verity-burns:

“I can explain,” Sherlock promised, his voice raw and rough in John’s ear. “I will tell you everything… anything… all of it, I swear…” He swallowed, knowing he should pull back, give John time, allow room for his anger. “I’ll let go in a minute… “
Sherlock held on.

Slowly, John’s arms rose to wrap around the apparition before him, unexpected, unbelievable, but entirely and completely familiar. “Sherlock…” he started, but there was nowhere to go beyond that name… nothing else in the world that he wanted. “Sherlock…” His arms tightened, fingers splaying out.
“Don’t let go…”

(Source: br0-harry, via sherlockedinsidethe-super-tardis)

(Source: regeneratingdegenerate, via merc-withamouth)

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.
 Please, will you do this for me?”

(Source: moriatree, via loyalbloggerwhowaits)

dontfearthewinchesterswagger:

It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.

Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simply didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.

He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.

There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.

It was Sherlock.

It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath. For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.

But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.

“SHERLOCK!”

For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.

The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.

~

Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.

“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”

Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”

He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.

Take care of him.

- SH

He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.

Please.

- SH

Seconds later, his phone chimes.

Already picked him up. Have been following him since he left Baker Street.

- MH

And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.

He’s crying. I don’t know what to do.

- MH

There is anger in that message. And desperation. And remorse. And most of all—there is guilt. The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone.

Neither do I.

- SH

He never sends that last message.

(Source: katsurakotaro, via eyes-fixed-on-me)

(via sherlocklikesapples)

error-221b:

ravingredhead:

adorablemindblank:

pernillo:

talesofamagicallife:

behindtintedglass:

Oh John.

That seemingly offhand remark speaks so much of John’s insecurities and doubts about his own self-worth, now that he is (at least in his mind) rendered useless after he’s been shot.  As we flash back to this very first remark, we now understand that John has truly meant what he has said to Sherlock’s grave: “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

The remarkable and extraordinary thing about John Watson is that… he knows he’s ordinary, but he doesn’t realize how he possesses such delicate, intricate, beautiful poetry in the simplicity of his being.  I will not attempt him to make him into more than what he is; despite being an army doctor, he is still somewhat average compared to the forces of nature around him (the Holmes brothers, the consulting criminal, The Woman.)  But he carries within him a subtlety and warmth and strength and danger that is all the more curious and interesting and fascinating because of his gentle restraint and tremendous control.

And that’s why a man like Sherlock Holmes wanted him for a flatmate.  Sure, John Watson is ordinary.  But as a conductor of light… he is unbeatable.  Because the extraordinary thing about him is… John Watson doesn’t live for himself.  He lives for other people.  His purpose in life is to save them.

And deep down, perhaps Sherlock knew that he needed a sort of saving as well.  He needed someone to save him from himself.

And perhaps he knew, that fateful day in Bart’s, with an instinct that even his logic and deductions can’t hope to explain… that this washed up war hero is the perfect candidate to save the one and only brilliant consulting detective in the world.

So yes, John Watson.  Sherlock Holmes wants you.  And maybe, it’s true that no one else will want you.  But that’s only because only an extraordinary man like Sherlock Holmes sees what is invisible to every one else’s eyes.

… He sees you, John. :)

THIS!!!!!

IT’S PERFECT!!! OMG!

I just cried a little. God, this was lovely

I WAS NOT READY FOR THIS!

#I no longer possess the ability to tag my emotions right now

(via wouldyoulikesomejam)

thunderpoptartgod:

#you follow me on your john blog #so that I can say #GREETINGS SON OF WAT

((-casually dying-))

offlineinternet:

“Problem with disguise” | Sherlock

(via the-woman-irene)

“Hello. John Watson, a pleasure.”

“Oi, nice crossbow.”