La última en llegar

The photo albums are even thicker than the notebooks.

What prompts John to speak are the scrapbooks. The notes and photos he can understand; Sherlock is a scientist, after all, and sometimes the only thing separating science from just futzing around is documentation. But Sherlock also spends hours carefully pasting the cream of the notebook- and photograph-crops into fabric-covered scrapbooks and adding notes and quotes in slow, swirling cursive. John bites his lip as Sherlock carefully adheres an embroidered flower to the corner of one photograph and then blurts,

“What are you doing?”

He gets an eyebrow and a look, which is fair.

“I mean, don’t you usually store all that in your mind palace?” John clarifies. “Even when you cover every last inch of this place in maps and notes for a case, after it’s all done and dusted, it all goes into the bin. I’m just surprised to see you making something more permanent, is all.”

Sherlock goes quiet in a different way than his earlier absorption with his task, and without knowing why John suddenly regrets speaking up. It wasn’t hurting anything, after all, and in fact it’s rather sweet, and now he’s gone and opened his mouth and done something terrible though he’s not entirely sure what. It feels like having kicked something small and squalling and looking around in a panic, wondering if it was a kitten or puppy or baby or what.

The moment passes as it often does; an awkward silence stretching out until John clears his throat and wanders away. Sherlock answers him four days later while they’re watching but not really paying attention to the telly.

“It’s not for me.”

“What, an Aston Martin?” John chuckles. “I think you’d look all right in one.”

“Rosie’s albums,” Sherlock says, and John’s neck cracks as he whips his head ‘round to look at his flatmate.

“I thought…someday, you might remarry. I imagined her new mother would appreciate a record of her earliest years.”

It was 2 days later when John responded “She doesn’t need one Sherlock, a new mum I mean. My daughter has Mrs Hudson, Molly, even your Mum. I’ve spoken to Ella as well, as long as she has some female influencers, woman she can reach out to as she grows I don’t need to push myself to find anyone just for her sake. Could do us both more harm than good really.” Sherlock gave a mild interested nod and returned to his chow mein, John had seldom seen the man so suddenly interested in food.

“Well, they say it takes a village, don’t they.” The statement had been a bit startling after a few minutes of silent chewing. “ Yes Sherlock that’s it. You’ve given Rosie her village really.” A blank gaze met him over stilled chop sticks. “Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg, your parent’s… you’ve given my daughter her village. Even your brother dotes on her.” They shared a chuckle over the memory of Uncle Mycroft arriving at a crime scene, breakneck speed, in his usual town car to whisk Rosie away after spotting them on CCTV. “It was just a robbery.” “It was just an excuse Sherlock, he spoils her!” “He was indulgent when I was younger, before the drugs.”

“She needs you too you know. You fetch her when she wakes up, you’re there when she cries at night. She reaches for you if you’ve been out, so look after yourself okay. “We’ll I dont sleep as much as you and she just likes the curls, the little menace.” It was delivered with far too much fondness to be considered a complaint and said menace had crawled passed her father and was tugging on Sherlock’s trouser leg. Once settled in his lap she leaned against his chest for a nap.

“She needs you Sherlock and so I okay? He watched nervousness growing in John. "So you can’t keep sacrificing yourself. Magnessun, the drugs and shooting… We can’t loose you.” John’s blue eyes looked red as he bustled off with a muttered “Loo”.

The blunt “You’re an idiot” stumped John as he reentered the room. Rosie was obviously upstairs because Sherlock’s arms were empty as they wrapped around John’s shoulders. “You’re my village too John. You and Rosie are my family. I dont do girlfriends or boyfriends really but of I did it would be for you.” John returned the hug with a smile. “Close enough for me. You sap.” “You’re a sap!” “No you’re a sap.” They dissolved into giggles.

(Actually the writer is a sap)

Briliant interview! (His poor eldest!)

Coffee spit of the day, seeing @gravesdiggers casually referenced in the Guardian.

Because it's HAPPY.

I am tired of watching shows and films that think that the only way to be compelling or "edgy" is to showcase abusive relationships and torture and kill their protagonists.

Good Omens is compelling because it shows genuine love, respect, and kindness when it would have been so easy to show literally anything else.

Crowley, a demon, doesn't lie to Aziraphale, doesn't hurt him or trick him, doesn't disrespect or power-trip him; he cares about him and treats him well. Aziraphale, an angel, never for a moment rejects Crowley for being a demon, he doesn't try to change him, tell him he is wrong or attempt to "save" him, but instead recognizes all of the good in him and treats him well.

The only unhealthy relationships are between heaven and hell, and they FREE THEMSELVES OF THESE ABUSES.

The whole thing is filled with healthy relationships of all kinds.

Adam and the Them? Even though Adam is seen as the leader of the group, he takes this as a responsibility to provide his friends with the best games and bring them joy, not as a means of controlling them.

Witches and witchfinders fall in love.

No one is tortured or tormented, the world does not end, and a fucking nightingale sings in Berkeley Square.

Good Omens was the first time I have watched a series that didn't leave me tense wondering when the hurt was going to start. I actually realized how emotionally abusive media has become, and that is so fucked up.

Can you imagine Head Auror Potter’s enemies deciding he’s too dangerous and they should go after the people he cares about?

“All right, so everyone knows Weasley only made it so far in the Auror force because he was Potter’s buddy, right? Let’s go after him.” Later, Ron is rubbing his neck in embarrassment as the mediwizards are dragging half a dozen neo-death-eaters out of a smoking crater.

“Fine, Granger, then. She sits at a desk all day, nothing to be scared of.” By the time they make it to Hermione’s office they’ve set off six alarms and four booby traps, one of them is permanently blue, another one is seven inches tall. Hermione’s waiting with a drawn wand and a half-dozen goblins that are super cranky about having their negotiations interrupted.

“Okay, how about we go after his wife and kids?” “No way, man, you do not f*** with that guy’s wife.” “Yeah, and his kid bit me! Look, I’ve got a scar!”

“What about the professor? I hear that guy’s kind of a dork. I mean, all he does is mess around in the greenhouses, right?” “I dunno, isn’t he head of Gryffindor house?” Later, “So, I heard you got your a*** kicked by a house plant…”

“The naturalist, then. Pretty little blond girl? Kind of vague? No problem, right?” “Oh, f***, s***, my eyes!” (Everybody always forgets that Luna Lovegood led an army…)

[This last one is largely due to @vivithefolle, so she gets credit for it.]

“What about the godson, right? Lives with his grandmother? Little old lady and a small child, no problem.” … “Okay, why didn’t anyone mention that she’s a Slytherin? And a Black! I’m pretty sure what she just hit us with was banned by international treaty!” “Yeah, what are we gonna do, call the Aurors?”

sherlock letting out the upstairs room of 221b on airbnb

john, coming home on leave from afghanistan, trying to put some distance between himself and all of harry’s issues and with nowhere else to go: let’s give this a go

john showing up to this airbnb and sherlock has like, all these beakers and test tubes and microscope things going on and there are like, fingernails in petri dishes and he walks in on sherlock talking to his skull and sherlock is like, oh. RIGHT. the AIRBNB GUY. that’s why hudders was hoovering, meanwhile, he is bemoaning the first impression fingernails must have made on this compact yet totally hot army doctor with tidy hands and an enormous–

john with even less sense of self-preservation than in asip like “hey what are these fingernails about” 

john ends up spending all three days of his leave with sherlock

he helps sherlock with the fingernails experiment, telling him what he knows about how fingernails react to various injuries in afghanistan and how that was different from barts, and that night sherlock takes him to angelo’s, and angelo says, a date! and john has to say, oh, no, actually. i’m leaving in two days.

they go to a crime scene, and john grins at sherlock the whole time, and says that he’s brilliant, absolutely amazing, fantastic, and lestrade, with that curious little look, asks if this is sherlock’s new assistant, and john has to say, oh, no, actually, i’m leaving in a day

running after a murderer, taking the shot to save sherlock’s life, startling the suspect long enough for sherlock to get away, racing home afterwards with john’s hand in sherlock’s and the both of them laughing and john stepping in and sherlock stepping forward and then john says, “i’m leaving in six hours” instead of kissing him

sherlock falling back like “yes of course” but john steps in again and kisses sherlock on the cheek and says “nice airbnb though. think i’ll rent it again next time.” 

and john leaves. and he and sherlock email, a little bit, and a little bit more, and a little bit more, and john reserves the room upstairs to spend his next leave home at 221b, and sherlock takes the listing down because he doesn’t want anyone else in the little room upstairs

and sherlock tidies everything and gets all excited and then 

john doesn’t show

no emails. no messages. 

for three months

and finally sherlock does a little fb stalking and finds bill murray and asks what happened to john, if he could give sherlock john’s forwarding address, and bill murray says, sorry mate, he’s gone. took a bullet couple months back.

sherlock misinterpreting this and thinking john has died. totally devastated. all he ever got was the kiss on the cheek.

and then, out of nowhere, there’s a knock on the door downstairs. 

it’s john. he has a single duffle bag and a steel cane. 

“sorry i’m late,” he says. “my reservation still open?” 

sherlock staring. reaching out. pulling john in. kissing him firmly. “you’ve qualified for an upgrade, actually,” sherlock says. “to the master bedroom.”

Congratulations 🍼

—

Neil Gaiman, SXSW, March 2019 (x)

Aziraphale: Well, we were driving and there was a deer on the road and Crowley didn’t notice it, so I said, “Crowley, deer!”

Anathema: And?

Aziraphale: Tell him what you answered.

Los retos de intérpretes / The Challenges of Interpreters

Este video me hizo reír y me recuerda lo difícil que es interpretar en tiempo real.

The Royal Cenotaphs of Emperor Charles V, King Philip II of Spain and Their Families in the Basilica of San Lorenzo de El Escorial

Paintings by Juan Pantoja de la Cruz, 1599