#Source: BBC Sherlock

[stilesonthehunt]

At the Hale House: Peter: This is a private matter. Derek: Stiles stays. Peter: [whispers] This is pack. Derek: [loudly] THAT'S WHY HE STAYS. Stiles: [tries to suppress a smile]

[incorrectuntamedmodaozushiquotes]

Wei Wuxian: Punch me in the face. Jiang Cheng: ...Punch you? Wei Wuxian: Yes, punch me, didn’t you hear me? Jiang Cheng: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ while you’re speaking but it’s usually just subtext.

[jltg-incorrect-quotes]

Sam: Punch me in the face.

Adam: ...Punch you?

Sam: Yes, punch me, didn’t you hear me?

Adam: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ while you’re speaking but it’s usually just subtext.

[remusfinglupin]

BBC Sherlock: facing queerbaiting allegations since 2010

[backgroundnoisewithaview]

Will: Hey, Connor, you want to go to Molly's with me later?

Connor: Actually, I've, uh, got a date.

Will: A what?

Connor: A date. It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun?

Will: but that's what *I* was suggesting.

[correctshadowhunters]

simon: punch me in the face! jace: punch you? simon: yes, punch me in the face! didn't you hear me? jace: i always hear "punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.

[incorrect-tbhk]

Teru: Punch me in the face.

Akane: What?

Teru: Punch me in the face! Did you hear me?

Akane: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re talking but it’s usually subtext.

[the-goddess-of-gays]

Will: You think I can't withstand Tartarus?! I was a SOLDIER, Nico! I killed people! Nico: You were a doctor. Will: I HAD BAD DAYS!

[noodles-and-tea]

Purrlock Holmes……

[ladysolitaire]

Sherlock, to Molly: Sorry if this is awkward but are you free every morning for the next 70 years? I’d love to get some coffee if you’re available.

[insp]

[fellshish]

Canon can’t kill my fandom spirit in any way that matters

[phantombegruvia]

Falling

[What I think happened between The Final Baker Of Baker Street and The Mystery Of The Midnight Circus]

[contains brief descriptions of violence and minor character death]

"We thank him for the bread we eat, and the friends we keep. Amen-mentary, my dear Watson."

The words echoed in Watson's mind. They hadn't stopped repeating really, not since the funeral. Sherlock's funeral, to be exact.

Sherlock was dead.

But that was impossible, Sherlock was there! He was right next to Watson, slouched over the Bible, reciting its words. He was there, but then he was gone again.

Sure, it would've taken a miracle to survive being crushed thousands of kilograms of dough (Watson would know, he was a doctor after all), but Sherlock was a miracle worker. He had once fallen hundreds of feet, and lived.

Now Watson sits on the floor of his country home, a small cottage just on the edge of Oxford, surrounded by past journal entries (both his own and Sherlock's) to see if he could piece together a clue on where Sherlock had disappeared to.

"John?" Mary sighed from behind him, "what are you doing?"

Watson turned around, his wife cradled their six-month old daughter in her arms. Rosie lay asleep on her mother's chest and Watson could barely hear the sounds of her quite snores.

"Finding Sherlock," was the simple answer that Watson gave, before turning back to face the papers sprawled all over the floor.

Mary's eyes bored into the back of his skull. "John," she sounded too tired, "he's gone."

"No," Watson shook his head with a little to much vigour, he made himself dizzy, "no, no. He was there. He was! I heard him.. I saw him! He was there, Mary, I swear."

"Every night, for the last six months, you've been like this, chasing a ghost," she gently placed Rosie onto the armchair, "I'm tired of it." She knelt down in front of Watson.

"He's alive, Mary, I know he is."

"You're not well."

Watson was taken aback by that small comment, "I'm the most fine I've been in a while, Mary."

Mary's face portrayed no emotion (maybe it showed a tidbit of resentment, but Watson would rather look over that), "I've had to look after Rosie by myself."

"That's not true."

"How am I going to tell her, when she's old enough, that her own father chose a dead man over her?"

"He's not dead."

"He is. He's gone, John. And if you can't see that, well, I guess you will lose us too." She stood up, and immediately turned her back on him.

"I'm sorry?"

Mary picked up Rosie again, "I'm taking a carriage back to London first thing tomorrow. Me and Rosie will be staying with a friend of mine."

Watson stood up with speed, and the dizziness returned, "you made your insane choice, John. Now it's my time to make mine."

She retreated to the master bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Watson stared at the door for a little while longer, a small twinge of guilt nagging at his heart. He reached his arm out, about to knock on the door and ask his wife to reconsider-

"Amen-mentary, my dear Watson."

His arm fell, he had much bigger priorities to worry about.

Mary and Rosie were just a small price to pay to get Sherlock back. A giggle slipped out of his lips.

-

Two months later, Watson found himself back in the streets of London. Somebody had told him they knew of Sherlock's whereabouts, but they wanted something for the knowledge; the keys to the cottage. So, reasonably, Watson gave up his home. It was a trick, of course, what else would it have been?

He was also released of his job at the hospital. And Watson had no idea as to why exactly. He overheard his supervisor say something about "illness" and "insanity", but he figured it must've been about a patient.

So now, he was finding shelter wherever he could. He found a hotel, just a few roads from Baker Street. The staff didn't have to know of his presence, did they?

He whistled as he walked down the stone road of Baker Street, his hands in his pockets. He had come down this way everyday for the past month, stopping in front of the now very vandalised 10 Baker Street.

It was a sore sight for Watson, but he knew that once he found Sherlock, they would be able to fix it together.

He was brought out of his fantasy when he heard the smash of glass. A group of four dirtied boys stepped out of one of Sherlock's windows, the one they had just broke, and began to hurry down a nearby alley.

Watson didn't give himself time to think, before he chased after them. They hadn't noticed him, until he grabbed the one closest to him by the arm, and pulling him backwards. The other three still hadn't noticed, and they continued running down the alley.

"What are you-"

The criminal didn't get chance to finish his sentence before Watson punched him with enough force to knock him to the ground. Watson didn't hesitate to straddle the hoodlum.

Watson punched him.

And punched him.

And punched him.

And punched him.

And again. And again. And again-

Watson realised he wasn't breathing anymore.

Watson stood up from the bloodied body.

(The kid barely looked over eighteen, he was so young. So, so young. And Watson stopped him from growing up. He broke the Hippocratic Oath. He was a monster. Monster. Monster.)

The recognisable tune of Entry Of The Gladiators began to play down Baker Street.

Watson figured that a circus was in town. He thought he might go, he is rather fond of clowns.

-

Watson did his daily walk down Baker Street, humming to the tune of one of those fun circus-esque songs.

He stopped at his usual place - just across the road from Sherlock's place. He imagined Sherlock and him playing chess by one of the windows, they wouldn't be boarded up so the whole world could see them. Sherlock would always call checkmate first, of course, it was his thing.

He registered a presence next to him, but he didn't let it drag him out of his fantasy.

However Watson's company's voice did force him back to reality, with rather a lot of force. "Ah, hello there, could you help me?"

Watson turned and there he was. He looked slightly older, more frail. He was confused, too, which was never a good look for Sherlock Holmes. Watson's mouth fell agape.

"Sherlock?" Watson breathed out, the other man barely acknowledged it.

"I feel as though I should be here, it feels right. And so does speaking to you, for some strange reason," Sherlock shook his head, "you see, I've got a small problem, I don't remember much as to who I am."

Watson's heart sank a little.

"I think it may be from an accident I was in quite a while ago, not that I can recall much of it. I was hoping you could help me? You feel.. familiar to me."

"Of course I can," Watson plastered a smile onto his face, one that bordered between joyous (Sherlock was alive!) and between despair (Sherlock doesn't even know who Sherlock is), "I'm John Watson. Your name is Sherlock Holmes, you are the best detective London has ever seen..."

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a real life miracle worker. But for every good thing, there must also be a bad thing - there always needs to be balance.

You can't create miracles without consequences.

But maybe Watson could be the consequence to Sherlock's miracles.

[purple--queen]

Mary : This is my boyfriend, John.

Mary: And this is John's boyfriend, Sherlock.

[raina-at]

Write on any of my ten thousand WIPS? Write a fluffy sequel to a very popular fic?

Or start writing a 100+k obscure fantasy/YA AU with plot and angst and forbidden love nobody asked for and probably five people will read?

Well, the latter, of course. God forbid I do the sensible thing and work on the easy stuff.

[destinationtoast]

my friend is hilarious

(The article being quoted: x)

[221bug]

Headcannon that Sherlock insists on having the tendons removed from chicken