16 1 / 2013
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.”
THIS.
OH.
Oh my.
(via whishawuponastar)
11 1 / 2013
wat
ok
reblogging from myself because everyone needs this on their dash
HES KISSING HIM BACK THROUGH HIS HAND
^
JUDE LAW OPENED HIS MOUTH
OMG
MY LIFE IS MADE
Jude totes should’ve just planted one on him -minus the hand. that would’ve been awesome!!!!
We needed this on our dash. Because of reasons.
#always compelled to reblog this #because of reasons and because I loved this tag:
#and this is part of why this adaptation rocks ♥
Wonderful.
(Source: iwantcupcakes, via blooodymoon)
29 12 / 2012
theworldsonlyconsultingpirate:
#Which explains why it took you THREE YEARS to get back to him
Just imagine him walking around Dubai or wherever the fuck and running into walls and taking wrong turns and he’s all like “God damn itttt Johnnnnn your phone is the one with GPS.”
it’s..it’s not a good idea for him to go to Dubai the buildings there are just higher
Go stand in the corner and think about what you did!
(Source: jamesbadgedale, via tellmeaboutthedreamwhere)
24 12 / 2012
LITERALLY JUST SPAT OUT MY FUCKING SOUP
You know what though
Jim’s little diguises - Rich Brook and Jim from IT - have one thing in common:
They’re both total sweethearts.
They both have a gentle demeanor and seem to care about the women they’re fooling. They’re both anxious around Sherlock. They’re both inoffensive and fuckingadorableohmygod.
They both have a heart.
No one is that good of an actor. The one thing you can’t fake is a heart.
If he was heartless, Molly would be dead. She saw Jim’s face, she was a liability. Why didn’t he kill her? He’d heard all Molly’s stories, he knew she was important to Sherlock, if only a little, so why didn’t he kill her? Why didn’t he threaten her with the gunmen during Reichenbach?
I’ll tell you why. Because Molly is lovely and he cared about her. He purposely excluded her from the threat because he didn’t want to hurt her.
Even during their first meeting at the pool, Jim showed an unusual lack of self restraint “THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!”. His face wasn’t blank, it wasn’t a pokerface like Sherlock’s. He was expressive. He was emotive. He was human. Jim has a heart.
I think that on the roof during Reichenbach, Sherlock realised this. He realised that Jim wasn’t acting.
He realised what Jim really wanted: to not be alone; to find someone just like himself; to find someone not-ordinary. Most of all, he wanted that person to be Sherlock.
Sherlock saw the level of frustration and disappointment and, let’s be honest, sadness on Jim’s face when he thought Sherlock was stupid and ordinary, and when he thought Sherlock would jump to save his friends.
That’s how he beat Jim.
The way he asserts himself on Jim, moving right up into his personal space. Think about it. He never does that. He’s attacked people, usually in self defence, but never anything quite so personal, quite so intimidating.
He’s risking John’s life by doing this. He’s risking the lives of all his friends and he doesn’t care. In those moments, Jim is his primary focus.
But then, listen to his voice, listen to the things he is saying.
Ordinary people have hurt Jim, there’s no doubt about that.
Sherlock is telling Jim that he isn’t ‘one of them’. He isn’t ordinary.
Sherlock isn’t being cruel, he’s being gentle.We’re just alike, you and I.
And they are just alike, apart from that one little thing that they don’t have in common:
Sherlock is the good guy who doesn’t have a heart, and it’s his biggest weakness.
Jim is the bad guy who does have a heart, and it’s his greatest tragedy.
(Source: urukhai, via whishawuponastar)
20 7 / 2012
He made Watson come with only one finger
He made Watson come with only one finger
AUGHGG
I bet he did. Several times, probably.
(Source: littleappletree, via captaingalaga)
25 5 / 2012
…And all I can see is Sherlock wearing a dress.
All I see is coat porn. Pure, unadulterated coat porn.
Coat porn and face porn and leather glove porn and shooting jacket porn and hair porn and shoe porn…
(Source: twoharts)
23 5 / 2012
quick speedpaint ‘cause this has been in my head for ages. phone depicted above is Sherlock’s, not John’s.
stop it
no
stop
And then, on good days (when he can stand to think about him and all the good memories they had), John calls Sherlock’s cell just to hear his voice before he leaves a voicemail. It’s a ridiculous sounding message, but so inherently Sherlock, spoken in that bored and exasperated tone John knew too well: “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don’t bother leaving a message if it isn’t pertinent to a case.”
And, sometimes, hearing his voice would be enough for John. Enough to make him smile and laugh, and hang up and go about with his day.
Sometimes, though, he’d have to leave a voicemail. Just a “Hey, Sherlock, I’m not going to be at the flat tonight, just wanted to let you know” or even “Mrs. Hudson said you shot her wall again. I’ll let you take care of it this time.”
And, just once, years after Sherlock’s death, he said,
“I love you.”
Once was enough.
OMG UGLIEST CRYING
John stops blogging. He can’t see the point of it; nothing ever happens to him anymore - he’s just staying alive. But the good days begin to outnumber the bad ones through sheer bloody-minded placidity, and John fills the inbox of Sherlock’s phone with inane little messages and expects nothing back. With: “How many times can I get into a row with the chip and pin machine before they ban me? -JW”, or “Triple murder in the papers today. You’d have loved it. -JW”, or simply “Bloody raining again. -JW” - hundreds of texts about everything and nothing at the same time. And John stops blogging. But he never stops talking about his day.
JFC AS IF THE WOUND ISN’T FRESH ALREADY!
why are you doing this to me
all my brainings are crying mushes now
no why did you type any of that
And then one day, while John is in Tesco ambling around with a half empty basket, the phone, Sherlock’s phone buzzes inside his pocket. He stops dead, eyes widening and pulls it out. Before looking he stills himself and reminds himself that it’s probably just a wrong number or a mistake of some kind, maybe even a message he sent himself that has been delayed for some reason, it happens.
He sighs and turns the phone over, running his fingers over it like it’s some kind of precious object. The screen is lit, telling him there’s a new message, he pushes the button to open it.
Suddenly stiff fingers drop the shopping basket, sending it contents scattering across the vinyl floor. The phone slips from his other hand, bouncing on the hard surface and the screen cracks as once heavy feet are suddenly light in their hurried flight from the store.
The phone lies broken but still on and readable, the message reads *I’m sorry John, come home and don’t forget the milk. -SH*
(via blooodymoon)
