1. thescienceofjohnlock: timemachineyeah: twelvebats: concludes: ayamayamayam: do-you-have-a-flag: concludes: weavile: quick speedpaint ‘cause this has been in my head for ages. phone depicted above is Sherlock’s, not John’s. #I imagine there are days where John probably can’t even make the stairs and slumps against the staircase and holds his head in his hands #and wonders why of all the things that had to be taken away from him it’d be Sherlock  jesus chriiiist and some days he texts sherlock without thinking: ‘gone to tesco, what do you need? -JW’ and sherlock’s phone pings from inside his trouser pocket and if john could breathe from the ache in his chest he would scream stop it no stop And then, on good days (when he can stand to think about him and all the good memories they had), John calls Sherlock’s cell just to hear his voice before he leaves a voicemail. It’s a ridiculous sounding message, but so inherently Sherlock, spoken in that bored and exasperated tone John knew too well: “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don’t bother leaving a message if it isn’t pertinent to a case.” And, sometimes, hearing his voice would be enough for John. Enough to make him smile and laugh, and hang up and go about with his day. Sometimes, though, he’d have to leave a voicemail. Just a “Hey, Sherlock, I’m not going to be at the flat tonight, just wanted to let you know” or even “Mrs. Hudson said you shot her wall again. I’ll let you take care of it this time.” And, just once, years after Sherlock’s death, he said, “I love you.” Once was enough. OMG UGLIEST CRYING John stops blogging. He can’t see the point of it; nothing ever happens to him anymore - he’s just staying alive. But the good days begin to outnumber the bad ones through sheer bloody-minded placidity, and John fills the inbox of Sherlock’s phone with inane little messages and expects nothing back. With: “How many times can I get into a row with the chip and pin machine before they ban me? -JW”, or “Triple murder in the papers today. You’d have loved it. -JW”, or simply “Bloody raining again. -JW” - hundreds of texts about everything and nothing at the same time. And John stops blogging. But he never stops talking about his day. JFC AS IF THE WOUND ISN’T FRESH ALREADY! why are you doing this to me  all my brainings are crying mushes now no why did you type any of that And then one day, while John is in Tesco ambling around with a half empty basket, the phone, Sherlock’s phone buzzes inside his pocket. He stops dead, eyes widening and pulls it out. Before looking he stills himself and reminds himself that it’s probably just a wrong number or a mistake of some kind, maybe even a message he sent himself that has been delayed for some reason, it happens. He sighs and turns the phone over, running his fingers over it like it’s some kind of precious object. The screen is lit, telling him there’s a new message, he pushes the button to open it. Suddenly stiff fingers drop the shopping basket, sending it contents scattering across the vinyl floor. The phone slips from his other hand, bouncing on the hard surface and the screen cracks as once heavy feet are suddenly light in their hurried flight from the store. The phone lies broken but still on and readable, the message reads *I’m sorry John, come home and don’t forget the milk. -SH*

    thescienceofjohnlock:

    timemachineyeah:

    twelvebats:

    concludes:

    ayamayamayam:

    do-you-have-a-flag:

    concludes:

    weavile:

    quick speedpaint ‘cause this has been in my head for ages. phone depicted above is Sherlock’s, not John’s.

    #I imagine there are days where John probably can’t even make the stairs and slumps against the staircase and holds his head in his hands #and wonders why of all the things that had to be taken away from him it’d be Sherlock 

    jesus chriiiist and some days he texts sherlock without thinking: ‘gone to tesco, what do you need? -JW’ and sherlock’s phone pings from inside his trouser pocket and if john could breathe from the ache in his chest he would scream

    stop it

    no

    stop

    And then, on good days (when he can stand to think about him and all the good memories they had), John calls Sherlock’s cell just to hear his voice before he leaves a voicemail. It’s a ridiculous sounding message, but so inherently Sherlock, spoken in that bored and exasperated tone John knew too well: “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don’t bother leaving a message if it isn’t pertinent to a case.”

    And, sometimes, hearing his voice would be enough for John. Enough to make him smile and laugh, and hang up and go about with his day.

    Sometimes, though, he’d have to leave a voicemail. Just a “Hey, Sherlock, I’m not going to be at the flat tonight, just wanted to let you know” or even “Mrs. Hudson said you shot her wall again. I’ll let you take care of it this time.”

    And, just once, years after Sherlock’s death, he said,

    “I love you.”

    Once was enough.

    OMG UGLIEST CRYING

    John stops blogging. He can’t see the point of it; nothing ever happens to him anymore - he’s just staying alive. But the good days begin to outnumber the bad ones through sheer bloody-minded placidity, and John fills the inbox of Sherlock’s phone with inane little messages and expects nothing back. With: “How many times can I get into a row with the chip and pin machine before they ban me? -JW”, or “Triple murder in the papers today. You’d have loved it. -JW”, or simply “Bloody raining again. -JW” - hundreds of texts about everything and nothing at the same time. And John stops blogging. But he never stops talking about his day.

    JFC AS IF THE WOUND ISN’T FRESH ALREADY!

    why are you doing this to me 

    all my brainings are crying mushes now

    no why did you type any of that

    And then one day, while John is in Tesco ambling around with a half empty basket, the phone, Sherlock’s phone buzzes inside his pocket. He stops dead, eyes widening and pulls it out. Before looking he stills himself and reminds himself that it’s probably just a wrong number or a mistake of some kind, maybe even a message he sent himself that has been delayed for some reason, it happens.

    He sighs and turns the phone over, running his fingers over it like it’s some kind of precious object. The screen is lit, telling him there’s a new message, he pushes the button to open it.

    Suddenly stiff fingers drop the shopping basket, sending it contents scattering across the vinyl floor. The phone slips from his other hand, bouncing on the hard surface and the screen cracks as once heavy feet are suddenly light in their hurried flight from the store.

    The phone lies broken but still on and readable, the message reads *I’m sorry John, come home and don’t forget the milk. -SH*

  2. apricots: #One day we’ll be standing around a body and Dr Watson will be the one that put it there. #i didn’t realize it was your diary #i thought it was just a very sad handwritten book

    apricots:

    #One day we’ll be standing around a body and Dr Watson will be the one that put it there.

    #i didn’t realize it was your diary #i thought it was just a very sad handwritten book

  3. deduction019: nahualli: twotwentyonebbakerst: queenhalimeda: and-the-cold-wind-blows: moraniarty: nahualli: “Lestrade, show me the body.”“Sherlock What the hell.” John’s little and gets tired easily. so cute And I’m just going to sit here and wait for the ficlet….. (Well, here goes…) There had been something new amiss at Baskerville, and Sherlock had been called back in to investigate. One of the employees had been stealing an experimental anti-aging drug and selling it to other countries overseas.  Unfortunately, in the process of apprehending the thief and recovering the drug, John was injected with a large dose of it and woke up the next morning having retrograded to the physical age of about five years old. He’d been rather distraught, naturally—even moreso when Sherlock insisted on taking a case instead of getting right to finding a cure for John’s condition—but in the end Sherlock convinced him to tag along, promising that he’d come up with some sort of excuse for having a child with him. On the way, John fell asleep, his tiny head resting against the door of the cab. Sherlock shook him awake when they arrived. “John. We’re here.” “Go ‘way,” he grumbled, curling closer to the door. “I need your assistance with this body, John. Get up,” said Sherlock, more sharply this time. “Piss off.” The cabbie looked back and glared accusingly at Sherlock at that. Sherlock grit his teeth. “Get up right now or I shall carry you out myself.” “Fine!” The boy-shaped man crossed his arms stubbornly, eyes still closed. Without another word, Sherlock opened the door and marched around the cab to the other side, pulling John’s door open and wrestling him out of his seat. John struggled for a few moments before glaring and shutting his eyes again, his head falling against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sighing, the consulting detective adjusted his grip and carried the sleeping child into the crime scene. Several members of the Yard’s finest gawked as the he walked past, but he ignored them and approached the Detective Inspector. “Lestrade,” he said in greeting. “Show me the body.” Lestrade looked at him, then to the boy, then back to him. “Sherlock. What the hell?” I hope you don’t mind if I continue this…? . Lestrade glanced around awkwardly as the mothers on the team glared at him. “Well he has just brought a—” “It’s John,” Sherlock muttered as he shifted him from one side to the next. John yawned sleepily, eyes falling shut as his face pressed against Sherlock’s coat and arms went around Sherlock’s neck.  “Sher,” he murmured sleepily, and Sherlock hushed him with a gentle hand rubbing his back. “Sher.” Lestrade watched, amazed, as John breathed in deeply, fisting his hands in the coat. ”He’s…” “A child, yes,” Sherlock sounded bored, though a small smile appeared on his face as John’s breathing evened out. “There is no reason to panic.” “No reason to panic? How long is he going to be like that?” John shifted in Sherlock’s arms, opening one eye grumpily.  “As long as it takes us to find out what’s going on around here, Anderson.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, starting to walk past them. “And as easy as that would generally be for me, your constant nattering about the most obvious things is hardly helping. Did something happen to you as a child? Did your mother drop you on your head and make common practice of you pointing out things everybody already knew to preserve your brain, because if that was her aim, she did not—” John sighed on his shoulder, suddenly pressing a small kiss to his cheek and giggling madly. Sherlock paused, eyes wide as John hugged him and continued to rest silently. Lestrade snorted, opening the door and disappearing through it. “Cute, John, but we are talking about Sherlock, here.” Sherlock stood still, staring at John for a few more seconds before brushing sandy hair out of blue eyes and pressing a small, awkward kiss to his tiny cheek. Rolling his eyes, he walked quickly to the door, mind already three steps ahead. I need more, I loved it <3 Oh my god this is so freaking cute!!

    deduction019:

    nahualli:

    twotwentyonebbakerst:

    queenhalimeda:

    and-the-cold-wind-blows:

    moraniarty:

    nahualli:

    “Lestrade, show me the body.”
    “Sherlock What the hell.”


    John’s little and gets tired easily.

    so cute

    And I’m just going to sit here and wait for the ficlet…..

    (Well, here goes…)

    There had been something new amiss at Baskerville, and Sherlock had been called back in to investigate. One of the employees had been stealing an experimental anti-aging drug and selling it to other countries overseas. 

    Unfortunately, in the process of apprehending the thief and recovering the drug, John was injected with a large dose of it and woke up the next morning having retrograded to the physical age of about five years old.

    He’d been rather distraught, naturally—even moreso when Sherlock insisted on taking a case instead of getting right to finding a cure for John’s condition—but in the end Sherlock convinced him to tag along, promising that he’d come up with some sort of excuse for having a child with him.

    On the way, John fell asleep, his tiny head resting against the door of the cab. Sherlock shook him awake when they arrived.

    “John. We’re here.”

    “Go ‘way,” he grumbled, curling closer to the door.

    “I need your assistance with this body, John. Get up,” said Sherlock, more sharply this time.

    “Piss off.” The cabbie looked back and glared accusingly at Sherlock at that.

    Sherlock grit his teeth. “Get up right now or I shall carry you out myself.”

    “Fine!” The boy-shaped man crossed his arms stubbornly, eyes still closed. Without another word, Sherlock opened the door and marched around the cab to the other side, pulling John’s door open and wrestling him out of his seat. John struggled for a few moments before glaring and shutting his eyes again, his head falling against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sighing, the consulting detective adjusted his grip and carried the sleeping child into the crime scene. Several members of the Yard’s finest gawked as the he walked past, but he ignored them and approached the Detective Inspector.

    “Lestrade,” he said in greeting. “Show me the body.”

    Lestrade looked at him, then to the boy, then back to him. “Sherlock. What the hell?”

    I hope you don’t mind if I continue this…?

    .

    Lestrade glanced around awkwardly as the mothers on the team glared at him. “Well he has just brought a—”

    “It’s John,” Sherlock muttered as he shifted him from one side to the next. John yawned sleepily, eyes falling shut as his face pressed against Sherlock’s coat and arms went around Sherlock’s neck. 

    “Sher,” he murmured sleepily, and Sherlock hushed him with a gentle hand rubbing his back. “Sher.”

    Lestrade watched, amazed, as John breathed in deeply, fisting his hands in the coat. ”He’s…”

    “A child, yes,” Sherlock sounded bored, though a small smile appeared on his face as John’s breathing evened out. “There is no reason to panic.”

    “No reason to panic? How long is he going to be like that?” John shifted in Sherlock’s arms, opening one eye grumpily. 

    “As long as it takes us to find out what’s going on around here, Anderson.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, starting to walk past them. “And as easy as that would generally be for me, your constant nattering about the most obvious things is hardly helping. Did something happen to you as a child? Did your mother drop you on your head and make common practice of you pointing out things everybody already knew to preserve your brain, because if that was her aim, she did not—”

    John sighed on his shoulder, suddenly pressing a small kiss to his cheek and giggling madly. Sherlock paused, eyes wide as John hugged him and continued to rest silently. Lestrade snorted, opening the door and disappearing through it. “Cute, John, but we are talking about Sherlock, here.”

    Sherlock stood still, staring at John for a few more seconds before brushing sandy hair out of blue eyes and pressing a small, awkward kiss to his tiny cheek.

    Rolling his eyes, he walked quickly to the door, mind already three steps ahead.

    I need more, I loved it <3

    Oh my god this is so freaking cute!!

  4. ghostbees: Art trade with Lily, who asked for the Cabin Crew going to the movies. This made me realize Percy Weasley + Neville Longbottom = Martin Crieff Hagrid + Colin Creevery + Arthur Weasley = Arthur Shappey

    ghostbees:

    Art trade with Lily, who asked for the Cabin Crew going to the movies.

    This made me realize

    Percy Weasley + Neville Longbottom = Martin Crieff

    Hagrid + Colin Creevery + Arthur Weasley = Arthur Shappey

  5. perfection

  6. ghostbees: The Misadventures of Dr. John H. Watson ;dq;wdhw;dhwq;dASDdsfBRIDESMAIDS.THISISPERFECT.

    ghostbees:

    The Misadventures of Dr. John H. Watson

    ;dq;wdhw;dhwq;dASDdsfBRIDESMAIDS.THISISPERFECT.

  7. jamanddogtags: valeria2067: cumberbitchsandwich: pernillo: atlinmerrick: Beautiful man, beautiful, beautiful man. someone-wicked: All times Sherlock: Epoch of romanticism by ~gemmiona Holy shit. Headcanon: Painted during Sherlock’s travels with the Doctor. That…that is stunning! So much beautiful in one picture!

    jamanddogtags:

    valeria2067:

    cumberbitchsandwich:

    pernillo:

    atlinmerrick:

    Beautiful man, beautiful, beautiful man.

    someone-wicked:

    All times Sherlock: Epoch of romanticism by ~gemmiona

    Holy shit.

    Headcanon: Painted during Sherlock’s travels with the Doctor.

    That…that is stunning! So much beautiful in one picture!

  8. lostconner: playing violin

    lostconner:

    playing violin

  9. wishurn: I needed to sketch something before I go to bed so I doodled Sherlock hanging at Mycroft’s place after the Reichenbach fall. The world needs more Holmes brothers fanart.

    wishurn:

    I needed to sketch something before I go to bed so I doodled Sherlock hanging at Mycroft’s place after the Reichenbach fall. The world needs more Holmes brothers fanart.

  11. ghostbees: Happy [sic] anniversary!

    ghostbees:

    Happy [sic] anniversary!

  13. verity-burns: “Best out of three.”“Nope.”“First to five.”“Not a chance.”“I am not going out like this.”“I don’t know what the problem is - you look fine. Very… cuddly.”“You’re not funny.””Adorable, even.”“I may vomit.”“Look on the bright side - at least the deal wasn’t trousers.”“Ha! You’d never get into my trousers.”“Could have fooled me.”“John!”“I can see you smiling.”“One more game… winner takes all.”“All?”“Every stitch.”“Oh, you are on.”“I thought I might be.”“But this time…”“This time?”“…you can’t be Miss Scarlett.”

    verity-burns:

    “Best out of three.”
    “Nope.”
    “First to five.”
    “Not a chance.”
    “I am not going out like this.”
    “I don’t know what the problem is - you look fine. Very… cuddly.”
    “You’re not funny.”
    ”Adorable, even.”
    “I may vomit.”
    “Look on the bright side - at least the deal wasn’t trousers.”
    “Ha! You’d never get into my trousers.”
    “Could have fooled me.”
    “John!”
    “I can see you smiling.”
    “One more game… winner takes all.”
    “All?”
    “Every stitch.”
    “Oh, you are on.”
    “I thought I might be.”
    “But this time…”
    “This time?”
    “…you can’t be Miss Scarlett.”

  14. lascocks:

    lunymouse:

    the-visual:

    greenparcel:

    so i drew sherlock casts in fairy tales uh

    guess which episode of sherlock i’m rewatching for the 102134224th times

    also, alternate version for jim:

    GEDDIT?GEDDIT?IT’S BECAUSE OF THE APPLE

    <33333


    me gusta…. :3

    omg <333

  15. coeykuhn: do lots of type at work means type spills over into art :| uh oh? idk.Originally just had Sherlock, still unsure about Moriarty- but he wormed his way into the picture. He can stay for now. Possible color version on the way? We’ll see  maybe just a red n black version. @ n @;;;;-COEY!___

    coeykuhn:

    do lots of type at work means type spills over into art :| uh oh? idk.
    Originally just had Sherlock, still unsure about Moriarty- but he wormed his way into the picture. He can stay for now. Possible color version on the way? We’ll see  maybe just a red n black version. @ n @;;;;
    -COEY!
    ___

About me

Hi, I'm Virginia. My main fandoms are Sherlock, Shoebox Project, Lord of the Rings (esp. The Hobbit), Harry Potter, Benedict Cumberbatch, Grammar, Community, Good Omens, and Homestuck. I am addicted to Monty Python, tea, fonts, old suitcases, and Pokemon. This is the blog where I get to be more excited about things than I ever rationally should. Hope you enjoy! (BG by Kate Beaton, of course.)