He speaks through blue envelopes

Plague me naught with your unintelligent spit.  I am regnant internationally, known as the singular M.       The reaches of the Empire are invisible.  Come in my way and its soldiers will be Maker of your custom death.

[watsonsdetective]

Just learned about the existence of this poem written by Vincent Starrett in 1942. I'm always so happy when I can learn more about the Sherlockian fandom and discover more of Sherlockiana.

[eddhardwicke-deactivated2013033]

“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them.” — The Final Problem

[firstmostdangerous]

I am less than a heart The rest of me mere appendix Death is a door The novel’s central mystery I left my thoughts in the car tied some paper towels to my feet and walked home

[firstmostdangerous]

May you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you - haunt me, then.

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Visit Original Link

The Doors - Light My Fire

[firstmostdangerous]

It was like I'd been shot or something, all of a sudden my breathing completely stopped. Like, if I inhaled anymore, all my guts would come spilling right out of my mouth[...] I was walking back to the office... to my replacement when the Chief Officer, Matsumoto, came out with a mop. We headed up the escalator to the platform. There we found Toyoda, Takahashi, and Hishinuma with a bundle of wet newspapers on the platform. They’re stuffing it all by hand into plastic bags, but there’s liquid coming from them and spilling onto the platform. There was a very strong smell. Then Takahashi walked over to a trash can at the end of the platform, probably to fetch some more newspaper to wipe up where it was still wet. Suddenly he sinks down in front of the bin and keels over. Takahashi’s face looked awful. He couldn’t talk. We laid him on his side, loosened his tie … he looked in really bad shape.

-abridged victim recount, murakami, Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche

[sheltiechicago]

Folds in Recurring Patterns Form the Tessellated Origami Sculptures by Goran Konjevod

Whether folding flat, square tessellations or rounded forms that billow from a central point, origami artist  Goran Konjevod (previously) focuses on the tension inherent in a single sheet of material. His sculptures draw on his background in mathematics and computer science and configure precise geometries, fanned pleats, and small woven pieces that appear to be individual strips threaded together rather than a series of carefully aligned creases. Each form is a meticulous blend of texture, pattern, and dimension that’s translated into elegant, abstract constructions through repetitive folds.

[maartenscherpenisse]

Non-periodic tiling (Penrose, e.o.) 

Generating non-periodic tilings (hierarchical clustering)

[firstmostdangerous]

robert lang - elliptic infinity

[firstmostdangerous]

Everything we call real is made of things that cannot be regarded as real.

-Niels Bohr

[rpmemes-galore]

BBC’s Sherlock — The Hounds of Baskerville  {Sentence Starters}

“You envy me?“

“Oh. Not good?“

“It’s not important.“

“It’s not in the rules!“

“I don’t have ‘friends’!“

“He’s in here with me.“

“I can’t, he’ll hear me…“

“Well, that was tedious.”

“Any long-term effects?“

“You’re just showing off.“

“Go after her and apologise.“

“Tell me what you’re seeing!“

“I don’t know, but I can hear it.“

“Well, then the rules are wrong!“

“Look at me. I’m afraid…. Afraid.”

“Alright, keep talking. I’ll find you.“

“It was the only possible solution!“

“None of the cabs would take me.“

“What am I saying? This is brilliant.“

“You are amazing, you are fantastic!“

“Yes, alright, don’t have to overdo it.“

“How on earth did you notice all that?“

“Please, please, please can you help?“

“Ah, no. We are never playing that, again.“

“Think I might have taken care of that, already.“

“Of course. I am a show-off, that’s what we do.“

“I meant it. I don’t have friends… I’ve just got one.“

“Why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.”

“Oh, that was this morning. When’s the next one?“

“Totally scientific. Laboratory conditions. Quite literally.“

“Your mind; it’s so placid, straight-forward, barely used.“

“Murder weapon and the scene of the crime, all at once!“

“I’ve got a theory, but I need to get back into ______ to test it.”

“But, you see, body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions.“

“Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, that’s why!”

“I’ve always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings.”

“My mind’s like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launchpad.”

[firstmostdangerous]

perdefinitio​:​

Dreadfully,  fittingly,  Severin  can’t  help  but  look  flabbergasted.  Positively  stupid.  What  the  fuck’s  he  ever  done  to  deserve  this  headache  of  a  person  in  his  life?  Better  not  to  think  on  that  too  hard.  He  opens  his  mouth  to  protest,  then  closes  it  again.  Moriarty  may  well  be  one  of  all  but  three  people  on  this  planet  to  make  Severin  think  before  he  speaks  –  factor  in  the  risk  of  reprimands  before  he  gets  his  foot  stuck  in  his  mouth.  It  delays  his  response  for  a  few  seconds,  perhaps  removes  some  of  the  intended  bite;  but  can’t,  within  those  few  seconds,  change  his  contrarian  character.  "I’m  not  a  fucking  waiter.“

                                Internal  safety  protocols  demand  that  if  you  ignore  one  order,  you  better  follow  another  in  exchange.  So  he  sits;  albeit  reluctantly,  stiffly,  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  across  from  him.  With  a  cautious  frown  etched  onto  his  features,  he  tries  again:  "What  do  you  want  from  me?”

______________

☛        ⊰  ℳ. ⊱

————————

                  There’s a hazardable type of art in searching through large stations of the dead, keeping corpses seven days from decay by preservatives without evisceration by the vas ustrinum. A pyre. But eventually the bulk of men should sink into so few grams of bones and a slender mass would remain upon the grill in a beating flame. How no historical solution to the itch that must be scratched could be found for men like Severin, and bones like Severin’s is unsatisfactory---how in the pit so hot it could burn off Pyrrhus’s lucky toe he would not be able to make out Severin’s brain if he looked. Where is it?

                  And where is it now?

              ‘   Work review.   ‘    They’ve been due to sit like this, before he sends Severin to Asia. Sweaty.  

                  Moriarty hasn’t sounded the least bit insolent. As if that weren’t enough, something rightfully irks him. The view behind Severin’s shoulders and misplaced head: The scone he was rather interested in.

                  Large eyes, watching him, he sighs.     ‘   I ask for so little.   ‘  

@perdefinitio​

[jimthelizardking]

Visit Original Link

The Doors - Soul Kitchen

[kyblon]

[firstmostdangerous]

by @perdefinitio​​ 

[tibby]

on a scale of fake pockets to nachos how good is your idea

[liza-k]

I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now. They’re all mine. No such thing as secrecy. I OWN secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And, honey, you should see me in a crown.