skulls-and-tea:

skulls-and-tea:

Folks, everything that I’ve been reading about memory palace construction and Sherlock’s Method of loci is telling me that this padded psych ward cell isn’t a mind-fabrication; it’s an actual place he’s been, somewhere in his past.

“First, mind palaces do exist. People have them. I can’t because I’m not clever enough, but clever people can have them.

You construct it out of spaces you’ve actually been in. You start in a house you live in and you put things in it and then you maybe join it to a theater you know well or something.

So you’ve got a map in your head of places with which you’re familiar. The look of his mind palace would be conditioned by where Sherlock had been.”

— Steven Moffat [x]

Well, that’s just fucking depressing. I like my version much better.

ireallyshouldbedrawing:

The Final Problem.

Sentiment.

lostconner:

John▪H▪Watson:” I don’t like people calling me a ‘War Hero’.What’s war? When you see those faces of innocent Afghanistan women and children full of fear; when your teammate holds your hand and says goodbye to the family that he will never see again; when you rush through the bullets and all you find in the end are bodies already dead…through all those moments what I feel is helplessness. There is nothing I can do. There is no hero in the war, just cruelness. ‘”

Life, Still to Come by RageSeptember

thebakerstreetboys:

Summary:
They don’t plan to grow old together. Well, they don’t plan to grow old, full stop. The life expectancy for a brilliant madman and his tiger-slaying sniper could never be very high. But the years come and go and they don’t die.

Pairing:
MorMor
—-

WHY AM I CRYING GODDAMNIT. THIS SHIP, I CAN’T.

cumber-porn:

thatartyholmesian:

m-o-u-s-t-a-c-h-e—g-i-r-l:

timelordy-teganbreann:

concuelo:

“John…”

Oof, in the feels

Such a beauty

fuck

sweet god in heaven!

bakerstreetbabes:

sashdoesdoodles:

Another Basil/Sherlock crossover.

I just can’t help myself. I’m sorry..

O___O

sexlock:

Commission – Aeron

Angel Sherlock makes a deal with Fallen Angel Moriarty by breaking his wings.

consultingt-rex:

bennyslegs:

“At Sherlock’s grave, before finally walking away, John’s quick-turn is how a lower ranking officer would leave the presence of a higher one after being dismissed. The whole time, consciously or unconsciously, John has viewed Sherlock as his superior officer, someone he needs to trust and take orders from in order to make their friendship/crime solving work.” (x)

napoleongonewrong:

Do you remember how many times?

I don’t suppose you kept track…

Of every single time you’ve looked into my eyes, and for one split second, all you could feel was your heart skipping a beat in your chest; because for that moment — at the very least — you were fooled. You began to doubt.

Doubt the man hiding behind my eyes.

I know you did.

Even if you got better at hiding it as the years went by.

But you’d be lying if you tried to claim that it didn’t scare you, excite you, or freak you out to see it.

If I can convince you that I’m not the man you’ve known for so long, or at least put that glimmer of doubt in your mind, then I know I can convince just about anyone.

You’ve known me too long now, though. You’ve seen too many of my acts.

I can no longer pull off a full act for you. You could look at any personality I have to throw at you, and you’d know that it really wasn’t me, no matter how deep it ran in my eyes.

But it still terrifies you.

To think that the man you know, your boss, your lover, whatever you wish to call me, could possibly be someone you don’t know. Someone you don’t understand the way you think you do.

It’s because of that, though, that at this point, it all bleeds together for you.

Did you notice that?

You don’t even see it anymore…

You’ve forgotten how to see past any word.

I couldn’t walk up to you and say that my name was Peter or Charles, that I work in construction or even in a restaurant…

But I can tell you absolutely anything, and as long as I pair it with my own face, that dark look in my eyes, the one that’s been described as ‘the monster staring back from hell’…well, you’ll believe it.

If I wanted a long show, I could convince you that I love you.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

At least for a time.

Until you understood it was just a game, or until I got bored and gave away the truth.

I tell you that I want you dead, your skin across my wall, an elaborate decoration.

You’d believe that, too.

You see, my dear… You’ve become so conditioned to the idea of something huge and obvious that you can see that coming a mile away. But you’ve forgotten about the little things.

You’ve forgotten that every bit of me, no matter how small or big, is all just a thousand little bits constructed together.

Things that work. Things that make sense. Things that fit together.

So even if you do remember, even if you can count all the times you know I’ve fooled you, you’d still be wrong.