WHO ARE YOU
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If you say “old sport” three times in front of your mirror Gatsby will appear and awkwardly hit on your wife
IT’S BACK ON MY DASH AGAIN I’M LAUGHING SO MUCH OMG
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im having one of those nights where u watch one youtube video and watch a related video and 3 hours later ur watching an hour long conspiracy documentary about how the illuminati killed michael jackson
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I’m going to be real with you now tumblr, if an elf and a hobbit had a child it would look like this
that’s actually so accurate that I have lost all ability to can.
This actually makes the perfect sense.
I think that is the most accurate description for Benedict’s amazing looks I’ve ever come across.
(via astudyinsherlockandjohn)
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How do you pronounce “Moffat” and Gatiss”?
Moffat is pronounced “satan”
Gatiss is pronouced “satan’s best friend”
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i just got really fucked up thinking about clouds
- weigh as much as an elephant or a 747 or more but still float
- literally full of electricity much like your standard vibrator
- pisses rain all over us ungrateful bastards
- make cool shapes like rabbits or dongs
- they dont give a fuck where they go they just go to trash shit
props clouds, you’re metal as hell
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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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