Sherlock + text posts, unhinged edition
Bonus:
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever
Misplaced Lens Cap

No title available
i don't do bad sauce passes
Show & Tell

Love Begins

Product Placement

izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Acquired Stardust

blake kathryn
almost home

Andulka

tannertan36
KIROKAZE

pixel skylines
ojovivo

Discoholic 🪩

if i look back, i am lost

seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia

seen from Japan

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from South Korea

seen from Switzerland
seen from Netherlands

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seen from Argentina
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@bakerri
Sherlock + text posts, unhinged edition
Bonus:
Sherlock’s Notes #001
"Society" — a giant, clunky mechanism designed for the production of nonsense. Look at them. They wake up and squander the precious hours of their consciousness trying to find out who ate what, who’s sleeping with whom, and how many colored slips of paper someone else received for sitting in a stuffy office. This isn’t communication; it’s a banal cluttering of the mind.
Johnlock.
Sherlock and John.
The Addict and The Soldier.
Heart and Brain.
Soulmates.
Johnlock headcannon:
Sherlock admits to John that he has one thing he has never been able to do, which is tying a tie.
Of course, this is not true, but Sherlock likes watching John mumble stuff like “genius fucking bastard can’t even tie it himself, so pathetic”, while he pulls Sherlock closer by his collar and fumbles with his tie.
Everyone is confused why Holmes refuses to wear anything else now.
"How deep is your love? Is it like the ocean?"
This isn't a story about a case. It's about the four clinical minutes John Watson spent forcing air into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe. It’s about the jagged, desperate moment when the "Consulting Detective" becomes just a man, and a soldier finally loses his battle with silence.
Broken glass, bitter coffee, and devotion that borders on pathology
There was no loud explosion. Only the silence of an abandoned dock in Limehouse. Cold metal, the scent of rust and salt water. The "Lead Twilight" case was drawing to a close.
Sherlock had made a mistake. Not in his calculations — in his timing. He’d ended up in the line of fire before John could take his position. The bullet missed his aorta by a millimetre, but the inertia and the fall from the second floor had done their work.
When John reached him, Sherlock wasn't moving. He lay on the concrete floor, pale as a marble statue, while a dark stain spread from beneath his shoulder blade with a terrifying, calm deliberation. In that moment, time didn't just slow down for John — it stopped. The entire world narrowed down to that stain and the tomb-like silence where a pulse should have been.
John didn't remember calling for help. He didn't remember how his hands, slick with blood, tried to stem the wound while he whispered — or screamed? — the same name over and over.
"The fact is a fact. Everything else is just their meager imagination."
One evening on Baker Street. One unpublished blog post. And one pair of chipped knuckles, which Sherlock noticed earlier than John himself.
Difference in pace
John sat hunched over the table, his finger hovering nervously over the 'Delete' key. On the screen, the draft of a new blog post glowed:
«...and as we ran along the embankment, our hands inadvertently locked. This was dictated solely by the necessity of not losing each other in the crowd and the difference in our pace...» John sighed. It sounded pathetic. Even for him.
"Space is subjective, John."
Sometimes the Mind Palace gets too noisy, and the only solution is a very narrow bed and a silent promise: You're not alone.
On Baker Street
It had been a rough night. Outside, the London rain was relentless, hammering against the glass as if trying to break into the room. John had already turned off the light and was drifting off when he heard a faint, hesitant knock.