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it took me ten minutes to figure out what i'd saved this sherlock icon as
Here's some shit in no particular order:
1) EEEEEE![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snowdarkred gifted me a pair of AWESOME HEADPHONES FOR MY PROFILE PAGE, THANK YOU BB, I LOVE THEM ♥ ♥ ♥!!!!
2)![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kissemdanno is open!! Guess where my insomnia drabbles are going to be for the next two weeks. KISSES, EVERYONE, WRITE THEM, OH MY GOD. If you need some inspiration, feel free to check out this sneak peak for Monday's H50, because JESUS CHRIST OH MY FUCKING GOD.
3) I'm working on a thing. I know there hasn't been as much fic as usual, but oh, man, believe me when I tell you, I am working on a thing. It'll be up...when it's done! But if the fic is a little bit sparse for the next week or two, that is why. I don't mean little ficlets, of course, I spit those out without really meaning to because I have a sickness, but the like, real full-length stuff. IT'S COMING, I SWEAR. I'M WORKING ON IT.
4) Speaking of fic, I wrote a Sherlock ficlet on tumblr forrrrowr that I'm reposting here, because I will, er, lose it over there. I know that sounds ridiculous, but there have already been like FOUR THINGS I POSTED OR REBLOGGED THAT I CAN'T FIND NOW. Tumblr eats souls and posts, so here's John and Sherlock immediately after The Great Game.
It’s a cab ride from the pool to Baker Street, one they don’t take after Mycroft’s men overrun the scene, keeping Sherlock from shooting a bullet into a vest covered in C4 and effectively killing them all. John would like to get into it with him about that, just for the normalcy of the fight; he can’t bring himself to yell in Mycroft’s towncar, though, not when Mycroft is yelling enough for the both of them. John’s ears are ringing with narrowly averted disaster, and he’s focusing on strange things—the tip of Mycroft's umbrella, a slightly darker black than the rest of it, and the way Sherlock keeps rubbing his index finger against his thumb.
He wonders if this is what the world is like for Sherlock all the time, this cacophony of useless details, and rapidly tries to stop considering it. He settles for sitting stock-still instead, for looking out the window, for taking deep breaths to keep himself from shaking apart in rage or panic or something.
Their flat still smells faintly of explosion when they get inside, traces of Moriarty hanging in the air, and John doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He takes off his coat (no bombs underneath, he’s checked, he knows, but maybe he’ll sell this coat anyway, burn it, anything to keep from looking at it again), drapes it over the hook. Sherlock’s leaning against the wall, looking as unsettled as John’s ever seen him, and that in and of itself is terrifying—Sherlock’s sure about everything, even things no one in their right mind would be certain of. Seeing him off balance is worse than watching a dog up on his hind legs, and John winces, looks away.
“Tea?” he says eventually, because at least it’s something to do. Sherlock’s eyes snap up, boring holes into his head, but this kind of casual, everyday violence John will take—there is a comfort in Sherlock’s brand of insanity, even if it’s one borne of something not unlike Stockholm Syndrome.
“Oh, how brilliant,” Sherlock drawls, “tea after you’re nearly blown to bits, yes, John, that sounds lovely—”
“Could you not,” John snaps. “Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, what do you want me to—”
“Do you know how aggravating is it,” Sherlock says, “to be put in my current position?”
“No,” John says, sighing and starting the kettle. “No, I don’t, because not all of us can read minds, Sherlock, so I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.”
Sherlock crosses the kitchen in two steps, stalks right into John’s personal space, growls something that might be a warning into his ear.
“This,” he says, and then “you,” and then they’re kissing, fierce and frantic, desperation metallic on both their tongues until the shrill whistle of the kettle breaks them apart.
1) EEEEEE
snowdarkred gifted me a pair of AWESOME HEADPHONES FOR MY PROFILE PAGE, THANK YOU BB, I LOVE THEM ♥ ♥ ♥!!!!2)
kissemdanno is open!! Guess where my insomnia drabbles are going to be for the next two weeks. KISSES, EVERYONE, WRITE THEM, OH MY GOD. If you need some inspiration, feel free to check out this sneak peak for Monday's H50, because JESUS CHRIST OH MY FUCKING GOD. 3) I'm working on a thing. I know there hasn't been as much fic as usual, but oh, man, believe me when I tell you, I am working on a thing. It'll be up...when it's done! But if the fic is a little bit sparse for the next week or two, that is why. I don't mean little ficlets, of course, I spit those out without really meaning to because I have a sickness, but the like, real full-length stuff. IT'S COMING, I SWEAR. I'M WORKING ON IT.
4) Speaking of fic, I wrote a Sherlock ficlet on tumblr for
rrrowr that I'm reposting here, because I will, er, lose it over there. I know that sounds ridiculous, but there have already been like FOUR THINGS I POSTED OR REBLOGGED THAT I CAN'T FIND NOW. Tumblr eats souls and posts, so here's John and Sherlock immediately after The Great Game. It’s a cab ride from the pool to Baker Street, one they don’t take after Mycroft’s men overrun the scene, keeping Sherlock from shooting a bullet into a vest covered in C4 and effectively killing them all. John would like to get into it with him about that, just for the normalcy of the fight; he can’t bring himself to yell in Mycroft’s towncar, though, not when Mycroft is yelling enough for the both of them. John’s ears are ringing with narrowly averted disaster, and he’s focusing on strange things—the tip of Mycroft's umbrella, a slightly darker black than the rest of it, and the way Sherlock keeps rubbing his index finger against his thumb.
He wonders if this is what the world is like for Sherlock all the time, this cacophony of useless details, and rapidly tries to stop considering it. He settles for sitting stock-still instead, for looking out the window, for taking deep breaths to keep himself from shaking apart in rage or panic or something.
Their flat still smells faintly of explosion when they get inside, traces of Moriarty hanging in the air, and John doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He takes off his coat (no bombs underneath, he’s checked, he knows, but maybe he’ll sell this coat anyway, burn it, anything to keep from looking at it again), drapes it over the hook. Sherlock’s leaning against the wall, looking as unsettled as John’s ever seen him, and that in and of itself is terrifying—Sherlock’s sure about everything, even things no one in their right mind would be certain of. Seeing him off balance is worse than watching a dog up on his hind legs, and John winces, looks away.
“Tea?” he says eventually, because at least it’s something to do. Sherlock’s eyes snap up, boring holes into his head, but this kind of casual, everyday violence John will take—there is a comfort in Sherlock’s brand of insanity, even if it’s one borne of something not unlike Stockholm Syndrome.
“Oh, how brilliant,” Sherlock drawls, “tea after you’re nearly blown to bits, yes, John, that sounds lovely—”
“Could you not,” John snaps. “Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, what do you want me to—”
“Do you know how aggravating is it,” Sherlock says, “to be put in my current position?”
“No,” John says, sighing and starting the kettle. “No, I don’t, because not all of us can read minds, Sherlock, so I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.”
Sherlock crosses the kitchen in two steps, stalks right into John’s personal space, growls something that might be a warning into his ear.
“This,” he says, and then “you,” and then they’re kissing, fierce and frantic, desperation metallic on both their tongues until the shrill whistle of the kettle breaks them apart.
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