giidas:

Jim doesn’t realize how much he touches Bones and Spock people until Uhura gently reminds him that Spock is a touch telepath and would probably prefer it if Jim reigned himself in.

So Jim does.

Gone are the shoulder slaps and the way he’d sometimes stop Spock by grabbing his forearm. He refrains from bumping his shoulder to Spock’s, tries to always keep at least a few inches of space between them.

After the first day of aborted movements, Spock looks at him a bit funny. After three days of the Let’s Not Touch Spock Initiative, Spock downright frowns at him. Or what would pass for a frown on a Vulcan, anyway.

Four days in, Spock puts his hand, very gently, on Jim’s shoulder when he updates him on the status of the samples they collected during their last mission, his thumb moving in small circles over a patch of skin, making Jim take a steadying breath. When the Alpha shift ends the next day, Spock leans his shoulder on Jim’s in the turbolift, presses in, just a little, just to make Jim feel his weight. When they have breakfast next morning, their legs touch, from thigh to ankle, and Jim has to focus on drinking his coffee lest he accidentally drowns in it.

When Spock takes Jim’s face in his palms five days later, after a long game of 3D scrabble, and leans in to mingle their breaths, to touch his nose lightly to Jim’s, to carefully taste Jim’s lips while his fingers gently run over Jim’s palm, Jim thinks he will send Uhura a thank-you bouquet.

(via shellysbees-deactivated20140130)

I need a Star Trek AU where Spock makes a bet like Phileas Fogg about a 80 days long journey around… don’t know, a certain galaxy or something, and Chekov is his Passepartout because he can do zat, and they meet this Terran guy, Jim T. Kirk who is about to be burnt alive so they rescue him, and there is Spock, this logical, composed Vulcan, facing this ridiculously illogical voyage with so many adventures and troubles… well, you know the story.

So, is there someone up for writing this in a fic? Pretty please?

Guess who wrote her first Star Trek fic…

rumpelmerlock:

there are two kinds of fanwriters in the star trek fandom: those who think that Spock’s skin is colder than humans, and those who think it’s warmer.

(Source: hanlockenterprise, via crucibleoflight)

Okay, fanfic writers: I double-dog dare you.

gunslingerannie:

teafortrouble:

thestratospheric:

fresheima:

watsonsdick:

sherlockscarf:

belovedmuerto:

roane72:

mazarin221b:

emmagrant01:

Open up the file of the last fic you worked on, copy the very first sentence of that fic (no cheating!), add it to the bottom of this post, and reblog.

"John never has called him Sherlock in bed."

Okay, I am DYING of curiosity about this one. :)

ME TOO.

Also, here’s mine: “He doesn’t so much wake up as regain some semblance of consciousness.”

When the alarm goes off at 8.30, I slap the snooze button, and automatically reach across the bed, groping for the warm, pliant form that should be curled against me.

“What is this place, Mr. Holmes?”

"John Watson had to take a deep breath when he entered the huge stage from the side."

But it’s also hardly more than this xD

Damian Scott has spent five days in Q-Branch when he receives call from a very irate, impatient and off-radar Agent 007.”

Oooh, lookit me adding in a 00Q HAHA.

"There were a whole host of reasons this entire venture was a bad idea, but perhaps the most glaring was small, furious, and currently hovering approximately two feet off the ground."

"It’s late in the evening when Carlos makes the decision."

Spring was always pleasurable in St. Mary’s.”

i-o-u-a-fall:

mindpalaceofversailles:

Obviously their boggarts would be each other’s corpses.

If Sherlock hadn’t known what it was John was seeing, he would have rolled his eyes; would have cast the spell himself; would have scolded John for freezing up at the sight of his worst fear. They were third year students who had tangled with trolls , aggravated acromantulas, and made friends with the merfolk of the Black Lake. This wasn’t above them by any means, and John was a capable-enough wizard to know how to best a boggart.
However, Sherlock knew exactly what it was John was seeing. He was there, behind the line, watching the boy panic at the sight. And, he had seen the same when he had taken his turn with the beastly boggart: the corpse of his best friend.
(John’s throat bit out by some monster or other, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, wide and empty, his blood pooling around him, staining his tawny locks, paling his skin— No. He couldn’t think of it again. Couldn’t think of the way John called his name behind the other students, trying to reach out, trying to protect him from the trick; how his hands had shaken, how he had stammered out the counter spell, how he had pushed his way back to John’s side and stood in stoic silence, unreachable.)
He watched the young Gryffindor’s hand tremble as he held his wand to his chest in a death grip. John seemed to be choking on breath, trying to contain the tears glistening in his eyes. He looked physically ill, unsteady and ready to be knocked over by a mere breath. Sherlock knew the other students were muttering about themselves in judgment. He didn’t care to hear their words himself, but he knew John would (and more importantly, he hated to see John lose himself), so he stepped forward, ignoring the rule not to intervene, and gingerly reached to touch John’s shoulders.
A tiny yelp escaped the boy, who flinched greatly under the touch which burned him. John turned away from the boggart to look at the offender. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, damp and overflowing, and in his friend’s gaze he saw confusion and fear. John looked back to the boggart, blinked hard and gazed his way again, then returned to the trick before him, whimpering and entirely unsure which was reality and which was fraud.
"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, supportingly, in the way John would encourage him. "’Riddikulus’. It isn’t real.” A sharp breath shook the Gryffindor’s entire frame, and Sherlock saw tracks of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. His hands gripped John tighter, hoping the grip would bring him back to reality.
"I-I can’t," John choked at last, his horrified eyed not on his friend but on the boggart at his feet (at the picture of Sherlock’s still body soaked with blood, lifeless, no more brilliant charms or incantations slipping from his lips, no light in his eyes, no more Sherlock Holmes). John shook his head feverishly. “I can’t," he squeaked, and a desperate sob escaped him as he said again, “I can’t.”
With a glance to the professor and a nod of approval received, Sherlock tugged John aside - and he fought against him, uttering ‘No, no’, desperate to stay by his corpse’s side - without waiting for the professor to intervene with their own boggart, with their own jestful spell, with their own solution. He grabbed his and John’s bags and left the building, ignoring the hushed murmurs of their peers as they passed.
There is a secret room in Hogwarts that not many people know about. It burned the last time it was used, but Sherlock knew how to find it. He had read about it, had heard rumours, and now he and John were masters of summoning the Room of Requirement. And there they found themselves again and once more; and within the walls of the secret hideaway, John screamed at Sherlock, screamed at him what it was he saw as if Sherlock hadn’t seen as well; and within the walls John broke, falling to his knees, his hands on his eyes in anguish, sobbing out apologies that Sherlock was sure involved the illusion of his death; and within the walls Sherlock let John in, holding his frame and trying to soothe the distraught boy as best he could.
And he didn’t judge John at all, for he was the stronger of the two in Sherlock’s mind. He was the one who could let himself cry at the thought of his best friend dying. He was the one who cried for them both.
"It’s fine, John," Sherlock murmured, his cheek in John’s hair. “It’s all fine."
He pretended not to notice the fingers wrapped around his wrist, counting his pulse, each pump of blood bringing them both back to life.

i-o-u-a-fall:

mindpalaceofversailles:

Obviously their boggarts would be each other’s corpses.

If Sherlock hadn’t known what it was John was seeing, he would have rolled his eyes; would have cast the spell himself; would have scolded John for freezing up at the sight of his worst fear. They were third year students who had tangled with trolls , aggravated acromantulas, and made friends with the merfolk of the Black Lake. This wasn’t above them by any means, and John was a capable-enough wizard to know how to best a boggart.

However, Sherlock knew exactly what it was John was seeing. He was there, behind the line, watching the boy panic at the sight. And, he had seen the same when he had taken his turn with the beastly boggart: the corpse of his best friend.

(John’s throat bit out by some monster or other, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, wide and empty, his blood pooling around him, staining his tawny locks, paling his skin— No. He couldn’t think of it again. Couldn’t think of the way John called his name behind the other students, trying to reach out, trying to protect him from the trick; how his hands had shaken, how he had stammered out the counter spell, how he had pushed his way back to John’s side and stood in stoic silence, unreachable.)

He watched the young Gryffindor’s hand tremble as he held his wand to his chest in a death grip. John seemed to be choking on breath, trying to contain the tears glistening in his eyes. He looked physically ill, unsteady and ready to be knocked over by a mere breath. Sherlock knew the other students were muttering about themselves in judgment. He didn’t care to hear their words himself, but he knew John would (and more importantly, he hated to see John lose himself), so he stepped forward, ignoring the rule not to intervene, and gingerly reached to touch John’s shoulders.

A tiny yelp escaped the boy, who flinched greatly under the touch which burned him. John turned away from the boggart to look at the offender. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, damp and overflowing, and in his friend’s gaze he saw confusion and fear. John looked back to the boggart, blinked hard and gazed his way again, then returned to the trick before him, whimpering and entirely unsure which was reality and which was fraud.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, supportingly, in the way John would encourage him. "’Riddikulus’. It isn’t real.” A sharp breath shook the Gryffindor’s entire frame, and Sherlock saw tracks of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. His hands gripped John tighter, hoping the grip would bring him back to reality.

"I-I can’t," John choked at last, his horrified eyed not on his friend but on the boggart at his feet (at the picture of Sherlock’s still body soaked with blood, lifeless, no more brilliant charms or incantations slipping from his lips, no light in his eyes, no more Sherlock Holmes). John shook his head feverishly. “I can’t," he squeaked, and a desperate sob escaped him as he said again, “I can’t.

With a glance to the professor and a nod of approval received, Sherlock tugged John aside - and he fought against him, uttering ‘No, no’, desperate to stay by his corpse’s side - without waiting for the professor to intervene with their own boggart, with their own jestful spell, with their own solution. He grabbed his and John’s bags and left the building, ignoring the hushed murmurs of their peers as they passed.

There is a secret room in Hogwarts that not many people know about. It burned the last time it was used, but Sherlock knew how to find it. He had read about it, had heard rumours, and now he and John were masters of summoning the Room of Requirement. And there they found themselves again and once more; and within the walls of the secret hideaway, John screamed at Sherlock, screamed at him what it was he saw as if Sherlock hadn’t seen as well; and within the walls John broke, falling to his knees, his hands on his eyes in anguish, sobbing out apologies that Sherlock was sure involved the illusion of his death; and within the walls Sherlock let John in, holding his frame and trying to soothe the distraught boy as best he could.

And he didn’t judge John at all, for he was the stronger of the two in Sherlock’s mind. He was the one who could let himself cry at the thought of his best friend dying. He was the one who cried for them both.

"It’s fine, John," Sherlock murmured, his cheek in John’s hair. “It’s all fine."

He pretended not to notice the fingers wrapped around his wrist, counting his pulse, each pump of blood bringing them both back to life.

(via mycroft-is-dumbledore)

Guess who found North and South fanfictions? Good-bye, sleeping!

Mary Poppins vs. The Holmes Boys

enigmaticpenguinofdeath:

kingmoran:

Sherlock: “Mycroft, she’s singing again…”
Mycroft: “I know. Just ignore her and perhaps she’ll go away.”

read it here. fic by travels_in_time

This is pleasingly bonkers. I approve.

(Source: cclbaldwin)

  • fanfic author: oh so you like this fic?
  • fanfic author: it would be a shame if
  • fanfic author: i never
  • fanfic author: updated it

Tags: uhm ummmm fanfic

bowtie-wearing-alien:

rogueholmes:

bowtie-wearing-alien:

rogueholmes:

bowtie-wearing-alien:

rogueholmes:

 bowtie-wearing-alien said: of course I saw it and I replied I’m just tired because school & wedding and stuff but Mycroft because in the BBC he’s the cold iceman without a heart and the point would be to show he does have a heart if he were the beast. stupid enough?

I like it.

But I was unsure about the answer because Mycroft is the Iceman and Harriet is the alcoholic who broke up with her wife. So Mycroft the beast needs someone to show him he has a heart and free him from the curse of loneliness… While Harriet the beast needs someone to rescue her from the curse and demon of the alcohol. Difficult questions of life, uhh.

ah, yeah, I see your point.

Maybe… since it’s a modern-day headcanon-AU thingy anyway, they should save each other. Save each other from themselves. From the alcohol (Harriet) and the fear to love (Mycroft.). Sorry due to my otps I’m into this “save each other!” plan quite a lot nowadays.

that would be the Tale of the Two Beasts… good.

I only need to find out which one would kidnap the other. oh, wait a minute, I know this one. this is definitely Mycroft’s style. now, this is settled.

okay, but why? why would he kidnap her?

also, please write this. (and put a nightmare in where Mycroft’s wearing Belle’s yellow robe.)

well… he is Mr Loneliness, he won’t leave his castle so she needs to go there. why would she go there? not unless she is kidnapped. why would he kidnap her? good question. I need to think about this.

I can’t write and I can’t speak English and if I try, I am always OOC.

you CAN write and you CAN in English and who cares if you are ooc.

I can try it but first I need to finish my CP-fic and I planned to write a Midsomer-fic, too.

high-functioning-sociopaths:

sherlocked-inside-the-tardis:

equalseleventhirds:

omeglelock:

10moonymhrivertam:

i-could-be-your-science-daddy:

castielthebadassangel:

rachbrew:

“He said you do that.”

#skdjajkaygh #i just think about sherlock being alone during his hiatus and talking out loud and then looking around and realizing john isn’t there

“…and then, when I told her about the cologne on her boyfriend, she tried to—” Sherlock looked up to find that, once again, John wasn’t there. It had been almost month since his ‘fall,’ but he still couldn’t seem to get used to not having John around. He had managed to get used to nearly everything else, but not having John around was going to take some work.

He sighed and got up, wishing he had his violin, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.

Went to your funeral today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn’t you. -JW

I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you’ll come back. -JW

The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW

I’ve started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can’t deal with that place right now. -JW

I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can’t, though. I keep thinking that you’ll come back. -JW

Please come back, Sherlock. -JW

I won’t even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW

I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW

My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she’s right. Then again, I don’t know what’s right anymore, though. -JW

You’re probably not even getting any of this. -JW

Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn’t do it. -JW

Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW

I don’t think Sally’s too pleased. -JW

They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them touch anything in your room, in case you do come back some day. -JW

I’m having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it’s always too late. Always. -JW

I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can’t do anything right. -JW

I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally lept, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW

God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you’re alive. Please. -JW

Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.

He missed John.

A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive.

I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW

Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I’d rather not, though. It’s not helping. -JW

It still hurts, Sherlock. It’s been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW

I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW

Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.

It was done.

The web was disintegrated.

And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.

Put the kettle on. -SH

image

Oh god I wasn’t ready for all these feels…

image

image

image

Sweet mother of fuck, this was not the first thing I wanted read when waking up.

image

image

image

N.

O.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

YOU KNOW THIS, DO YOU NOT?

FEEEEELS!!!!!!! 

The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW

I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW

these two lines made me bawl like a baby and you ought to be ashamed of yourself ;_;

Put the kettle on. -SH

John stared at the message on his phone. A part of his mind (which had always sounded oddly like Mycroft) noted that his hand wasn’t shaking, but the rest of his thoughts were in too much turmoil to even consider that.

Sherlock. A text from Sherlock.

No, he corrected himself. From Sherlock’s phone. Someone else had sent that from Sherlock’s phone, as a cruel joke or a malicious trap. It had to be someone else, because Sherlock was dead.

(He’d been telling himself that for three years.)

Fingers trembling, he typed a text in reply.

Who is this? -JW

Me, of course. You ought to know this number. -SH

He could practically hear Sherlock’s irritated, superior tone.

His phone beeped again. Twenty minutes, I should think. -SH

He swallowed, set his phone down carefully, and headed to his bedroom.

—-

Sherlock tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie, not even bothering to count, and scrambled out of the car. It had taken him three years, but he was finally home.

The door opened when he tried to knob; John must have left it unlocked for him. Mrs. Hudson’s flat was quite obviously empty, so he bypassed it—plenty of time to see her later—and bounded up the stairs to 221B.

Reaching the top step, he flung open the door, smiling more widely than he could ever remember smiling before.

BANG.

His mouth dropped open and he stared at John, who was staring back in equal shock. Staring back, and holding his gun.

Slowly, Sherlock turned to look at the doorjamb a few inches from his head. Then he turned back to John, finally making his mouth move.

“You shot at me.”

“The wall.”

“You shifted your aim at the last second. You were planning to shoot me.” Why would John do that? Hadn’t he missed Sherlock?

Quite literally, this time, his brain felt it had to tell him. And only by a few inches.

“I wasn’t.” John slowly lowered his gun, flipping the safety on and setting it down.

“You were pointing a gun at the doorway I arrived through, John, after I told you I was coming home. Even Anderson could deduce what that means.” Curious and more than a little angry, he took a few steps closer to John. 

“I thought—” His voice cracked, and he wiped at his face. “I thought it wouldn’t be you. You were dead, Sherlock. You were—and if someone, anyone, would take your phone and text me with your—” He stopped himself sharply, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing, “It could have been a viable threat. That’s why I had the gun. That’s why I told Mrs. Hudson to get out of the house for a bit.”

“You told—ah.” Sherlock blinked, swallowed, forced a smile. “You did learn quite well, John. That is… that is exactly what I would have told you to do, had you received a suspicious message from a dead man. I’m…” He nearly bit his tongue at the thought, but pressed on. “I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking, when I sent that.”

“Really.”

Sherlock scowled. “You should be flattered. I rarely fail to think.”

“Oh, yes. Flattered, absolutely. You bloody faked your own death, told me nothing, nothing at all for three years, let me think you were—” John clenched his teeth. “Flattered is not the word I would use.”

“…oh. You’re—you think I didn’t trust you. You think I…” His voice trailed off.

“I know.”

“You don’t know, you assume. And that makes for terrible deductions, John, I must have told you a dozen times at least.”

“Right. Yeah. Right. Just what I wanted to hear. Insults.” He shook his head angrily and sat down in his chair. “I didn’t make you any tea, since I know you’ll ask. And I’m not going to make you any now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Whirling around, he made for the stairs, only to be nearly yanked from his feet when something snagged his coat.

He spun around again (careful of his new balance) and glared down—only to see John standing, looking dumbstruck, with his hand on Sherlock’s coat.

“What?” Sherlock snapped. “Hurry up, and I can be out of your hair. The way you want me to.”

“No!” John’s grip tightened. “No. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t—I just—I—” He stopped again. “I can’t get used to you being here if you… aren’t here.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, forgetting his injured pride. John had thought him dead for over three years. He had barely been able to stand being separated for that long, and he had known that John was alive.

What would it be like for John, who had seen him alive for a few scant minutes, if he left again?

Human emotion wasn’t Sherlock’s strong point, but he knew mathematics. A few minutes of “alive” could hardly balance out three years of “dead.” And without tangible proof of “alive,” who was to say that it held true?

He set a hand on John’s arm and smiled tentatively. “I’ll make the tea, then, shall I?”

I DIDN’T KNOW SOMEBODY ADDED ON TO MY FIC AND NOW I’M REALLY REALLY HAPPY OKAY AND JUST HARGOI;AHREIOGAHE 

AND THAN THIS FANDOM - BREAKS MY HEART AND REPAIRS IT ALL IN THE SAME POST

(Source: vitalyorlovs, via dammit-im-an-angel-not-a-demon)

What should I have done this afternoon? Study for my exam on Tuesday.

What have I done actually? Wrote a Midsomer Murders fanfiction.

I’ll burn in hell.