I can't think of a witty title

fuckinkanye:

same

(Source: trans-par-en-cy)

milkykissu:

omuraisuu:

shy penis 

i. am. done.

calypsiskai:

mechinism:

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, IRON MAN

um… exCUSE you

deduction-to-seduction:

dinosaurs-daleks-and-detectives:

cumberbitch-freebitch:

im-sooo-changable:

the-twenty-thirteen:

thegirl-inthedirtyshirt:

i can’t stop staring at this

What if they first met like this ?

What if they meet like this in Season 3?

I can totally see that happening. And Sherlock would just look at John and leg it. But John would be like “OH NO YOU DON’T” And grabs the end of Sherlock’s coat and he gets whip lash from the force.

It was just like any other day that Doctor John Watson found himself limping along to sidewalk, on his way to pick up the groceries. His leg ached with each step down the pavement. This was one of the rare moments where John felt.. okay. Not happy, no far from it, but… alright. With his strangers brushing past and weak London sunlight on his shoulders, yeah he could walk like this for a while, even with his leg. The only things that could match this was a good cuppa. Speaking of which, that reminded him he was nearly out of tea. Better pick some up at the store as well. Before he forgot, he reached into his coat pocket and fished out his journal. He quickly scrawled the additional idea to his grocery list. Maybe he should pick something up for dinner as well. Perhaps Chinese-

thump

“excuse me-“

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Dead. Dead like his deceased friend standing in front of him.

“John…”

Johns mind was white. Everything was white. He didn’t feel his knees hit the ground. He didn’t hear the ringing in his ears. He didn’t see the people gawking as they passed. All he knew was that Sherlock bloody Holmes was gripping his left wrist, trying to pull him to his feet. Eventually, realizing his efforts were futile, the consulting detective lowered himself down to the concrete. He started shift his hand from John’s wrist, intending to entwine their fingers together, but before he could move more than an inch, John’s hand was wrenched from his grip, winding back before colliding with his nose.

Sherlock found himself on the ground, his mind reeling. He looked up at John. Nostrils flared. Dilated pupils. Fists clenched. Shoulders stiff. Shadows under the eyes. Complexion: paler than before. Weight loss, approximately 20 pounds. STOP. Sherlock forced his mind to stop. Just for one moment, to slow down enough to look, to truly look at John. His John. His army doctor. His best friend. His conductor of light. His heart.

“I picked up the milk”

Half the muscles in John’s face twitched at that. The jug laying a few feet away caught his eye. The puddle of milk surrounding broken plastic looked almost pitiful. It must have burst open upon impact when he had punched the stupid genius sitting right in front of him with his eyes wide, his hand to his face and for once, a look of uncertainty shifting in his eyes.

He looked like he was waiting for another punch.

Within seconds, he had the bastard wrapped in his arms. He held the raving lunatic as close as possible, wondering if he squeezed tight enough, maybe he could just merge the two of them together, trapping Sherlock within his rib cage so he could never leave him again.

Everything was far from fine, but they could work it out. There would be explanations and apologies later, but for now John just needed to let this miracle… be a miracle. Digging his fingers into the coarse material of his best friends coat and inhaling the familiar scent of chemicals, cinnamon and Sherlock, John breathed out the only two words that needed to be said.

“Welcome home”

(Source: rosetylear)