surprise sherlock

The Doctor*excited from the tardis on the phone*: are you ready for the adventure of your life?

Molly Hooper*sounding little bit nervous*: uhmmm I am but we might have a little problem here.

The Doctor*beginning to get anxious moving around the tardis’s machines to land it faster*: what is it? are they back again?

Molly Hooper: No! no, it’s just … my foot is pinning to the floor … with heavy weight *her voice turned half amused half annoyed with the last part*

The Doctor: Clara stay inside there might be another threat.

The Doctor*hurrying out of the tardis to the morgue after landing it inside still on the phone*: heavy weight! what are you ta … ooooh.

Originally posted by caratomi

However weird and disturbing the scene in front of him was, he wasn’t surprised at all.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the floor holding one of Molly’s legs tight refusing to let her move.

Sherlock Holmes*grumbling and shouting*: I won’t let you put a foot on this ungodly box

The Doctor: Heeeeeeey! that’s my baby you’re talking about.

Molly and Clara exchanging a-how-did-we-end-up-with-these-men-look. 

Molly Hooper: Sherlock I told you I’ll be back before you even finish your afternoon tea!

Sherlock*yelling*: He’s a dangerous man! 

Molly Hooper: he brought Mary back safe and alive!

Sherlock: AFTER TWO YEARS!

Clara Oswald: why don’t you come with us? it would be fun!

The Doctor and Sherlock*in the same time*: NO!

The Doctor: I won’t babysit him, I’ll already be doing this with two.

Molly and Clara: Hey!

The Doctor*totally done and dialing a number*: I don’t have time for this.

Mycroft Holmes: Hello Doctor.

The Doctor: don’t hello Doctor me! you said he won’t know before we move!

Originally posted by victorian-deductions

Mycroft Holmes*amused*: Sorry for that, you know I can’t stop him from deducing, but I see Ms.Oswald’s suggestion could solve this problem, maybe drop him few years later.

The Doctor*searching with his eyes for hidden cameras*: I didn’t listen to you before to leave him in another dimension, what make you think I’ll agree now?

Originally posted by mystradesexual

Mycroft Holmes*before hanging up*: well can’t say I didn’t try.

The Doctor*desperately looking to the camera after finding it and begging*: MYCROFT! Myc …


He turned and looked to the three of them.

The Doctor*huffing and giving in*: he can come.

Sherlock*still holding Molly’s leg*: Who in his whole sanity would enter this crazy machine of yours?!

The Doctor: I really don’t have time for this!!

Molly: Sherlock no matter if you come or not I’m going and you won’t stop me with this childish behavior!

Sherlock tried to find any sign of bluffing and failed.

Sherlock*pouting*: FIIIIINE!

Sherlock*walking to the doctor slowly and stopping right in front of him with-I-dare-you-look on his face*: if you drop us in the wrong year like you did to Mary I will destroy your precious dear box with my bare hands and make you watch.

The Doctor*smiling and smirking*: if I was you I wouldn’t make an enemy from the tardis, but suit yourself.

Molly and Clara in the back grinned.

Sherlock*walking aggressively toward the tardis*:  How are you even fitting in this crazy thing? are you sitting in each other .. GOOD GOD ITS BIGGER IN THE INSIDE!

The Doctor*shaking his head, following him and standing in front of the tardis*: ladies first.

Sherlock*shouting*: HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?!!

The Doctor*rolling his eyes*.

Molly*smirking and going inside*: see! he’s not that bad, you will get used to him.

Clara*following her*: this should be interesting, it was getting a little dull here just me and you.

The Doctor*offended*: Dull! How dare you?! you love travelling with me!

He closed the door, few seconds later the voice of the tardis leaving the morgue announced the start of a new journey, making Mycroft Holmes who was watching the whole time smile deeply while he remembered his golden year on it.

“Now is your time brother mine, see you soon” 

He frowned and looked to the clock “I hope”

Sherlolly:
a story even shippers weren’t really quite expecting

First Season:
Black, two sugar. BTW I’m manipulating you.

Second Season:
I don’t count? I don’t cOUNT? WHERE THE HECK DID U GET THAT IMPRESSION YOUNG LADY??!?! You do count. Now that we established that… would you mind help me fake my death? I need you.

Third Season:
Help me solve cases because I’m not good with thank yous. Also… you’re the one who matters the most. Chips?

Fourth Season:
fuck, okay, I love you. There. I said it. Wait.. oh shit. I love you.

John is almost finished with his latest blog entry, when Sherlock suddenly calls for him from the kitchen.

“John. John!”

John sighs and stands up. He turns around, and there’s Sherlock, holding his hand and grimacing.
John frowns. “What happened?”

“I slipped with the knife,” Sherlock says and shows him his hand. John can see blood. It comes from a not so superficial gash near Sherlock’s thumb. He shakes his head. “Are you always that clumsy in the kitchen? Come on, sit down. I’ll bandage that.”

He quickly fetches his bag and when he goes back to the living room, Sherlock sits in his chair and looks at the wound in his hand with a frown.
John sits opposit of him and takes an disinfectant out of his bag.
“Give me your hand.”

When the cold spray hits Sherlock’s skin, he gasps and looks at John accusingly. “It burns,” he says dryly.

John grins. “Yes. It does. That’s normal.”
He begins to bandage the wound.

Sherlock observes him silently.

When John looks up from the now bandaged wound, he looks directly into Sherlock’s eyes. For a moment, it’s like he can’t move. He stares into Sherlock’s eyes, which are pale silver with speckles of blue today, and he feels a bit dazed.
I wonder if our life would be different, if I said or did something different at Angelos back then …
He doesn’t have this thought for the first time.
Actually, he thinks about such things very often.
He can’t prevent it from happening.
But it’s pointless and you know it.
It’s …

“John,” Sherlock says. It sounds a bit confused.

John swallows. He forces himself to smile. “You can go on now with … what were you actually doing in the kitchen?”

Sherlock inspects his hand and says casually, “I’m cooking, obviously.”

John blinks. He’s surprised. “You can cook?”

Sherlock looks at him like he’s a bit insulted. “Of course I can. But until now I didn’t see a reason to do it. It’s always a bit tedious.”

John blinks again. “But why … today?”

Now Sherlock’s look is definitely an annoyed one. “John. Did you forget your own birthday?”

Oh.

“No,” John says slowly.

But yes, he almost forgot it. Well, it’s not really a special day. Not anymore.
Harry didn’t phone him. And the rest of his family pretends that he doesn’t exist anyway. Maybe Mike will phone later. But until now, nothing has happened to remind John that it is his birthday.

Sherlock sighs. “Well, it should have been a surprise, since people seem to love surprises immensely, but now I fear I spoiled it with my stupid accident.”

“No,” John says quickly. “No, you didn’t spoil it, I’m … wow. No one ever cooked for me before. I’m … honoured.”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, like he’s checking if John means that serious, then he smiles. “Good. I also bought wine.”

John blinks.

Sherlock finally stands up and coughs. “Thanks for your help, doctor. I continue now.”

“Okay,” John says a bit huskily. “I’ll … wait here then.”

“Yes. Wait,” Sherlock nods and goes back into the kitchen.

John remains sitting in his chair and feels very stunned.

Later, when they sit on the table, with wine and a very good meal - cooked by Sherlock, John still can’t believe it - they talk and laugh a lot. Sherlock pours him wine and asks him if he wants more from the salad. John feels good. He feels happy.

And when they’re finished, he says, “That was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock’s smile, both a bit shy and proud, makes his chest glow and his belly tingle.

He realizes, that he doesn’t need more in his life.
He realizes, that he’s truly in love.

tried to draw Sherlock in colours of the Asexual and Aromantic flag (there were 3 proposed flags for aromantic flag according to wikia so i just used the colours from all three, that’s why the orange is there as well)

not sure how accurate the colours are in the end coz i overlapped all sorts of layer modes but well…..i tried

Look at the cute cover of this book :> yes I bought it just for the cover but also because it has some illustrations by Frederic Dorr Steele and hear this out, in the inside is a description of why the cover is like that:

On the covers of this volume, therefore, you will find a section reproduced of the wall over the mantel in Mrs. Hudson’s chamber at 221B Baker Street: that section which shows two examples of Sherlock Holmes’ prowess in emblazoning the initials of Victoria Regina “in bullet-pocks” and also the cameo-portrait of his fellow-lodger which Dr. Watson must have commissioned the Wedgwood people to make.

love it.

(Not) Killing Your Darlings: Parallels Between ACD Canon and S4

I’ve slowly been working my way through a reread of the canon stories, and although I am used to finding phrases and plotlines among the stories that have been adapted within Sherlock, what surprised me towards the end of the canon is that the writers of Sherlock appear to be adapting the way the stories are written, as well. We’ve talked a lot about the idea that Mofftiss have Reichenbached the show in Series 4, but I’m beginning to think they have Case-booked it (and His Last Bowed it, a little, too). This will probably sound grim at first, but I remain an optimist when it comes to Sherlock, so bear with me. These are Princess Bride “pit of despair” times; I figure if we have to be here, we may as well look around.

As a quick reminder, Doyle published the short stories as:

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1892)
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (1894)
The Return of Sherlock Holmes (1905)
His Last Bow (1917)
The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes (1927)

I’m going to start at the end of His Last Bow and the later stories, because they best parallel Series 4, then look back very briefly.

Breaking the fourth wall

His Last Bow breaks the pattern of the Sherlock Holmes story collections in a few ways. It begins with a brief preface written by John H. Watson; he addresses the reader directly to explain that he and Holmes are still living, though ageing:

”The friends of Mr Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism… Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio, have been added to ‘His Last Bow’ so as to complete the volume.” (His Last Bow, preface)

… lots more under the cut.

Keep reading

John wakes and feels tears on his face. His heart is pounding but he doesn’t quite know why- he can’t remember the specifics of the nightmare, he can only remember the vague feeling of running, of danger coming and him being unable to stop it.

He briefly wonders if this is the only reason he has woken but then he hears Rosie’s cries through the baby monitor. Sherlock stirs next to him and makes a deep “Hmmm?” noise, hovering between deep sleep and the beginnings of waking up.

John quickly reaches across and turns the baby monitor off. It’s not fair, it’s not fair on Sherlock.

He slips out of bed and goes to her. She is red faced with crying, little hands making little stubborn fists. John picks her up and she squirms. “Come on, Rosie, it’s okay,” he whispers, but he knows he doesn’t sound at all convincing. Pathetic.

She’s still hiccuping with the force of her tiny cries. John doesn’t know what to do. He carries her through to the living room, stands in front of his arm chair and tries to rock her.

But he knows nothing he’s doing is working- he can’t even soothe her with words now, his breathing is still all shallow and wrong, and she’s picking up on that, she can feel his chest heaving and John knows, God he knows, he’s just making everything worse, like al-

He feels Rosie being taken out of his arms. John inhales and gasps before noticing- it’s Sherlock, of course, standing in front of him. Beautiful, warm and safe and sleepy Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock says. He tucks Rosie into his exposed shoulder, cupping her head gently with his hand. “John, it’s alright. Sit down.”

John feels like he can’t breathe. “John,” Sherlock repeats. His voice is soft and low and so incredibly thoughtful. “You can sit down, it’s okay.”

John doesn’t so much as sit down as collapse into his chair. Sherlock walks away with Rosie and John can hear him soothing her in the distance: “Hush, now. I know, I know, enough of that now, my darling girl. Hush. Hush. Ssh…”

John keeps breathing. He doesn’t know how much time passes, he’s only aware of Sherlock suddenly crouching down in front of him.

“That’s her drifted off again,” Sherlock says. His smile is so wide and genuine that the guilt pierces John all the more.

“Christ, I’m-Sher-I’m sorry. I just seem to m-make things worse.”

Sherlock shakes his head. Patient. God, how John loves him. “You know that’s not true, John. Besides-” He starts to grin a little- “- you got her the last two nights before I even woke up. It was my turn.”

John tries to laugh, but his breathing still feels all strange and wrong. Sherlock stands up. “Do you want- I could make some tea? Or water?”

“N-no. It’s okay, Sherlock, you go back to bed. I’ll just sit here, I’ll be fine in a minute.”

John closes his eyes, breathes in and out. He hears Sherlock’s footsteps fade away. Good. The man needs his rest.

But then, then come the oh so quiet notes of Sherlock’s violin. John opens his eyes and smiles. Sherlock is standing by the window, looking out into the night. He plays slowly and carefully, and John focusses on his breathing, relishing it becoming deep and even.

By the time John realises exactly what Sherlock is doing, he’s almost nodded off. The notes are soft and so slow, and John allows himself to follow them and…and he doesn’t know when his eyes were getting too heavy, but…and have they closed?…yes, he supposes they must…and his head, he can feel it moving forward down to his chest, and that’s fine…that’s…

A hand on his knee. John’s head slowly comes back up, his eyes open just enough to see Sherlock looking at him with the fondest smile.

“Come on, my good man, to bed with you,” he says.

John nods. It sounds like the best idea Sherlock’s ever had. He follows Sherlock as if wallowing through a heavy cloud- not inconvenient, it’s just everything seems so…slow…

He feels sleep pulling, he’s ready to be pulled under. He turns to Sherlock, half surprised that they’re back in bed. “Mmm, thanks Sher-” He yawns and Sherlock pulls him close, and John can’t keep his eyes open any longer. “Love you,” he manages.

He feels Sherlock press a kiss to his hair. He’s sinking down, down into the bed, his body so wonderfully heavy…

“Hush, now,” Sherlock says. “I love you, too.”

And John finally lets himself sleep.

Mary: Sherlock, about Molly …
Sherlock*rolling his eyes and huffing*: for the last time not my girlfriend.
Mary*getting her phone out*: good to know.
Sherlock*surprised*: really?
Mary*typing*: yup … a very nice doctor asked me if she’s available or not … I’m telling him it’s good to …
Sherlock*running and steals the phone from her hands*.
Mary*amused*: I thought she’s not your girlfriend*.
Sherlock*fixing his hair from his sudden attack and deleting the doctor number*: and I told you she’s not.
Mary*sighing deeply and giving up picking the water bottle and drinking some water*
Sherlock: we’re actually engaged.
Mary*spitting the water from shock*.
Sherlock: don’t tell her, she doesn’t know yet.
Mary*facepalmed and loudly groaning*.

In which Sherlock comes back after pretending to be dead for two years, finds John moved out of Baker Street and nearly engaged. He’d deduced two possible reactions… but not this.


Of all the outcomes Sherlock had prepared himself for, this was not one of them. There had been two scenarios in his head, two ways John’s emotions could play out. Shock was, in both scenarios, naturally the primary stage. That is logically what happens when a previously thought dead person presents themselves. It was the stages that came after the shock is where it got tricky, given that Sherlock had to take into factor that they were surrounded by the public eye, in a very crowded, very upscale restaurant. It was where the road split. Road one: Shock would be followed by disbelieve, perhaps tears, but most likely not with John. No, it was more likely disbelief would lead to laughter, the slightly bitter kind that Sherlock could picture on John’s face, the kind that would melt into relief, maybe even a slightly uncharacteristic hug. It might be a briefer display of emotion due to the public eye but at least Sherlock would know it was alright now.

The second road was not preferred but it ended the same. On this path anger followed the shock, maybe John stormed out of the restaurant, maybe delivered Sherlock a rightly deserved punch… But they were together in the end. Sherlock was forgiven in the end.

He never thought, however, that the stage of anger would be so prolonged. He never imagined that John wouldn’t eventually get along to embracing his lost best friend. Sherlock never pictured John leaving him standing alone on the curb of a dumpy fish and chip place with a bloody nose.

Ms. Hudson, on the other hand, had had exactly the reaction Sherlock had predicted when he walked into 221B. She’d screamed, cried, screamed again when he placed a gentle hand on her arm, and proceeded to alternate between the two for the next hour. Sherlock could barely focus on her however, only being able to think about how, as she wrapped him in a very tight hug, he would do anything to have experienced this reaction twice that night.

“Oh Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson patted his cheek fondly, a smile brightening her face, “I take it you’ve seen John?”

Sherlock tense, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She laughed delightedly, squeezing his hand before bustling into the kitchen, “I’ll get the kettle on for you two, then.”

Sherlock unknotted his scarf, hanging it on the familiar coat hanger, taking note in the back of his mind the relief that filled his chest at being, well, home, “Sorry?”

Ms. Hudson looked over her shoulder, “Well, I gather he’ll be around shortly, yes?”

Sherlock froze half way through shrugging out of his coat, the thought hitting him harder than he expected. Would he?

“Yes.” Sherlock said stiffly, dropping his coat over a chair—John’s chair—with a flourish, “Yes, of course. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Ms. Hudson gave him another firm kiss on the cheek and a Oh Sherlock, do play some violin for me tomorrow. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed it, and left him to “get settled.”

Sherlock had prepared the tea with shaking fingers. Of course John would be around. He wouldn’t let the night end like it had would he? He’d want to see Sherlock. Definitely. John was a man of answers, and he had two years worth of questions to ask. Sherlock had poured the water into the tea pot, set out two cups (he’d looked for John’s favorite mug only to find it no longer in the cupboard), milk, and sugar. He’d put it all on a tray, set it rather too harshly onto the coffee table, fell into his chair…

And the waiting had begun.

Sherlock was very good at sitting still usually. He could go days on end without speaking, without moving. But he couldn’t seem to manage it tonight.

He paced, drummed his fingers, watched the clock. By the time he decided to change into his pajamas, it was nearly two in the morning and he had already retuned his violin and stabbed the fireplace mantle approximately 57 times. The tea was cold and he hadn’t had a drop. He hung his coat up from its place on John’s chair, fluffing the flag pillow and smoothing the velvet out.

It was two thirty and Sherlock listened to Ms. Hudson’s bedroom door close downstairs. No doubt she had been waiting up for John. She’d given up. He wouldn’t.

Sherlock kept his phone in hand. John may call rather than come over now that it was so late. He had a…fiancé now, after all. Sherlock swallowed hard at the thought, checking his phone again. Another outcome Sherlock had not expected. Of course, he felt foolish now, thinking John had—thinking John could ever feel… whatever Sherlock had felt. Whatever Sherlock feels. That it was John and him, him and John. He never dreamt that there could be any other version of either of their lives, he never thought…

Sherlock pressed his hands over his eyes.

But perhaps he should not have left for two years. For a so-called genius, he seemed to have a habit of realizing things too late when it came to John Watson. Maybe one could only be a genius in one aspect of life, one field. Sherlock considered this. If that was the case, he’d gladly trade his knowledge of chemistry, of crime, of anything, for an upstanding understanding of John. Just John. It may not be more useful in his line of work. But he would be happier. Emotionally. Sherlock blinked at the realization. He was surprised, but it felt… true.

It was approaching four in the morning when Sherlock resigned to his bed. He couldn’t stare at the empty chair across from him any longer. If he did he was worried he may throw something, or miss the mantlepiece and stab himself instead with the amount he’d been at it. He let his phone rest on his chest, fingertips to his chin.

He didn’t want to admit it, but his hopes were crumbling around him. John was not calling. John was not coming up the stairs. John had left him on the curb after hitting him once, twice, three times. He found that his chest hurt more than his cheek or nose.

Sherlock was just beginning to resign himself to a few more hours of sitting completely still until it was considered a socially acceptable hour to rise and start a day in the life of the living, when his phone buzzed against his ribs, shocking Sherlock’s eyes open.

John

The screen said John.

Sherlock had barely picked up before he was saying his name.

He was met with a few beats of silence and then, slowly, “You’re awake.”

Sherlock felt pinned against the mattress, “You don’t sound surprised.”

The response was more immediate this time, “I’m not.”

You’re awake.”

Sherlock nearly closed his eyes at the familiar scoff, “Yes, of course I’m awake.”

“I… I’m not surprised… either.” Sherlock had never struggled for words so much in his life.

Silence followed and Sherlock thought he heard John pouring himself tea, or maybe a drink.

“Jesus,” A chair scooted back over the line and John sighed as he sat now, “I’ve not a clue what to say. How’s the nose?”

Sherlock felt himself smile a little at the comment. This was the most normal he had felt in two entire years, “Not as bad as the ribs.”

John chuckled softly, the way he did when he was confused, “What? I didn’t hit you in the ribs.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Silence followed again. Sherlock heard John’s breathing stop and restart, “Sherlock-“

“Don’t worry, I’m okay-“

“No, that’s not the point, Sherlock, the point is that you let me- You let me knock you around when someone else had been doing god knows what god knows where.”

“Don’t worry, you’re much gentler than Serbian interrogators.”

He heard John set his tea down too hard, “What? I- Oh my god, I swear, if you’re joking-“

“I don’t joke.”

Another laugh, this time disbelieving. It sent another shock of relief through Sherlock, “Yes you do, Jesus, Jesus-“

“John. I’m okay-“

“Well, you were dead this morning!”

John’s breathing was harsh over the phone. Sherlock could picture him rubbing his eyes. Sherlock just listened for a moment to the familiar sound. He didn’t know how to start. Sorry was nothing, not what was needed, it wasn’t enough.

“John…” Sherlock let out a breath, “I-“

“Don’t you dare say you’re-“

“I wanted to tell you so many times-“

“God, did you now?” John was nearly fuming again, “That’s the first time you haven’t given into one of your impulses.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Hardly, John. Hardly.

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, “You’re right. I should know better.”

Sherlock heard a clatter that sounded like John throwing his cup in the sink, “Yes. Yes, you should.”

“Maybe I’ll give into one right now.”

A beat of silence, “What?”

Sherlock was already halfway to the door, “I’m coming over.”

The laugh was back, nervous and relieved this time, “Sherlock it’s nearly five-“

“I’m giving into an impulse, John.”

“Right…” A chair scraped back, “Yes, okay. Alright.”

“I’ll catch a cab. Text me the address, would you?”

Sherlock thought he heard a hitch in breath, a small sniff maybe. It made his chest ache, “Yeah.”

Sherlock shrugged half way into his coat, “Okay-“

“Right, can we not say goodbye?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, “John?”

“’s just the last time you said…” John couldn’t seem to finish but he didn’t have to.

Sherlock understood. He understood and he knew he’d never utter the word ‘goodbye’ to John Watson again.

“See you soon, John.”