I’m watching The Trench because I’m a masochist I have many feelings about WWI, and it turns out to have many people with good cheekbones and good acting chops in it (before they were famous.) Among our privates here you may recognize:
James D’Arcy: he is a defiantly grandiloquent private, who doesn’t see the point of it all, and says so.
Cillian Murphy: he watches everything and everyone with keen attention and private amusement.
Ben Whishaw: he is a very tiny private who volunteers to make people tea.
Also featured is Tony-from-Foyle’s-War (there’s always someone from Foyle’s War.)
The NCOs, meanwhile, are none other than…
Daniel Craig, as a teetotaling, rough-spoken sergeant, capable of both brutality and great kindness.
Julian Rhind-Tutt, as a whisky-drinking, Tennyson-reading lieutenant. He takes his duties very seriously, and is convinced that They’re All Going To Die. Since this is set on the eve of the Somme, he’s probably right.
tumbling down tumblr, oh my what a thrill! with british men with cheekbones, this isnt a drill! tumbling down tumblr, please dont tell my wife, ive been off the grid for days and shes trying to end my life
The third of four prompt fills promised to new followers of @geekyangie. This one is for @sherlockholmesismytype. The prompt was Sherlock undercover as a bartender at a 1920s Speakeasy, where Molly comes in for a drink to get her mind off colleagues who are intimidated by her being a woman. Enjoy!
Why, Molly thought morosely as she plunked herself onto a barstool, had she ever believed it would be easier to take up her chosen profession in the United States? Men were men no matter what country they came from, and she was sick of how intimidated they were by her being a female, much less a doctor. The fact that she worked in the morgue and did autopsies didn’t help; she couldn’t begin to count the number of ‘helpful’ suggestions that she might be better off delivering babies or dealing with ‘women’s problems’ she’d been subjected to in the past six months. She was glad her friend Meena had recommended this place to her just the other day; Molly was more than desperate for a nice cold gin and tonic to wash away the taste of male testosterone clogging her (figurative) senses.
“I should have asked that idiot Moran if he’d rather I told him to turn his head and cough,” she muttered to herself as she waited for the bartender to show up and take her order.
The sound of choked off laughter brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see the single most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on standing in front of her, still chuckling. At her highly inappropriate words. How perfectly mortifying.
She was still trying to work out a way to explain herself when she realized he was asking her a question. “What’s your poison?” he repeated patiently as she just gawped at him like an idiot.