~we call her sherlock~

  • *a taxi*
  • Sherlock: *on his phone* Thank you for your help.
  • Molly: *smiles* Anything to stop you murdering Anderson.
  • Sherlock: *frowns* Nobody is that stupid by accident.
  • Molly: *rolls her eyes* Not everyone is lucky enough to be a genius consulting detective.
  • Sherlock: True. Still, I value your opinion above anyone else's.
  • Molly: *blushes* Oh. T-thanks.
  • -the cab stops outside 221B-
  • Sherlock: *puts his phone away* Coffee?
  • Molly: *hesitates* Oh, I- err, better not.
  • Sherlock: Why?
  • Molly: *glances at the driver, blushes; lowers her voice* Because you know as well as I do that every time I come into your flat, we end up having sex and we agreed not to do that anymore. Just friends.
  • Sherlock: *sighs* Well, we won't have sex. Simple.
  • Molly: *bites her lip* That didn't work last time.
  • Sherlock: We didn't have coffee last time.
  • Molly: *nods* Yeah, okay. Coffee, we can do that *chuckles* I mean...we can control ourselves.
  • Sherlock: *paying the driver* Exactly.
  • Sherlock & Molly: *lying in bed; gasping for air*
  • Molly: *sighs* Fuck 'friends'.
  • Sherlock: *smirks* Is that a statement or an idea?
  • Molly: *laughs* Yes.

“Have you heard from Y/N today? She said she was sick but she usually calls in,” Sherlock questioned, your absence catching his attention as they began to walk down your street. While he looked lost in his own thoughts, John quickly checked his phone to find still no messages or calls from you.

“No, but if she says she’s sick we should just leave her be. Sherlock, Sherlock no-” John called, trying to reach out and grab Sherlock as he began to turn and head straight to your familiar red door. John’s fingers wrapped around thin air as he stood for a moment, watching Sherlock as he sighed before he looked both ways and crossed the street behind the curly haired man.

“Too late,” Sherlock called back as he ran up to your door, quickly finding your ‘hidden’ key yet he knocked once before. “Y/N?”

“She’s probably asleep, we should just- And now you’re breaking in. Y/N isn’t going to be okay with this,” John insisted as Sherlock opened the door and stepped into your cool apartment.

“I don’t care, I’m just concerned,” Sherlock brushed off John’s concern as the smaller man followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Yeah I’m sure she’ll believe that,” John mumbled, looking into the empty living room before watching Sherlock begin to walk down the hallway to your kitchen and bedroom.

“Y/N? Y/N?” Sherlock called as he opened your bedroom door. John watched as he froze in the doorway, quickly moving to join his friend.

“OH MY GOD! GET OUT SHERLOCK!” you screamed trying to cover yourself with your blankets,“Sherlock please!”

“Is- Is that Moriarty?” John asked, peeking his head in the doorframe beside a speechless Sherlock as your bedmate popped up from the covers.

“Hi,” he greeted, a smug grin on his face as he watched John and Sherlock looking at the two of you with your messy hair and the scattered clothes all over the room.


“Good God will all of you shut the fuck up! Yes okay, Moriarty and I have been seeing each other,” you shouted, feeling a headache begin to form as you readjusted the blankets, trying desperately to make sure Sherlock and John didn’t see anything indecent.

“Really! Y/N! I thought- My God,” John stuttered, still reeling though Sherlock stood beside him cold as ice and quiet as he glared down Moriarty.

“You know, people keep saying that today. Is it Sunday? Because I’ve never heard God said this much on a weekday.”

“Shut the fuck up Moriarty!”

Gif Credit: gifs do not belong to this blog nor do we make any claim to them

Worried - Part 3 - Request

Originally requested by anon:  can you do one where Sherlock comes home from a long case which he finally solved but is beaten up and and bruised and he doesn’t understand why is reader is so worried because Sherlock + human emotions = ?
Winner of Sequel Friday #2

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Word count: 2,690

Warnings: None, I think.

A/N: I know I said I would add a bit of smut, but I couldn’t find a way of doing so because it would be too rushed. Sorry! Maybe, if you want a third part I will focus on that.


To say that her behaviour changed after Sherlock’s strange confession would be a lie. (Y/N) was still the same professional, friendly, caring girl Sherlock had fallen for within an instant.

She had made sure to take good care of him, and so his bruises were healing and his limping was almost gone. Sherlock was afraid that her interest would be soon lost without his wounds and so he would try his best to get rid of the ice and heat packs whenever she wasn’t looking, or faked to drink the medicine just so it would last a bit more.

“I don’t know, John.” (Y/N) sighed to the phone, “He was fine and now he… He sunk.” She stood silent for a while, and Sherlock observed her from a slight creek on the door. “Yes! I’ve done everything; the bruises are still there… I’m getting worried, John, what if it’s something else?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Fine… All right, thank you… Bye.” She hung up, and Sherlock rushed back to the bed before she saw him.

“How’s John?” He asked innocently as she entered the room.

“He’s good. Mary and he are taking the baby to the park for a while and then they will come over.” She replied softly.

She looked bad. Her eye-bags were pretty big by then and her hair was messy, her usually pink lips were pale and her whole complexion seemed to have changed. She looked skinny, and sad.

“Why are you still worried?” He inquired tiredly, “I’m good now.”

“You’re not.” She stated, staying at the door. “The bruises are still there without a single change… It’s like you haven’t been on treatment or something.”

Sherlock hesitated to speak. He knew it was his fault, his own envious fault, wanting to stay ill just for the sake of having her focused only on him. Sherlock knew he had to tell her the truth, he felt bad when seeing her like that, but what if she lost interest?

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

the ILY is very insulting to Molly's character but right before that? When she's miserably cutting lemons or something just shuffling about in the kitchen looking as if she's suffering from acute melancholia? Good god that is worse. Because that is what her life has become. It's empty and she's miserable. They could have had her a party with a bunch of friends at home when Sherlock called. They could have had her doing something that made her happy. But no, they HAD to make her look miserable

Oh my god I KNOW. We know Molly has a life outside of her relationship with Sherlock and John, but the only time we see it, THIS is the glimpse we get. Molly is smart, accomplished, awkwardly funny and beautiful, but apparently she spends her free time moping around like a sad sack.  And this is NOT meant as an insult to Molly, it’s infuriating what mofftiss reduced her to. 

Whether or not you like Mary, at least she was given SOME SORT of personality and character arc beyond John’s wife.  Yeah she was used as a damn man pain plot device too, but ffs we know more about her than “she loves John”.

When Sherlock calls, Molly says it’s not a good day.  But why?  We never get that answer, we have no idea why her day is bad, and we can really only assume it has to do with Sherlock not returning her affections.  And why can we infer that?  BECAUSE EVERYTHING WITH MOLLY HAS TO DO WITH SHERLOCK!  She isn’t important and doesn’t matter beyond “unrequitedly in love with protagonist”.  So it makes total sense that her melancholy is somehow related to Sherlock.  Because this is Mofftiss.  And they apparently think it’s normal and believable for a grown adult to act this way.  It pisses me the fuck off.

These Wounds Won’t Seem To Heal// Sherlock Holmes

Originally posted by moriarlocked

Contradict my opinion if you please, but in all honesty, the best gifs from the show are the ones from The Lying Detective. There are so many different levels of the emotional spectrum in Benedict and Martin that it’s difficult not to use them. 

Requested by Anon: On the way to work one morning in the torrential downpour that is London, you happen to get into a rather bad car crash. It’s not enough to kill you, but it’s enough to make Sherlock go nuts. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  “Hi, this is y/n. If I haven’t answered, I’m solving crimes with the worlds only Consulting Detective who also happens to be my husband. Leave a message!” 

Sherlock huffed and pressed his thumb against the pound key. “Y/n, you only left for work twenty minutes ago, and judging by the fact that you haven’t answered, I’d say you’re probably back seat driving the cabbie. You’re worrying me love, pick up the phone please.” 

You and Sherlock were newly weds, having been best friends since John moved into 221B several years before. You spent most of your time with the war doctor and the Detective, and before you’d realized it, you were falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. 

  “I-I don’t know what THIS is!” Sherlock yelled, startling you as he pounded on his heart. “Every time I look at you, my heart goes faster and my head begins to pound! I’m absolutely clueless to the stimulating response my body goes through when you enter a room-” 

  “You-” You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood on your tiptoes, your lips ghosting over Sherlocks as lightly as you possibly could. He easily sank into your embrace, his fingers tangling in your hair as you leaned backwards to get a better look at his eyes. “You bloody twit, you are in love with me.” 

  “Oh, Sherlock! Haven’t you looked down the street? There’s a car crash just another mile down the road!” Mrs Hudson chided, throwing open the window shams. The rain had let up enough to visibly see the street, and as Sherlock looked out the window, it only took him a minute to deduce that your cab was indeed one of the two that had wrecked. “Where-Where are you going?!” 

  “That’s my wives cab! She could be hurt! She could be-” Sherlock halted at the front door of the building, running his hands over his scruff as realization smacked him rather hard in the mouth. “She could be dead.” 

Mrs. Hudson snorted indignantly as she passed him his Belstaff. “Your wife is one of the most fiery women I’ve ever met in my life. Plus she was crazy enough to marry you. I can guarantee you she’s not dead-” 

But Sherlock was out the door before she could finish her sentence.

For me, just do it for me y/n. Don’t be dead.


John Watson had seen you come into the hospital when Mary was having her checkup, insisting that he know how you had obtained your injuries. Your most major problem was a broken leg from the impact of the door, but other then that you mainly had several bruises and lacerations. 

  “Has Sherlock shown up yet?” Mary questioned, leaning against her husbands arm as they sat in the waiting room. Both of them had demanded to be in your private room once they had reset your leg, but the doctors had only taken you into the OR twenty minutes before, and they were not finished yet. “And here he comes!”

John opened his mouth to respond but was met with a wave of security guards, all shouting commands at one another as they swarmed the nurses station. Had it not been for the dark black curls and scruff, he would have never known it was Sherlock demanding to see his wife. “I’m sorry sir, but patient records and information are confidential. I can’t disclose them to you.” 

  “Like you can’t! She’s my wife!” Sherlock growled, tilting his head as several of the nurses rallied behind the desk. “You slept with your boss to get you a reputation,” He moved his finger down the line and continued to point out the biggest flaws in the remaining nurses. “You do too much botox to try and please your husband, you’re far too concerned what the woman in radiology thinks, and you’re questioning your sexuality.. My God, please get a life!” 

The former war doctor muttered apologies to the nurses as he drug Sherlock towards Mary, whose face became sympathetic as she motioned for him to sit beside her. “Sherlock, we saw her when she came in here. She’s banged up, but she’ll be alright. The worst of it is that she has a broken leg.” 

Sherlock laughed in disbelief, pulling his phone from his pocket to show John the five text messages he’d sent you from the moment you walked out the door to the supposed time of the crash. 

I love you. - SH

We need something good for dinner. The head might have contaminated the frozen chicken breasts. - SH

You, my love, are secretly wearing the red lingerie underneath your dress aren’t you? Naughty girl. -SH

Can you pick up milk on the way home? Used the rest to make coffee. - SH

P.S. There’s now eyes in said coffee. - SH

  “I asked her, I asked her to bring home milk and in return, she gets into a bloody car wreck!” Sherlock exclaimed, his arms falling at his sides as Mary patted his thigh reassuringly. “How stupid is that?” 

  “Mr and Mrs. Watson, y/n has been moved into recovery.” All three heads shot up as the lead orthopedic surgeon stepped into sight and managed a wide smile. “The bone has been set successfully, so now we’ll cast her up when she’s awake and send her home. Is there someone we can call?” 

  “ME!” Sherlock deadpanned, waving his hands in front of the doctors face. “I tried to tell your nurses at the station that I’m her husband-” He lifted his gold wedding band to their line of sight and waved it back and forth out of annoyance and disregard. “But no one would believe me!” 

  “I believe you sir.” The doctor reassured, clasping Sherlock on the shoulder as he led him and the Watsons in the direction of your room. “Any man that’s so possessive over a woman is sure to be in love if not married to her.” 

Your eyes were just beginning to flutter open at the sound of voices, the morphine in your system numbing most of the pain from your injuries. “Hello?” You called out weakly. “S-Sherlock?” John squeezed his best friends shoulder and motioned for him to step into your room, giving an encouraging nod. 

  “Hello love. You nearly drove me nuts by not answering your stupid phone.” He pulled up the chair beside your bed and took your bruised hand in his own, frowning as he ran his fingers over your knuckles. “I thought you were dead.” 

  “A car crash ending me? That’s the best you can do?” You deadpanned. Your gaze softened as you realized that he was indeed telling the truth- hence why his eyes were glassy and his breathing was eradicated; nearly on the verge of a hysterical breakdown. “Sherlock, I promise I’m fine. Just a broken leg.” You patted the open space beside you and he immediately crawled into it, careful not to dislodge any of your IV’s as his arms wrapped around your thin frame, your head now tucked beneath his chin. “I was backseating the cabbie. He was a terrible driver.” 

He chuckled and buried his face in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla. “I’m not surprised. You tend to do that to all of them.” A shiver ran down your spine as his fingers wrapped around the ties on your hospital gown, ghosting over the flesh of your back. “They took your lingerie off I bought you for our wedding night. I’m quite offended.” 

  “Yes, because what male doctor throws away scarlet red hot lingerie?” You replied sarcastically. “Check with the personal items. My phone should be in there too.” Mary and John stepped into the room just in time to witness Sherlock carry your face in his own hands ever so gently, his lips pressing against your forehead as he began his search for your personal belongings. 

He didn’t even get to leave the room. 

  “Uh, Sherlock?” Your tone became urgent as your pupils dilated, your focus now on the two people in your doorway. Judging by the way Sherlock regarded them as if he knew them, they weren’t strangers. Not to him anyway. “Who are the people in my doorway? I-I don’t know them. Can they leave?” 

  “Y/n, this is John Watson.’’ Sherlock said slowly, his expression one of confusion as he set his hand on Johns shoulder. “You met him years ago when he moved into the flat with me. You call him Hedgehog because let’s be honest, he looks like one. And he’s basically your brother. Mary? She’s his wife and she’s carrying their child. A little girl. You’ve been helping with the baby shower-” 

  “I don’t know you. Either of you. Can you please leave?” Your finger hovered over the call button on the side of the bed, which was sure to alert any nearby nurses or staff. “I can get you into some serious trouble if you don’t go! Leave!” 

That smile. The one that always said “I have faith in who you are.” 

The endless nights of being locked out of the flat when Sherlock was in his mind palace.

His war stories. 

Their wedding day. The first time Sherlock had really, genuinely expressed how he felt about you despite the fact you’d been dating for well over a year. 

Everything around you- the hospital room, the sheets on your bed, the rank smell of chloro septic in the air. All of it was just so bleak. The woman had started to cry as Sherlock motioned her and her husband from the room to speak to them about whatever was going on. 

You obviously cared about them enough to draw her to tears. But there was the problem. 

Why couldn’t you remember the ones you love?

TAG LIST @charlottemalfoy @foureyedsiopao
Nature Boy

Part 1 of the Come Attrition, Come Hell ficlet requested by @randombiochemist… This is only a sequel insofar as it’s my headcanon of what I think happened after that story. I still want people to be able to decide for themselves. 🙂

It was weird jumping back in to this story, but very fun. I hope you like it!


221B Baker Street

The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

Sherlock almost smiled to himself as he ascended the 17 steps to his flat, the wood creaking beneath him as it always had done.

Well, not always, he supposed. There was the incident with jumping off the roof of a hospital and the subsequent pretending to be dead for 2 years while he tracked down the last of Moriarty’s Network. The wood hadn’t creaked then. Not for him, anyway. And then there was that whole “solitary confinement for 2 weeks” thing that he had to deal with that one time. He had to concede that the wood hadn’t creaked for him during that time either. Not to mention this whole more recent business with his sister blowing up and nearly completely obliterating the 1st floor of Mrs. Hudson’s house. And though, miraculously, his bedroom and the flight of 17 steps had managed to escape the ordeal little worse for the wear (and somehow the floor on which the bomb had actually landed, oddly), he’d still stayed away during the beginning of the reconstruction.

But now everything, for the most part, was back in its place… including himself. Because he belonged here. He’d thought, once, years ago, on the night that The Woman had appeared in his room to challenge everything he knew about himself and his world, that she she was an invader, and he was under attack… because 221B was his castle. His fortress. A place where he could be alone, and where he was protected by impenetrable walls both inside and out. Now, however, he realized that his flat here on Baker street was something so much more than a castle or a battlefront: It was a home. It was his home. A home complete with hearth and warmth that always accompanied regular appearances by friends and family, people who loved him and whom he was now more than comfortable loving back. Because love wasn’t a weakness, oh no. Love, sentiment, bonds; they were an advantage. Caring was an advantage. People caring in return was an advantage. He’d heard over an over that there was strength in numbers, and always chalked it up to another of many useless platitudes he’d heard over the course of his 4 decades long life… But John and Rosie Watson, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, and even Eurus and Mycroft Holmes: their love was his strength, and it gave his life a meaning, a context, he’d never known he’d needed. He was better for it, wiser for it.

Though, he knew, all of his thoughts and emotions would forever be subject to the inner processes of his mind and the deeper seated levels of who he was – and who he was, for better or worse, would always be Sherlock Holmes – he also understood now one of the most important things about himself and, indeed, everyone around him…

That he was human, and that it was okay.

Sherlock stepped through the parlor door and began untying his scarf, before unconsciously turning to look toward his bedroom on the other end of the corridor. He began slowly toward the room, pulling his scarf off as he walked. Once there, he threw the garment on his bed, followed shortly after by his coat. Something was off, but he couldn’t quite place exactly what it was right away. His eyes traveled across the space from his bed, to his drawers, to his armoire, to his nightstand. Nothing was out of place, but…

He closed his eyes just for a few moments, but then snapped them open.

She’d been here.

And then her text alert emitted from his pocket.

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and read the message.

The mantel.

He was off toward the parlor and standing at the mantle in a matter of moments – a wide, flat, black box staring him in the face.

Another text alert.

A housewarming gift.

Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and took the box from the mantle. He pulled the lid off, and smiled a small, likely imperceptible to anyone who may have happened to be watching him, smile at the contents: a simple, though clearly well made, black frame – and behind the glass, a note:

To remember what matters most.

She’d known of the photo that Sherlock had kept of himself and his brother on his chest of drawers for years. He’d admitted to her finally that it had served as a reminder that he could always count on Mycroft when he really needed him… And after everything, he knew that to be more true now than he’d ever realized in the past. So this gift, this frame, if he understood correctly, was to house a new reminder.

He immediately thought of his family. His real family which would now forever include his friends as well as his blood… And he knew, too, that it included The Woman. And her daughter.

Well, their daughter.

Sherlock looked up suddenly as though startled, nearly dropping the frame in his hand. No, wait. She’d never said that. She’d never even hinted at it… but… yes. It made sense. He knew it made sense, and he knew he was right. He knew it, just the way that he sometimes knew anything, or the way he could predict someone’s moves weeks in advance. He didn’t always understand it, as even he couldn’t always keep up with the way his mind worked, but he’d made the deduction somehow, and there was no doubt in his mind. The child was his. Irene Adler’s little girl was his daughter. His family.

She had to be. He wouldn’t accept anything different.

He set the frame back down on the mantel and pulled his phone from his pocket. Having recently only begun to understand the importance of family, he still understood how important, how… fundamentally monumental this was. It was time to stop repressing. Time to stop hiding. Time to stop holding it all back, or holding it all in. He hadn’t seen it before, because he hadn’t want to see it before – but he saw it now, and even the racing of his heart and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the apprehension, the anger, and even the fear – none of it could deter him.

Why didn’t you tell me?

His text was simple, and most might even say “cryptic”, but not Irene Adler. She’d understand immediately.

A few moments later, her text tone broke the silence yet again.

I knew you’d figure it out when you were ready.

He didn’t hesitate before replying.

I’m ready.

1 Month Earlier

Sherlock stood behind Mycroft’s desk where he sat, his hands folded in front of his face.

“And what do you get from these meetings with our dear sister, Brother Mine?”

“I get to know my sister.”

Mycroft smiled ironically.

“Ah, the power of music.” Mycroft sat up. “Tell me, aren’t you frightened of a repeat of, shall we call it… her idea of fun and games?”

Sherlock laughed shortly, though his face barely registered it at all.

“Do I underestimate her? No. Do I fear her?” Sherlock shook his head once, slightly. “No.”

“You care for her.”

“Of course I care for her.”

Mycroft raised his forehead.

“Well, that’s certainly new.”

“It’s not new. It’s been held at bay by years of repressed psychological torment, or did you forget the part where you lied to me my whole life while terrifying me with stories of east winds and dogs?”

“To be quite fair, the dog was completely your fabrication.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a step toward his brother’s desk.

“She’s brilliant. She’s a genius beyond what you and I can even comprehend, and you locked her away in a cell with a bed and a table…” he slammed his fist on the desk, before leaning over it with both hands, but his brother only looked slightly startled by these actions. “I was alone for two weeks, Mycroft. Two weeks.” he stood straight, and began half pacing. “With nothing to preoccupy my time with but the thoughts inside my own mind.” he finished this sentence by making an agitated twirling motion near the back of his head.

Sherlock stopped, biting his lip and placing his hands on his hips, before turning back to his brother.

“It was hell.” he continued, and then shook his head. “And I can’t even begin to imagine what nearly a lifetime of solitude could have been like for a Holmes.”

Mycroft swallowed and sat back in his chair.

“She’s a murderer, Sherlock.” he started. “What would you suggest I had done?”

“Nothing different from what you did.” Sherlock answered honestly. “But now I can help her. I’m her brother, and I promised to bring her home.”

“I’m assuming in a figurative sense.”

“Real enough for her. Home doesn’t have to be a place, Mycroft.”

“I’ve seen redemption take a lot of forms, but never the form of a violin.”

Sherlock walked to the corner of the room and grabbed his coat from the stand.

“There’s no such thing as redemption.” He said, pulling the Belstaff over his shoulders. “We will always have always done what we’ve done, and will always be what we have been. Life isn’t a balance sheet.”

“And what is it?”

Sherlock put his hand on the door handle and turned to Mycroft.

“Life.” he responded, before pulling the door open and leaving his brother alone in his office.

221B Baker Street

Sherlock had never noticed how similar in appearance he and The Woman were… not until this moment when he looked over the results of the melding of those features on one face. Deep blue eyes set in to a background of sharp angles, dark, curly brown hair… Pale skin flushed with just enough color on the cheeks.

He sat back from his computer screen, a tightening in his chest beginning to make it difficult for him to breath.

This face was Irene, and this face was him… and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He felt an odd and, he thought, unearned sense of pride as he examined the expression of curiosity on her perfect young face, because he’d done little to contribute to her life other than some genetic coding… But he loved her. Easily and without expectation; loved her more than he would have given himself credit for being capable of, even now.

But as his thoughts turned to Irene’s husband, and his daughter being raised by another man, his hands balled to fists on either side of the computer.

He closed his computer, rotating his jaw before standing and buttoning his jacket button. He ruffled his hand through his hair, feeling the anger mount, feeling the helplessness pool, feeling the hatred and bile rise from the pit of his stomach…

I knew you’d figure it out when you were ready.

Sherlock picked up a mug from the table and, with a sound of anguished fury escaping his chest, hurled it across the room and against the wall. The ceramic shattered loudly, and cold tea dripped down the wall paper as though the yellow happy face were crying.

Sherlock swallowed, his breathing ragged.

Irene Adler. The Woman. He’d never forgive her for this.




Part One

Gifs not mine.

thestrawberryblondehobbitbatch asked:

Please do a second part to my request it was awesome I look forward to a second part. Maybe they have a dog and she goes with sherlock and John to find her. Loved the fic. Loved it!!

A/N: Thank you! I’m tempted to write a part three to end it all. I hope you like it. xxx

“Sherlock, where are we going?” John asked his friend.

“To find Y/N!” The taller man replied and hailed a taxi. “I’m getting in this one. You’ll distract me if we share.” Sherlock jumped in the cab but luckily for John, there was one behind.

John got in and yelled, “Follow that taxi!”



“This doesn’t look like a dark dingy warehouse,” John said confused as he looked up at the consulting detective. They were stood outside someone’s door.

“Hello Sherlock!” The woman at the door greeted cheerily. He had silky long black locks that were tied up in a ponytail. She had stunning green orbs and freckles across her nose. She was clearly very attractive. John was in awe.

“John, I would close your mouth if I was you,” Sherlock told him.

“Oh yes!” John exclaimed. “Sorry.”

“Anyway, how can I help?” The woman asked.

“I need to borrow your dog,” He replied.

“I never told you I owned a dog.”

“No, but I noticed the animal hairs on your body. They resembled those of a dog.”

“Oh yes!” She said. “Of course. I’ll go and get him. He’s in the garden.” Around thirty seconds later, an Irish Setter bound through to Sherlock.

“Hello,” The detective said to the dog and kneeled down. John saw a flash of hurt upon Sherlock’s face but did not say anything on the matter. The pain was caused by the dog looking like Sherlock’s past dog. That dog was Redbeard. Sherlock quickly changed so there was sign of emotion.

“His name is Oscar,” The woman told them. She walked away before returning back with a lead and passed the lead, which was attached to the dog’s collar, to Sherlock. “Please return him safely.”

“We will.” Sherlock walked off.

“Thank you,” John said before the woman closed the door. “Let me guess, she owes you a favour?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I saved her brother from a lengthy prison sentence. He was framed.”

John nodded. “So do you know where we are going?”

“Yes. Moriarty has made a mistake.”



“So what was the mistake?” John asked. The warehouse was in sight. “Hang on, I recognise this!”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded. “He’s used this building before. I think he wants us to find her. I don’t think he cares if she lives or dies, he just wants us to see her suffering. Now, Oscar is a very well trained dog.” He held out a piece of clothing which had your perfume on it. “Find Y/N, Oscar. There may be a treat in it for you.” Oscar’s ears perked up at the sound of treat. He sniffed the clothing and started to run towards the building. “So she is definitely in there.” They followed the dog.



“Y/N!” They called out in hope for a reply. The dog ran into a room which was where you lay. You were bruised and bloodied. Your fingers were broken.

“John, we need to get her out straight away,” Sherlock said urgently. “Call an ambulance.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” John snapped. He was knelt beside you. “Y/N, can you hear me?” He shook you slightly but there was no response. Your breathing was very faint. Sherlock began to call an ambulance as John tended to you. But was it too late to save you?

The Importance of the Last Four Minutes

So I don’t think the Russia / BFI version is real, or fully real, The Final Problem is DEEPLY MISSING SOMETHING. And here’s my argument: The last four minutes of each episode contain the revelation of a major deception, and/or major character development. They also happen to contain information that ties into the overarching plot of the series as a whole. 

We are missing four minutes toward the end of TFP. What happens if you take out the last four minutes of any and all of the other Sherlock episodes?

Keep reading


and here he is! i slowly tricked kaze into describing how he looked.

a little temporary reference sheet for @kazefiend‘s new sans, who we call “sherlock”. i’ll let her tell you guys more about him, but i love him… and it seems like vanille is interested in him too. ;}c

Crystaltale!sans “sherlock” - @kazefiend

silvihalez  asked:

hi!! I have a promp: Toby dies and Sherlock buys a cat for Molly, a black one with grey-blue eyes that looks kind like her boyfriend. Hope you like it :)

Awesome idea! :)Thanks for the promp! here you go ;)

Was she crying? Sherlock pressed his ear against the door focusing on the voices coming from within the room. “It’ll be alright Molly.” It was Mary talking. “We can get you another one.” She was comforting her. Sherlock listened for a while listening to Mollys sniffles. He was about to turn the door knob to enter the flat, but hesitated when Molly started talking again. 

“I should get cleaned up. Sherlock will be home soon.” He could hear her getting up from a chair and the clinkering of tea cups. “You can just tell him.” Mary offered. 

He could hear Molly stopping in her tracks taking a deep sigh. “But, you know, he’s not to good with these sort of things…” 

Sherlock pulled away from the door. His brows furrowed. What was it she couldn’t tell him or more importantly what wasn’t he good at? He looked around, deducing the front hall. Mollys scarf was thrown on the floor. She had been in a hurry. He crouched down to the floor. He struggled to hold back a cough as he leaned closer to the dusty floor. Cat hair. But Molly never let Toby out into the hall? There is quite a lot of it too…

Sherlock stood up, his expression changed dramatically. He was a little offended and he hated that Molly would hide her pain from him in that way. He glanced at the door a last time before turning to walk out the door.

An hour later, Sherlock was back. Yet again standing in front of the door to their flat. He listened for a second before entering. He found Molly sitting in their sofa. She quickly stood up. She smiled, trying to seem more cheerful than she was. “Hi, Sherlock! Did you solve your case?” Despite the happy expression he could still see the redness in her eyes. Sherlock didn’t answer. Molly looked down at the big lump in Sherlocks coat. 

“Whats that?” She inquired, pointing at the lump. Sherlock smiled. He pulled his hand from within his coat and presented Molly with her new cat. The proud expression on Sherlocks face as he handed the cat to Molly was priceless. Molly couldn’t help but smile. It was a big fluffy cat. It was black and had blue grey eyes. She looked at the cat, then at Sherlock and then back at the cat. She giggled. It looked just like Sherlock!

“How did you know? Oh, never mind of course you knew..” Sherlock looked ridiculously proud as Molly cuddled the little ball of fluff. 

“ I think we should call it Mycroft.” Molly stated. Sherlock looked at her confused and a bit disgusted by the idea. “You do know its a girl?" 

"Mycroft could be a girls name.” She giggled as she sat down, setting Mycroft on her lap. 

Sherlock looked at his girlfriend in a mix of puzzlement and love.

“You’re a strange woman.” He stated jokingly, smiling as he  placed a kiss on her forehead.

  • Pathologist: *enters the morgue*
  • Sherlock: *examining a body*
  • Pathologist: *rolls his eyes* Excuse me, sir, this area is out of bounds to-
  • Sherlock: *still looking at the body* It's okay.
  • Pathologist: *sighs* If you don't leave, I'll have to call security.
  • Sherlock: *rolls his eyes* I said it's fine.
  • Pathologist: *frowns* Why is it fine?
  • Sherlock: *smirks* I'm sleeping with the boss.
  • Pathologist: ...
  • Pathologist: *confused* You're sleeping with Stamford?
  • Sherlock: *looks up; annoyed* The other boss.
  • Molly: *enters the morgue, carrying coffees; irritated* Here's your bloody coffee, you git. Have you finished now so I can do my job?
  • Sherlock: *steps aside; takes the coffee, grinning* Yes, boss.
  • Pathologist: ...
  • *in the lab*
  • Mary: *sipping coffee* How was the date last night, Molly?
  • Sherlock: *at his microscope; rolls his eyes*
  • Molly: *sighs* Bloody awful! We had absolutely nothing in common. He thought a specialist registrar was a marriage guidance counsellor.
  • Mary: *raises an eyebrow* Wow...
  • John: *sympathetic* Chin up. You'll meet someone.
  • Molly: *shrugs* I don't know; maybe it's me.
  • Sherlock: Oh for God's sake, Molly, of course it's not you. You're perfect.
  • Molly: ...
  • John: ...
  • Mary: ...
  • Molly: ...
  • Sherlock: *looking between them; frowns* Oh, come on. This is not news!
  • John & Mary: *murmur their agreement*
  • Molly: *blinking; overwhelmingly happy* R-really?
  • Sherlock: *nods* Yup.
  • Molly: *throws her arms around his neck; kisses his cheek* Thank you.
  • John: *mutters to Mary* We think so, too.
  • Sherlock: *cheeks pink* You can sod off.

“It’s Christmas!”

In ASiP Sherlock exclaims, ‘it’s Christmas!’, when he’s happy (he’s going on an interesting case).  To him Christmas has positive associations.

In Series 1 we not shown a Christmas.

In Series 2 we see Christmas in ASiB.  So, we know that Sherlock loves Christmas.  We see him being prickly to others at Christmas especially Molly, who appears visibly amorous to him.  He is being rude on the one hand but not the other he is there.  He is entertaining his guests by playing violin and, for the most part, attempting successfully to tolerate them.  If he didn’t want to be there he could’ve found an excuse, as we see in MHR.  He does want to be there but it’s tough because he can’t be with John.  Jeanette is there to drive that point home and when he sees Molly, able to pursue someone she likes, he is resentful of that, I think, because he cannot.

Once Molly, the woman openly looking for love, enters we get Sherlock pulling John’s attention away from her and calling attention to his blog.  His hits counter is apparently stuck on 1895.  We’ve already seen this number referred to in an amorous context and it’s a number symbolic of their love due to its historical connection to the persecution of Oscar Wilde in Victorian England.  

So, Sherlock, jealous of John ogling Molly, calls him away to point out that his blog is stuck on a very significant gay reference.  He calls him away to say, 'hey, stop checking out Molly, look, we’re in love’.

At New Year’s Eve John will attempt to engage him in a conversation about his feelings.  It is still very clearly Christmas time because John is framed in the twinkling lights of the fireplace (a symbol of desire).  John has a drink and is ready to open up.  Sherlock is closed down and will not engage with him.

The next Christmas we see is in HLV.  Again, it’s a time for John to have a difficult emotional conversation, this time with Mary.  Here we see that, again, Christmas time is a time to open up and tell your true feelings.  To have the difficult emotional talks.  (Whether he really did open up, at all, is, of course, debatable).

Soon after his conversation with his wife concludes (on a positive note due to a reference to Sherlock, I might add) John is whisked away on an adventure by his best friend.  

Here, once more, Sherlock is able to get John’s attention away from the woman in his life (and any other women, for that matter) and to engage him in a distraction relating to a case.  This is a form of seduction on his part.  Whatever new reconciliation he’s achieved with his wife, he is to be immediately reminded that, well, his blog is stuck on 1895, basically (that number is again brought up at the beginning of HLV).  He wants to be with Sherlock but, as always, there are countless obstacles in their way.

The prospect of going on a dangerous adventure with John makes Sherlock so happy that he, once again, feels like, 'It’s Christmas’.  But, this time it is John who says it.  He, misunderstanding his intent, concurs, 'I feel the same way’.  However, John was saying something more socially acceptable: I don’t want to go on a case on Christmas: this should be a time to stay home and drink (open up), not to go out gallivanting.  Sherlock, then, would appear to be disagreeing, here.  He does find this exciting, but it’s not because he feels dissimilarly to John.  It’s because he feels the same way: he wants to spend Christmas with the one he loves, doing the things they love to do.  For them this means going on a case.

So, Christmas is a time to open up to loved ones.  Sherlock loves Christmas.  While he dodges opening up to John in ASiB, he is, still, making an effort to spend Christmas with him because he loves him.  He is still attempting to get his attention.

In ASiB, we see John say, 'how are we feeling about that?’, and in HLV we see Sherlock say, 'I feel the same way’.  He is so elated to say that, it’s like when people admit they love each other, in movies.  "I love you", says the one person, the other sighs dreamily, “I feel the same”.  Like so many other things in the show these little fragments are constantly seeking each other out.  

In John’s blog post of ASiP he will admit that Sherlock was right, he was hitting on Sherlock.  It takes Sherlock another 7 episodes to admit that John was right, he, too, was hitting on John in ASiP.  Here, as well, we see a delayed reciprocity on the part of Sherlock.  John wants for him to open up and discuss the issue of his blog begin stuck on 1895 head on and Sherlock tells him, finally, that he, 'feel(s) the same (way)’, even though it’s 5 episodes later.

While I don’t know if a Christmas special kiss would be the correct timing in the context of the overall narrative, we are being told that this episode is a one-off and separate from the rest of the narrative.  Is this why it might be an AU?  So, that our characters will be free of the constraints of the current narrative and admit their feelings (and maybe even kiss) without affecting the rhythm of the overall story?  I do feel like Christmas is a very romantic time and it would be clever timing to introduce romance into the show then.

Sherlock loves Christmas time and is ready to admit that he, 'feels the same’, as John.  Maybe next Christmas John will ask how, 'we’, are feeling and Sherlock will actually tell him.    

The Plan


He came charging out of the bathroom, flicking the water off his hands and staring, wide eyed in realisation at Molly, who was standing, crouched over, gripping onto the table so hard that her knuckles had turned white. 

Then he saw the clear puddle beneath her and they locked eyes. 

It was time. 

“SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES GET OVER HERE!” She shouted at the man who just looked like he was buffering. 

He wiped his wet hands on his trousers and helped his currently immobile wife into a more upright position. 

“Remember to breathe-” 

“I’m not going to forget to breathe! Idiot…” Molly spat through gritted teeth as she was lead into the living room. “Do you remember the plan?” She asked the man who was about to just lead her out of the flat without anything


“The plan.” The blank expression told her everything, “Oh for gods sake Sherlock.” She gripped his shirt tighter as her contraction spread again, “The p-”

OH! Oh, the plan. That plan.” He remembered finally.

“Yes, yes, yes…” She urged. He hadn’t moved. Sometimes she wondered whether this whole ‘genius’ nonsense was just some sort of ploy.

“Well then? I think I might be a good time to initiate the pla-” Molly suddenly let out a staccato of short breaths and whimpers as the contraction reached its peak. 

Sherlock keyed on and initiated the foretold plan. 

-Get night bag

-Put Slippers on Molly

-Get keys to car. 

“There.” Sherlock finally put her slippers on and helped her back onto her feet, “Right, Lets go.” He led her out of the door and got to the top of the stairs before Molly remembered: 


“PHONE!” He repeated, leaning Molly up against the wall while he went to grab it off of the kitchen counter. “LETS GO!” Molly rolled her eyes as he returned and placed a hand at the bottom of her spine and another on the top of her extremely large tummy.  

They were stopped at the bottom of the stairs by Mrs. Hudson:

“Oh Molly dear! You’ve gone into Labour!” She squealed ecstatically. 

“Yes Mrs Hudson, we can see that. No time to chat.” Sherlock interrupted rudely, moving Molly towards the door and swinging the overnight bag back over his shoulder.  

“You’ll do great! Just remember to-” Mrs Hudson called after them,

“BREATHE! WE KNOW!” Sherlock shouted back at her before closing the door on 221b. 


“Ow, Ow, Ow.” Molly’s back ached as she tried to maneuver into the car seat. Sherlock was quickly trying to get the seatbelt around Molly. It had become more and more of a challenge recently. “Look Sherlock its not going to go around me quick enough. Just drive!”  She ordered, feeling her baby moving. 

“No, I’m not going to take any risks.” He suddenly became very serious and looked her dead in the eye. 

“Pick any time other than this to follow the rules.” She winced, the warmth of her belly getting uncomfortable.

“You’re in.” He fastened her seatbelt and bent down to press a quick kiss to her head.  


They’d hit the Marylebone Road and the traffic was starting to build in the direction of the hospital. 

Sherlock started to fumble around by his feet.

“What are you - IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?!” Molly saw the blue and red lights in his hands as he wound down the window.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures Molly.” He replied, swiftly switching on the siren causing the loudest noise Molly had ever heard to illicit from the car. 

“Not THAT desperate! This is Illegal!” She argued, pointing at the object on the roof as they sped along at triple speed, “One second you’re obey-”

“Do be quite and concentrate on your breathing. Just be thankful you’re not giving birth in the back of this car.” Sherlock smirked, concentrating wholly on the driving. 


“OUCH!” Molly had another contraction and her hand flew to Sherlock’s hair. They swerved slightly as his follicles were nearly ripped out of his skull.

“DONT SAY A WORD! YOU THINK YOUR IN PAIN?!” She managed to shout between deep breaths. 

“Give me your phone!” She ordered and Sherlock reached with one hand into his pocket. If he didn’t have the siren then they would probably have been done for dangerous driving by now.

He handed the phone to Molly. 

She tapped quickly at the phone and set a timer, putting it on the dash and her hand flew back to Sherlock’s hair. 

“Look I can’t drive like this. Um…Have this…”  He prized her unwilling hand out of his hair and reached behind his seat and gave her something John had given him 9 months ago:

“Why do you have a giant stuffed teddy in the back of the car?” Molly raised an eyebrow at the flustered detective. 

“Never mind that.”

Puppy names
  • John: So it's true? you two are adopting a puppy?
  • Molly: Yes, Meena's Golden Retriever has had a really large litter and they are driving her nuts. It was a really hard decision, specially after Toby's death and Sherlock's backstory with pets...
  • John: Well I am glad for you two. You know... from adopting pets to having children there's only one step.
  • Sherlock: *chokes on coffee*
  • John: Anyway... have you thought any names for the dog?
  • Molly: Well... if it's a boy we are going to call him Redbeard II and if it's a girl we are calling her Agatha.
  • Sherlock: And if they are fat we are naming them Mycroft.
  • Molly: ...
  • John: ...

We, the heteronormative viewing public, find ourselves comparing our knowledge with that of the experiences of John and Sherlock. More importantly, we believe that what we’re feeling must be what they’re feeling, because the show is shot from their POV. “Their actions elicit these feelings within me, this must be what these characters are feeling!” - This is ultimately clouding our judgement of how these characters are written and what they are allowed to say, think, and feel.

For example, we laugh when Mrs. Hudson calls John and Sherlock lovers because we think it’s funny for her to blatantly accuse two men of being gay, because being assumed gay is laughable. But John and Sherlock do not laugh. It happens over and over but they never laugh. Their experience within that accusation is different from ours as outsiders looking in.

Another example being our reaction to seeing Janine and Sherlock together in 221b. We’re thinking, “Ow ow! Way to go, Sherl. We didn’t think you had it in ya, you tricky bastard!” We think John must be feeling the same way. We ignore the fact that John can’t even look at them when they kiss goodbye. John does not feel what we feel. We are so self-centered that we think the characters are mirroring our own thoughts and behavior.

*We’ve seen 13 hours of John and Sherlock’s six-year friendship.
*We’ve seen 2 hours of Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft.
*We’ve seen 10 minutes of Sherlock’s interactions with his parents.
*We’ve seen 2 minutes of Sherlock’s interactions with his university classmates
*We’ve seen 15 minutes of John mourning.
*We’ve seen 2 hours of Sherlock’s interactions with Mrs. Hudson.
*We’ve seen 2 minutes of John’s PTSD symptoms.
*We’ve seen 10 minutes of John spending time with old friends.
*We haven’t seen any of John’s family, not even at his wedding

And we’ve come to believe that we know what these characters are thinking and feeling at all times? That they think like we do? The nerve it takes to rob these characters of all emotion that contradicts what we feel within the 14 hours we spend watching them.

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Sherlock and Mycroft call their mother "mummy", so why not call their father "papa"? Love to see Sherlock telling Molly all about it beloved "mummy and papa". :3

I’ll warn you, this was written at 4am by a me who was tired, grumpy, annoyed and in need of silly fluff. Which is to say, I strayed away from the prompt a bit.

When Molly meets Sherlock’s mother, it’s in a flurry of perfume, eager questions about if she uses mathematics for her work (and if she does, what sort of formulas does she use exactly) and air kisses to both of Molly’s cheeks before she pulls up a chair and settles on the other side of the worktop. 

“So, you work with Sherlock? How’s my boy doing?”

Molly has to blink a few times. Nope. This still doesn’t make quite enough sense.

“He’s… fine.

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