(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
Ok so I’ve been playing for 18 years and i’m a string teacher. Can i just say how IMPORTANT it is for young kids to see a BLACK, MALE-PRESENTING PERSON playing, nae, SHREDDING on a violin? I’ve know maybe 5 black people who played stringed instruments throughout my schooling and teaching (predumably because i’m an upper middle class white woman). In districts where the population is predominantly black, funding is always low, so the instruments are crappy. Kids quit, or the program is dismantled. I’ve seen very few professional string players who are black.
Obviously there are black string players. We just don’t see them because they “don’t look like” string players.
This person is the real deal. They were clearly classically trained, and seems to have some fiddle training as well. How cool is that?
My goal is to close out last year's @fluffbruary fic before this year's event and post it on ao3. I think I can swing it. Returning to Baker Street for this one.
John trudged up the stairs to 221B, clutching a paper bag with a bottle of wine in hand. As he pushed open the sitting room door, he called out, "Sherlock, you in?"
He pivoted to place the bag in the kitchen and was shrugging his coat off when a muffled noise arose from the sofa.
"There you are. Note for you. It was wedged in the door knocker." He dropped the envelope on the coffee table and left to find an uncontaminated kitchen surface for the wine.
Another muffled sound preceded a great groaning and creaking of leather. John returned to the sitting room with cups of tea as Sherlock was opening the envelope. He sat on the cushion that was now free of long legs and peered at the envelope in Sherlock's hand.
"Case?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea.
Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "The conclusion of one," he said to the rim of his cup.
"Can't believe you took on a case without me."
"On the contrary, John. You were instrumental in this case."
John took a mouthful of tea and wracked his brain for his supposed instrumental contribution to a recent case and came up blank. "Which was this, then?"
"Ah, not one for the blog, alas."
"Privacy?"
"Mm. Sadly my brother would have it removed immediately."
"I don't recall doing a case for your brother."
"Not for him, though he was a beneficiary."
"Spell it out. I don't want to play twenty questions."
"I sent Gary to him"
"Gary who?"
"Lestrade, of course."
"Greg Lestrade. You sent Greg Lestrade to your brother. To what end? I thought they knew each other."
"They do. I sent Greg – as you call him –"
"That's his name."
"– To my brother when Greg was in a time of need."
"But when –"
Sherlock vaulted over the coffee table and began to pace. "You will recall, John, the evening that Lestrade escorted us home and… witnessed the new nature of our companionship. I believe your words were 'Guess George knows then' before you proceeded to ravish me."
John bit back the smirk and fought the blush that threatened to overwhelm both his face and his good sense. "Greg. You know his name, you berk. Wait, if I was ravishing you, at what point did you send him to your brother?"
"It was admittedly a calculated risk. I planted that bottle we received from our client - you know, the one with the poodle."
"The MacGregor's Garden Mystery. I liked that scotch."
"Southern distillery. It was whiskey, John. Honestly." Sherlock shook his head. "And a small price to pay to get Mycroft's giant proboscis out of our affairs. With all the time I no longer have to spend accounting for my comings and goings with Big Brother, I'll take you to the distillery myself."
John narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue. He could tell Sherlock wanted to wrap up their discussion and move on to other business. Or pleasure. John was very much on board with either tack, but held his thoughts. If he wanted the last word in this he would have to be patient.
"If I read this note and my brother's elevated distraction correctly, he and the DI are currently ensconced at Lestrade's flat. It should be some time before Mycroft troubles us again."
"Right." John was somewhat lost for words at the Mycroft, really? of it all, but there truly was no accounting for taste and many would be similarly gobsmacked by his own penchant for lanky, dickhead detectives. "So what you're saying," he said with as much mild placidity as he could muster, "is that you manufactured a situation in which we revealed ourselves as a couple to a friend to inspire him to go off and shag your brother. Is this what you're saying, Sherlock?"
Sherlock paused in his pacing and scrutinised John with a look of utter disgust. John stood up and moved to slide his thumbs into Sherlock's lapels.
"Because if you're suggesting that I should be prepared to sacrifice my lovely things in service of getting your brother laid, you'll find your bed a great deal emptier than you've come to prefer."
Sherlock's eyes widened and his tongue slipped out to lick his lips.
"Just this once," John continued, "I'll grant that the sacrifice was worth it. But we're not about to make this a habit. Understood?"
"The flourish on my brother's signature indicates the unlikelihood of our having to repeat the experiment."
"You mean he's happy. Greg and Mycroft making each other happy was not on my list of predictions for the year, I'll admit. It's a bit sweet isn't it?"
"I'd prefer not to contemplate," said Sherlock with an eyeroll.
"I've got just the thing to take your mind off it," John murmured, leaning in to close the space between their lips.
"Do go on."
"Now, about those comings and goings of yours–" John kissed Sherlock with a flourish of his own.
Y'all for real please do these. Even if you're certain your posture doesn't suck. One day you will wake up with impinged shoulder pain like I did and let me tell you it fucking HURTS. Do these exercises even just once a week and it will make such a difference. Especially my fellow creatives out there, stop shrimping over your work and go do these right now. RIGHT NOW.
- John can peel an orange in one long strip within an average 20 seconds
- One time Sherlock woke up at 4:00am from a long, post-case nap to the sound of John on the phone, talking loudly in Pashto and laughing.
- Sherlock is not sure what John said, but the Met dispatcher who used to glare ice picks at him now waves and says “How are you holding up, dearie?” every time he walks in.
- John can name any actor on television within 1.3 seconds, even just by voice or a partial view of the face.
- John can make any room feel comfortable. They were once trapped in a locked vault for the night, and despite his annoyance and fear, John had balled their coats into a little sitting area, hung his vest over the glaring emergency light, and coaxed Sherlock into a four-hour deduction game.
- John can distract Mrs. Hudson for a truly remarkable length of time, long enough to dispose of a lab pig properly even.
- John can crack his left ankle indefinitely.
- John can carry on a full conversation while sleeping. Almost got him to confess where the cigarettes were stowed.
- John can sleep anywhere. He says he learned it in the army but after their night in the vault Sherlock now knows it began much earlier when John had to work nights during the school year to keep Harry fed.
- John can go from furious to laughing if you know the right keyword.
- John can look across a busy crime scene, catch Sherlock’s eye, and answer whatever need he finds there. Lestrade has given up trying to figure out how.
- John knows which nights to stay up a bit later, to keep the telly on at a dull murmur, to make meaningless comments and human noises as Sherlock sits like stone a few feet away.
- John can’t summon taxis or figure out the quickest route between two opposite sides of London, but he can make the tube rattle a little quieter and the streets feel a little warmer.
- John stays. Despite all logic and after everything that has happened, everything that Sherlock has done, he stays.
He steps out of the car. The sky is lightening, slate gray.
The plane waits on the runway. He looks at it, and is struck with a wave of déjà vu, overwhelming, nauseating. Behind him, the driver has turned off the car. The engine clicks in the cold air.
John and Mary are standing together. They are looking at the plane, and neither turns at Sherlock’s approach. There is a man in a black suit with them, a CIA agent, no doubt. Sherlock is irrationally glad it is not the man he remembers from the Adler case.
He draws closer, holding himself in check, carefully blank. His eyes sweep over the pair of them. They look tired. Unhappy.
John meets his gaze, swallows. “MI6 was waiting at my house when I got home last night,” he says. He makes a terrible attempt to smile. “Kind of thing that seems like it would be a lot more exciting than it actually was.”
"Given your near-constant need to embellish and exaggerate on your blog, I’d have thought you were already well aware of the disconnect between fiction and reality,“ Sherlock murmurs.
"Joking, then,” John says, his face still approximating a smile. He nods. “Good. That's—that’s good.”
A retort dies on Sherlock’s lips. He cannot seem to maintain the fiction that all is well, cannot go on bantering with John as if this is not the end. He’s already done this. Doing it again is tantamount to torture. He looks past John, stares hard at the plane that is to take him away.
"Sherlock,“ John says. His shoulders are hunched against the wind. "Mary and I talked last night. After.”
He does not want to hear this. There is no reason to hear this. Obviously, they’ve talked. They wouldn’t be standing here, in the cold, if they hadn’t talked. Mycroft has already told him about the deal that’s been cut, about the new identities and the new lives and the official pardons. It is all logical and sound and fine but he does not want to hear it again, and he certainly does not want to hear it from John Watson’s mouth.
So he tunes out the words that John is saying, instead takes the time to look his fill, to memorize all of the curves and planes of his friend’s face. There are laugh lines around his eyes, deeper now than when they first met, and although he is not laughing now it is easy to remember the times they have laughed together, laughed well and loud. He’s never laughed quite the same way with anyone else as he laughs with John Watson. Their association has left its mark on John’s skin. This pleases him.
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