“YOU CAN’T LEAVE WHEN THERE’S A MURDER, JOHN.”
I spent way longer on this than I meant to but that’s okay because John’s walk turned out awesome.
Serial murderers are amongst my favourite. They’re always so cautious but they contradict themselves by craving recognition. Fame. Love those!
I do not believe this list contains anything that is difficult to understand.
Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, Empire Online [x]
Do you know what the even more hilariously sad thing is? John was supposed to think that Sherlock was being sent off somewhere far away, where he could run free and have tons of detecting fun without him… but he was really being sent to his death.
OMFG Is that why he was so fucking mad about Bluebell? oh god.. my heart.
SHERLOCK: Stapleton. I knew I knew your name.
STAPLETON: I doubt it.
SHERLOCK: People say there’s no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.
(He holds up his notebook to her on which he has written a single large word: “BLUEBELL”. She stares at it in amazement as Sherlock watches her face closely.)
STAPLETON: Have you been talking to my daughter?
SHERLOCK (putting his notebook away): Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?
JOHN (bewildered): The rabbit?
SHERLOCK (to Stapleton, as she stares at him blankly): Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.
JOHN: The rabbit?
SHERLOCK: Clearly an inside job. [x]
…So. This is the face of Sherlock when reminded of his most painful childhood pressure point.
That’s not heartwrenching or anything.
You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?
Tagged by: dearlokigodofmischief
1. Name of your muse:
2. One picture you like best of your muse’s fc:
3. Two headcanons you have for your muse that you never told anyone:
I can’t say I’m overly secretive about my headcanons. Usually, if I have a headcanon, it’s pretty well known.
I suppose I could say:
- I’m not sure if this is an unpopular opinion or not. While Sherlock is on the side of the angels, and I do believe that he’s got a good heart and a desire to do good, I solidly believe that he and Moriarty are two halves of the same coin and that if certain events didn’t happen in Sherlock’s life, eventually crime solving wouldn’t be enough. Eventually he would become exactly like Moriarty.
- Part of Sherlock desperately craves to be normal, to be like everyone else. This is a small sliver of feeling, but it is there nevertheless.
4. Three things that your muse loves doing in their free time:
- Solving interesting cases—murders are his favorite. Serial murders.
- Experiments that help ease his boredom.
- Drug habits that he pretends don’t exist.
5. Four people that your muse loves (WHY ARE YOU ONLY LETTING ME NAME FOUR THERE ARE SO MANY MORE THAN THIS):
- John Watson
- Mycroft Holmes
- His father (headcanonly I’ve always had Sherlock have a bit of a tense relationship with his mother)
- Molly Hooper (almost always platonically)
6. Three fond childhood memories:
- Red Beard.
- Dressing up at his father and pretending to be just like his dad. (headcanonly, I like to think that’s where his coat came from).
- Solving smaller cases.
7. One thing they’d go through heaven or hell to save/change:
The danger he’s placed on John Watson, as well as anyone who associates with him, due to the enemies he has created.
Out of Character:
1. What’s your name?
2. When is your birthday?
- September 15th
3. Where are you from?
4. Have a crush?
- Not really unless Tom Hiddleston counts?
5. What’s your favorite color?
- Bright green.
6. Write something in caps?
- I NEVER KNOW WHAT TO TYPE FOR THESE THINGS.
7. Got a favorite band/artist?
- Imagine Dragons and Daft Punk are current loves of mine.
8. Favorite number?
9. Favorite drink?
- Diet coke with lime or orange flavor
10. Tag Ten People: whoever wants to do the thing!
𝔾𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕖𝕩𝕚𝕤𝕥.
His training in Hydra leads him to this. It leads him to this point where the gun hitting his shoulder hardly even is known. The pain is jarring yes, but it’s not enough for him to be gunned down. The movement of a gun hitting him, it barely even phases him honestly. It barely even phases him. But the soldier is quick to grab the case he intended to use to bomb the city. His hand pulls his own small pistol from his frame.
Without even blinking, he shoots twice at the man, not in lethal areas, but enough to keep him down. And seek medical attention, because if left alone they could cause problems. The asset, he then moves, he moves without a second thought.
"If you ever see me again, I will put a bullet though your skull."
On the ground, clenching at his wounded leg and grazed side, Sherlock had no choice but to watch as the soldier took up his case and threatened to murder him. For once, he was left wondering instead of knowing. Wondering why the assassin hadn’t simply killed him right then and there, and why he had taken the bomb with him instead of letting it detonate like originally planned.
Surely he was used to killing. He had been willing to wipe out an entire city for nothing more than orders. Why leave him alive? Why leave the mission unfinished?
Sherlock didn’t exactly like having limited knowledge and access to answers, but there were more pressing matters. No, the gunshots weren’t fatal, but if he simply laid there, he would eventually bleed out. Leaving him with no other option, Sherlock withdrew his phone and made two phone calls. One to Lestrade, and one to John.
Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder. - SH
Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding - SH
Who exactly would you pick? - SH
I think you’re a popular choice at the moment, dear. - MH
If someone could move Mrs Hudson’s glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. - SH
Sherlock is Actually a Girl’s Name
She hummed softly as she worked off his undershirt and got the first corset ready, a purple one with black highlights covering the bones and bust of the piece “Okay this is going to be really uncomfortable….So literally suck it up” She said with a smirk as she slid the piece into position and started lacing him him up. The corset quickly getting tighter and tighter around his chest “Just until you get some nice hips on you” She hummed
"What do you mean ‘suck it—" Sherlock didn’t have enough time to finish his question, as she had already slipped the corset into place and began lacing it up. The discomfort statement had truly been an under developed one, lacking in announcing the pain that would go along with the process. Perhaps Irene had simply just forgotten about the actual pain after all the years she spent squeezing herself into such garments? Or perhaps she didn’t want to scare Sherlock off of the idea all together. Regardless, he literally had no choice but to suck in his breath and his stomach in, giving the corset more room to tighten. He tried to express his discomfort, but he couldn’t even find the breath to speak.
The Thief And The Prince || Closed Adlock RP
Irene stirred a little and opened her eyes, feeling like she was being watched, slowly she sat up and looked up at Sherlock, grinning wide when she saw him. “Hello love, long time no see hm? Thought I should pay a visit, take a few more things. Run out of money you see. Thought I pop in and say hello until everyone was asleep then take a few things and be on my way. business you see” She said with a shrug “Miss me?”
Sherlock’s lips remained closed as she spoke, didn’t even bother to answer her questions, really. There was something… off about the way Sherlock felt having this woman show up again. She’d nearly killed him, yet he didn’t hold any fear or distain. There was only a jolt of… what was that? Something he felt so rarely… Ah! Yes, excitement. His pupils dilated slightly with adrenaline.
"And what, exactly, will you do if I refuse to let you take my possessions this time around?" Sherlock questioned, curious and in need to make that spark of thrill grow. He so rarely felt anything that gave him life. Now was an opportunity he wasn’t willing to pass up, not like the last time the thief had visited.
𝔾𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕖𝕩𝕚𝕤𝕥.
"The confidence you have is alarming, doesn’t arrogance lead to failure? It’s petty really. But then again, will you actaully shoot? Because I can assure you. That gun would hit the floor in seconds, or within a blink of an eye." In a fluid movement, the asset moved, not even phased by the fact at gun was aimed at his head, and aimed to pull at the man’s fingers. Eyes trained on him. After all, he had a job to do.
Sherlock hadn’t had time to research enough about the Winter Soldier. He’d formulated guestimations off of his deductions, but without solid evidence that he even existed, it was difficult to do. The soldier’s speed took him by surprise and he found himself in a dire situation. Shoot or watch the gun fall to the ground unfired. If he lost his weapon, he would die, and along with him, thousands of innocent bystanders that made up the population of London.
Without giving himself time to analyze—something he hated to do—he only allowed himself time to react. And his reaction was to pull the trigger before the soldier could pry his fingers off of the gun. Squeezing the trigger, the deafening sound of gunfire rang through his ears. The bullet grazed the other’s right shoulder. Damn, not even a critical hit.