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I’ve Forgotten Why I Shouldn’t Blink by ^alicexz

You hear the voice of a child behind you, lost and afraid. 

“Are you my Mummy?” 

Turning to look, you see a statue, out of place here. You don’t remember there being a statue here. It appears to be a traditional angel, more at home in a cemetery, but there’s something wrong with it. 

The face is warped, stretched, completely disfigured. It’s the face that should appear in your nightmares, a nameless fear that waits in the dark. 

Shaking off the feeling of dread that has settled in your bones, you look about for the child you heard. There’s nobody there except you. Nothing there but an out of place statue of an angel that’s wrong. 

You turn away. Why do you feel so unsettled?

You hear the voice of a child behind you, lost and afraid.

“Are you my Mummy?”

Turning to look, you see a statue, out of place here. You don’t remember standing so close to a statue. It appears to be a traditional angel, more at home in a cemetery, but there’s something wrong with it. 

The face is warped, stretched, completely disfigured. It’s the face that should appear in your nightmares, a nameless fear that waits in the dark. The statue’s arms are raised, hands reaching forward. Almost as if it’s trying to grab your shoulders.

Shaking off the feeling of dread that has settled in your bones, you look about for the child you heard. There’s nobody there except you. Nothing there but an out of place statue of an angel that’s wrong. 

You turn away. Why do you feel so unsettled?

You hear the voice of a child close behind you, lost and afraid.

“Are you my Mummy?”

dumb things i do when i should be sleeping

(a pointless post, really, but read if you want) EDIT: putting under a cut because I’M STUPID WHEN I’M TIRED.

Read More


When Dean Winchester finally dies (for good, this time), Death takes a holiday. 

He spends a week going to every fair and carnival in the continental US.

He eats every deep fried concoction possible.

When his holiday comes to an end, he goes to Heaven and knocks on the pearly gates with the head of his cane. He asks to speak with Dean Winchester.

Dean is surprised to find Death there when the angels bring him forward. Death swore that their last meeting, when Death personally escorted Dean’s soul to Heaven, would be the final time they ever saw one another.

“I found it,” Death tells him. “The perfect pie. It was in Muncie, Indiana. Apple, with a flaky, golden crust. The ratio of cinnamon to sugar and its balance with the tart Granny Smith…. it was just perfect. Divine, even.”

Dean stares at Death, unsure of why he is telling him this, but then he looks down. In Death’s hand is a wrinkled, white paper bag. Inside the bag is a slice of the perfect pie.

Dean takes the bag, mystified.

“Thanks for the pickle chips that time,” Death says, then disappears into the void.


I was browsing some fic here on tumblr, looking through everyone’s layouts, and thinking to myself, “I don’t know how anyone reads fic without Readability.” It occurred to me then that possibly many of you are reading without it because you don’t know it exists.

Readability is an add-on or…



Sherlockian Modern Classics Part 7


I’m a little trembly, to be honest - I’ve never had a book cover before! *sniff*




It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.

Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.

He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.

There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.

It was Sherlock.

It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath.  For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.

But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.


For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.

The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.


Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.

“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”

Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”

He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.

Take care of him.

- SH

He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.


- SH

Seconds later, his phone chimes.

Already picked him up.  Have been following him since he left Baker Street.

- MH

And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.

He’s crying.  I don’t know what to do.

- MH

There is anger in that message.  And desperation.  And remorse.  And most of all—there is guilt.  The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone. 

Neither do I.

- SH

He never sends that last message.

One day we’ll be standing around a fanfic and it will be Benedict Cumberbatch who put it there.











I remain convinced that he wrote “Day out with Benedict Cumberbatch”.






read it. all the way until the end. everybody.

I love that fanfic.  It’s pure genius.

ohman, i can’t breathe. that ending was just epic.

holy crap




me trying to read fanfiction


‘she tripped, but a pair of strong arms grabbed hold of her from behind before she hit the floor’

‘…she tilted her head back to look into his eyes, enjoying the feel of his warm arms wrapped around her torso’

‘…her hands intertwined behind his neck as their lips met’

‘…she wrapped her legs around his waist as





This would be major heartfail!

oh god…I…I

It had been two years, nine months, four days, seven hours and thirty-three minutes since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital to his supposed death.

Today had been like any other day. Sherlock burst into the flat, hair wet, jacket sopping, a faint fleck of some unknown substance on his face. John looked up at him and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock.”

“John, I am so sorry. I—“

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” His friend’s voice was level, as though it had been only a day since they’d last seen each other, that he’d never jumped off that roof, that he’d never hidden himself away and forced his friend to endure unbearable amounts of pain.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He expected something, anything. Yelling, screaming, crying, punching, he wouldn’t even have put it past John Watson to throw the pocket knife lodged in the side table at him. He guided himself to the couch and sat down, the entire flat seeming as though it were made of eggshells, as though one wrong word, one wrong breath and the entire house of cards would come down around their ears.

He waited for him to say something, thinking that perhaps John had gone into shock and didn’t know how to react. Sherlock stared at him, two-day old shirt, cold tea, book he’d already read twice—no, three times—judging by the dog ears on the pages. He hadn’t slept well, the bags under his eyes looked worse than when he’d been kept up because of the blind banker.

“Sherlock,” John said, not looking up from his book, “you’ll mould the carpet and Mrs. Hudson will put it on our rent.”

He hadn’t even noticed the rain puddling around his feet, a dark ring etching itself against the fabric of the carpet. Of course. The jacket was placed on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and he went to make himself a cup of tea. Something about this situation was bothering him. He kept looking at the various things in the flat, doing his best to find something, anything that could tell him why John wasn’t reacting like he knew John Watson would have reacted.

But there was nothing. Nothing but a string of unanswered question marks that led right to his only friend.


“DAMN!” The shatter and loud outburst actually made Sherlock startle—something that hadn’t happened in longer than he could accurately remember. When he looked, he saw John cleaning up a beaker that he’d knocked over.

He hesitated. John was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and something told him to stay away. “Are you alright in there?” he offered, much more quietly than his normal inquisitions.

“Yeah, fine, I just…damn burner. I wish you’d not leave them so near the edge of the table like that, Sherlock!” The sound of the rubbish bin opening , the glass tinkling in, and then silence. When Sherlock looked up from his work, he saw John standing, facing the sink stock still. His head was hung low and his shoulders were sagging. Sherlock felt a tugging in the center of his chest, and he couldn’t understand why. Again, he looked at the signs, observed everything, but all that lay on those slumped shoulders of his friend was another line of question marks.

This happened every once in a while. Something would break, John would drop something, or he would suddenly go quiet and stand in the kitchen as though a man possessed. Sherlock never assisted him, not unless he saw John in any immediate danger. And when he did, he made sure not to touch him.

Once, he had touched John as he helped clean a shattered teacup and spilt Ceylon tea. John had frozen solid for the faintest of moments, a dark colour flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t look at Sherlock. He took what Sherlock saw as calming breaths and continued cleaning it up.

Sherlock didn’t dare touch him again.


A particularly quiet day nearly a month after his return, Sherlock had been watching John write on his computer for the past two hours. “John…is everything…are you alright?”

“Yes…” John only locked eyes with his friend for a hair of a second before burying his nose back in the computer, “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”


When John was at work one day, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade. He was going absolutely mental without anything to do. He’d gone far past bored, and he wasn’t about to let his mind go fallow.

One afternoon, a few days later, Lestrade came up to the flat. John made himself tea and offered some to the DI, who politely refused.

“I won’t be here long enough for tea,” he said, brushing past John and coming to stand in front of Sherlock, “I know you’ve been home long enough, but we’ve got a suicide that couldn’t possibly be a suicide. Large metal doors bolted from the inside and a man who couldn’t even open his hands to holda gun, let alone shoot it. Will you come?”

Sherlock looked from the Detective Inspector to John, and that tugging at his chest happened again.

John was paralyzed. The tea was slowly dribbling to the ground as his arms went to his sides of their own accord. His jaw was hanging slack.

Carefully, Sherlock stood and came towards him, “John, John are you alright?”

He didn’t answer him. “L-Lestrade…You can see him, too?” he whispered.

“Bloody hell….” Lestrade covered his mouth and scrubbed at his cheek with his hand as the situation sunk in around the two of them.

It …it couldn’t be. Why hadn’t he noticed? The question marks disappeared as Sherlock chanced a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Oh, John….”




Faithful John

“It’s time”

“Not long now”

- We Go Anywhere but to the Ground

“The day you feel you can’t draw is the day you must draw more” - ancient proverb of Teapots Tribe

John: Texts (prompt)

I know you probably won’t get this, but I miss you. -JW
I’ve made your tea is you like it, black with two sugars. I still remember. -JW
Your experiments are still as you left them. I know how much you hate me touching your things. -JW
Sherlock. -JW
I miss you. -JW
Please be alive. -JW
You left me a note once, do you remember? -JW
I’m leaving one for you now, too. -JW
I’m sorry. -JW
I’m sorry for all the words I didn’t say and all the things I didn’t do. -JW
Goodbye, Sherlock. -JW
I love you. -JW

…John? -SH

(Gosh, I love when someone writes fics on my stupid drawings)









Okay, everything else awesome about Scandal in Belgravia aside (which is actually everything)

Is anyone else imagining John and Sherlock playing a game of Cluedo that gets so heated Sherlock stabs the fucking board to the wall.

I giggled at the milk. 

“It was the dagger on the Cluedo board in the living room!”

This clearly happened because, somehow, John beat Sherlock at Cluedo.

Sorry guys i accidently a board game crack ficlet.

Sherlock fails to grasp the concept of Cluedo. 

Sherlock still fails to grasp the concept of Cluedo. 

“Where’s the logic? How can i deduce the motives of plastic pieces?”

There is a mad rush for the best Cluedo characters. In the end, John claims Colonel Mustard, Sherlock is Professor Plum, Mycroft has Reverend Green. Greg is left with Miss Peacock. 

Greg sulks. John tries not to laugh. 

Sherlock asks if he can take Reverend Green in for interrogation. John explains that’s not how the game works. 

John sees Lestrade’s cards reflected in the mirror behind him. He now knows it was the lead pipe. 

Sherlock asks for all the other characters cooperation in recreating the scene of the crime. John explains that’s not how the game works. 

Sherlock wants to know if the victim is related to any of the suspects. John explains that’s not how the game works. 

Mycroft can see through John’s paper due to the lamp behind him. He now knows it was the lead pipe in the kitchen.   

Lestrade can only seem to roll the numbers one or two and so never actually manages to get into any room. He sulks. 

Sherlock is choosing which room to enter, John gets out Miss Scarlet and has Colonel Mustard chat her up. 


Sherlock sees Miss Scarlet and Colonel Mustard getting a bit too friendly in the billiard room and decides to investigate.

Reverend Green gets restless whilst waiting for his turn and starts dancing with Mrs White in the ballroom. 

Sherlock thinks Mrs White has an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Hudson. 

Mycroft chooses to say nothing. He is a little frightened that anything said against Mrs Hudson would result in him taking several trips out the window.  

John sees Mycroft flinch and forces back a smile. He agrees that yes, she does have an uncanny resemblance to Mrs White. 

The game has turned into a soap opera. Colonel Mustard is having an affair with Miss Scarlet who is engaged to Reverend Green. Professor Plum knocks over Miss White in a fit of rage and Miss Peacock seems to still be wandering around the corridors aimlessly.

John reveals the cards and wins the game, the truth is that it was Professor Plum in the kitchen with the lead pipe. Everyone looks at Sherlock with mock how could you expressions that soon crumble when he gasps “that cannot be right!” and looks for all the world as if he has just been framed for a real murder.

Sherlock refuses to accept that he was the murderer without knowing he was the murderer. 

Lestrade tells Sherlock it is just a game and he won’t be taken into police custody. 

Sherlock gives Lestrade the evils of a lifetime. 


Sherlock throws Professor Plum like a toddler throwing a tantrum. John will find it a week later on top of the bookshelf. 

John proposes they play Monopoly.
Sherlock proposes they burn Cluedo in the fiery depths of hell. 


In the end, Sherlock stabs the Cluedo board to the wall in a fit of rage and John wonders, not for the first time, if the consulting detective is actually five years old.

That ficlet. THAT FICLET. 

Sherlock refuses to accept that he was the murderer without knowing he was the murderer. 

That’s just what I needed.





Because. I actually hated what I wrote for this before. But I don’t feel like deleting it.

So I’m going to write something else.

John Watson returned as soon as his shift at the hospital was over, making his way back to 221B to check on Sherlock. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, before strengthening his resolve and opening the door to find Mrs. Hudson sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.

“Mrs. Hudson…?”

A small sob escaped her mouth through withered fingers. He immediately rushed toward her, kneeling in front of her and moving her hands away from her face. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly. “Is it Sherlock? Has he had one of his fits?”

She nodded, waving her hand toward the living room. He immediately straightened and hurried into the room, only to find his housemate crumpled in a chair, breathing heavily, hair completely messed up, face red. He approached the man cautiously, stretching a hand toward him.

It was only when he saw the rolled sleeve and the punctures in Sherlock’s arm that he realized what had happened. He quickly took the needle away from Sherlock and kneeling before him, checking his pulse. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but not high enough to cause alarm. He had just had a fright. He seemed to be getting those more and more often lately.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

However, the other man didn’t seem to hear him. He simply continued to stare down at the carpet, completely motionless.

“Voices…” Sherlock said after a moment. “I can hear him, John…all the time…he’s going to burn me, John…”

John sighed, raising a hand to brush against Sherlock’s cheek. He had been talking about this voice for ages. Moriarty, he called it. John was sure that Sherlock was convinced the man was real. He would wake up in terror every night, plagued by this elusive notion, Moriarty.

“Nobody’s going to burn you, Sherlock. It’s in your head,” he said softly, holding his flatmate. “Just in your head.”

“Make him leave…” Sherlock said, a trace of a whimper in his voice.

“Yes, yes, he’s gone, Sherlock. He was never here,” John said soothingly, stroking the back of Sherlock’s head.

Soon after, John put Sherlock to bed after administering his medication.

“I don’t know what would happen to him, if it wasn’t for you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hand shaking slightly as she took a cup of tea from John. “He probably would have died that day, at St. Barts.”

John closed his eyes. He had been trying to forget that incident, when he found Sherlock raving on the top of St. Barts, screaming to the cosmos about being ordinary. If John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock when he did, he probably would have jumped and fallen to his death.

“One more thing, Doctor,” she said, putting her cup down. “What’s Moriarty?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”


I actually just slapped my face from shock and awe and confusion and help me

There needs to be more of this. LET ME SOAK UP THE ANGST.

aldfjal;sdkfas THE ANGST





The body of Dr. John Watson, 38, was found at the sidewalk outside of St Bartholomew’s Hospital this morning. It’s apparent that his death was an intentional one, quite possibly connected to that of his former flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, who committed suicide in the exact same manner six months ago.

Dr. Watson will be missed by his friends and the medical community alike, both of which he was immensely valuable to.

Though his specific confidant is unknown, it appears that he did tell at least one other of his intentions, for his miraculously unbroken mobile phone (held in the body’s hand) received a text message moments after he hit the ground, according to bystanders. The contact, listed under the name Sherlock Holmes (though, of course, it’s impossible that it could have been his late associate), had sent him a single cryptic word: “WAIT.”


littletinydoom asked: Sherlock trying to deduce Arthur and being unable to because nothing about him adds up


Sherlock stared at the man in front of him.

This seemingly-simple man was surprisingly difficult to analyze. Nothing seemed to match up, and when Sherlock did spit out his usual chain of deductions, a lot of it was just patchwork guessing (although he’d never admit it; he did have a reputation to uphold, after all). 

“That’s brilliant!”

“Did I get everything right then?” Sherlock asked, preening a little bit inside.

“Not a single thing! But it was brilliant anyway!”