kawaii in hawaii

timelordy-teganbreann:

imperativa:

the-tonberry:

doctorwho:

Sherlock and Doctor Who: Here’s The Difference
jintsuri:

valeria2067:

lucindasaxon:

theneverendingdrums:

click-to-open:

valeria2067:

Here’s the Difference:
The Doctor Who photo features a tall, slender, rather alien genius-boy running alongside a medical professional who is smitten with him.
The Sherlock photo……..Oh. OH.

Yes, but Sherlock has a long coat which billows out behind him when he runs.
The Doctor just ha-
…
Oh.
Never mind.

Yes but Sherlock wears tight fitting suits and is smarter than your average human.
The Doctor’s just—
Riiight….

Yes, but in Doctor Who, the medical companion risks death in an attempt to save the lead character from the clutches of an evil, psychotic genius.
Wheras in Sherlock…. um……. Oh..

Yeah, but the Doctor Who companion jumps on board to help the lead even though she knows almost nothing about him and trusts him to solve their current problem that wasn’t even an issue until he arrived.
While In Sherlock… huh.

This is a thing that needs to be brought back.

Guys guys guys, you’re missing a MAJOR point.
The Doctor cannot simply die - because he regenerates; he cheats death.
Whereas Sherlock, say if he jumped off a buildi— …oh

suddenlyfalling:

valeria2067:

Sherlock, you complete and utter dick.

(x)

dasdeutschtard:

herm-anna37:

raelynnmarie:

kerriwho84:

This would be major heartfail!

oh god…I…I

It had been two years, nine months, four days, seven hours and thirty-three minutes since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital to his supposed death.
Today had been like any other day. Sherlock burst into the flat, hair wet, jacket sopping, a faint fleck of some unknown substance on his face. John looked up at him and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock.”
“John, I am so sorry. I—“
“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” His friend’s voice was level, as though it had been only a day since they’d last seen each other, that he’d never jumped off that roof, that he’d never hidden himself away and forced his friend to endure unbearable amounts of pain.
Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He expected something, anything. Yelling, screaming, crying, punching, he wouldn’t even have put it past John Watson to throw the pocket knife lodged in the side table at him. He guided himself to the couch and sat down, the entire flat seeming as though it were made of eggshells, as though one wrong word, one wrong breath and the entire house of cards would come down around their ears.
He waited for him to say something, thinking that perhaps John had gone into shock and didn’t know how to react. Sherlock stared at him, two-day old shirt, cold tea, book he’d already read twice—no, three times—judging by the dog ears on the pages. He hadn’t slept well, the bags under his eyes looked worse than when he’d been kept up because of the blind banker.
“Sherlock,” John said, not looking up from his book, “you’ll mould the carpet and Mrs. Hudson will put it on our rent.”
He hadn’t even noticed the rain puddling around his feet, a dark ring etching itself against the fabric of the carpet. Of course. The jacket was placed on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and he went to make himself a cup of tea. Something about this situation was bothering him. He kept looking at the various things in the flat, doing his best to find something, anything that could tell him why John wasn’t reacting like he knew John Watson would have reacted.
But there was nothing. Nothing but a string of unanswered question marks that led right to his only friend.
______
“DAMN!” The shatter and loud outburst actually made Sherlock startle—something that hadn’t happened in longer than he could accurately remember. When he looked, he saw John cleaning up a beaker that he’d knocked over.
He hesitated. John was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and something told him to stay away. “Are you alright in there?” he offered, much more quietly than his normal inquisitions.
“Yeah, fine, I just…damn burner. I wish you’d not leave them so near the edge of the table like that, Sherlock!” The sound of the rubbish bin opening , the glass tinkling in, and then silence. When Sherlock looked up from his work, he saw John standing, facing the sink stock still. His head was hung low and his shoulders were sagging. Sherlock felt a tugging in the center of his chest, and he couldn’t understand why. Again, he looked at the signs, observed everything, but all that lay on those slumped shoulders of his friend was another line of question marks.
This happened every once in a while. Something would break, John would drop something, or he would suddenly go quiet and stand in the kitchen as though a man possessed. Sherlock never assisted him, not unless he saw John in any immediate danger. And when he did, he made sure not to touch him.
Once, he had touched John as he helped clean a shattered teacup and spilt Ceylon tea. John had frozen solid for the faintest of moments, a dark colour flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t look at Sherlock. He took what Sherlock saw as calming breaths and continued cleaning it up.
Sherlock didn’t dare touch him again.
____
A particularly quiet day nearly a month after his return, Sherlock had been watching John write on his computer for the past two hours. “John…is everything…are you alright?”
“Yes…” John only locked eyes with his friend for a hair of a second before burying his nose back in the computer, “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”
____
When John was at work one day, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade. He was going absolutely mental without anything to do. He’d gone far past bored, and he wasn’t about to let his mind go fallow.
One afternoon, a few days later, Lestrade came up to the flat. John made himself tea and offered some to the DI, who politely refused.
“I won’t be here long enough for tea,” he said, brushing past John and coming to stand in front of Sherlock, “I know you’ve been home long enough, but we’ve got a suicide that couldn’t possibly be a suicide. Large metal doors bolted from the inside and a man who couldn’t even open his hands to holda gun, let alone shoot it. Will you come?”
Sherlock looked from the Detective Inspector to John, and that tugging at his chest happened again.
John was paralyzed. The tea was slowly dribbling to the ground as his arms went to his sides of their own accord. His jaw was hanging slack.
Carefully, Sherlock stood and came towards him, “John, John are you alright?”
He didn’t answer him. “L-Lestrade…You can see him, too?” he whispered.
“Bloody hell….” Lestrade covered his mouth and scrubbed at his cheek with his hand as the situation sunk in around the two of them.
It …it couldn’t be. Why hadn’t he noticed? The question marks disappeared as Sherlock chanced a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Oh, John….”

coollike-sexual-frustration:

How he manages to be so adorable and so bloomin’ sexy at the same time, I don’t know.

Is Charlie McDonnell cosplaying as John Watson?

sherlocked-inside-the-tardis:

Because. I actually hated what I wrote for this before. But I don’t feel like deleting it.
So I’m going to write something else.
—
John Watson returned as soon as his shift at the hospital was over, making his way back to 221B to check on Sherlock. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, before strengthening his resolve and opening the door to find Mrs. Hudson sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.
“Mrs. Hudson…?”
A small sob escaped her mouth through withered fingers. He immediately rushed toward her, kneeling in front of her and moving her hands away from her face. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly. “Is it Sherlock? Has he had one of his fits?”
She nodded, waving her hand toward the living room. He immediately straightened and hurried into the room, only to find his housemate crumpled in a chair, breathing heavily, hair completely messed up, face red. He approached the man cautiously, stretching a hand toward him.
It was only when he saw the rolled sleeve and the punctures in Sherlock’s arm that he realized what had happened. He quickly took the needle away from Sherlock and kneeling before him, checking his pulse. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but not high enough to cause alarm. He had just had a fright. He seemed to be getting those more and more often lately.
“Sherlock,” he whispered.
However, the other man didn’t seem to hear him. He simply continued to stare down at the carpet, completely motionless.
“Voices…” Sherlock said after a moment. “I can hear him, John…all the time…he’s going to burn me, John…”
John sighed, raising a hand to brush against Sherlock’s cheek. He had been talking about this voice for ages. Moriarty, he called it. John was sure that Sherlock was convinced the man was real. He would wake up in terror every night, plagued by this elusive notion, Moriarty.
“Nobody’s going to burn you, Sherlock. It’s in your head,” he said softly, holding his flatmate. “Just in your head.”
“Make him leave…” Sherlock said, a trace of a whimper in his voice.
“Yes, yes, he’s gone, Sherlock. He was never here,” John said soothingly, stroking the back of Sherlock’s head.
Soon after, John put Sherlock to bed after administering his medication.
“I don’t know what would happen to him, if it wasn’t for you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hand shaking slightly as she took a cup of tea from John. “He probably would have died that day, at St. Barts.”
John closed his eyes. He had been trying to forget that incident, when he found Sherlock raving on the top of St. Barts, screaming to the cosmos about being ordinary. If John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock when he did, he probably would have jumped and fallen to his death.
“One more thing, Doctor,” she said, putting her cup down. “What’s Moriarty?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”

whenrosesbloom:

This is the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen

So…beautiful.

Today is the day we celebrate a great man. He led a selfless life, helping those in need. Many people didn’t understand him, but he had a close band of loyal followers. But the world turned against him. One close to him betrayed him and now there was only one choice. He must die so that everyone else may live. But this was no ordinary man, this was a man capable of performing miracles. And those closest to him never gave up hope. They knew that when enough people believed in him, when his name could be cleared and everyone understood the sacrifices he had made, and the good deeds he had done, then he would return to them. He would perform this one last miracle… and be… Not Dead. Today is the day we celebrate the miracle of Sherlock’s survival.

derabright:

hisloyalbloggerjw:

justanotherholmes:

So Beautiful…