seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Honduras
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Austria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from Taiwan
PSA:
sORRY
Sorry I have been so absent lately but uni work load has got insane.
I have, however, got a new blog I am working on, and basically, it's a place for my muse to dump thoughts. I won't be paragraphing for a while yet but I will be over >here< if you want me.
Feel free to drop questions or submit stuff or just come say hi! I miss you all.
Much love. x
#{ he may as well have just shouted 'no' in your face#and then waggled his willy at you#oh my god that is the funniest fucking mental image#i can't#stop laughing#shit }
I'M GOING TO BE LAUGHING AT THIS FOR SUCH A LONG TIME, OH MY GOD. Christ. Anyway. I just realised that I haven't watched Psycho yet. That's a thing that needs to be rectified immediately, so I'm going to do that before I work on replies. Apologies, apologies, I know, I'm a procrastinator.
militaribus
’ At least it won’t abandon Mary for two years, then jump in with a shoddy moustache and French accent to announce ‘not dead.’ ‘
Cait and I are having our 'potential flatmates should know the worst about each other' conversation. We're John and Sherlock in so many ways, it's beginning to get scary.
“You’re a mess, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s comment went seemingly unnoticed as Sherlock continued to scrub the blood off of his hands.
The elder Holmes was stood in the doorway of the run-down flat that Sherlock had been squatting in recently, hands gripped tightly onto the handle of his umbrella as he watched his younger brother’s almost frenetic movements; a stark contrast from his usually oh-so-methodical way of doing things when he’s not on a case.
“You do realise that no matter how much you clean yourself up, he’s not going to want to see you after what you’ve done.”
“Yes, thank you for your input, Mycroft. I’ll be sure to file it away under ‘opinions that I have no need for’.”
For the most part, his hands were relatively clean…Physically, at least. Metaphorically, he had enough blood on his hands that he would never be able to wipe his fragile conscience clear. John was never going to forgive him for what he’d done, and he didn’t need Mycroft to remind him of that.
“If you have anything worthwhile to contribute, I’ll ask that you keep it to yourself. I’m not interested in anything that you have to say.”
With what would be bordering on an exasperated sigh for anyone that wasn’t Mycroft, the elder Holmes turned on his heel as he made to leave.
“…Your phone, Sherlock.”
That didn’t quite register with Sherlock as something that made sense to say next, so of course it caught his attention. “What?”
“Your phone.”
And with that, Mycroft was gone, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. With still damp hands, he snatched up the phone from where he’d left it resting on what was probably the only usable surface in the place. His fingers nimbly accessed his messages and—
He’d done it. It had cost him Mary’s life and the breaking of multiple laws - not that he wasn’t familiar with that already - but in his hands, he held the location in which Moriarty was keeping John hostage. He was glad for the message, knowing that his current anger at the psychopath could potentially ruin everything if a phone call had taken place. It had been his immediate reaction when the whole debacle had started and he was not only furious with Moriarty, but with himself for allowing John to be taken from him.
Three years, he’d been gone. Three years and it had all been to keep John safe, yet Moriarty had still gotten to him. Of course, he blamed himself for it, knowing that if he’d been more careful abroad, then none of it would have happened. But he could atone for it later, once both him and John were back at Baker Street.
His familiar coat felt odd draped on his body again. He hadn’t been able to wear it before because it was too recognisable - too Sherlock - and in a way, it was good to get into that skin again. He’d been working up to it with the stupid little tasks that he’d been set. It had given him an opportunity to fire up his mind again and put it to proper use. He felt more like the Sherlock Holmes that he used to as he left the flat, not the poor outline of a man that he had become.
It took him barely any time to get to the building where John was being held, and so what if he promised the cabbie an extra tenner for every red light he ran? By the time he got out of the taxi, the fare was well above what it should have been, but Sherlock didn’t even bat an eyelid as he shoved two fifty pound notes - money taken from the inside pocket of Mycroft’s jacket, when he hadn’t been paying attention - into the driver’s hand before exiting the taxi, and heading straight into the building.
"John!?”
He knew his calls would likely go unanswered, due to either unwillingness or inability to do so on John’s part, but that didn’t stop him from trying. The obvious route to go would be to check the largest room in the place first; he knew Moriarty would have preferred a more confined space, something to do with psyching the victim out and all that, but Moran was involved and Sherlock knew from things he’d heard that the sniper liked space to make mess.
If Sherlock believed in luck, he would definitely say that it was in when he happened upon John’s unconscious body in the first room he checked.
“John.”
His voice took on a slightly more urgent tone as he was quick to move to John’s side. As much as he didn’t want to take note of every little cut and bruise and malformation that John had, he couldn’t help himself. His mind was always at work, always profiling, always taking in every last detail, and it caused a stab of guilt deep in his chest.
“John.”
A hint more urgency in his voice.
“Wake up, John.”
{ As Irene Adler remarks on her website masthead: know when you’re beaten. }
—— have you been wicked?
Irene Adler was back in London. She was sure the news would spread around rather quickly, if anything because of her reputation. Even if she returned back only after she assured herself a safe ground, people would still keep an eye on her. She knew it was only a matter of time, and the confirmed arrived with a the photos on her phone, photos of one of her contacts. It was a safe measurement, considering the people that came to her door in the past. She took some time to dress herself, and this time opted for nothing less than a simple v neck dress, black, that marked her most prominent features, still leaving an elegant air. A pair of black heels and the silver earrings, and finally a touch of faint make up, if not for the lips, often painted in a classic brick colour. As per usual Kate welcomed the guest, and after minutes of waiting she reached the living room with a pleasant smile. "I wasn't expecting you so soon," she said, amused. "To what do I owe the honour?"
