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Hi, I’m April. My tumblr game is old as balls. I’m a menace. var sc_project=9360824; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="a06f04e4"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");

older | 1 | .... | 488 | 489 | (Page 490) | 491 | 492 | .... | 647 | newer

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    Ohhhh right. Now I remember why it was hard to write this fic….Sherlock is KISSING ANOTHER MAN AND I WANT TO DIE.

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    One that maintains a conversation record.


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    They use your money to lobby for anti-LGBT laws around the world in addition to exploiting the homeless, supporting anti-POC, anti-LGBT, anti-woman Conservative politicians, and doing it all under the guise of being a “religious organization”

    Read about it here.

    I’m glad this post says “ignore”. Please remember not to rude - often times the workers do not know the messed up workings of the people they work for.

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    He wakes in the hospital. The room is lit by a dim yellow glow from outside the window. A pale bar of florescent light from the corridor shows beneath the closed door. A heart monitor beeps to his left—too quickly. His brain feels sluggish, his limbs heavy, and his chest is aching. The fingers of his left hand twitch, fumbling for the morphine drip.


    His startle response is almost comically delayed, so that by the time his heart rate spikes on the monitor, he’s already worked it out—John’s shadow detaches itself from the chair to his right and moves toward him, reaching over him to help him adjust the tap. Opiates leech into his system, and the strident beep of the monitor settles into something approaching normal. Sherlock sighs, a rush of air from his open mouth. His breath tastes foul. Over his head, John smells of sweat and home.

    “Glad to have you back,” John says, and his voice is rough with maybe sleep, maybe emotion. He clears his throat, his clothing rustling as he settles himself back in his chair. “Lost you once in the ambulance. Again in A&E.” 

    “I did warn you,” Sherlock says quietly. 

    There’s a breathy huff that might be a sigh or might be a laugh. “Don’t—” John begins, and then stops. 

    “Shouldn’t be here.” Sherlock turns his head to look at him. John’s right side is backlit by the window, his left side disappearing into the gloom. The light catches in one eye as John looks back. “Go home,” Sherlock says. “Sleep. ‘M fine.”

    “Yeah,” John says, but doesn’t move. “Yeah, I know.”

    The morphine hits peak levels in his bloodstream, and Sherlock drifts away. The dim gold spark of John’s watchful eye chases him into sleep.


    In the two months he spends in hospital, they talk surprisingly little. John is staying at Baker Street; Sherlock doesn’t ask, but he can smell it on John’s clothing, see it in the weight of his step. From the long hours John spends at Sherlock’s bedside, Sherlock surmises he’s taken leave from work. Once in awhile, when John leans across him, Sherlock catches a whiff of Claire de Lune and deduces that John’s stopped by his flat for some forgotten item, or perhaps gone along for some office visit for the baby. Those days, John is even less communicative, and Sherlock blames the pain in his chest on the sensory association of Mary’s perfume. 

    “Heartbroken” is such a melodramatic phrase, anyway.


    Lestrade brings him a case on his first day back at 221B. A straightforward locked-room murder, no marks on the body. John offers an obligatory protest that he ought to be resting, but his heart isn’t in it. He needs the distraction as badly as Sherlock.

    Twenty-three hours later, the victim’s estranged spouse is in custody—poison in his insulin injections—and Sherlock lets John haul him into a cab, where he sags against the window, exhausted but sated. They are both nodding off when the taxi takes a corner too quickly and he lurches sideways. He ends up lolling against John, who grunts.

    “S’rry,” he slurs, and plants a hand on John’s thigh to push himself upright. 

    Then John’s hand is covering his own, holding him in place, and John tugs at his coat to pull him back down so that Sherlock is leaning against his shoulder. “S’alright,” John mutters, and crosses his arms with deliberate nonchalance. “Sleep.”

    But tired as he is, Sherlock can’t obey. He sits rigidly, acutely aware of every place his body is pressed against John’s, of the heat of John’s breath when it ruffles his hair, the occasional rasp of his unshaven chin against Sherlock’s forehead. He can still feel it even after the taxi stops, after he’s shaken John awake so he can pay the fare, after they’ve tumbled up the stairs and gone dutifully to their separate bedrooms. 

    He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling it, the unbearable closeness off all the things he can never have.


    “I have to take her back, you know.” 

    John’s remark seems to come from nowhere, but to be fair, Sherlock has been absorbed in the bacteria culture under his microscope. It’s entirely possible John has been talking for some time. 

    Sherlock looks up at him, blinking.

    “Whatever else she might be, she’s carrying my child.” John sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Sherlock doesn’t offer an opinion. 

    “Look, it’s—” John scrubs a hand through his hair. “You understand, yeah? I have a responsibility.”

    Sherlock looks down at the table top, where John’s hand rests dangerously close to his. “You always do the right thing, John,” he says quietly.

    John’s fingers twitch minutely toward him. 

    “I wonder though,” he murmurs, looking up, “do you always want to?” 

    John looks at him for a long time. His face says a thousand things, and Sherlock doesn’t dare read any of them. “No,” he says at last. His mouth is a hard, humorless line, but his eyes are soft and sad. His finger brushes against Sherlock’s as he withdraws his hand. “No, I don’t.”

    John goes upstairs, and the silence of the kitchen is oppressive. Sherlock turns his head, looking into the sitting room at the back of John’s chair. 

    His chest hurts again, and Sherlock marvels, not for the first time, at the way John’s wife never seems done dealing damage.


    John walks into his room. Nothing has changed since the last time he was in it but with the decision to return to Mary made somehow the room feels different. More foreign than it did before. Less like home and more like a way station.  He sits on his bed and waits. He doesn’t know if Sherlock will come up the stairs. He hasn’t before.

    Each night since Sherlock returned home, John would sit on his bed and wait for Sherlock to come up. To take the step that John absolutely couldn’t. Not without Sherlock leading him there. It’s a mysterious thing they have here. And John couldn’t name it if he tried. And he has tried.

    He tried to name it when Irene Adler told him they were a couple and part of him couldn’t disagree. He tried to name it when Sherlock killed himself and the only people who understood the grief were people who’d lost spouses. He tried to name it when Mary asked him just once to explain it to her.


    "It was just….he was important to me. He changed my life," John said. Mary said oh and turned away from him. John moved towards her and took her in his arms. "You changed my life too." He said and he tried to reassure her. It seemed to be enough because it was she who suggested they visit Sherlock’s grave that last time before Sherlock finally came back.


    He waits five minutes. Again. It’s what he does nightly. Waiting five minutes seems like an acceptable amount of time to waste on a pipe dream. To waste on a near impossibility. Anything more and it’s fringing on madness territory.

    Five minutes goes by and he stands. His stance is that of a soldier about to go on duty. He undresses and climbs into bed. Closes his eyes and thinks about what he’ll say to Mary. How he’ll make it work. Because he has to make it work. He won’t abandon her. He won’t give up on his child.

    He starts to drift asleep with the idea of telling her that he’s privileged to be a part of her future and they can forget her past. It sounds like bullshit to him but it’s the best he can come with for now.

    He hears his door crack open and he’s instantly awake.

    "Do you mind?" Sherlock says.

    John says nothing then nods his head once. For a few long seconds he worries that Sherlock must’ve missed his answer then Sherlock slides in bed behind him. Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to do with his free hand and then finally John reaches back and takes it in his and slides it around his middle.

    Sherlock lets out a breath and John does too.

    "Then don’t," Sherlock says. John immediately knows he’s picking up the conversation from earlier. They’ve never done this. Cuddled and discussed problems. He isn’t sure why it’s happening now. But he is happy that it is. Because he needs this. He needs Sherlock right now.

    "It’s not a choice."

    "Of course it is."

    "Not for me it isn’t"

    Sherlock says nothing to this. And John assumes it’s all settled for a minute. He breathes and hears Sherlock’s breathing. It is in concert and is a soft melody lulling him to sleep. And for the first time he’s okay with that. With just sleeping a bit. He is calm. Calmer than he’s been in months.

    Sherlock’s nose nuzzles into his neck and then John feels a wet kiss there.

    "Don’t," he says. He immediately feels Sherlock pull away as if to leave. John reaches back and grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls him back. Even closer this time."No, I mean. I don’t want it to happen like this. When we’re both confused and …scared."

    "I am not scared."

    John huffs out a laugh.

    "Fine then. I am. I really am." John sighs. "There I said it. I’ve been holding that in for months. I’m scared of what’s going to happen next."

    "I wouldn’t… I’d never let anything happen to you, " Sherlock says then adds, "or anyone you care for."

    "I know," John says. "God I know. But…her…everything is a mess right now. And until it’s settled I don’t want to start something…I mean."

    "I understand."

    "I highly doubt that. I don’t even understand."

    "Well I am a genius." Sherlock says and John feels him smile against his neck. And it feels….perfect.

    "You are. So your genius brain has got to have worked it out. You know that eventually this… this will happen. But I want it happen when we’re free and clear, yeah? When it’s just us and not the elephant of ‘what the fuck is going to happen next’ in the room."

    "I see."



    "Good," John says. "So let’s just have this for now and then later…."

    "Yes, later." Sherlock says.

    And they both close their eyes. They drift towards sleep. They hold each other.

    "Oh sod this," John says and turns over and puts his hands on Sherlock’s head and kisses him. He kisses him soundly and expertly.  Sherlock’s hands hold onto John’s shirt and John holds Sherlock through it. They break apart minutes later. John lets go of Sherlock. Sherlock lets go of John. But they fall asleep together knowing that this is a thing that will happen again.

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  • 11/24/14--06:01: Photo

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    In México, we are all fighting against a president who can’t even keep us safe. 43 students from a rural university, between the ages of 18-30, were abducted and then murdered when they were on their way to a pacific event. Bullets came from municipal cops, and the order of shooting came directly from the governor of that particular region.
    Federal authorities have been covering their asses and the families of the students have no information about their people. Not even the dead bodies have been retrieved to them.

    That’s why several universities from all the country have taken action. 

    We support the families and their claim for justice and peace. 

    Their anger is ours.

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  • 11/24/14--15:30: sam + his sling

  • sam + his sling

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    Honestly a lot of things people use in meta and for theories just honestly reads like lazy writing/forgotten continuity to me.

    I read a meta about how Sherlock didn’t admit to redbeard during THOB because he was hiding his feelings though he really did understand the sentiment but couldn’t share with John yet.

    And I’m like NOOOO Mofftison just totes forgot about that line. That is it. Nothing else.

    I would love to be proven wrong though.

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    She thought we wouldn’t notice, but we did.

    notice what?

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    On July 23,2010, three nights before the UK Sherlock premiere, executive producer Steven Moffat sat down with host Gaving Esler and playwright Mark Ravenhill on the BBC’s Newsnight - from Sherlock Series 3 DVD Special Edition

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    M: “I like you.”
    A: “And she finally admits it.”
    M: “Oh, shut up.”
    A: “It’s mutual, you know.”
    M: “I know.”

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    “Your job — as students who are receiving an education — is to be aware of your privilege. And use this particular privilege called “education” to do your best to achieve great things, all the while advocating for those in the rows behind you.”


    so good

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    finding a fanficiton of your otp then seeing “WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH.”


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    I’m praying and hoping and just….this is going to break my heart.

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  • 11/24/14--18:28: Photo

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  • 11/24/14--18:28: Photo

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    movie trivia
    ↳ Romeo+Juliet

     There are various billboards, advertisements and magazines throughout the movie that contain quotes from other William Shakespeare plays: 

    • 'Shoot forth thunder' is from 'The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth’
    • 'Experience is by industry achiev'd'  is from 'The Two Gentlemen of Verona'
    • 'Such stuff as dreams are made on' is from 'The Tempest'
    • 'Add more fuel to your fire' is from 'The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth'
    • 'Retail'd to posterity' is from 'Richard the Third'
    • 'A rash fierce blaze of riot' is from 'Richard the Second'

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    never over this

older | 1 | .... | 488 | 489 | (Page 490) | 491 | 492 | .... | 647 | newer