I grew up being gaslit and queerbaited by media, now you're trying to tell me that I shouldn't be filtering AO3 by >10,000 words, angst, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, pining??
what do you want from me fr??
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I NEED A GOOD PHOTO OF YOU (for nefarious purposes)
UHHHH HERE HAVE MY SHERLOCK COSPLAY FROM LAST YEAR
OR IDK HAVE THIS TWINK ASS PHOTO OF ME FROM THE DAY THE BARBIE MOVIE CAME OUT...
IDK ABOUT MORE RECENT ONES I GUESS IF YOU SEARCH CROWLEY HAIR ON MY BLOG THOSE PHOTOS WILL COME UP??
(dont judge me for these photos okay i am more than my twinkest gayass photos)
(wait what nefarious purposes)
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Petite Madame's "dropped" John Watson
So many gorgeous pieces only on Twitter!
Linked by permission.
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what’s your favourite photo of john
I have too many photos that I adore, so narrowing it down to just one is not easy.
Perhaps this one.
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I love that one Sarah Z video essay about the Sebastian moran x moriarty ship that the Sherlock fandom created out of thin air just bc they so desperately desired a kinky murder husbands dynamic and I do wonder if those fans every watched nbc Hannibal and felt catharsis
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Rache (German for Revenge)
How Sally began to distrust Sherlock Holmes, and how she started trusting him again.
@missdaviswrites
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@quantum-sparrow
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@addictedstilltheaddict
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@daringlydomestic
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@pipmer
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Déjà Vu
(An excerpt from my WIP Déjà Vu, part 4 of Off-Axis.
Greg sips the coffee Sherlock has paid for. Not a peace offering, exactly, but a gesture of good intentions. It’s been months since they saw each other, since Lestrade gave his ultimatum: no referrals until Sherlock is clean.
“I don’t remember if I ever thanked you,” Sherlock says.
The image of the young man he found on the roof appears in his mind, momentarily superimposing itself over the Sherlock sitting opposite him. It wasn’t Lestrade’s first suicide call, but it is the one that marked him, made him realise he had to give up the night shifts. He found Sherlock swaying on the parapet, grabbed him and held on until he stepped down and collapsed into a heap on the roof. The painfully thin body, all gawky elbows and knees, told him that the man (boy?) was a junkie. The dirty, matted hair said that he no longer cared about anything, not his appearance, his health, his life. But the eyes that blinked up at him, pale as glass, revealed a dizzying intelligence. Mercurial, he thought; a mind that could, even in that moment of despair, look up at Lestrade and see something.
Your marriage fell apart when you started working night shifts. That was the first thing Sherlock said to him. And then he descended into madness again, humming music, muttering about keys… I invented Moriarty…
His dark hair is trimmed now and curls around his ears. His skin has lost its sallowness, and though he’s still thin, he’s clearly taking better care of himself. Still shadowed by exhaustion, his eyes are no longer lit with hallucinations. The clear improvement lifts Greg’s mood; it feels worth it to save a life like this, an answer to all the other nights when there were no victories.
Shaking his head, Sherlock smiles. “I was in a bad way that night. I’ve forgotten a lot about it.”
“It’s fine. I think about you quite often, to be honest. You’re one of my successes. I had another jumper the other night. Same rooftop, which was odd. Gave me déjà vu.”
“What happened?”
Greg shudders, the image of the body on the pavement still vivid.
“She jumped.”
@keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @mydogwatson @totallysilvergirl @13monkton @meetinginsamarra @thegildedbee @kettykika78 @iamjustreading @ninasnakie
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Hi there doc, I love your cooking and Rosie's craft. Could you please make it a weekly post?
That’s a good idea, actually.
Crime, Craft & Cooking: Weekly Digest.
Would more of you appreciate that?
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