vatican cameos

[save-his-life]

big news im no longer banned from omegle

[stellagibson]

|insp|

[save-his-life]

can we talk about this photo for a second?

because after watching the final problem and then seeing this photo, the violin stuck out like m a d. i dont know if it’s just me being a bit of a manic art and english student (i look waaaay too deep into stuff like this), but the light is hitting the violin from the side of the g-string. the g-string is the lowest string on a violin. the g-string is the basic string. you learn the g string before you learn to use the whole violin. the g-string is the basis, the beginning, where everything starts. This is their childhood, eurus and sherlock, where everything is good, they play together, they love eachother. the d string is fine, the a string is fine. this is the middle period, uninterrupted because sherlock doesn’t have eurus  in his life. she isn’t part of his life because he forgot her. the melody continues until there comes a need for the E string. The E string is higher in pitch, the one that everyone gets angry about when the violin player is screechy. this string has not been delicately broken, this string has been attacked with the bow ( E string - what else starts with E?? ((I’ll give u a clue, it’s Eurus)) The E string is broken. The E string has been under an immense amount of stress, pressure and power. But the E string is the tightest string, the strongest but with the easiest capability to snap, and when those strings snap, they fly. Those strings snap quickly, and those strings can hurt. The E string is in shadow, and the E string is broken and unusable.

[gayeddies]

here, though the world explode, these two survive,

[save-his-life]

Stranger: [Victorian AU – A relationship would be greatly frowned upon. All letters are delivered within a few hours of eachother due to the homeless network delivering them. They aren’t read by anyone else.] My Dear Friend, As I am sure you are well aware, I fought in the Afghan War. I experienced many hardships that I have overcome in my time due to healthy doses of adrenaline and excitement supplied by you. I am considered a strong and powerful man in the military circles, a Captain. Prior to my return, I was considered for a promotion, but I never got the chance to receive it because of the injuries I suffered. Holmes, I am known as a strong man. A good man. An honest one that would not let petty crimes taint my reputation, yet I find myself torn between the need to be honest and the chance of committing a crime that you would not approve of. It is not your area, as has been said countless times. I respect that fully, you have my utmost confidence of that. I know that you are in close proximity with the police and would not indulge in a crime of this nature, which is why I have taken the horrible yet necessary decision to distance myself from you. I do not wish to, my friend, but when I find myself unable to resist the pull and urge of a behaviour wrongly classed as criminality, I must leave. I will be returning to the military to accept my promotion. You always will be considered a great man, and I am honoured to have known and loved such an incredible persona. Yours, John H Watson.

You: Dear Watson, I am saddened to hear you have made your decision. Losing a good friend, man with quite a bit wisdom hidden inside is not something I wished to happen, but I do understand that you indeed are respectable man. You are all those things you have mentioned in your letter but you are also a coward, my dear John. I never thought I would have to be this blunt with you and with heavy heart I write this little notion to you. There are crimes more horrible than what you are talking about. Even I, a man who has declared matters of heart are not my area, understand that. I will respect your decision and there is very little else me to put on the paper than fond farewells. My door is always open for you. Yours, Sherlock Holmes

Stranger: Holmes, Yes, I am a coward, but I will not let you come under the justice system for something that will inevitably be my fault. The rumours are quick and already spreading. They will become a wildfire in London if I do not leave soon. There are crimes far worse, but they will be crimes in which one is punished. In this, regardless of evidence, we will both be punished over the mere evidence of someone's assumption. Even a stranger should know that this is far from your area, but they do not. I cannot help that, and as a man driven by the heart, I must leave before it takes over my mind and I have nothing left but to act upon urges. Feelings. Sentimentalities. I understand your hatred for them now. Caring is not an advantage. Holmes, I do not wish to leave you like this, but I fear that seeing you again would make it impossible for me to go. My train is due to depart in three days. A part of me wishes I will be pulled back, stopped from going and told I am being childish, but I know what I must do. Yours, John H Watson.

You: Watson, You are not one to make decisions on my behalf. Rumors do spread fast in London but there is ways to cut the wings from the worst accusations and rest can be proven false with little or no effort at all. I would not want you to suffer. You are man of honor after all, man who has and is still willing to protect his country. I have read you letter few times now and your wish might become reality. I have enjoyed your presence in Baker Street. Our living arrangements have been more than satisfactory so far and I still hope it would no come to an end. The final decision has not been made yet. Watson, the simply solution would be you to marry a woman who doesn't mind letting his husband solve crimes with a great detective. Some women are obedient enough just to ignore and others... They just close their eyes and enjoy the status they have received. Think this through once more. If you are afraid of the physical side, I shall repeat another phrase you have heard before: body is just transport. There is no need you to worry something that simple. I need my friend by my side. Yours, Sherlock Holmes

Stranger: Holmes, I have no desire to marry a woman. None at all. While I may have indulged in that side of things, those physicalities, I did not deem it satisfactory and marrying a woman just to remain with you? I would rather not lie... Though it is a harsh conflict to have, I do not wish to hurt anybody. Returning to Afghanistan would be the most reasonable choice, though it would be a game of chance if I return or not. I fear the war. You know how much I fear it, the shooting and the fire. Death is around every corner, yet I do not fear it. I fear the loss of other people. Lives lost at young ages because of some ingrained patriotism that does not have a chance to dissipate. I have seen death countless times, and I know returning would kill me. But I wish for you to be safe. There is nothing I want more. I need you too, but I may lose you if rumours spread more. Yours, John H Watson.

You: My dear Watson, Everybody lies. Some lie to their spouses, their families. Some lie about their drinking. Other use lies to keep their loved ones safe. Most people just lie to themselves. Leaving won't solve any problems but it does make lying bit easier. I have some knowledge of the difficulties you have faced under the scorching sun as well as in London after your return. It pains me to know you will return to other side of the world. It a gamble and I fear you will lose. Yet you have skills that will help younger generation, those who have whole life ahead them, fiance waiting here in England. You will do remarkable well and I wish it will be enough. After a while, you will forget your old friend as you battle against the elements and invisible enemies. It is battle against windmill, here or there. I hope you wil choose your comrade carefully. Yours now and always, Sherlock Holmes

Stranger: My Dearest Holmes, I need to see you. No elements nor enemies will make me forget someone like you, no amount of gunpowder or gas down my throat will take away your ghost from my memories, that is in the realm of impossibility. Yes, I will do well, but I will also die out there. I cannot die knowing that I have not bid you a decent farewell, perhaps cooked you dinner to apologise for the emotions that you have grown to despise. I have to see you, and if it is a lie that I do have to live with until I take it to my grave, one word and I will do it. The prospect of war gets more and more terrifying as the hours go on, and I know what a cruel power it is. I plan to make our final meeting memorable. Something exciting with a photograph at the end. I need something of you to take. Yours, John H Watson.

You: John, I have mentioned to you, when you have written down our adventures that you exaggerate things quite a bit. I have told you that you get facts wrong and you always replied that readers want to read exciting stories, fast paced thrillers. Our friendship has been just like that, short and fast paced, but memorable in so many ways. We both know that meeting would be bad idea, but we are not always rational. At times we need to risk it all. John, I want to shake your hand for the last time, because it is small gesture that can mean world for two friends parting perhaps the last time. So my dearest Watson, let us meet and I will not bring up your sentimental way to put words that are not quite something a poet would be proud of. Yours, Sherlock Holmes

Stranger: John recieved the letter and read over it a few times, tears in his eyes at the fear or losing both Sherlock and possibly his life. God, he would not wish this upon his worst enemy, but he needed to solve their issues and keep Sherlock safe from prying eyes. He pulled on his overcoat and rushed out of the door, the letter tucked in his breast pocket. He rushed to Baker Street, running despite his limp and tremor that returned at the thought of war. "Holmes? Holmes, open the door." He called, knocking three times and waiting, throat dry and a sick feeling brewing in his stomach. Their final goodbye - John didn't wish for this to end, though he knew it was necessary.

You: Sherlock had not been all that surprise to receive John's letter. He was proper man through and through so naturally he wanted to do the only right thing he could even though Sherlock didn't agree. There had been accusations of different sorts before and one rumor more would not make a difference. Three knocks. John. Sherlock knew the rhythm of those knocks well enough and flung from his chair and even though it was not, what he usually did, he ran downstairs still wearing his dressing gown. "Doctor Watson", he greeted stepping aside so that John could step in.

Stranger: John stepped into the flat, looking down at the floor in shame. God, he was ruining the only friendship Sherlock had and the only proper friendship he would have himself for the sake of the public, but he couldn't let Sherlock be in danger. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, I had to come here. Sherlock, I am /scared/." He whispered,meeting his friend's eye in the dim light of the room, one candle in the corner to light it. This place was warm, it smelled of chemicals but it remained John's home. Though he lived alone to ease rumours further, he considered this his home. "And... I am here to thank you. For everything you have done for me..."

You: "Stop it, you old fool", Sherlock told placing his hand on John's shoulder and squeezing slightly. "There is nothing you should apologise. Your limp has returned. You are not fit for service, so forget the Afghanistan and come back home", he suggested knowing it sounded like the great Sherlock Holmes was getting soft. "Room upstairs is still free and Mrs. Hudson misses you, the voice of reason as she calls you", Sherlock added looking at his friend. He was grateful the dim light. Perhaps John would not see it in his face, the worry he felt deep inside at the moment.

Stranger: "But you will be hurt. Those rumours spread like wildfire, and it's grounds for hanging." John breathed, leaning back against the wall. He took off his hat and placed it on the sideboard beside him. "And I'd much rather face my own fears to keep you safe rather than sit back and watch them strip both of us of anything and everything we have to brand us criminal." His fist was clenched, but the tremor was still all too evident in his left hand. He despised that too, made him look weak and pathetic in the face of everything. He felt the weight of the world in Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, and he didn't want the simple touch to leave.

[save-his-life]

Stranger: [Reichenbach – Previously established. Excuse the length. Sherlock is under the impression that John died at war] John Hamish Watson. /Captain/ John Hamish Watson. He had seen a lot of death in his time. Had to steel himself through it like any captain would, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing his lover fall six storeys into a pile of bones and flesh on the floor. The humanity had seeped out of Sherlock in the blood that ran down the cracks of the pavement, and John felt like he had taken his last breath when Sherlock took his. He needed something to distract him from what would have become alcoholism, drinking himself into an early grave and if not, ending it all himself. No, he couldn’t have that. He needed to do something, and London carried too much for him to bear. He reverted to a time without Sherlock, applied for a position on the frontlines again. They knew him well in the military circles, and were more than accepting of him back despite his previous retirement from injury. He managed to assure them that he was in full working order and within weeks, he was on the battlefield doing what John Watson did best. The nights were hard, racked by nightmares to the point that they gave him his own sleeping quarters out of fear of him lashing out at the other men overnight. They knew that they couldn’t afford to let him go. He dodged bullets for the next three years, seeing death after death but not sparing it a passing glance. When you lose your most important thing, nothing else seems to matter. But with time, John Watson began to get fatigued quicker than the other troops. He began to become better at giving orders rather than following them, and it was swiftly decided that he needed to retire once more. John Watson found himself right back in London, the London that he had grown to despise from it’s ability to take everything that he loved and twist it to hurt him. He knew it like the back of his hand, but he didn’t desire to. Not anymore. Three years later, and John was heading on habit back to Baker Street. He realised his mistake and made a sharp turn, settling for a small coffee shop across the road. He had just ordered his coffee when he heard the bell to signal the arrival of a new person. He didn’t bother to look up.

You: When Sherlock had been rescued from the prison in Siberia, Mycroft had told him that in the previous year John had been shot in Afghanistan and killed. He had taken a sharp breath and nodded, excusing himself for a moment. He had always imagined coming home to Baker Street and surprising John... But now that had all been taken away by one bullet from a gun. But he had gone on, like he always did. He pushed it to the back of his mind and went on with his life, solving crimes under an alias and keeping a low profile. Sherlock sighed as he entered the coffee shop across from Baker Street like he did every afternoon. Sherlock brushed past the people, stepping up to the counter. He rested his fingers on the counter, a weak smile on his face. The three years had done a number on his mental state and he found himself less cold than before. It was harder to put up walls. "I'll just have my regular, thank you," he said lowly, though his deep baritone vibrated through the small shop.

Stranger: John stared down into his coffee, much too expensive for the tiny pension he was on. He hated that he spent so much on it, and he hated that he had put too much milk in it. When he looked down into it, he saw the colour of the sand and the blood and the fire. He allowed himself to continue in this daze, but all he could hear in his head was a symphony of noises of war. Somewhere inside it was an order, a deep voice requesting a drink. Someone else in the shop then? If he weren't so pathetic, he might have turned around. Someone with a voice that lovely wouldn't give him the time of day, but it was the closest he could get to Sherlock. He let out a soft sigh and sipped his coffee, not yet turning to look. Just the voice was more than enough.

You: Sherlock waited patiently at the counter for his coffee and sandwich. It was slow days like this that he desperately wished John was still here. It was silly, really. John was gone. He didn't have the power to come back like he did. But at least he wasn't alone. Every once in awhile Mrs. Hudson would mention how much she missed his presence and how sad the place was without him. Sherlock took his coffee with a small nod, dropping a few coins in the tip jar. He took his sandwich and coffee to one of the booths, hanging up his coat and scarf before sliding in.

Stranger: John heard the footsteps leave, getting further away from him. He sighed again, this time softer as he pushed his hair back. He needed to get over this, the nightmares, the grief. It had been too long, and he was really getting out of practice. He straightened his collar and finished his coffee, getting up and going to the booth. He took a few steps towards the man, but felt the wind get knocked out of him at the sight of black curls facing the window. He limped then, noticing his own stumble as he cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I-..." He began, but couldn't quite get his words out. Not when he could see the resemblance between this man and his deceased lover.

You: Sherlock was just about to take a bite of his sandwich when he heard the voice at his side. He had heard the limp approaching but he figured it was someone going to the bin to throw out their rubbish. Sherlock set his sandwich down with a small sigh. He just wanted a nice meal by himself. He had spent the whole day with Sally and Anderson breathing down his neck at a crime scene. Slowly he turned his head, ready to tell the patron to fuck off. When he did his eyes widened, his body growing cold. "John..." he murmured quietly, scooting across the booth before standing. "I... Please sit down so I can explain before you get angry and make a scene."

Stranger: John felt his heart beat still and his hand begin to shake. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind he feared he may be hallucinating, but this was too real. This was too close to Sherlock. He sat in the booth, his blood cold and still in his body as he tried to make everything catch up. "I'm not angry..." He said softly, everything rushing past him in his head. He couldn't hold on to anything. "I just-... I'm relieved. I'm relieved, but I'm angry. I don't know what to think..."

You: Sherlock nodded slowly. Right. John had ever right to be angry or upset... But relieved. Oh, he was so happy John was relieved and not reaching over the table to headbutt him. Sherlock slowly took John's shaking hand in his, trying to ground the man. "I know you don't," he said quietly, taking the other hand. "What you saw three years ago was an illusion, a visual trick. You see... Moriarty would have everyone I cared about killed if I didn't do that... And John... You're not a good enough actor for me to have trusted with this secret. I'm so sorry. But I'm safe now, as are you... And I'm back... Have been for a few months... Actually... I'm a bit confused, Mycroft told me you were killed in action."

Stranger: John shook his head and looked up at Sherlock, "You let me go through that because I'm not a good enough actor?" He breathed, a bitter laugh escaping. "I've been acting for years, Sherlock. I've been acting fine so that they would let me in the army. I faked my mistakes, when all I was trying to do was blow myself up. I planned to be killed in action, but nothing goes how I want it to." He said, annoyed that he had to admit all of this to Sherlock. "Mycroft knew my plan. He just didn't know that they sent me back."

You: Sherlock nodded as he clenched his jaw. Right. Of course. He had no right to be angry at John for even thinking about killing himself. "I needed real hurt John. I couldn't have you knowing. If you knew something bad could have happened to you," he said quietly, leaning closer to the other man. "I wasn't going to have your death resting on my shoulders."

Stranger: "You very nearly did anyway. On multiple occasions." John said quickly, shuffling away from him. He couldn't think about being close now. Not like this. He wasn't happy enough to fall back into a relationship with him. Not like this. "Ask Mycroft. I think the could was 15 before I left for Afghanistan. He always found a way to interfere." His voice was colder now, needing Sherlock to know just how hurt he was. Sherlock couldn't have his death on his shoulders, but it was perfectly fine for John to blame himself for Sherlock's suicide.

You: Sherlock sat quietly as the man stood from the booth, ripping his hands away. Right. Not good. This was very not good. He had now expected John to move back in with him, to go back to how they had been, but that obviously was not the plan, not for John anyways. Sherlock was silent for a moment as the man spoke to him, his voice sharp and cold and unloving. He nodded, looking down at his coffee (which was growing cold). "I understand," he said quietly, very much realizing this was most definitely the end.

Stranger: John looked down to the table, to his hand. Having Sherlock's over his own felt so normal, despite the three year gap. It felt right, and now he had pulled away like John meant nothing. "You don't." He said softly, feeling the tears coming back to him. He hadn't cried for so long. "Because-... I thought it was my fault. I had to find some way to move on without you, and all I could do was try to leave it all. I'm scared to love you again because I can't go through that and come out alive."

You: [sorry, I meant John ripped his hands away, not Sherlock]

You: "I told you it wasn't your fault. I told you over and over again it had nothing to do with you. That I was a fraud and everything was catching up to me. I made it so /painfully/ clear that it was not your fault that I was throwing myself off a fucking building," he said, looking up at the other. "I understand. I understand you are hurt and you are scared, but you could be dead. You could be dead on the concrete with a fucking bullet in your head because I didn't jump. But you're alive and so am I. We can work to move past all of this if you'll just give us another try... Please..."

You: [could we continue over email?]

Stranger: John let out a shaky breath and watched a tear fall down onto the table. He closed his eyes, clenching his fist to stop the shaking. "I'm terrified that you'll do it again... The lengths you go to to protect me. I can't have that, Sherlock. I want to try, I want to go home with you and go straight back to how things were but I don't know if I can. I don't know if you'll tolerate me or if I'll panic at the smallest things."