watern

8 months later and I finally managed to crochet John! *throws confetti*

Would you believe me if I say that Johns hair was more difficult to do than Sherlocks curls? xD (I needed four attempts to get it right…)

Again, many thanks to @vilonal for her pattern! I would be lost without it <3

Wanna see Sherlock? Click here!

Summer Vocab in Polish

Originally posted by boy-so-pale

This is a translation of @malteseboy Summer Vocab in Maltese list. ^^

lato - summer

  • czerwiec - June
  • lipiec - July
  • sierpień - August

In Polish all months are masculine.


  • f pogoda - weather
  • f temperatura, pl. temperatury - temperature
  • n słońce - sun
  • n światło słoneczne - sunlight
  • m upał, pl. upały - heat
  • f woda - water
  • n jezioro, pl. jeziora - lake
  • n morze, pl. morza - sea
  • m ocean, pl. oceany - ocean
  • f fala, pl. fale - wave
  • m piasek - sand
  • f plaża, pl. plaże - beach
  • m zamek z piasku, pl. zamki z piasku - sandcastle
  • m strój kąpielowy, pl. stroje kąpielowe - swimsuit*
  • f czapka (z daszkiem), pl. czapki (z daszkiem) - cap**
  • okulary przeciwsłoneczne - sunglasses***
  • m arbuz, pl. arbuzy - watermelon
  • m lód, pl. lody - ice-cream
  • wakacje - summer holidays***

*Sometimes we say just “strój” if the context is clear enough, there’s also word “kąpielówki”, and it’s usually used just form men’s swimsuits.

**”Czapka” is just a hat in general so you should use “czapka z daszkiem” to be specific. Literal translation: a hat with a little roof.

***These words only have plural forms and they are both non-masculine-personal (niemęskoosobowe).


adjective form/adverb form

  • gorący/gorąco - hot
  • letni/letnio - summery*
  • ciepły/ciepło - warm
  • słoneczny/słonecznie - sunny
  • suchy/sucho - dry

*”Letni” can also mean mildly warm and we don’t really say “letnio” although it is a correct form.


  • pływać (impf.) - to swim
  • nurkować (impf.) - to dive
  • łowić ryby (impf.) - to fish
  • odpoczywać (impf.) - to rest
  • opalać się (impf.) - to sunbathe
  • opalić się (pf.) - to get tanned
Miracles Take Time part five

(Writer’s note: I know I said five parts total. Turns out I lied. But I am pretty sure that the next part, six, will be the end. Sorry.)

2013

Time slipped by as John soldiered on. He could almost feel himself growing more dull and grey as he trudged through the days, buoyed only by Sherlock’s messages.

He received one on his birthday as a spambomb to the email accounts of everyone at his surgery. Initially, John ignored the barrage of emails advertising, ‘New, cheap Viagra!’ and 'Enroll now! Hot singles in your area!’ but it was a huge topic of discussion all day, especially after one of the lab technicians pointed out that the first letter from each subject line spelled out, 'Never going to give you up.’ As the whole office wondered who had played the prank John had learned somewhat against his will about Rickrolling, a fad that had happily passed him by while he was stationed in Afghanistan,.

Even then he would have missed the connection to himself if what had felt like the millionth email from the office manager about the 'issue’ hadn’t included a screenshot of the emails. The sender name on the first email jumped out at him: Jefferson Hope. A second look through showed that all the senders were named for the criminals from cases he had helped Sherlock with. Quickly, he clicked over into his trash folder, finding all the messages still there and, in direct violation of the orders he had just been reading from the manager, he opened each one. They were all blank save for the last one, where only two words greeted him: 'Never again.’ He hoped with all his being that would be true.

Another and considerably less heartening message showed up on the second anniversary of Sherlock’s 'death.’ That day John had taken off, thinking it would be suspicious if he didn’t. He had made the trip out to what he now knew was just a meaningless headstone and, feeling somewhat foolish, stood there and tried to look sad instead of worried.

To his own surprise words began to fall from him onto the empty grave. “I miss you. God, I miss you. You must know that right? And every day it becomes that much harder to believe-” he faltered for a second, knowing better than to voice somethings out loud even when he seemed alone, before continuing, “-well, to believe that there is any sort of happy ending to be found in this mess.”

He paused again, one hand coming up to rub at his nose as he struggled with the rest of what he needed to say. He crouch down and rested one hand on the black granite just as he had years ago, took a sharp breath, and said in almost a whisper, “I know what you said, I know miracles take time but I am running out of it, Sherlock. I can’t do this without you. Knowing that you’re alone too, where ever you are… Please. Please, this has to end soon, one way or another. Okay?”

He stayed there, hunkered over the grave for several more minutes, almost as if he expected the headstone to have an answer for him. It didn’t.

Instead he found his answer when he arrived back at home tied with red ribbon to a brightly colored box of Swiss chocolates he found mixed in with his mail. At first he was puzzled by the package, knowing it was not something he had ordered. He almost knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door to see if they were hers, but the card caught his eye first:

I wish everyday that I could have brought you with me, but everyday it is only knowing you are safe and sound that gives me the concentration I need to finish this.

Suddenly paranoid that Mrs Hudson would come out and ask him who the box was from he bundled it up with his mail, hurriedly taking the whole stack up to the flat.

He threw the rest of the mail carelessly onto the desk, taking the box with him as he sat down in his armchair. He read the card again, the words making the constant ache in his chest almost unbearable, before he untied the ribbon and set it and the card aside to open the box. He wasn’t surprised to find all his favorite chocolates, he was surprised by the bullet he found wrapped in cellophane at the center of the box. Picking it up he could see the point of it was deformed from impact into something fairly soft and his heart froze in horror at the thought of what or who it had hit. He looked back down at the box, hoping for a further clue and was not disappointed. Scrawled on the wax paper cup that had held the bullet was a second message:

P.S. I am now doubly sorry for all the times I blessed the shot to your shoulder that brought you to me. Being shot is rather tedious even when it heals completely.

Clutching the bullet tightly, John didn’t find the note as comforting as he was sure Sherlock had meant it to be. He stared across the handful of feet separating him from Sherlock’s grey leather chair, wanting more than anything to see his friend sitting there, and he wondered how much longer he could bear this purgatory.

Keep reading

Miracles Take Time part three

January, 2012

In the several months since coming home to that first note John had received only one further message from the dead git. It had been on the back of a postcard from America featuring a sheep in a leather coat with the motto ‘Baah-d to the Bone’ printed over it. The single line of writing on the back read, “I bought a grey wool jumper, it reminds me of home when I wear it.”

John had not been able to stop himself from carrying the card around in his jacket pocket, a touchstone he could use to reassure himself that he wasn’t mad after all and that Sherlock was still out there somewhere alive. It had been weeks before he could part with it even enough to put it away with the first note, pressed in-between the pages of a copy of Pride and Prejudice he had been surprised to find on their bookshelf. It had been longer still until he stopped checking the mail eagerly each day only to find bills and crushing disappointment.

By the end of January though he had once again managed to tuck away all of this thoughts and hopes about Sherlock, so much so that the significance of the twenty-ninth didn’t even occur to him until Greg called him in the evening to check on him.

It had been another too long day at the surgery and John had been blessedly tired when he got home. It was the goal of all of his days to come home too exhausted to notice that even with the hope of Sherlock’s eventual return Baker Street was a hollow shell of the home it had once been and the empty hours of his evenings where impossible to fill.  

When Greg had called John had been puzzled and slightly annoyed by it. Conversations between the two of them were still short and stilted with guilt and grief on both sides and he had not been in the mood to wade though another one. So he had been terse almost to the point of rudeness and had quickly shot down the man’s offer to take him out for a pint.

It was only after he had rang off that he remember today would have been the second anniversary of the day he had met Sherlock and he had felt bad for being so dismissive of Greg’s good intentions however counter productive they had been. He also half wished he had taken him up on that pint. Instead he ended up going to bed early though sleep was not easy for him to find even on the best of days.

Hours later, when it was so late it was almost early, he was still laying there awake enough to hear the doorbell ring downstairs. It was not exactly a strange occurrence, even with all the publicity around Sherlock’s 'death’ desperate clients and members of the homeless network still had a habit of showing up at all hours looking for the detective. He got quickly out of bed, cursing as he pulled on his robe and limped down the stairs all at once, trying to get to the door before whoever it was rang again and woke Mrs Hudson up.

He yanked open the front door, ready to do some muted shouting at the person who had interrupted his lack of sleep but the words died in his mouth as he took in the delivery driver standing on the stoop, his beat up scooter still idling on the street behind him. He held a slightly greasy looking bag out towards John, saying, “Order for Watson, crispy noodles with duck, fried rice, wonton soup and prawn toast.”

“I am sorry, you must have the wrong address. I didn’t order any food.”

“Online order, you’re Watson right?”

When John nodded the delivery man shoved the bag towards him. John grabbed it reflectively and the man turned and began walking away.

“But…” John started.

The man waved the objection off, saying, “Everything is already paid for, good fortune for you tonight, right?”

He didn’t seem to expect an answer as he climbed back on his scooter and drove away without another word, leaving a stunned John to watch as the logo for Zing Zing’s Chinese Takeaway on the back of the man’s jacket disappeared into the night.

That was when the penny dropped and he recalled sitting inside Zing Zing’s that first night, laughing over his crispy noodles with the mad man he had just met and for whom he had just shot a man.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as he realized that not only had Sherlock remembered the date, he had remembered everything John had ordered that night and had recreated it for him. Who would have ever guessed that Sherlock would be the type to celebrate anniversaries?

John took the food upstairs and spread it out on the kitchen table. Even though he was not hungry he still ate, savoring the memories more than the food. When he was done eating and had packed away the leftovers he picked up the fortune cookie. He held it for a moment, remembering a tipsy Sherlock trying to deduce his fortune for him that first night and how wrong he had been. He tore the wrapping open and broke the cookie to reveal his fortune tonight. It read:

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Keep reading

read with me:
what is the bible but a collection of
love songs?

we are the most debauched of the apostles,
sit by me and let us watch the temples burn.
we shall drink up the watern and the blood until
your sweet hands run dry with salt.

to be held is the most honourable psalm and you
the last chapter of Romans.
become my exodus,
we will end all.

—  – [ the milk and the honey start to run bright red ] a.g.
Miracles Take Time part four

January, 2013

John tried his best not to get his expectations up too much when the twenty-ninth came back around. He took the tube into work like any normal day and saw his patients with all the patience he could muster, all the while repeatedly telling himself that just because Sherlock had commemorated it once didn’t mean he would do it again and that for all he knew Sherlock wasn’t even in a place where he could send him a message. He could be in some forgotten corner of the world that still didn’t have mobile service, or he could be planted deep in the ranks of a criminal organization and unable to break his cover for something as trivial as an anniversary. ‘He could be captured and being tortured right now,’ his brain supplied unhelpfully. 'Or he could even now be dead, lying abandoned in a field to rot away forever lost and unlamented…’

With the ease of long practice John cut the thought off abruptly but not before it had knocked the wind out of him. Unsteadily he took out his wallet, feeling around in it for the thin piece of paper he kept in it and was instantly reassured by the feel of Sherlock’s last note to him.

It had come to him less than a month before, passed to him by a homeless teen who had stopped him on the street asking for a light for her cigarette. John had told her no he didn’t smoke and had not been able to resist doing a bit of doctorly scolding about the evils of it. The teen had rolled her eyes but said, “Fine. You are probably right.” Then she had offered him the cigarette she had been holding. “Here, you hang on to it then so I don’t smoke it later.”

Startled John had taken the cigarette only noticing the note wrapped around it with red thread after it was in his hand. He pocketed it as casually as he could and nodded at the girl. The trip the rest of the way home that evening had seemed interminable and he had taken the steps up to the flat with more speed and ease then he had managed in months. Untying the piece of paper had felt like unwrapping a present and he had held his breath as the now achingly familiar handwriting was revealed:

Sometimes I am tempted and sometimes I really need something to take off the edge but always the thought of you keeps me right.

Now reading those same words again calmed John’s fears and stilled the tremor in his hand. He reflected that even after being apart from him for years with only a scant handful of messages to connect them Sherlock still managed to keep him right as well.

It seemed greedy to expect another message so soon but still he hoped and the day dragged on. He expected the evening would be even worse without even the nominal distraction of work. When one of the other doctors invited him out to welcoming party for the surgery’s new nurse he was tempted but he knew that if he went he would just spend the entire time wondering if he was missing the message being delivered. So instead he skived off and hurried home, prepared for a long and fruitless wait and scared to miss a second of it.

It proved to be a needless fear. As soon as he entered the flat he dropped his bag next to the door and turned into the kitchen to make his customary cup of tea only to be stopped short by the sight that greeted him.

The table had been carefully laid for dinner with a set of fine china that John was pretty sure he had not owned before. A single red rose stood in a beaker at the center of the table between the two place settings next to a lit candle in a jar. Immediately he noticed that although two places were set only the one on the far side of the table where he usually sat was complete. The other one had no silverware lined up next to it and the plate was turned upside down. Resting on top of the plate was a post-it note with a bold black arrow pointing at the refrigerator and a fortune cookie.

Curious he went to the refrigerator expecting to find a bag of Chinese food to match the cookies. Rather he found a large styrofoam takeaway box on the shelf. He took  it out to examine more closely and felt his heart leap at the sight of another post-it stuck to the top of the box. It said:

When you said you were unattached I wish I’d had the courage to tell you that I would be happy to fix that.

The words puzzled him until he opened the box and saw it was full of spaghetti bolognese. Then a flood of memories from that first dinner at at Angelo’s overwhelmed him. He remembered the candlelight playing on that otherworldly face and how his usual suave charm had been helpless against it. He also recalled the awkward pass he had made with the clarity your mind reserves for the painfully embarrassing moments of your life and he knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

“And I wish I had asked you if you ever cheated on your work.” He said it softly even though there was no one there to hear him. He sighed and removed the post-it before putting the box in the microwave.

Even reheated Angelo’s spaghetti was delicious but John couldn’t help rushing though it, eager to get to the somewhat incongruous fortune cookies still resting on the overturned plate. Eventually he abandoned the meal in favor of reading his fortune. He was not disappointed, and it was though suddenly teary eyes that he read:

Love conquers all

Keep reading