elementary meme

6

elementary rewatch ❖ heroine (10/11)

elementary sentence starters

“I always imagined you have a secret lair beneath a volcano for such an occasion.”
“There is only one thing that can guarantee peace – your head on a pike. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“I’ve seen subtler displays of insensitivity. Do you attend the wakes of all your victims?”
“Well, lack of imagination is an occupational hazard for an apex predator.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And I’ve known you for a long time.”
“What does Buddhism have to do with erectile dysfunction?”
“I don’t know what’s weirder … that I’m spending my Friday night with you or the Stanley freaking Cup.”
“The great love of my life is a homicidal maniac. No one’s perfect.”
“You think you broke us up with the power of your mind?”
“I have what some might call a strong personality.”
“After many, many hours, I’ve come to most wretched of realizations. One that might curdle your very blood. You are my friend.”
“You’re bad at this, ______. You’re exceptionally bad.” 
“So now you have to have brain damage to want a baby?”
“That’s the sex blanket.” 
“I’m not easily surprised but I do confess that I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I think this is the Olympics of self-pity.” 
“Imagine sitting for a portrait today. Hubris practically leaks off the canvas.”
“Meeting the parents. That’s an important milestone in the romantic passion play.”
“Do you know what I haven’t said to anyone in a long time? I love you.” 
“You hurt yourself. Someone hurt me. You don’t know anything about how I’m feeling.”
“I have allowed empathetic thoughts to clutter my mind and reduce my perception.”
“You know better than to ask me a non-specific question.”
“I abhor the dull routine of existence.” 
“You engaged in horizontal refreshment with ( them/______ ).”
“You are something of a romantic terrorist.”
“_____ seems adequately sexed.”
“So, I walked all the way to the eastern edge of the property, and I did not find a thing. No dead bodies, no secret hideouts, no smoke monster. There’s plenty of mud, though.”
“I’m quite certain they were staging a fake murder when they fell victim to two real ones.”
“So they didn’t commit a murder so much as provide you with a murder-tunity.”
“You named your killer robot ‘Gus’?”
“So, your alibi is that you were oiling your chainsaw.”
“We really are living in a golden age for perverts.”
“Oh, and if you have any lingering doubts, here’s how you can be certain I’m not the one who tried to kill you – you’re alive!”
“I was mistaken. You don’t know what my partner looks like naked.”
“You do realize that pink coconuts do not occur in nature?” 
“Are you cooking, or did we get stampeded by a class of second graders?”

amindamazed  asked:

winter writing prompts: 5, 8, and/or 9

Re: this post

I chose 5: “I can’t feel my legs”

If this makes you imagine the red couch as a bit bigger or smaller than it actually is, so be it. I have bad spatial memory/recognition.

 -

The case was solved. They’d just returned from the precinct and had settled down in the library with take away and ice cream and were now sitting before a roaring fire that served as a barrier against the sub-zero cold outside.

None of this was out of the ordinary for Sherlock. What was out of the ordinary was Watson’s position.

It had started innocently enough. She had come to sit next to him on the red couch to show him something on her phone—an article that related to an old cold case they’d recently solved. After he’d skimmed the article and handed her phone back to her, instead of getting up she’d stayed, leaning back on the opposite arm of the couch, nearest the window, continuing to read news and whatever else on her phone. She’d even pulled down the duvet from the back of the couch to drape over her legs, already clad in warm pajamas, her red cardigan wrapped securely around her.

Sherlock had no idea what possessed her to settle herself thus, on the same couch as he was sitting, but he had no reason to protest. He had nothing against Watson settling on the couch, but he wondered if he should move. But he was not at all tired, and didn’t feel like changing into more casual clothes—he still wore his trousers, shoes, and buttoned up shirt, only his jacket taken off due to the large fire before them.

He got up to stoke the fire, as an excuse to move his restless limbs. He took a book from one of the shelves, then a second, and resumed his seat on the opposite end of the couch from Watson. She still was reading something on her phone, her glasses a bit farther down her nose.

He set his books down and took off his shoes, in order to more comfortably sit cross-legged, taking up slightly more room on the couch. Watson didn’t even look at him. He took up a book and began to read, glancing at her from time to time.

After his third glance she looked up from her phone over the rim of her glasses. “Sherlock, what is it?” she said, her words careful, not yet annoyed.

“Hmm?” He looked over to her with wide eyes, feigning surprise.

“You’ve glanced at me several times. What is it?” she repeated, keeping her eyes still on him. He studied her expression. She was curious, relaxed, the contentment derived from their recently solved case still permeating her limbs.

He hesitated a full second, then held up one of the books he’d retrieved, flashing the title in Watson’s direction. She didn’t blink, telling him she’d caught it. “I wanted to show you something here that reminded me of that cold case. Are you heavily occupied at present?”

She gave a small shake of her head, tucking her phone between the back of the couch and the duvet, before coming up on her knees, bracing herself on the back of the couch with one hand and reaching for the book with the other.

Sherlock flipped to the appropriate page and held out the book to her, watching closely as she adjusted her glasses and began to read. She settled back on her heels, somewhat closer to him. He moved further over to his end of the couch, leaning back against the arm and laying his legs straight out in front of him. This caused his feet—clad in his “loud” socks, as Watson referred to them—to brush against Watson’s calf, but she showed no reaction. She did not move from her spot on the middle cushion, intent on the words before her.

“You’re telling me this,” Watson held the book a few inches in front of his face, tapping one paragraph with her index finger, “proves that the science behind the forensics was wrong? How can that be possible?”

He slowly took the book from her hands, and she let him, her hard stare pinning him with a demand for an explanation. She’d raised herself up on her knees to hand him the book, and now seemed to tower over him without meaning to, her high ponytail only making her look more austere. His mouth twitched.

“It’s a compliment to your attention to detail, Watson. You noticed a flaw when I didn’t. This,” he closed the book with a snap, “only corroborates your findings.”

Pursing her lips, Watson reached behind her to retrieve her phone, then settled back on her heels to type something into Google no doubt. As she typed, she settled more between him and the back of the couch, lifting and then resting her feet flat on the other side of his calves. Her feet were bare, and likely freezing. As she scrolled, Sherlock reached forward and caught the edge of the duvet, pulling it over both of them. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Watson’s smile.

“When was that book published?” she said, not taking her eyes off her phone.

“2014,” he said, tucking one edge of the duvet under his thigh in a motion he hoped Watson didn’t notice. A few seconds of silence passed, before Watson thrust her phone in his face this time.

“Read this. The murder we solved happened in 2009. Proves the science hadn’t yet caught up to prove Houser’s innocence.”

Sherlock dutifully read, drawing his brows close together as he focused on the words. Watson was moving around again, this time leaning to her left to pry the second book Sherlock had retrieved from between his arm and the back of the couch. He barely shifted to accommodate her, so she had to lean over to pull the book out. Her calf brushed his knee and lower thigh with her movement, though he pretended that did not cause him to lose his place in his reading.

“This is a book on traditional Chinese medicine,” Watson announced, holding the book with one hand and pulling the duvet closer to her with the other. Unconsciously, her ankles pushed back against his left calf as she settled in.

That did cause him to lose his place. But he did not look up from Watson’s phone. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said, keeping his expression his stiff version of neutral.

“This has nothing to do with proving Houser’s innocence. When did you buy this?” she said, not looking up as she flipped to the book’s table of contents.

He mirrored her and kept his eyes resolutely on the words in front of him, though not a word registered. “While I was in London. It proved useful on a case. And before you ask, Watson, it had nothing to do with corroborating your claims about Chinese herbs’ abilities to contribute to longer-lasting, more vasodilated erections.”

“Sherlock.”

He looked up to find he had not mistaken the laughter in the two syllables of his name. Watson’s eyes were still hard but she was all but smirking at him.

“You know you’re a horrible liar,” she said, looking back to the book and turning to the first chapter.

“You think I was trying to cause myself more vasodilated erections?” he asked, blinking once at her. She lifted her chin without looking away from the page, her smile growing.

“You bought this book because of me. After I moved back in. I know you did,” she stated.

“Then why did you ask me when I bought it,” he said, no feigned question in his voice this time.

She finally looked back up at him, her expression unchanging even at the sight of his frown. “To prove how horrible a liar you are,” she said.

He simply looked at her, his frown deepening.

“You can’t keep your eyes still when you lie,” she added, tilting her head towards him, her stare becoming knowing.

“I was reading,” he said, holding up her phone. She shook her head once.

“Still lying.” And she returned to her own reading, becoming fully engrossed within seconds, her glasses sliding a bit further down her nose.

Sherlock gave her a glare which she did not return, and looked back to the article she had given him. The screen lit up and he found his place again, his scowl disappearing as the old case once again took over his thoughts.

By the time he had finished reading the article, Watson had more fully relaxed into the couch and into…him. Her bent knees were now resting over his thighs, and she had the book pulled closer toward her chest, likely to see better in the dim light.

Sherlock lowered Watson’s phone and was about to readjust himself when he made a realization. Watson was not seeing anything in the dim light—her eyes were closed. Her head was inches from resting on his arm, propped up on her hand instead, the book nearly closed in the lax fingers of her right hand. Her glasses were now on the very tip of her nose, inviting Sherlock to take them completely off, but he refrained.

By the rate of her breathing he knew she was likely only dozing. Watson could doze anywhere, he’d found. This was the first time she had chosen to do so on top of him, however.

“Watson,” he whispered, her name almost coming out a hiss. She didn’t stir. He became more aware of her weight on him, the way her loosening ponytail had caused her face to turn downward in sleep. He reached in with his left hand and carefully pried the book from her loose grip. She still didn’t stir.

“Watson,” he repeated, changing to a stage whisper. He tapped the book against her right arm that was within easy reach. “I can’t feel my legs, Watson,” he said, strangely hesitant to raise his voice further. It had been far too long since he’d seen Watson’s freckles so up close.

She only sighed in her sleep. Sherlock dared not take any deep breaths, and so to distract himself looked at the book in his hands to see where Watson had left off. The memory of her smile when she had discovered the book kept him reading, and also kept his fidgeting to a minimum as he let her sleep on.

8

Asian-American Ladies ❥ Lucy Liu

“I wish people wouldn’t just see me as the Asian girl who beats everyone up, or the Asian girl with no emotion. People see Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock in a romantic comedy, but not me. You add race to it, and it became, ‘Well, she’s too Asian’, or, ‘She’s too American’. I kind of got pushed out of both categories. It’s a very strange place to be. You’re not Asian enough and then you’re not American enough, so it gets really frustrating.”

tacohead13  asked:

118. “I don’t deserve you…” !! I'm so excited to see you write this!

Re: this post

drug addiction/heroin/syringe mention tw

The Talbott referenced is the murder victim in 1x04. He died of a heroin overdose.

-

Sherlock came back from his meeting sometime near 10pm, after picking up some Thai take away for both him and Watson. He was surprised to see the library windows dark when he came upon the brownstone, and stepped inside with cautious, soft steps.

The fire was dying in the grate, and he immediately noticed Watson had pulled the red couch closer to it to utilize its warmth. But that must’ve been well over an hour ago, judging from the embers barely glowing now.

Rounding the couch, he saw the floor still littered with the case file she’d begun the night before, papers and photographs spread in an organized chaos that only he and Watson could decipher. But in this light it was impossible to tell what conclusions his partner had made.

Setting the take away on a side table, Sherlock stepped closer to study Watson’s sleeping form. He could only see her forehead and the bridge of her nose, beneath the cascade of her loose dark hair, now tangled beneath her left hand she’d tucked under her head. She had curled herself in the fetal position, the chill in the room attesting to the necessity of conserving heat. The rest of her was covered securely by the duvet. She’d even tucked the duvet underneath her arm and knee that touched the cushions as further barrier against the cold. Against his will, his mouth twisted with sympathy.

His eyes were drawn away from her tightly curled form by the vibration and light from Watson’s phone—he silently gave thanks to Watson’s past self for putting it on vibrate, and himself for keeping his own phone on silent from the meeting. He’d checked his phone constantly while waiting for their Thai dinner, but now he knew why Watson had been remiss in contacting him about the case.

Watson’s phone was on the floor right in front of her, conveniently face up so Sherlock only had to tilt his head a bit to read the text that had come in. It was from Marcus.

Found perp @sister’s like u said. Cpt calling it a night. wants u there for intergtn tmrw @8

There was a thumbs up emoji at the end of the last statement, brown in color to match Marcus’s skin. Sherlock took it to mean “Good job” or something of the sort. The detective had never sent him an emoji.  

Sherlock crinkled his nose in displeasure, resolving to send Marcus plenty of emojis the next time texting became necessary between them. Maybe he would include that poop emoji just to annoy him.

Looking away from Watson’s phone just as it went dark again, Sherlock slowly knelt down to look over the contents of the case file Watson had put out. That she had fallen asleep with everything still spread in her complex mosaic told him she had been waiting for Marcus’s reply before cleaning up for the night.

He took out his own smartphone and turned on the flashlight to see better, careful to keep the beam pointed away from Watson. It only took him seconds to discern her train of thought, how she’d come to the conclusion of the murderer’s whereabouts. It would have taken days for the police to conclude what she had in less than twenty-four hours. He knew for a fact she had slept less than five of those hours, the case having come to them late the night before, and she the first to be at the scene with Marcus and the Captain.

When she had brought the case back to the brownstone, her hesitancy around him had been immediately evident. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to learn why. The murderer was a drug dealer that Sherlock was very familiar with, from his months in New York before rehab, and the murder weapons had been several syringes containing heroin forcefully inserted into the victim. But unlike the Talbott murder from over four years ago, this case hit too close to home. Sherlock had attended three meetings since that conversation between him and Watson took place, leaving the case entirely to her and their colleagues at the precinct.

Turning off the smartphone’s flashlight, Sherlock began to clean up as quietly as he could, moving all the papers into a neat pile. After setting the file aside in the lock room, he came back to build up the fire, seeing Watson still sound asleep.

After the fire began crackling merrily before him, Sherlock settled back on his heels, and looked again to Watson. She had shifted in her sleep, and now had her torso twisted so her shoulders lay parallel to the couch, but her knees were still bent to the side. He could barely discern her profile, her head turned mostly away from him, both her hands cast on top of the duvet over her stomach. She still wore her day clothes, her blouse half-unbuttoned, one bra strap now revealed by her movements.

Sherlock debated whether he should try to pull the duvet back up to her chin, but studying the position of her arms decided against it. He didn’t want to risk waking her. Getting to his feet, he went to move past the couch to retrieve his dinner and eat alone in the kitchen. But his last glance at Watson’s profile made him stop next to her, the glance turning into an unintentional focus on the events of the day, and Watson’s role in them.

Before he could analyze his actions, he reached down and allowed his fingers the barest brush against the loose tendrils of hair around Watson’s face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed, his lungs suddenly feeling tight inside his ribcage, something about the faded freckles on Watson’s cheeks and the small wrinkles at the edge of her closed eyes pulling the words out of him. His fingers strayed to almost touch her cheek, but then a log snapped in the fireplace and the moment was broken. Sherlock took his hand away, clenching it in a fist, and continued down to the kitchen.

Approximately four hours later, Joan woke up to a decent sized fire in the grate before her, the case file gone, and an extra blanket neatly folded at her feet. Disoriented, she blindly groped for her phone to check the time. 2:28. Then how was the fire—?

Sherlock. Half raising herself on one elbow, Joan looked around the dark library, but saw no one. Her mind was still half filled with her recent dreams, and she was confused to feel disappointment rising in her chest that he wasn’t there. He had appeared so close in her dream, she had expected him to be standing over her when she opened her eyes.

Shaking her head, Joan looked back at her phone and noticed Marcus’s text. A wide grin spread across her face.  

stardust-rain  asked:

joan/sherlock, elementary school au!

If you don’t do your homework, you don’t get recess, so the new kid hasn’t had recess since he transferred because he had stood up on his second day in class and announced that homework was “busywork assigned by lazy-minded adults to break the spirits of children and make us as dull as them.”

When Ms. Hudson pulls Joan aside to assign Sherlock as Joan’s new study buddy, the teacher just sighs. “Do the best you can. You’re the only student we trust not to be distracted by him.”

Two weeks later, no one’s particular surprised when Johnny the hall monitor catches Sherlock into the principal’s office. The fact that Joan was the one picking the lock is a bit more alarming. When the assistant principal presses her on why, Joan kicks her feet against the chair and raises her little chin. “We’re investigating alleged wrongdoing,” she says, pronouncing ‘alleged’ the exact way you would if you’d only ever seen the word written down. Ah-leg-ed.

“What, kids?” says Assistant Principle Gregson wearily. “Someone stole your gum in class? Teacher took your pencil and never gave it back?”

“The principal is embezzling money from our afterschool programs and using the funds to pay off her debts with a local drug lord,” Sherlock replies.

“Oh,” says Assistant Principal Gregson.

Joan leans forward in her chair, and Assistant Principal has seen her win just about every academic award the county can offer a second grader, but he’s never seen her look as keen as she does now. “Ah-leg-ed-ly,” Joan says. “We thought the office maybe would have proof.”

The office does, in fact, have proof, which is the only reason that neither of them get in trouble. The same can’t be said for the principal. The same day that the police come into the school to arrest him, Sherlock for the first time gets to go out for recess. He and Joan had done their homework together the night before, in a blanket fort in her basement. Joan wouldn’t let Sherlock tell her about the suspicious death of the neighbor down his street until he finished his spelling. Ms. Hudson, in an attempt to encourage Sherlock to do literally any homework, was letting the two of them pick whichever words they wanted to study.

With a purple pen, Ms. Hudson adds another s to asault, crosses out the extra r in murrder, and wrote Well done! across the top of his worksheet. Out on the playground, Joan and Sherlock crouch beneath the jungle gym and listen to a sixth grader describe the circumstances of his missing backpack.

beanarie  asked:

also 51. “Ginger bread people are very serious!”

Re: this post

-

Joan’s clicking heels preceded her as she walked toward the library, so she knew Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised by her approach. It was 2am and they’d been on this case without any real sleep for over 30 hours. Sherlock likely hadn’t slept for 48, and he was beginning to have delayed reactions to everything she said or did. She’d had to forcefully take his fifth cup of coffee out of his hands and tell him to take a nap about six hours ago. He’d slept for 45 minutes. 

The case was a triple murder, with severed limbs involved and a partner to the murderer they couldn’t trace. Still at large. She had been spending the last couple hours online looking for clues the partner may have left behind on social media, and was coming to deliver her findings to Sherlock. 

Instead of finding him poring over the photos from the case file as she’d left him, she saw him crouched cross-legged on the floor over a crime scene model of his own making. That in itself was nothing new. It was the…contents of the model that gave her pause. 

“Are those my gingerbread cookies?” she said, stopping next to him, her eyes going from the mismatched crime scene model to his fatigued yet determined expression. 

“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped with tired irritation. She stood patiently, waiting for him to elaborate. He glanced up to her raised eyebrows and finally continued with a brief sigh. “I needed models for the severed limbs, and I did not feel inclined to permanently damage our dollhouse victims.”

“Ah, I see.” She had to hold back her smile, knowing if she didn’t he’d be able to hear it in her voice and only become more cross.

“The gingerbread people are very serious, Watson!” he exclaimed suddenly, punctuating his words with sharp stabbing motions of his hands toward the miniature crime scene before him. “I need to know the placement of each limb to better determine how the accomplice moved through the house.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she said, turning away to settle on the couch so he wouldn’t see her smirk. 

When she turned back to look at him, preparing to deliver her findings, he was holding an intact gingerbread cookie out to her. She took it with a smile that he barely looked at—his mind still nearly entirely absorbed by the case—but she noticed in the tin next to him there were only three gingerbread cookies left. She had made eight times that number only yesterday. 

sunkentowers  asked:

Top five Joan Watson outfits

omg YAY this gives me an opportunity to showcase @joansfashionshow‘s posts!

1. The gown from 3x12

2. The Coat first worn in 3x13 (and again in 5x08 - stealth!joan is my favorite Joan jk every Joan is my favorite Joan; also lmfao I just learned I have 9 pages for episode 5x08 alone I’m hilarious)

3. This dress in 5x07

4. This vest & top combo in 5x06

5. The cheetah pajama shirt in 5x13!!

Bonus 6. (cuz like I could resist c’mon) Everything in 5x10 and this one outfit in 5x13 I died just omfg woman I can’t deal