worried that she’s calling when she knows he’s at work. 

She’s started packing more of Sherlock’s things, she tells him, and he tightens his grip on the phone and he’s sure he knows that she’ll ask him to help again. And he knows he should, there are too many dangerous objects, a hundred different things in the kitchen alone for an old woman to handle by herself. He begins to mentally resolve himself to going back to at least help clean out the body parts.

His breath catches when instead she tells him she needs help with Sherlock’s wardrobe. She knows John had stopped by the flat before the funeral to pack up his own clothing and essentials, so she’s confused to have found so many of what she had thought were John’s jumpers mixed in with Sherlock’s clothing and would he be a dear and help sort it out? Only she doesn’t want to risk donating one of John’s jumpers by mistake.

He finds his breath again and manages to murmur something about being over soon. He makes his excuses to Sarah who still only looks at him sadly and leaves the surgery early for the day. His taxi ride to Baker Street is spent in a daze, and his hand is trembling where it rests on his knee. He feels a twinge there, in his knee, and begins to worry that his limp actually is returning.

—-

Mrs. Hudson greets him outside of Speedy’s and ushers him up the stairs and she’s saying something to him, but his head is buzzing and he’s trying not to look anywhere except his feet and it hurts to be here, to feel this raw again and he’s not ready for this after all.

But she’s steering him through the kitchen now, back to Sherlock’s room. He stops in the doorway and tries to reassure her that he’ll be fine by himself and her face scrunches up for a bare second and then falls slack again when she sees the pain on John’s face. She leaves him.

John stands there a moment, taking in Sherlock’s room again. The green damask wallpaper. The posters on the wall that he quietly laughed at the first time he saw them (he teased Sherlock for thinking Poe was a heart throb for far longer than he would have though Sherlock could tolerate). 

He breathes in the air that is Sherlock, breathes in what is left of him here and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed before his legs can give up on him. The closet door is open and John can tell where Mrs. Hudson has disturbed the clothing and sure enough, John can see the sleeve of at least one of his jumpers. He’ll go over and sort through clothes soon, but he still needs a moment.

As he sits there, his hands have begun to smooth out the sheets on the bed, and he encounters a lump under the bedding that won’t be pressed down. He pulls back the sheets and sees the familiar purple of Sherlock’s favorite shirt, wadded up and now hopelessly wrinkled.

His hands are shaking more than ever as he brings the shirt close to him, rubbing the familiar fabric between his fingers. A choked sound escapes his throat as he raises the shirt to his face and he buries his nose in it, and he thinks Yes Yes Yes because it’s Sherlock’s scent, so perfectly there, so strong and he forgets for a moment that he’s sitting by himself and Sherlock is not spread out on the bed behind him, his feet resting against John’s back as he recites the properties of one thing or other.

———-

Mrs. Hudson thanks him later for packing up all of Sherlock’s clothing for her, and for taking it with him in one large box. She assumes he’s donating it. He smiles at her reassuringly and says little because he’s still trying not to start shaking again. The box is clutched in both of his hands, well sealed with lots of packing tape and John will not let go of it, even in the cab back to Sarah’s flat.

Later, John transfers the clothing from the moving box that smells too strongly of cardboard and will mold easily with the slightest bit of damp, and into a new plastic bin that slides easily under his bed. For weeks John Watson has the pleasure of being able to open the lid of that box and inhaling the familiar smell of Sherlock Holmes. On the bad days, or when he wakes from a particularly violent nightmare, he carefully selects a shirt from the box and sleeps with it pressed to his face.

But despite his careful rationing and efforts to open the box of clothing as little as possible, the smell of Sherlock slowly fades to nothing.

(via usernamereclaimed)

Source: areyoutryingtodeduceme

Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either. Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously. He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time. “And you wonder why people always talk.” Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe. The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him. “You kept the flat,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—” “I missed you, too.” He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.
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Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either. Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously. He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time. “And you wonder why people always talk.” Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe. The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him. “You kept the flat,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—” “I missed you, too.” He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.
Zoom Info
Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either. Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously. He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time. “And you wonder why people always talk.” Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe. The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him. “You kept the flat,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—” “I missed you, too.” He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.
Zoom Info
Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either. Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously. He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time. “And you wonder why people always talk.” Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe. The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him. “You kept the flat,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—” “I missed you, too.” He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.
Zoom Info
Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either. Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously. He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time. “And you wonder why people always talk.” Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe. The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him. “You kept the flat,” he said. “Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—” “I missed you, too.” He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.
Zoom Info

Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either.

Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously.

He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time.

“And you wonder why people always talk.”

Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe.

The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him.

“You kept the flat,” he said.

“Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—”

“I missed you, too.”

He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.

(via bifurism)

Source: the-visual

EMOTIONS EVERYWHERE.

I finally finished Performance In a Leading Role and askjfajkfhdg EVERYTHING IS PERFECT SHERLOCK AND JOHN AND NOTHING HURTS except my poor heart goddamn I fucking love this fandom and its writers so much. This is why I read fanfiction.

Thank you madlori for being amazing. <3

(Now I understand everybody’s pain over all those movies not being real. Get on it, Hollywood.)

godtiss: He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do.  Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes. Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired. He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice of the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings. Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message. John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up. Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for. Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before. He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem. On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath. John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall- -is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back. His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar… John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts. Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving. “You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.
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godtiss:

He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do. 


Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired.

He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice of the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings.

Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message.

John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up.

Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for.

Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem.

On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath.

John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall-

-is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back.

His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar…

John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts.

Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving.

“You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

(via amenaza)

Source: oooyooo

Inked.

believeinsherlock:

fuck—the—police:

based off this picture by ihavebeensherlocked.tumblr.com, which is equally beautiful  and powerful.

xxxx

The paint can has fallen off the mantel. It has laid on the edge of the carpet for the better part of two months, knocked off by Sherlock when he was having one of his hysterics. This is the used one; there are two unopened cans that are still stacked upon the mantle. 

John doesn’t know why now he choses to pick it up. He hadn’t bothered to do it before. He wasn’t even sure why the cans were still in the house; the case had been closed months ago, and it’s not like the flat mates were the vandal type. 

But he sees it. He stoops down and picks it up and rubs his thumb over the dusty label.

“Dust is eloquent.“ 

He wants to drop the can back on the floor, but he doesn’t. He takes in a shaky breath and closes his eyes and Jesus Christ, John, it’s a godforsaken spray paint can. Why are you getting so worked up, John. 

Everything reminds him of Sherlock. 

Just standing in 221b is suffocating. The walls are closing in, but the flat seems empty without another body to occupy it. Sherlock had been slight, though, but his presence large. Through his belongings, he took up more space. His intellect was like another being on its own, omnipresent. 

John opens his eyes. He shakes the paint can, hearing it rattle. He goes to place it on the mantel when an idea hits him.

That night, he takes to the streets.

He wields the three paint cans and with trembling hands, he writes.

The first message is so shaky it’s nearly unreadable. The next one is steadier. And the next one more so after that.

Soon, he can scrawl the message in seconds flat. His heart was still pounding, adrenaline running through his veins with the aspect of getting caught, the thrill of the chase. A kerchief is pulled over his mouth and nose.

He writes and he writes and he writes until the cans run out.

The next morning, London wakes up to a sea of harsh yellow lines. A repeated message all over the sides of buildings proclaiming, “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

The day after, more words join them. 

On buses, bridges, poles, and side walks. A rainbow of colors.

Spray paint sales rocket. Sharpies are passed in hallways.

In the span of a few nights, the city is painted. John can’t walk half a block before seeing the words in ink or paint or one a sticker somewhere. 

His heart lurches.

xxx
#believeinsherlock
#occupy221b

Source: unpopulartextpost

wingedbandit: violonpleurant: loveallthesherlocks: shakespearwasaflirt: wingedbandit: I have no words that describe how thrilled I was when he put the deerstalker on. I squealed out loud.  It gives my url so much more meaning. I screamed when I saw this. It reminded me of a part of this fanfic that I read a LONG time ago: Title: Three Ways Sherlock Conformed to His Stereotype Author: starjenni … “Merry Christmas,” said John, and held out the offending article. Sherlock eyed it warily. “What is it?” John shifted. “It’s a hat.” Urge to roll eyes, quashed. “Yes. I can see that.” “It’s called a deerstalker.” Sherlock held it up. The tweed side flaps flopped around unenthusiastically. “I see,” he said. John scratched his head. “I don’t know what I…I saw it in a shop and for some reason I thought. I don’t know, it was like it already belonged to you.” Sherlock looked over at John. He hated Christmas, just like he hated everything to do with the ordinary, and he thanked God that John hadn’t wormed his birthday date out of him yet, but John seemed to find it important. He sighed, and wondered why he bothered (he shouldn’t care about John’s feelings, why did he care?), and put the hat on. John’s expression changed. “That’s odd,” he said. “That would be the ear flaps,” Sherlock said. John shook his head. “No, no…I mean. It…kind of suits you.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He felt like a total idiot, but he wasn’t going to tell John that. He shifted around to the mirror and inspected himself. “Oh,” he said, finally, and not mockingly. John joined him, the two of them staring into the mirror together. “You see what I mean?” he said. Sherlock nodded, slowly. It looked stupid, old-fashioned and peculiar, and it didn’t match with his usual neat, trimmed suit, but…there was no denying that it gave him a certain…something. Maybe it matched the look in his eyes or something. But it wasn’t bad exactly. It made him look like…him. “Thank you for the hat,” he said, and realised he meant it, which was most probably the biggest shock of the day. He wondered what Lestrade would say if he turned up at a crime scene wearing it. … Author’s Fanfic Page
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wingedbandit:

violonpleurant:

loveallthesherlocks:

shakespearwasaflirt:

wingedbandit:

I have no words that describe how thrilled I was when he put the deerstalker on.

I squealed out loud.

 It gives my url so much more meaning.

I screamed when I saw this.

It reminded me of a part of this fanfic that I read a LONG time ago:

Title: Three Ways Sherlock Conformed to His Stereotype

Author: starjenni

…

“Merry Christmas,” said John, and held out the offending article.

Sherlock eyed it warily. “What is it?”

John shifted. “It’s a hat.”

Urge to roll eyes, quashed. “Yes. I can see that.”

“It’s called a deerstalker.”

Sherlock held it up. The tweed side flaps flopped around unenthusiastically. “I see,” he said.

John scratched his head. “I don’t know what I…I saw it in a shop and for some reason I thought. I don’t know, it was like it already belonged to you.”

Sherlock looked over at John. He hated Christmas, just like he hated everything to do with the ordinary, and he thanked God that John hadn’t wormed his birthday date out of him yet, but John seemed to find it important.

He sighed, and wondered why he bothered (he shouldn’t care about John’s feelings, why did he care?), and put the hat on.

John’s expression changed. “That’s odd,” he said.

“That would be the ear flaps,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. “No, no…I mean. It…kind of suits you.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He felt like a total idiot, but he wasn’t going to tell John that. He shifted around to the mirror and inspected himself.

“Oh,” he said, finally, and not mockingly. John joined him, the two of them staring into the mirror together.

“You see what I mean?” he said.

Sherlock nodded, slowly. It looked stupid, old-fashioned and peculiar, and it didn’t match with his usual neat, trimmed suit, but…there was no denying that it gave him a certain…something. Maybe it matched the look in his eyes or something. But it wasn’t bad exactly.

It made him look like…him.

“Thank you for the hat,” he said, and realised he meant it, which was most probably the biggest shock of the day.

He wondered what Lestrade would say if he turned up at a crime scene wearing it.

…

Author’s Fanfic Page

(via fuckyeahcumberbatch)

Source: wingedbandit