You still don't understand

wear your t-shirt

[lovinpeople]

Nobody knows where my Johnny has gone But Mary left the same time Why was he holding her hand When he's supposed to be mine? It's his party and I'll cry if I want to You would cry too if it happened to you

[lovinpeople]

I am trying to learn and I’m dying to know When to move on and when to let it go

Kodaline - Unclear

[lovinpeople]

I honestly don’t understand people who after a good RP disconnect when asked about email address. Like, I get it that they might not like RPing via email but is it really so hard to say it and then say goodbye instead of just disconnecting on someone?

It’s just damn rude.

[lovinpeople]

Everyone hates Mondays.

I hate Tuesdays.

[lovinpeople]

Guys okay so I'm in IB and we've got a thing called EE that has 4,000 words and is generally something in one subject we work on for a few months. I'm writing my essay in English Language & Literature and my topic is Sherlock. You can start envying me now.

[lovinpeople]

Sherlock and Greg sitting at Greg's kitchen table with two mugs of tea from time to time and talking about cases and life just because Greg adores Sherlock and Sherlock feels safe with Greg though neither admits it

[silent-fun]

Yes… This is how friends look at each other at their wedding receptions…

[lovinpeople]

what if someone killed Mycroft and then we would see Sherlock all heartbroken on the couch for days on end and smoking Mycroft's cigarettes and wearing his ring but not even attending the funeral to show how much he doesn't care

[lovinpeople]

GUYS THAT IS IMPORTANT.

MARTIN FREEMAN APPRECIATION POST.

[tastefullyoffensive]

Cartoonist Josh Hara Draws on His Coffee Cup(s) Every Morning [more] Previously: How to Get 10% Off Your Order at Not a Burger Stand

[lovinpeople]

Holmescest anyone?

Things were different with Sherlock when he was still a child. 

There were long summer days they would spend together outside in the garden, Sherlock running around until he was so tired that he would just fall next to Mycroft, head resting on his lap but mind always working and mouth never shutting. There were cold December evenings when Sherlock would curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s feet and skim through his books while his brother was studying or reading. There were weekend mornings when Mycroft and Sherlock woke up in the older’s bed, Sherlock’s curls tickling Mycroft’s neck when the boy was hugging up close like a puppy looking for caresses and affection. There were trips to London and holiday breakfasts on the patio and piano lessons working Sherlock up because he hated it when Mycroft was better at something. But then, at eighteen, Mycroft went to Oxford and Sherlock was left alone.

Mycroft knew this was going to be disturbing for both of them, had known it long before once, in the dead of night, Sherlock opened the creaking door and slid under the covers, waking him up to ask about what would happen when he left in October. And, though, gathering him close, he reassured the boy that nothing would change between them, it only broke his heart more, confirming him in his resolution to shut off his feelings for Sherlock as soon as possible to protect himself from getting hurt even further. Right as he left, he stopped calling, writing and visiting family house. Didn’t see Sherlock for three months at first and only talked to him twice, and when he came back, the boy didn’t want to speak to him at all. Mycroft decided it was better for both of them.

As for someone so intelligent, it was quite surprising that it took him whole eight years to realise what he had done. To realise that he had let his little sweet brother down and that, in the course of years, the emotional, vulnerable boy had turned into a cold young man full of nonchalant grace, who had some problems with drugs and cigarettes and didn’t want to have much in common with Mycroft — it wasn’t a wonder. And only when Sherlock turned up high, loud and regretful at Mummy’s Christmas party, his face pale and sweaty, eyes flickering and hair dishevelled, and Mycroft needed to escort him almost unconscious to his old room, did he fully understand. Now, in the early morning after this utter embarrassment, he eventually pulled himself together enough to loudly knock at this door he had been avoiding and have a talk with Sherlock, a real talk, the first in years. Parents were still asleep and probably so was his little brother but it had been long since Mycroft went so carelessly to sleep for the last time or slept longer than four or five hours.

Please message me if you want to try it out! :)

[lovinpeople]

Articles at Literature classes. So fascinating.

[lovinpeople]

Awww my goodness, thank you so much! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ I LOVE IT, it was perfect! I can't get enough of Sherlock and Mycroft kissing, yes yes, tee hee!

Thank you <3 I’m glad you liked it!

[lovinpeople]

A passage written at the request of bring-my-cake.

The night had got late before Mycroft, lying sleeplessly in bed, heard the click of the lock and the door open downstairs. He had been close to start wondering whether he hadn’t been mistaken thinking that his brother wouldn’t bear a Christmas evening with John, Mary and their little daughter—but now he knew he had been right from the beginning. Too involved. Had let the man too closely to himself, become vulnerable. Hadn’t Mycroft been trying to teach him for his whole life that people couldn’t be trusted, no matter what? That the only persons worth their time, faith and engagement were themselves? Was Sherlock never going to know better than that? Now, that the damaged had already been made, it didn’t seem of much use but Mycroft realised that it could still help Sherlock dissociate from whatever attachment and loyalty he felt for John. Although the man, apparently, wasn’t capable of divesting himself of /feelings/.

Steps on stairs, slow, quiet, as if Sherlock only wanted to slip into his room and under the covers in the hope of not waking the elder Holmes up, like it was even possible. When the door creaked open and a swathe of yellow light creeped across the bedroom’s floor, Mycroft noticed that he had been holding his breath in anticipation and exhaled loudly, waiting for Sherlock to take the place beside him that had only ever been meant for that man. 

“How has been your evening?” he mumbled but a squeeze of his shoulder stopped him from speaking any further and instead Sherlock demanded a kiss in an imperative but quiet voice, going for Mycroft’s lips before the latter realised properly in the dark. A bit awkwardly at first, searching for where exactly his mouth was, pressing crashingly against it with no rush only to keep Mycroft silent and occupied, and then readjusting their position with a slight tilt of Sherlock’s head and his lips parting against the other’s but only inviting instead of invading. Mycroft shut his eyes tight, as though to make darkness even deeper and more thorough, and followed the signal, sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, feeling the taste of cheap red wine, cigarettes and biscuits. His hand already up the man’s forearm and shoulder to steady his jaw, Mycroft’s body leaning into his brother’s to bring them yet closer than the usual place of silent and unwilling comfort in the elder’s arms, the kiss long and languid in an entirely devastating manner, heartbreaking almost. Because Mycroft was never going to know better than taking him back in either. 

[lovinpeople]

I want more Greg in S4.

I mean, he was so terribly unappreciated in S3 that my heart is bleeding. How did he feel during MHR, between S2 and S3? He seems so totally unmoved when he speaks to John or Anderson. Rationalising. Is is his reaction to losing Sherlock, his protection against the world, or Sherlock simply not being important enough?

What did he do after he met Sherlock alive? Got stoned? Smoked the whole packet of cigarettes? Forced Sherlock to explain the thing to him? Or maybe he just didn’t let go of him for, like, five minutes? I can’t believe that a man who is so emotional about things, so normal, just accepted the fact that his friend was alive again, all of a sudden.

What was he doing during the wedding, apart from making an idiot out of himself and drinking? Did he notice anything weird about Sherlock? For God’s sake, in the first episode he had already known him for 5 years (if I remember correctly what he says). I don’t know how long S1 and S2 took together but let’s say, 2 years. And 2 years between S2 and S3 so 9 years. I know they don’t think Lestrade brilliant but he’s not an idiot either, otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t like to work with him (and he does). After 9 years you know a man well enough, even if he is Sherlock Holmes, to tell when something is wrong. And yet, we can see no involvement of his. He’s not the type to just let things slide like that.

Earlier, we also see him speaking with Molly about Sherlock being John’s best man, which suggests some sort of warmer relationship between them but we don’t know his reaction to Molly’s fiancé apart from looks. We know nothing about what has happened in his life when Sherlock was busy in Serbia and John was busy falling for Mary, and Molly was busy with Tom. I mean, he’s like an extra in S3. All he does is hanging around and going to pubs—in MHR and HLV as well. He’s not important in Magnussen’s manipulations or anything, even though he was important to Moriarty—so Sherlock holds him in high esteem and cares about him, despite what he might show outside.

We get the continuation of ‘Greg’s his name’ but no real involvement of Greg either. We don’t know if it’s a game between him and Sherlock or if Sherlock really doesn’t remember his name because it’s information of no relevance since he’s Lestrade. We don’t know his feelings about it. Is Sherlock irrelevant so he doesn’t care? Surely not. So?

He’s so badly 2D and left out in S3 that I want to cry. Not to mention that we know exactly nothing about his private life. We even know about Anderson and Donovan—but not Gregory Lestrade. Seriously?

I’ve always seen him as someone who cared so badly about Sherlock, who tried to keep him in check, someone who stuck around even when he was being constantly pushed away, who could be trusted, who was ready to protect, who guided Sherlock through the meanders of social life and kept others away from him when that was needed. Someone who wasn’t appreciated even though he did a lot. But that lack of appreciation was supposed to come from Sherlock himself, not from the writers! 

[lovinpeople]

Anyone?

[AU: July 1914. They’re aristocracy. Sherlock is gay and hiding it. Mycroft is studying at Oxford. Father is working for the government.]

Summer this year was unusually hot and sunny, apparently having abandoned typical English weather for good. Sherlock, back from Eton for holidays, could spend all his days outside, either swimming in the pool, or, at times, just looking up at the light blue sky without one little puff across it, or in the beautiful garden at the back of the mansion lying in a deckchair and reading a book. Those were usually the ones he didn’t have to hide from his father. The others were left for lonely nights in his room, away from nosey mother and overly inquisitive eyes—‘The Communist Manifesto’, ‘The Origin of Species’, Freud’s or ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’—since sometimes even Mycroft didn’t seem to be trustworthy enough to show him what his little brother was delving into at the moment, with deep blushes on his cheeks—‘The Sins of the Cities of the Plain’ or ‘Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal’. 

Mycroft, though, often accompanied him in the evening for an hour or two when the day got a bit cooler and sun wouldn’t burn his pale skin (as it had already burnt the back of Sherlock’s legs after he had carelessly fallen asleep). But this time it wasn’t holidays like always—there was too much uneasiness in the world to ignore it. Even here in the country where the reality could be easily forgotten and Sherlock could just lock himself up in the world of books and his own thoughts and ideas, pretending nothing was happening, this spread fear was visible in their father’s features if he happened to be home and sometimes in Mycroft’s looks as well, reminding Sherlock of the knowledge he’d rather throw out of his mind for ever. And Mycroft’s, for that matter. 

“You’re thinking again,” he mumbled now, propping himself up on the edge of the pool, head rested on his forearms and wet curls sticking to his forehead. The last sunbeams evoked golden reflexes on the surface of warm water, slightly stirred from Sherlock’s movements. Mycroft was lying close enough to reach out and touch him yet the boy did not. “You’re always thinking about such grim things.” 

[lovinpeople]

Things were different with Sherlock when he was still a child. 

There were long summer days they would spend together outside in the garden, Sherlock running around until he was so tired that he would just fall next to Mycroft, head resting on his lap but mind always working and mouth never shutting. There were cold December evenings when Sherlock would curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s feet and skim through his books while his brother was studying or reading. There were weekend mornings when Mycroft and Sherlock woke up in the older’s bed, Sherlock’s curls tickling Mycroft’s neck when the boy was hugging up close like a puppy looking for caresses and affection. There were trips to London and holiday breakfasts on the patio and piano lessons working Sherlock up because he hated it when Mycroft was better at something. But then, at eighteen, Mycroft went to Oxford and Sherlock was left alone.

Mycroft knew this was going to be disturbing for both of them, had known it long before once, in the dead of night, Sherlock opened the creaking door and slid under the covers, waking him up to ask about what would happen when he left in October. And, though, gathering him close, he reassured the boy that nothing would change between them, it only broke his heart more, confirming him in his resolution to shut off his feelings for Sherlock as soon as possible to protect himself from getting hurt even further. Right as he left, he stopped calling, writing and visiting family house. Didn’t see Sherlock for three months at first and only talked to him twice, and when he came back, the boy didn’t want to speak to him at all. Mycroft decided it was better for both of them.

As for someone so intelligent, it was quite surprising that it took him whole eight years to realise what he had done. To realise that he had let his little sweet brother down and that, in the course of years, the emotional, vulnerable boy had turned into a cold young man full of nonchalant grace, who had some problems with drugs and cigarettes and didn’t want to have much in common with Mycroft — it wasn’t a wonder. And only when Sherlock turned up high, loud and regretful at Mummy’s Christmas party, his face pale and sweaty, eyes flickering and hair dishevelled, and Mycroft needed to escort him almost unconscious to his old room, did he fully understand. Now, in the early morning after this utter embarrassment, he eventually pulled himself together enough to loudly knock at this door he had been avoiding and have a talk with Sherlock, a real talk, the first in years. Parents were still asleep and probably so was his little brother but it had been long since Mycroft went so carelessly to sleep for the last time or slept longer than four or five hours.