suspects in love

They’ve come back from a case, Rosie long-asleep in the upstairs bedroom where there’s just enough room for her cot and John’s bed, and Sherlock is ranting.

Stupid,” he spits out, pacing to and fro in the living room, his hands in his hair. “Why was she so stupid? Why kill them in the first place, when she knows she’s the best suspect?”

“Well, she loved him,” John offers, even though he knows Sherlock doesn’t really want his opinion.

Sherlock scoffs.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, not even looking at John. “She didn’t love him.”

“What?” John sits up from where he’s been lazing on his chair. “Of course she did. Listen, I know you like to dismiss ‘sentiment,’ Sherlock, but love makes people do crazy things, so-”

“That,” Sherlock says and his voice is flat and angry at the same time, “was not love. That was possession, that was ownership, it may even have been jealousy, but it was definitely not love.” He infuses the word with such contempt that it makes John flinch, but Sherlock is moving again, glaring at the world as though it had personally offended him. “If she loved him, she’d have let him go. She’d have done everything in her power to make sure that he was happy, even if that meant he was with someone else. She’d have killed - she’d have died herself - if it meant that he would have one millimetre more happiness in his life than otherwise. She would have protected his lover with her life, she’d have done absolutely anything in her power to give him anything he wanted. Instead, she killed them both in a fit of jealous rage, because she never really loved him, she loved owning him. Like a favourite pair of shoes, or a pretty picture.”

John is still trying to absorb that rant when Sherlock crosses the room and slams his bedroom door behind him.

John sits in silence for a few moments before heading to bed.

He wakes up an hour later and John Watson has never actually experienced an epiphany before, never experienced that moment Sherlock is always chasing where all the pieces come together and your brain dissolves into fireworks and you know everything but he’s pretty sure that he just had one.

Before he can even think, he’s downstairs, pushing open Sherlock’s door and standing there like a fool.

Sherlock sits up, sleep-mussed and soft, and says “John, what’s wrong? Is it Watson?”

John licks his lips and tries to speak and…nothing.

Tries again.

“You…you love me,” he manages, and it’s a bare whisper, all he can force past the weight in his chest, of ten years of unsaid words. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock is looking at him with horror in his eyes.

“I-I” Sherlock says, and John interrupts him.

“Please say I’m wrong, Sherlock, please say I’m wrong,” and he’s speaking quickly now, tears running down his face unchecked, and his leg gives out and he finds himself on his knees by Sherlock’s bed, a ragged penitent in old pyjamas, prostrating himself before a saint. “Please say I haven’t been wrong all this time, haven’t wasted all these years, please, Sherlock, please…”

He hides his face in Sherlock’s bed, so that he can’t see Sherlock’s eyes, his beloved face creased in confusion.

“John?” Sherlock asks. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

But John is sobbing too hard to answer, great heaving sobs, and Sherlock puts a hand on the back of his neck that burns like a brand because of course Sherlock would try to comfort him, even though he doesn’t understand what John is on about, even though John has hurt him so terribly so many times.

“I love you,” John gasps into the bed. Sherlock’s hand stills for a moment and then, cautiously, resumes its smooth comforting stroking.

“John, you’re upset,” he begins, but John cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Years, Sherlock, years,” he gasps. It’s becoming easier to speak, the weight on his chest becoming less with every word. “I’ve loved you for years. Since Angelo’s that first night, I think, since the cabbie, since the first time I saw you sleep-soft in morning light. I loved you in Dartmoor and I loved you at the pool - God, how I loved you in that moment, I would have fallen to my knees and worshipped at your feet for the rest of my life and I would have been content. I loved you on the roof of Bart’s and on the pavement a moment later. I loved you every moment of every day you were gone, and I loved you every time I stood in front of your grave and begged you for one more miracle, and I loved you when I punched your face because it was that or kiss you, and I loved you when you were bleeding out in Magnussen’s office. I loved you on Magnussen’s porch and I loved you on the tarmac, and I loved you in the morgue and in the hospital and in the prison and the well and I’ve loved you every moment since the day I met you, I love you I love you I love you.”

He doesn’t stop so much as run out of breath, chanting those three words - three words he’d never thought he’d be able to say - like prayer, John is a monk and this is his religion now, this is his faith, this only thing he knows for sure.

“John,” Sherlock breathes. “Why didn’t you…”

“I thought,” and John is trying to think of a way to say this right, a way to really explain, “I thought that you didn’t…I didn’t think you didn’t love me, but I thought you wanted me as a friend, just a friend, and so I tried to be the best friend anyone could ever have, but obviously I’m pretty shit at it, but I tried and I hid it, and hid it, and I married Mary because I thought…I thought I’d break apart from missing you and later I thought I’d die from wanting you, and I couldn’t bear to lose you but I was losing you anyway, but the surest way to lose you was to tell you, you didn’t feel the same, you didn’t want the same things, and that’s the best way to kill a friendship, and if friendship was all I could-”

And John shuts up, because Sherlock has slithered out of his bed and fallen to his knees in front of John, and stopped his panicked babbling with his mouth.

When Sherlock finally pulls back, John stares at him, shocked into silence.

“So many years,” Sherlock says, stroking a thumb over John’s lips. “We could have had so many years, John. If only we hadn’t been…”

“Afraid,” John supplies. Sherlock nods, and he’s so close that his nose rubs against John’s when he does, and it’s unbearably intimate. “We could…” And John has to stop for a moment to breathe, to lick his lips and gather his courage in his hands. “We could still have years,” he says. “If I’m not too late. If you still-”

And Sherlock doesn’t say anything with words, but when he kisses John, he writes eloquent poetry in this new language they are building together.

Yes, he says as he licks into John’s mouth

I want, he says, as he sucks a bruise into John’s neck.

I still, he whispers into the curve of John’s ear. I still love you. I will always love you.

I feel very special about you. I suspect it’s your face…but then, it’s your manner, your intuitive kindness and sensitivity. Ah that isn’t quite…You make me feel like home. You make me feel that the world is not strange. What kinder gift can someone give another one? Is all this mere eloquence…or simple humanity…simple love. Love, perhaps, should always be this simple.
—  Anne Sexton

“We must wait and watch. And when we find our spy, and we will find them, we shall turn them from an obstacle to an asset. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Kallus?”


1x05 - 2x05 || Kara teaming up with her beautiful businesswomen (。♥‿♥。)
[pt. 1]

Tonight in Sam Plays The Ukulele

I’d just like to state for the record that I love the G7 chord, and I suspect that my love for the G7 chord is also why I love early to mid 20th century popular music.

It’s everywhere! It’s like in 1930 someone discovered G7 and then in 1960 or so everyone forgot it existed. 

E minor, meanwhile, continues to be the bane of my existence. It’s not even that it’s hard to finger, it’s not, but most ukuleles for some unknown reason don’t have straps, so you’re supporting the instrument with your hands, and I can’t figure out how to transition into and out of E minor without losing control of the ENTIRE NECK OF THE UKULELE.  

I’m going to ask my parents for ukulele lessons for my birthday but I’ve got seven months until then to keep JUGGLING UKES. 

anonymous asked:

Vriska may be a manifestation of the game itself? The way that her arc ends, the way that the story completes, and the way that she manipulates characters and flirts with Terezi, who seems to represent fear of rejection and self-hatred, all seems to line up with this a bit.

I’m really unsure of what elements you’re connecting between Vriska and Sburb! I mean she certainly did hold up the Sburb logo in her face-off against Lord English (which is definitely some kind of statement), but I never really “got” the ending. Plus, the beta kids are the ones trapped in the logo, which gives them the most direct relationship to the game if anyone.

There are a handful of manipulative characters in Homestuck, but are you singling out Vriska’s manipulation in the way she tries to force people to grow? If so, very fair! In fact, my current best guess is that she’s a manifestation of the very obsession with growing up! But I don’t think that makes her a manifestation of Sburb, if only because the trolls seem to be manifestations of emotional complexes of the characters – not of outside forces like the game. 

February 13, 1917 - Mata Hari Arrested in Paris 

Pictured - Margaretha Geertruida Zelle, aka the exotic dancer Mata Hari.

Mata Hari was a Parisian sensation at the beginning of the 20th century. Born in the Netherlands as Margaretha Geertruida Zelle, she married a colonial officer and moved to the Dutch East Indies. The marriage soon crumbled, however, and to make ends meet she became an exotic dancer, using the Malay moniker Mata Hari. She returned to Paris in 1905, where she became a mysterious, alluring Belle Epoque star.

When the war began, Mata Hari went back to the Netherlands, hoping to renew her dancing career. There, she was contacted by a member of German Intelligence, who paid her 20,000 francs to act as a German agent. Beyond accepting the money, however, she did nothing. 

Returning to Paris, she drew a flock of courtiers. Her many suspected love affairs with a diverse collection of officers and important people gave her excellent potential to gather information. French Counterintelligence now approached her, and offered her 1 millions francs to provide anything she learned to them. In the meantime, she fell in love with a Russian officer in France.

The French Counterintelligence chief, however, had no intention of paying Mata Hari anything - they suspected she was working for the Germans. When her Russian was wounded, the French military refused to allow her to see him unless she provided them with intelligence. Trying to get the money, Mata Hari clumsily approached a German military attaché in Spain for secrets, but he recognized her attempt and deliberately sent a message to be picked up by the French that framed her as a German agent. When Mata Hari returned to Paris on February 13, 1917, she was arrested and charged with espionage.


James D'Arcy as Edwin Jarvis in Agent Carter.

anonymous asked:

I'm the opposite of that anon, I really started hating Steve because of the fandom, mostly because his stans couldn't take his fall from Grace - circa 2012 fandom. They put captain America on a pedestal and forgot that there is flawed human behind the idea, so of course everything he does is holy and right and should not be questioned. I couldn't deal with cacw fics, so I left fandom for a while because it was poisoning me

Sometimes, the best thing to do is walk away.  If fandom is making  you dislike something you enjoyed, then definitely, a break is a good thing.  

Fictional characters have always been used to tell us things about morality and the human condition.  Not saying that superheroes are on par with the classics, but we can still use their stories to think about some of these issues.  I suspect those who love a character so much they can’t see their faults or refuse to acknowledge their flaws probably need that fictional character in a way that I don’t, so I try to be sympathetic, and use the tools I have to keep my fandom experience the kind I enjoy. 

anonymous asked:

You are actually adorable wtf this shouldn't be allowed

!!!!!!!!! Am I really???? Shit dude!!

I mean, all bubbly gay Karkats are cute and trickster mode just ENHANCES IT and I’m super duper bubbly and giggly and gay SO