Afghanistan
It's me, ¡Mira! Where I reblog the BBC Sherlock images I have fallen in love with! Also! I'm a very excitable girl! Hence the exclamation marks! #believeinsherlock!
It's me, ¡Mira! Where I reblog the BBC Sherlock images I have fallen in love with! Also! I'm a very excitable girl! Hence the exclamation marks! #believeinsherlock!
That opening sequence was absolutely amazing.
(This little gif, however, makes me think of Sherlock after TRF, watching the city incognito…)
THIS.
Perhaps, you know, with Mycroft waiting impatiently nearby, car door already open, ready to take him to the airport and out of the country and begin the hunt. But Sherlock wants his last look at London.
He had taken a pair of shears to his hair last night, mercilessly cutting off as many of those wild curls as he could. He watched them drift down, cling to the sides of the sink, commas interrupting the flow of his life, question marks for the unknown that lay ahead.
Mycroft had hovered silently over him all the while, taking away his coat and clothes and replacing them with others: jeans, a plain shirt, a hooded jacket. Common and unremarkable, the kind of clothes ordinary people wore in their ordinary lives. His older brother had been mercifully quiet all throughout — doling out neither reproach nor recrimination. He stopped only to say the most basic things: are you hungry? I’ll have some tea sent up. Your plane ticket is ready. Someone will meet you when you arrive at the airport.
I will watch over them in your absence.
Despite the animosity that had marked their relationship over the years, he had never felt such gratitude for his brother.
They did not sleep that night. They sat in front of Mycroft’s fireplace, Mycroft with a glass of brandy, he with a cup of tea, wrestling wordlessly with their own and each other’s demons. Their feet were bare on Mycroft’s expensive carpet; it seemed appropriate somehow — they had never in their entire lives been more vulnerable. The fire kept them warm, but the warmth did not penetrate their hearts.
It was time to go before the break of dawn. His bag had been loaded into the boot — just one bag, a sturdy duffel bag filled with more of these common, unremarkable clothes; he had to travel light from now on, and with none of the trappings of who he used to be.
They were a few minutes out of the gate of Mycroft’s home when he turned and asked: “Do I have time to look at the city?”
His brother nodded, understanding at once. “Of course. Plenty of time.”
The car took them to a spot where he could see his city: the boats on the river, the London Eye, Old County Hall. He breathed in that distinctive smell of the river, felt the cool air on his skin, watched as the darkness of the sky paled to lavender — perhaps for the last time.
His city: its energy, its majesty, its power, its people, its secrets. It held in its great and ancient palm the lives of the people he cared the most for in this world, cradled them like the most precious and fragile of robin’s eggs.
He knew, then, as he had never truly known before, that a place had meaning only if you found or left some deep and essential part of yourself in it.
Behind him, Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, brother. But it’s time.”
He tore his gaze away and turned to his brother. “I didn’t think it would be this difficult to leave.”
Mycroft looked out onto the river.
“She will still be here when you get back.”
“Yes, I did say before that Sherlock was the most perfect
machine for observation and deduction; however, there
was once a day when we finished the case in a scrap factory,
the sunlight of the dawn shines down on him.
Sherlock, who has always been so desperate for the truth
of everything, did nothing but just stand there still, and then
he reached out his hand like he was trying to hold the
sunlight…for me, at that moment, he was merely a child.”—-John Watson
Angelo Caduto by Roberto Ferri
The hanged man, in a version of Tarot.
Tell me I’m not the only one who sees Sherlock here.
You are NOT the only one who sees Sherlock here!!
Oh my….!god yes!!
Um… guys? Did you notice he’s got black wings? The Muse did. *sigh*~~~
He lay there, wrung out and panting, sable wings spread out beneath him; the jumble of their cast-off robes forming a nest in scarlet and white. Turning his head, wildly tousled hair as night-dark as his wings, Sherlock watched John’s slightly smaller frame move with similarly heavy breaths. Sprawled out in abandon where he had rolled to after crying out his pleasure into Sherlock’s mouth, John was almost fully in shadow. The pearlescent moonlight coming in from above them gleamed on John’s nearer wing, which was resting atop Sherlock’s, varying shades of sand, grey, and wheat contrasting markedly with utter black. Funny, in a way, how John’s skin was a fair blend of warm golden-brown with peach-hued beige, while Sherlock’s was creamy-pale and blush, safe for the tiny buds of his rose-pink nipples. Everyone always portrayed angels as pale and demons as dark.
It was John who remembered language first, giving a giddy little sound that was almost a giggle, and saying barely above a whisper, “That was some rescue.”
Languidly lifting one arm and plucking off the knotted rope still tied around his forearm, Sherlock snorted, though he frowned at the red lines left on his pale skin; the ropes had been soaked in holy water. The burns would be days healing. “It was good of you to inconvenience yourself on my behalf,” he drawled humorously.
“Give me a moment or two more and I’ll see to those,” John said, the blue of his eyes nearly black in the dimness as he watched Sherlock free himself of the ropes about his other arm. Pushing himself into an upright position with a soft grunt, John’s wing dragged over Sherlock’s as it pulled up and away to fold neatly behind him, making Sherlock shiver at the strange mix of soothing and tickling sensations. “How did they manage to catch you?”
“I believed they held you captive,” Sherlock admitted in a voice barely as loud as a sparrow’s sigh.
John’s breath halted for an instant, then he rolled over to lie half atop Sherlock, the rustle of his many-hued wings folding around them both as soft as the feathers growing from them. Face now shadowed above him, the moonlight gilding his sandy-pale hair with a silver-white halo, John’s mouth found Sherlock’s. “You’re an idiot,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. “A brilliant, beautiful genius of an idiot,” he added after another kiss. “But an idiot all the same.”
“But they—” Sherlock started to explain, about the proofs he’d been shown, the truth of the claims that John was being held in painful constraint resting clearly in the messenger’s mortal mind, but John’s mouth cut him off.
“Still thy tongue, Demon,” John breathed in a language older than human existence. “I have better use for it than words.”
“Trade me yours, then, Angel, and I will be content,” Sherlock replied teasingly against John’s mouth.
Laughing breath wafted over Sherlocks’ face, smelling of himself and John, blended. “Done. We’ll sort it all out later. You’ll sort it. It’s what you do.”
Sherlock answered without words, as requested, and John seemed quite content in the bargain.
(Source: igorsoldat)
Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.
Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.
Imagine if this was how Sherlock came back.
John Watson was at his desk, his chin resting on his folded arms, his eyes following the Newton’s Cradle on his desk. It was strangely relaxing. Nothing really changing. Nothing happening. Just stability. It was almost hypnotizing and John would simply watch it when he had no patients.
Newton’s first law of motion. The velocity of a body remains constant unless acted upon by external forces.
A body falling, crashing to the pavement. He was running, faster and faster…he was held back…the other people stopped him from catching Sherlock…wouldn’t let him through…they didn’t know…they couldn’t possibly know what had been lost that day.
Newton’s second law of motion. The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the imposed force and goes in the direction of the force.
John could still see him on the roof, arms outstretched as if he was about to take flight. For one small second, John had thought that he saw wings emerge from the back of the flapping black coat. But Sherlock had pushed himself down. He had fallen. His wings had been ripped off and all he could do was fall and bleed.
John was so engrossed in the swinging orbs that he didn’t notice the door swing open, nor did he notice the presence of another person until a hand flew into his line of sight, catching one of the metal balls. John blinked and looked up, his vision slightly blurred from watching the kinetic balls for so long.
“Newton’s third law of motion,” the man said, his baritone voice achingly familiar. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
John blinked again, this time several times in succession before getting up swiftly, his chair falling backward and crashing to the smooth floor of his office, and stumbled backward, falling over the chair that now lay overturned on the floor. The man immediately rushed around the desk and helped him up.
“It seems working behind a desk has slowed your reflexes.”
John pushed away from his former roommate, who looked much altered since he had last seen him at the top of St. Bart’s. For one, he wasn’t dead. He had also lost his characteristic wild black curls, his hair now a dark blonde and cut a good deal shorter. There was a long scar stretching from the side of his forehead to his cheekbone, which now stood out even more, stretching his pale skin, giving him the look of a dead man walking. But his eyes were still the same. Calm. Calculating. Watchful.
“You—you—you—”
“I understand you’re shocked,” Sherlock said, setting the chair upright and gently lowering the doctor into it. “I would be surprised if you weren’t shocked and—”
“Angry?” John asked, getting back up out of the chair, ignoring the ache in his side from the chair. “Because I’m angry Sherlock. I am very angry.”
“Yes, I understand that, John and I’m sorry. I—”
At this, John let out a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh that Sherlock was used to, though. This one was rough and harsh. It burned.
“Sorry? Sorry? You come waltzing back after three years…three years during which I thought my best friend was dead…and all you say is sorry?”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Sherlock said quickly.
John glared up at Sherlock, his hand closing around the collar of the taller man’s shirt, tugging him closer. “Good, because it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than just “sorry” for me to even consider forgiving you, you bloody tosspot,” he hissed before shoving Sherlock backward and pulling his fist back, and swinging at Sherlock’s jaw but Sherlock managed to block it.
“Newton’s first law,” Sherlock said calmly, his bony fingers clamped tightly around John’s wrist, keeping his fist well away from his face. “A body remains in motion with constant velocity unless acted upon by an external force.”
He hooked his foot around John’s ankles, sending John falling backward onto the desk.
“Newton’s second law. The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the imposed force and goes in the direction of the force.” He towered over John, eyes blazing. “Now are you going to listen to me or not?”
John could have easily thrown Sherlock off. The man looked as if the faintest breath of wind would blow him away. Sherlock knew this, too, but for some reason John did nothing, simply glaring up at Sherlock.
“Thirty seconds. I’ll give you thirty seconds to explain.”
Sherlock let go of John, letting him up before sitting down in the chair usually occupied by John’s patients. “If I didn’t jump, you would have been shot. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty had snipers on all three of you. It was the only way to save you. But falling wasn’t enough. I had to get rid of the web and clean the mess Moriarty left me in and I couldn’t drag you into it. Not when it was so dangerous. Not when I could have lost you.”
“I could have helped,” John said. “I’ve been in a war.”
“You were a doctor.”
“It doesn’t mean I can’t fight,” he said, rubbing his face. “You didn’t have to do it alone. You didn’t have to leave me alone.”
Sherlock got up suddenly and began pacing, wringing his hands in an uncharacteristically nervous way. “You don’t understand. I…at the pool…when I saw you in that vest…I realized what Moriarty was capable of. I realized that he knew my one weakness. And I realized that he would use it to his advantage as many times as necessary and I couldn’t…I couldn’t allow that to happen. Not again.”
John watched Sherlock for a moment as he paced back and forth, back and forth before something clicked into place. Quietly, he got up and stood in front of Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.
Sherlock froze for a second, standing awkwardly for a second before wrapping his arms around his friend.
“Newton’s third law, action and reaction are equal and opposite,” he murmured before breaking the hug and taking a step back. “I would like to come home, John.”
“You already are.”
(Source: sherlockstuff)
“What might we deduce about his heart,” asks the British Government, with all his power and none of his happiness.
“I deduce that it is childish. But I love him all the same,” says his Landlady, not his housekeeper.
“He is a great man. And one day, if we’re very lucky, he’ll be a good one,” says an old friend.
“His heart is mind to keep, burning through to go to sleep,” says the Napoleon of crime, much too dramatic, as always.
“In his heart, I count, even though he rarely admits it,” whispers the girl who always counted, quickly going back to her cadavers. He’ll want one soon.
“I nearly made the Virgin’s heart mine. And then he simultaneously ruined and saved my life,” says the Woman who holds the end to the British Government.
“… He is the most human… human being… I have ever known. I would never give him up, even were his heart to break or settle on me,” says his Boswell, his Doctor, his Blogger. Says the man who saved the self-proclaimed sociopath.
An Absent Soul
Federico Garcia LorcaNeither the bull nor the fig tree know you,
nor your horses, nor the ants under your floor.
Neither the child nor the evening know you,
because you have died for all time.
The spine of rock does not know you,
nor the black satin where you are ruined,
Your mute remembrance does not know you,
because you have died for all time.
Autumn will come with its snails,
grapes in mist, and clustered mountains,
but no one will want to gaze in your eyes,
because you have died for all time.
Because you have died for all time,
the same as all the dead of the Earth,
the same as all the dead forgotten
in a pile of lifeless curs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for others your profile and grace.
The famed ripeness of your understanding.
Your appetite for death, pleasure in its savour.
The sadness your valiant gaiety contained.
Not for a long time, if ever, will there be born,
an Andalusian so brilliant, so rich in adventure.
I sing his elegance in words that moan,
and remember a sad breeze through the olive-trees.John comes out of the kitchen with two cups of tea, goes to the table, and sets one beside Sherlock’s elbow. His gaze is fixed on a small book, a pencil in his hand.
“Mm,” Sherlock says, which passes nicely for thank-you when he’s reading.
John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock’s acknowledgement and glances over Sherlock’s shoulder at what he’s reading; it seems to be in Spanish. On the table, a sheet of notebook paper is sprinkled with seemingly disconnected words and phrases. Evening. Child. Mountains. Profile. Olive tree.
John frowns. “Sherlock, that’s Poetry.”
“One of Frederico Garcia Lorca’s poems was involved in a cipher used in ransom notes during a string of kidnappings a few years ago. Mycroft had everything wrapped up in a few hours, but I’m reviewing the code for inconsistencies. If it’s watertight, it could be useful.” Sherlock taps his cheek with the pencil and looks annoyed.
“Why not just ask Mycroft about it instead of doing it all yourself?”
Sherlock gives John a withering look through his eyelashes that says everything in regard to that particular idea. John rolls his eyes and goes into the living room to type up the next entry on his blog.
A few minutes later, he hears Sherlock mumuring to himself. “Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen… For god’s sake. Poetry is so maudlin.”
“Some people really love it, you know,” John calls reproachfully.
Outside, it begins to rain.
~*~
Four months later, John limps into the living room and trips over the corner of a book. He doesn’t recognize it; it must be one of Sherlock’s. He bends to pick it up, and smooths the oilcloth cover under the palm of his hand.
Frederico Garcia Lorca
Las Obras CompletasA roughly folded sheet of paper sticks out of the top margin. John pulls it out, unfolds it, and sways hard on his feet, giving an involuntary groan.
An Absent Soul
John could have gone on thinking that Sherlock was away on a case, or sleeping in the next room, or at The Diogenes Club finally picking a fight with Mycroft on his own power. But now John reads Sherlock’s scrawled translation of the poem slowly, the man’s low contemplative baritone filling his head, and the feeling of waiting for his friend’s return drains out of his body like cold water down a drain.
“I sing his elegance in words that moan” takes John’s legs out from under him, and he kneels on the rug, shaking, groaning “Sherlock. Jesus, Sherlock.”
It takes him ten minutes to get up again. He goes into the kitchen, makes two cups of tea, stares at one sitting on the counter while the other goes cold in his hands.
Outside, it begins to rain.
Superwholock: The boys need help hunting an especially dangerous demon, but which demon, exactly?
WANT WANT WANT
Can I have this like air? I would love to see a Sherlock who doesn’t know John knows, and is therefore super-shocked when John defends him, knowing what he is and all. Because John knows Sherlock.
I don’t even WATCH Supernatural and I want this to happen! \o/
and the ‘which demon’ bit relates to that the fact that john is something way, way older and more problematic than the thing that calls itself sherlock.“Your name’s not really John, is it?” Sherlock asks, his voice perfectly human even if his eyes aren’t at this moment.
“It’s War,” John says. “Always, and everywhere, forever - my name is War.”
(Source: winterlscoming)
Sherlock hanging all over John at Tesco. Maybe deducing/insulting one of the cashiers
— muffinmoipthat’s really cute omg
what is that face even lmao
sherlock (hissing): yes they’re condoms yes they’re going to go on his prick no you can’t have him he’s mine his prick is mine only i get to put condoms on it and sit on it and i know you’re sooo jealous because he’s john and he smells really really good like guh good and it makes you think about condoms and pricks and sexy sexy sex but SOD OFF.
john: hi, sorry, i don’t have my bonus shopper card, can i give my phone number instead?
sherlock: JOHN NO IT’S A TRICK DON’T GIVE HER YOUR PHONE NUMBER.
Sometimes He Has Bad Days
The word on London’s streets was quite clear on one point.
Sherlock Holmes was a B.A.M.F.
Sure, he was pretty, looked skinny as a rail and was quite the posh bastard with the accent and the Spencer Hart suits but still, said “pretty, skinny, well-dressed, posh bastard” was stronger than he looked and was quite perfectly capable of more than holding his own in a scrap.
And just like James Bond, it was a guarantee he’d be able to do it with nary a wrinkle on those pretty suits.
In contrast, a certain Dr. John H. Watson was short, had one of those classic pleasant English faces that betrayed an amiable and even temperament, wore wooly cable-knit jumpers that looked like Christmas presents from doting grandmas and generally just looked so harmless.
Pete figured that he ought to be an easy mark then. The thing was that Mr. Holmes made Pete’s Boss Very Unhappy by poking his posh nose into business that weren’t his own. Pete’s Boss had decided that Mr. Holmes ought to be sent a Clear Message that persisting in this line of work wasn’t very profitable. Especially for Mr. Holmes’ friends. Now that nice landlady of theirs might have been a target but Pete’s Boss muttered something in Italian about infamita and yeah, Pete didn’t feel too good about messing with a little old lady about his Mum’s age.
So the doctor it was and Pete had been tailing the man ever since he stepped out of 221B Baker Street and made his way to Tesco’s. He liked his plans clean and simple. It would be a quick snatch and grab, rough him up in a nice, deserted alleyway near Tesco’s that Pete had already scoped out a couple of days earlier. He didn’t want to kill the man - just hurt him badly enough so that Mr. Posh Nosey Parker Sherlock Holmes would get the gist of how things were meant to be.
So he waited until the doctor bought whatever it was he wanted at Tesco’s (tea, milk and honey apparently, judging from the lovely, sticky mess it later made on the ground….) and nabbed him.
Simple, right?
Only Pete somehow ended up flat on the ground, his face mashed into the tea-milk-honey combo that was the doctor’s shopping, his shoulder dislocated, his head ringing, his stomach groaning and prompting him to throw up the remains of his breakfast today and every remaining nerve in his body screaming in pain.
Later, he’ll have a chance to remember in excruciating detail how a man who was a good 6 inches shorter and should have been a few stone lighter than he was moved like fucking lightning and managed to quickly take him down with a few, efficient and painful blows. Fucking doctor was actually a fucking wolf in a wooly jumper. Doctor, hell- Pete would bet anything the tough little bastard was SAS at the very least.
“I’ll reset your shoulder,” said Dr. Watson quietly. “And we’re going to sit here and wait for the police to arrive and you will not try anything else or next time I will break both your arms. Is that understood?”
Pete was quite familiar with the tone known as Do Not Fuck With Me and nodded helplessly, trying not to throw up all over again once the doctor reset his shoulder. He did, however, scream very loudly.
Later, the police came and there was the expected fuss and Pete, sitting on a gurney being looked at by a paramedic before he’d be taken away in cuffs had a front row seat to the show that was about to begin. Because, of course, Sherlock Holmes himself appeared and looked positively gleeful as he crowed something about finally cottoning on to what Pete’s Boss was up to and that the case was solved and that he’d been expecting Pete’s Boss to send somebody after the good doctor and damn, that was just a complete toss-up, wasn’t it?
“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson said, still in that same quiet tone. “We’re out of milk and tea. And the honey.”
Holmes blinked. “You can always get more later -” He paused and tilted his head, considering him. “A bit not good, then?”
“More than that, Sherlock,” said Dr. Watson. “I’m really having a bad day right now. Which happens when one wakes up to find that all the tea and milk in the flat was thrown away by certain fucking idiots who needed to use perfectly serviceable kitchen items to hold unmentionable bodily fluids.”
“Oh.” Holmes paused.
“Milk. Tea. Honey, Sherlock. Tesco’s. Now.”
Evidently, Sherlock also recognized the Do Not Fuck With Me tone and with surprising mildness, nodded briefly and went to buy said grocery items.
The word on London’s streets was quite clear from then on.
Sherlock Holmes was a B.A.M.F.
Dr. John H. Watson was a B.A.M.F. in a Fuzzy Wooly Jumper.
***
Note: Yeah, BAMF!John is like my OTL for this fandom. God I love that man. XD
Picture Source: BBC Sherlock wikia
Ahahaha.
Another Friday, another batch of links to share. PLUS I WROTE A STORY. Yes, I did. It’s BBC Sherlock, John/Sherlock, set way in the future when everybody is DEAD but they all lived long and very happy lives, so I hope that won’t be upsetting. But they are all dead; forewarned is forearmed.
So, We’ll Go No More A Roving, by me, Mira.
tywinning asked you:As a professor, may I ask you what you think about fanfiction?
I think fanfiction is literature and literature, for the most part, is fanfiction, and that anyone that dismisses it simply on the grounds that it’s derivative knows fuck-all about literature and needs to get the hell off my lawn.
Most of the history of Western literature (and probably much of non-Western literature, but I can’t speak to that) is adapted or appropriated from something else. Homer wrote historyfic and Virgil wrote Homerfic and Dante wrote Virgilfic (where he makes himself a character and writes himself hanging out with Homer and Virgil and they’re like “OMG Dante you’re so cool.” He was the original Gary Stu). Milton wrote Bible fanfic, and everyone and their mom spent the Middle Ages writing King Arthur fanfic. In the sixteenth century you and another dude could translate the same Petrarchan sonnet and somehow have it count as two separate poems, and no one gave a fuck. Shakespeare doesn’t have a single original plot—although much of it would be more rightly termed RPF—and then John Fletcher and Mary Cowden Clarke and Gloria Naylor and Jane Smiley and Stephen Sondheim wrote Shakespeare fanfic. Guys like Pope and Dryden took old narratives and rewrote them to make fun of people they didn’t like, because the eighteenth century was basically high school. And Spenser! Don’t even get me started on Spenser.
Here’s what fanfic authors/fans need to remember when anyone gives them shit: the idea that originality is somehow a good thing, an innately preferable thing, is a completely modern notion. Until about three hundred years ago, a good writer, by and large, was someone who could take a tried-and-true story and make it even more awesome. (If you want to sound fancy, the technical term is imitatio.) People were like, why would I wanna read something about some dude I’ve never heard of? There’s a new Sir Gawain story out, man! (As to when and how that changed, I tend to blame Daniel Defoe, or the Modernists, or reality television, depending on my mood.)
I also find fanfic fascinating because it takes all the barriers that keep people from professional authorship—barriers that have weakened over the centuries but are nevertheless still very real—and blows right past them. Producing literature, much less circulating it, was something that was well nigh impossible for the vast majority of people for most of human history. First you had to live in a culture where people thought it was acceptable for you to even want to be literate in the first place. And then you had to find someone who could teach you how to read and write (the two didn’t necessarily go together). And you needed sufficient leisure time to learn. And be able to afford books, or at least be friends with someone rich enough to own books who would lend them to you. Good writers are usually well-read and professional writing is a full-time job, so you needed a lot of books, and a lot of leisure time both for reading and writing. And then you had to be in a high enough social position that someone would take you seriously and want to read your work—to have access to circulation/publication in addition to education and leisure time. A very tiny percentage of the population fit those parameters (in England, which is the only place I can speak of with some authority, that meant from 500-1000 A.D.: monks; 1000-1500: aristocratic men and the very occasional aristocratic woman; 1500-1800: aristocratic men, some middle-class men, a few aristocratic women; 1800-on, some middle-class women as well).
What’s amazing is how many people who didn’t fit those parameters kept writing in spite of the constant message they got from society that no one cared about what they had to say, writing letters and diaries and stories and poems that often weren’t discovered until hundreds of years later. Humans have an urge to express themselves, to tell stories, and fanfic lets them. If you’ve got access to a computer and an hour or two to while away of an evening, you can create something that people will see and respond to instantly, with a built-in community of people who care about what you have to say.
I do write the occasional fic; I wish I had the time and mental energy to write more. I’ll admit I don’t read a lot of fic these days because most of it is not—and I know how snobbish this sounds—particularly well-written. That doesn’t mean it’s “not good”—there are a lot of reasons people read fic and not all of them have to do with wanting to read finely crafted prose. That’s why fic is awesome—it creates a place for all kinds of storytelling. But for me personally, now that my job entails reading about 1500 pages of undergraduate writing per year, when I have time to read for enjoyment I want it to be by someone who really knows what they’re doing. There’s tons of high-quality fic, of course, but I no longer have the time and patience to go searching for it that I had ten years ago.
But whether I’m reading it or not, I love that fanfiction exists. Because without people doing what fanfiction writers do, literature wouldn’t exist. (And then I’d be out of a job and, frankly, I don’t know how to do anything else.)
(Source: onlyalittlelion)
Rupert Graves in Air Force One is Down
Where did this sudden, raging boner come from.
i can’t breathe
People keep casting him as bad guys because they know we’ll forgive him for anything. He could strangle three kittens, a puppy, and slap a kid and steal his ice cream, and we’d still want him to win.
Evil is the new sexy… and the old sexy. It’s just sexy.
aww…. I thought he was gonna be the good guy this time…
Good boy, bad boy, who cares…?!
Handsome man and marvelous actor. So long as we get to see more of him, that’s sufficient.
Wow, that bottom-left gif is fantastic. The look on his face. Hnng.
Mr. Mac is going to be shocked when I suggest going to see this movie. It’ll take him .3 seconds to figure out why.
what. what. this is not fair. this is changing all the rules two years into the game.
“You didn’t say hello,” Lestrade says, as John Waston walks past on his way to Sherlock, who’s already flourishing off his shock blanket and pitching it through the open window of a squad car. “And that’s a bit fucking rude, even for a Yomper.”
John turns, head cocked warily. He looks Lestrade over, frowning intently.
“Do I know you?” he asks, but there’s something sharpening behind his eyes already.
“Not to see my face, no,” Lestrade says. “But you’d recognize the sole of my boot if you felt it.”
“You’re that fucking SAS officer from Camp Tangiers,” John says, his grin already overtaking his gaping disbelief. “What are you - no, that’s all. What are you?”
“Watson, right?” Lestrade grins as they grab each other’s forearms and shove playfully. “Captain Watson?”
“Major Gregson - but, it’s not really Gregson, is it?” John laughs.
“Lestrade,” Lestrade says, “Lestrade’s my real name.”
“You’re in the police now?” John demands.
“Ye - sort of,” Lestrade says.
” … I see,” John says. “Jesus. I hope you’re getting danger money, because he’s a piece of work.”
“The unstoppable doing the impossible for the ungrateful,” Lestrade shrugs. “You know the drill.”
john, alone and injured, tried to walk out of the high desert in mid-summer. it took three days for the search and retrieval teams to find him. he was delirious from dehydration, loss of blood, and infection. he was also, unbelievably, still walking. his feet were shredded inside his boots, his clothing was soaked with sweat and caked with dirt, his face and hands were burned raw. but he didn’t stop.
he didn’t stop when the black shadows of the choppers passed over him, or the dirt swirled around him, or the retrieval team shouted his name. they had to catch hold of him, they had to pull him bodily down onto his knees before he would let his bloodied fingers uncurl from his pack straps, before he would turn his head unsteadily to meet their anxious eyes.
“captain watson,” someone is saying, as john blinks the crust of dirt away from his eyelashes. “captain watson – can you hear me?”
he can hear
the hawks crying in the pale morning, before the sun’s blade turns towards him.
the sand whispering its pity in the cruel heat of the day.
the blood beating in his ears, a tide too thick to turn again.
the echo of distant guns, and the wailing of the dead on the wind.
the jingle of horse harness, and the whoops of the riders.
he can hear her voice, clear and strong, singing as she lowers him down into his grave, or lifts him up onto his pedestal.
“that’s a hundred and fifteen miles,” someone says softly, as a plastic bottle rim presses blood from john’s cracked lips, and he drinks water tainted with rust and iron. “that’s a hundred and fifteen fucking miles from where his land rover was found. he’s less than fifty miles from camp roberts.”
john’s lip splits wider as he smiles, and lets his eyes fall closed.
up, then, this time.
[song fic? what you get when i listen to inama nushif on a loop for six hours]
66/100 photos of Sherlock2
“Hello? Who is this?”
“John.”
“Mycroft? What the hell do you want? I told you I don’t want to talk about-“
“John, I think it would be best if you sat down right now.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t take orders from you anymore, remember?”
“This isn’t an order, John; it’s a request. And is isn’t from me, I can assure you.”
“Then who -?”
“Sit down, and then look behind you. Good luck, John.”
*click*
There are a number of discussions in fan circles right now regarding the Random House Audio Fan Fiction Contest being held at this year’s San Diego Comic-Con International. The publisher is offering fan fiction authors the opportunity to record their own original work of fan fiction during…
