freeman hospital

So today, @deerstalkers-and-jumpers gave me the brilliant idea of going to St. Barts hospital (where TRF was filmed) to see the graffitis that some fans wrote, and I WAS NOT DISAPPOINTED 

I am tagging some people that I think might be interested in seeing this silly photo i took, if you don’t wanna be tag please tell me 

@88thparallel @rominatrix @unapologeticocdsufferer @wildspiritsneverdie @thejennire

if i’m forgetting someone, I’M SORRY.

  • my sister when visiting me in hospital: so are you still obsessed with that guy that plays that gay guy that people pretend is straight?
  • me: yeah but i haven't been up to date on much recently
  • my sister: didn't he just have a baby?
  • me: what? no?
  • me: ...
  • me: ...
  • me: wait, you mean benedict cumberbatch?
  • my sister: well yeah, how many guys who play gay guys pretending to be straight guys in tv programs are you obsessed with? *laughs
  • me: ...
  • me: *awkwardly laughs
  • me: yeah...
  • me: *was actually thinking of misha collins


   The detective’s eyelids fluttered at the urgency in John’s voice, head moving slightly. The morphine pulled at him, making him want to do nothing but sleep…but John sounded so concerned…

   "Sherlock, can you hear me?" John…

   Sherlock blinked awake slowly, brow furrowing as his best friend’s face came into focus above him. John did not look well-rested in the least. "Of course I can hear you,” he tried to say, but oddly enough, all that made it out of his mouth was a hazy quiet groan.

   "Oh, thank Christ,“ was the answer he received. The relief in John’s voice was palpable, and Sherlock let it wash over him. He should be saying something…he needed to tell John something…but then John was talking again, and it took all of his concentration to focus on listening. "You’ve been out for a whole day. They said…” he stopped, licking his lips. “They said that your heart stopped on the table… ”

   Ah…yes…he remembered…a bit not good.

   "You died, Sherlock.“ John swallowed, just barely managing to keep the accusatory tone from his voice. Sherlock could hear it anyways. "You can’t do that to me. Not again…”

   Sherlock squeezed John’s hand in a silent promise, his eyes beginning to droop once more as the morphine drew him down. He needed to tell John something…it was important…but all he could think about was John’s face, the warmth in his eyes, the worry lines in his skin, every micro-expression he couldn’t seem to interpret in his current state. He was sure they would have told him something if he had been more coherent…

   But his surroundings began to blur once more, and it was only a matter of seconds before he was pulled smoothly back into sleep, John’s hand still in his. He would figure it out later…