constantly screaming

Inspired by the fabulous @dragonnan's Blood and Romance (included by permission)

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Too old for this: my first half-thought as I flail and thrash my way back to consciousness. I’m underwater, aching to breathe, but I’ll die if I do; but it isn’t cold enough, I’m not wet, where the hell I hurt all over and something’s wrong, it’s dark where is Sherlock

If I’m not under water, I can breathe; I open my lips a hair and no water floods in, so I take a careful breath and it’s air. Not sweet, God no, tastes like mould and sewage, but definitely air, and shakily I suck it in.

I blink and try to focus but can’t see anything. Where the hell am I, and where is Sherlock? There—a second complete thought, even if it’s just the ragged scraps from before stringing together into sense, that’s got to be a good sign.

Okay. Okay. Stop, where am I. Listen.

In a silence so loud, a darkness so complete, I can hear my racing heartbeat even over my ragged panting—but nothing else, not close by. I can’t breathe through my nose at all. I try to shift to generate some sound, get some idea at least of what kind of surface I’m near or on. Take stock: everything hurts but I can’t tell from what, I can’t gather any sensory data to extrapolate anything from. (Sherlock would say, deduce. I’m not Sherlock. He’d know what to do to get some clarity here; I’m just starting to panic.)

finish reading on AO3

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A Thousand Words: A picture's proverbially worth a thousand words and often inspires them, though the words may be many more or many fewer, as the Muse decides. Each chapter is a one-shot, inspired (so far) by @kettykika78, @justanobsessedpan, @stephdrawsjohnlock, @bluebellofbakerstreet, @petite-madame, and now dragonnan: more to come.

Thank you to all the artists who do fanworks: you are a  constant inspiration. And to the betas (@copperplatebeech for this ficlet) you are a godsend. And to the readers: we wouldn't be posting our stories without you.

Thanks for reblogging! Let me know whether to tag or untag you.

Happy PrideMonth 🌈

I wish all of you a wonderful start to Pride Month.

I hope this June brings you joy, acceptance and visibility, and lots of colorful moments.

Take care of yourselves, be proud of who you are, and have a beautiful Pride Month

The style definitely reminds me of br0-harry but I don't think they ever drew this, in which case it might be an AI image based on his drawings?

My favorite David Burke Holmemes in honor of his passing. Rest in peace to one of the best and hottest Watsons we’ve ever had.

A little bird (perhaps a nightingale?) told me this might be a good time to reread some Johnlock fic set after the first season of Good Omens.

Birthday Surprise by NovaNara (G) Sherlock doesn't like his birthday, or that shady bookseller he met. He can behave though...if there's a reward.

the crossover one by softlygasping (T) John meets Aziraphale and Crowley and gets some relationship advice.

Our Song by NovaNara (T) John and Aziraphale have tea- and chat about music.

Two More Miracles by PatPrecieux (T) Tragedy and miracles go hand in hand.

Inspirational by NovaNara (T) After watching telly, John can't help himself. He has to ask.

Someone Significant by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (G) Sherlock and John invite Aziraphale and Crowley to Baker Street to celebrate the birthday of someone important to them all.

Tags under the cut. Thanks for reblogging!

One of the finest and most beloved Watsons ever to grace the screen has passed away. David Burke was 91 years old, just shy of his 92nd birthday, and he is survived by his wife Anna Calder-Marshall and his son Tom Burke.

By all accounts, he was a gentleman and a wonderful human being. He could have stayed on to play Watson much longer, which would have made many of us very happy, but he chose to leave the show to be nearer to his family, especially since Tom was very young at the time.

His was not the first intelligent and competent Watson, but this version marked a turning point in mainstream depictions, from comedic sidekick to a hero in his own right.

RIP, dear sir. You will be missed. Thank you for everything.

~*~

Sunday evening, and all the days after

*

Sunday evening: sospirando

It’s a very good thing this intense week has ended with two nights that have changed my life. It’s a very bad thing that Sherlock is on a plane for Moscow.

If this were a rom-com, I could go after him; as it isn’t, I’m slammed for the next two weeks at least. After that, though, and before the next project, I’ll have nine days free—but I’ve masses of music to learn and mark up. I can’t go haring off to London after him. Can I? If he’ll even be in London.

But if he is. I could study on the long flights there and back. I could study while he’s rehearsing, or practicing. It needn’t be time lost. And Molly and I could work by phone or skype, couldn’t we?

If Sherlock asks me.

Or I could stay in Ilford: my parents would be delighted, have been hinting a visit was long overdue.

And if I had a love interest they’d be over the moon.

“Bring us home a nice lass, Johnny boy. Or lad. We don’t want to see you working so hard you can’t have a personal life.”

This from my dad, who’s never completely reconciled to my dating men, even though he tries valiantly to hide it.

“What if she’s an American?”

At that prospect he reared back a bit, asked what ever happened to “that nice lad from Slough you were seeing last year.”

Which bodes well for Sherlock. I could introduce him as my not-American boyfriend.

*

And that's a wrap. Thank you, margalo schiff, for lavishing love and dollars on FTH and the organizations it supports. Not to mention, on the Sherlock fandom. You are a star.

And you, @helloliriels, I adore the art you made for this story, also for FTH. In this fandom we have a whole galaxy of stars.

Thank you for reblogging; that's such a help.

Guess what??? I finished the hiking fic!!!! As predicted, it's clocked in just above 35,000 words!

Title: The Narrow Ridge

Pairing: Sherlock/John (Sherlock POV)

Rating/Length: Explicit, 35,777 words (single chapter format)

Summary:

Mycroft sits down. “There may have been a murder,” he says. “Possibly even two.”

Sherlock bores his eyes into Mycroft’s face. “There are murders all the time. Why can’t the Yard handle it?”

“Because it’s in Canada,” Mycroft informs him.

This catches them both off guard. John leans forward. “I’m sorry, what? Canada?”

I felt like painting something happy and autumny  🥺

‘One More Miracle.’

'I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there’s just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be… dead.’

First time i’ve ever completed a painting of John. Sorry for the heart wrenching Reichenbach references, I needed to purge.

‘It’s the next thing that’s going to kill you.' 

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! There’s still 15 minutes of it left here in England and I so wanted to get something related done in time.