Untitled

May 09

Fixing other people’s problems. I seem to be good at that. So why can’t I solve my own?

May 08

[video]

fangirloflifeitself:

tastefullyoffensive:

[via]

THE ENTIRE DAY TODAY

(via starry-eyed-escapist)

[video]

May 06

[video]

This was so fucking brilliant I can't even

• You: [Unsent message]
• I'm sorry, John. -SH
• [Unsent message]
• Ah, no, don't think too much of this. It's just an automatic on my phone that sends the texts I wrote before I...you know. -SH
• [Unsent message]
• Messages I didn't had the guts for to tell you face to face. -SH
• [Unsent message]
• So if you want to know them, just text my phone and it will send them to you. If you don't want to know them, just ignore these as well. My phone wont send you another text automatically after this one unless you send one back. -SH
• Stranger: Jesus fuck, why the hell would you have something like that on your phone? JW
• Oh, why am I even asking. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• Oh, so you decided to want to know them? I hadn't expected that. But well. First thing is, I'm sorry for leaving you. I really am but you're a brave man. I trust you to go on without me. -SH
• Stranger: I really shouldn't be texting a dead man's mobile, you know that? Of course you don't. You're /dead/. Man, this is messing with my head already. Cheers for that. JW
• You: You really shouldn't text a dead man's mobile, indeed. But then again, I shouldn't have offered you to do so, do I? So it's partially my fault as well, I guess. Don't let it mess with your head too much, thought. Oh and another one: Thank you for all those teas you made me. No one makes better tea than you do. -SH
• You: [Unsent message]*
• Stranger: No no no. Don't-- don't do that. You can't seriously have anticipated everything I'd text you back, right? Christ. I should stop. I really should. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• I know you John, so don't be too surprised if my answers are pretty accurate. I can read in you like in an open book. But if that's too much for you, you should stop. I just did this because I thought it might help you a bit. Letting me go slower and such. Here's another message for you: I think you're the only person on this planet that could wear any jumper and still look good in them. -SH
• Stranger: Why on earth would I want you to go slower? Why would I want to draw this out even more? You're never gonna-- No. I'm not talking to you, you're dead, for fuck's sake. Let's just get this over with. There must have been something you needed me to know, for some twisted reason, I don't know. Something. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• I think you actually want to hang on me as long as you can. Because you don't really believe I'm dead, do you? You probably asked for me not to be dead and that's why you still keep texting me. You have the tiniest bit of hope that maybe I was just so brilliant again and just did another trick of mine and survived. That's why you keep texting my phone and you know it. And because you want to find out what I actually want to say, why I did this. Not just this texts but also why I jumped. Well, John, if you really want to know, then keep going. When I'm wrong (and I doubt that) then now would be the last real chance to stop with this. And now the fact: You make the best Risotto I've ever ate, it's even better than the one my mother makes. If I had an option, it would be the only food I would ever actually eat without you forcing me to do so. -SH
• Stranger: I just-- God. I don't know why I'm still replying. Or actually, I do. Yes, hell yes, I don't want to believe you're dead. I don't. You'd never just-- I don't know. But I can't hold on to that. I really can't. I'm not doing too well right now as it is, I don't need you to keep hovering over me for the rest of my life. So, do me a favour and sod off, okay? Tell me what you need to tell me, out of the past and mind me, your coffin even, and then sod off. Please. I can't do this. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• You: Well John, now is no turning back anymore. I know how much this hurts you and I know what I'm probably doing with this to you but you still want to know so I'm going to tell you: I jumped to protect you. Moriarty had sniper that would kill you (and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade) if I wouldn't so I jumped to protect you. There, now you know the truth. But there's something else I want to tell you, the real reason why I did this. My life wasn't the best from the start, I had many, many dark moments, so dark I never thought they would brighten again but let me tell you this: You made my life a happier one and I can't believe I'm typing that but...you were loved by me and there's no tragedy in that. -SH
• Stranger: So. Three hours and one rather ridiculous crying fit later, and I still don't know what to respond. Whether to respond, actually. I mean, I guess I thank you? For telling me the truth? I don't know. It's better to know that you didn't just-- do it, you know? That you had a reason. Maybe I'll be better now, just being furious with Moriarty. Even more, at that. Still frustrated, still sad, but-- They say anger is more bearable, right? But I won't ever stop missing you, Sherlock. I won't ever stop spotting you in crowds, and scolding myself for being such a bloody fool. You'll never truly be gone. Shit. You were so much. JW
• Stranger: ((aaaaah no, have to leave to dinner now! :/ i'll leave this open, hoping we won't get disconnected, because this is too much delicious uber-angst right there, but-- shouldn't we be this lucky, i thank you and wish you a good night, dear stranger!))
• You: [Unsent message]
• I'm sorry I made you cry for apparently three hours. You don't need to thank me for anything, I am the one who should thank you. And I'm sorry you're still so frustrated and sad and have all those feelings just because of me. I know it's not easy and certainly not fair. I know I'm not fair for making you miss me even more than you do. Hovering over your life like a shadow when you spot me in the crowd. Giving you even more pain when you tell yourself afterwards how a bloody fool you are. I'm sorry for all that and I know it's hard but I am, as selfish as it might be, glad that you will always think of me. I know now that you do and I'm thankful you won't stop believing in me as I won't stop believing in you, John Watson. Because /you/ are the most human being I've ever known and I'm glad that no one will ever convince you, that I told you a lie. Believe me. I was so alone as well and I owe you so much, /much/ more. I owe you a miracle, John and since you got until this point, I will give you one. -SH
• You: ((I hope you enjoy your meal, stranger! And I hope we wont get disconnected either, but just in case we do and you might want to stay in touch, here's my tumblr: kashikahatake.tumblr.com))
• You: what a bloody fool*
• Stranger: ((i'm back, i'm back! and you're still here! god bless. will type my reply now, hooray.))
• You: ((Woho :D Welcome back!))
• Stranger: This is really starting to creep me out. Not that it's something I'd be used to in the first place, texting a dead man, really not. But-- How on /earth/ could you have known that? That it's been three hours? And all those things I said when-- How could you possibly have known that? And why the fuck am I still asking you questions you'll never get to answer? Oh God, I can't take this. Please, Sherlock. Please don't be dead. And if you are, then shut the fuck up. You'll destroy me if you go on doing-- /this/. Seriously. I can't take it. I can't take you. Please, please come back. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• You want to know how I could know all those things? You really want to know why I'm able to actually almost precisely answer each and every one of your questions thought I wrote this long before you texted me those things? The answer is simple, John. It's directly in front of your eyes. Stop seeing and start observing. I know you can do that. -SH
• Stranger: I can't do anything right now. I can't do anything. I'm such an idiot for actually believing-- I can't. How many more are there gonna be? How long is this going to go on? There has to be a point where it's over. You can't have typed in thousands and thousands of texts. It's gonna be over. And then I'll really-- I don't think I should reply anymore. JW
• You: [Unsent message]
• I see, I shouldn't have asked you to deduce the answer, I guess I just caused too much confusion, didn't it? Well, I have to say I'm impressed you still kept texting me until this point but you're right. I don't have much time left to write another thousand texts. In fact, the next one is my last one. The next one is my last text I have saved for you. I don't know if you want to know it, it's different and it's short and maybe not what you want to hear. Think about this very good, John Watson. I dare say it could change everything. -SH
• Stranger: I'm not just gonna stop now, am I? And you knew I wouldn't. You always bloody knew everything. Except-- Let's just get this over with. I need you dead or alive, not this fucked up thing in between that's still allowing you to send texts. I'll just send this and get your last message and then I'll be good. I'll try, at least. I promise. Making a promise to a dead man here, I'm clearly gonna be fine. Go on. JW
• You: Open the door for me, John. -SH
• Stranger: There actually was a long moment when nothing happened; nothing at all. It was painfully silent. In fact, the silence screamed at him with breathtaking intensity, yelled some blatant insults right at his face for believing, /actually/ believing this for even a second. Then, after a while, his sight blurred until he couldn't stare at those few simple words anymore, because he cried, yes, bloody cried. /Again/. He couldn't go to the door, couldn't, wouldn't, never, /needed/ to. But he couldn't move. His body just wouldn't do anything except shake, all the while producing more and more hot, silent, awfully pathetic tears that quickly dampened the front of his jumper. Why on earth would he send him something like this? Why would he ever want him to be /this/ miserable? How could he even /think/ of-- Suddenly, he found himself moving, and then before he knew it, his hand was on the doorknob, trembling, turning--
• You: And revealing a tall, dark haired figure on the other side of it. Sherlock had shorter hair now and wasn't wearing his coat but a normal jacked, both things he had done so people wouldn't recognise him directly. But the eyes, the face, the entire frame (even thought a bit skinnier than usual) was the same, unmistakable one of the only consulting detective in the world. He over-looked his friend once, seeing the salty tears running down the other man's face and felt a strong ache in his chest. "I hope it's not too late to give you your miracle?" he finally brought out, giving John a small but genuine smile.
• Stranger: Had he known this would happen, actually fucking happen in real life, and believed it, too, he would have definitely planned to glare. Stay right there, standing in the door frame, preferably up straight with squared shoulders and that particular determination in his eyes that he'd grown accustomed to over his years in the army, not moving an inch as he stood and stared and waited for Sherlock to explain himself. But, fucking hell, he'd never even /dreamed/ of this happening, hadn't even dared to make himself believe for a second that this could actually be possible, too afraid of how lost he'd feel upon realising that it was just a feeble little fantasy. It had just never been an option, ever. And now-- now there he was, right in front of him, right in his reach. And it didn't even take him a second to lunge at him, wrap his arms tightly around him, press his face against his jacket. And sob without any restraints, like the lost little boy that he was. Well, not anymore.
• You: Sherlock stood there for a second, feeling nervous and unsure, when he was painfully honest with himself. For just that one tiny second he was even a bit afraid of what John would do. Punch him, smash the door into his face, yell at him, all of those possibilities including that his friend would want him to leave again, to stop fucking up his life and just leave him alone. And right after this one, brief second all he really was confronted with was his best friend, hugging him tightly and sobbing into his shoulder. Without any hesitation Sherlock wrapped his long arms around the shaking body of the doctor, pressing him even closer and burying his own face in the sandy coloured hair, inhaling deep. A wave of pure relief washed over him that he didn't need to go, that his return was actually everything he had hoped for and then just that tiny bit better. "I'm so sorry, John." he mumbled into the hair of his friend, "So, /so/ sorry." he continued, feeling as if he couldn't repeat it often enough. He had never felt so sorry in his life, ever. For nothing. And now it seemed as if this emotion was about to almost kill him since he saw John again, saw, no, /felt/ how hard it had been for him, how much he had hurt him. But now he was back and he could fix everything again. Now, everything would become better.
• Stranger: He wasn't even too sure that this was reality, even now, even as he could actually feel Sherlock's body against his own. It could have just been an insanely convincing dream, a huge fantasy, that sort of unbelievably strong hallucination that people with brain tumours described as haunting, and that meant that his mind had finally given up and just-- /snapped/. Truth be told, he didn't even care. Right now, he couldn't have given the tiniest fuck if it was real. He just needed to cherish this moment for as long as possible, and consequently, he pressed himself to Sherlock as close as possible, clinging helplessly, wordlessly. Breathing him in, the all too familiar scent soothing, tranquilising. Only very, very slowly did he manage to relax, just a little, and felt himself nod faintly. Just don't go, he wanted to say, just don't ever leave me again, please. But he was still choking on his own tears. Stay with me, please.
• You: "Always." Sherlock mumbled, as if he knew exactly what John had thought right this moment. "I will always stay with you, John." he continued, smiling slightly into his friend's hair. "I never really left you, actually. I was always close and watched over you as good as I could." he admitted, remembering all those times he had followed John to Tesco or to his work or just to a pint with Mike Stamfort. He had always watched him, had always made sure no danger would treat his best friend while he hunt down the assassins that had tried to kill him. "Can you forgive me?" he eventually asked, silently, almost inaudibly.
• Stranger: Again, it took him a long time before he could react. This was just-- so much. He /felt/ so much. It was as if he needed to burst in order to cope with all the ridiculous emotions crowding behind his chest, drowning any remotely coherent thought without any hint of mercy. Sherlock's voice calmed him down further, yes, his scent, yes, the warmth of his body and the long arms holding him safely, more of a promise than his words could ever give. But he couldn't stop shaking for now, couldn't stop the tears. They were tears of joy, though. Finally, now. "Sh--Shut up", he managed to sputter in between sobs, his voice muffled against the fabric of Sherlock's jacket. Of /course/, that meant. Of course, you stupid fucking idiot.
• You: He couldn't help but smile at the words John threw his way. He understood them, right the second he heard them and even thought it seemed impossible, he just hugged his friend that tiny bit closer, aligning their bodies just perfectly from head to toe. God, he had missed John so much, even if he had been the one who had been able to watch the doctor, he had still missed him, his smell, his touch, his smile, his voice, his laugh, his tea, his complaining about Sherlock playing the violin at three in the morning, his caring nature, his Risotto, his stupidity and brilliance, his eyes, his loyalty, his teasing, his acceptance, his gentle vetting from Sherlock's wounds whenever a case had been too turbulent and just everything, /everything/ about John, good John, brave John, kind John, lovely John, waiting John, believing John, /his/ John. "I love you." he blurted out, suddenly, all at once, as if he couldn't take it anymore, as if the words had just demanded to be said, had moved his lips and tongue without himself being aware of it, being in control of it and- "I love you." he repeated, swallowing against a lump in his throat. "I love you and I've missed you and I never leave you again and I'm just so sorry and I just..." he broke off, unsteady, unable to take all those unfamiliar, heavy emotions inside him that just searched their way to the surface of his soul. Everything he had always repressed, had always hidden or had convinced himself didn't exist in his perfectly analytical mind, everything just bubbled up now in one, huge rush of emotions, like a tsunami, unstoppable until it would all be out and over and /finally/ said.
• Stranger: Right. At that, he actually froze. Well, as much as one could freeze when your body was still refusing to calm down, refusing to stop trembling all over like some sort of liquid, a little puddle maybe, that just had to be irritated once and then continued to stir, eternally perturbed. Yes, he did feel perturbed. A perpetuum mobile of shivers and tears. And yet, he managed to stiffen in Sherlock's arms. If this was a hallucination, it was an incredibly cruel one, scandalously, heartbreakingly cruel. It had to be true, please, he begged his own, non-existent brain tumour, please, please, be true. Should he suddenly find himself in his bed, alone in the dark, panting as he'd just woken up from /this/-- he wouldn't be able to take it anymore. Not now. Not now that he'd heard /this/. He didn't even dare to look up, he couldn't move, again, caught in this oddly complete sort of rigour. Love, he'd said. Love. One simple word, just a tiny little sound that echoed through his empty mind again and again, over and over, right until it lost any meaning to it, just to come back out of the blue and strike him again with the sheer incredibility-- "Love", he repeated out loud, his voice ridiculously hoarse. And now move. Come on, don't leave him hanging, show him. One hand on Sherlock's back curled, slowly, just the tiniest bit, only just enough to brush two fingers over his back, barely even worth being called a stroke. And then, an equally tiny whisper: "Yeah." Right now, his equivalent of: I love you, too. Love you, love you, love you. Jesus, what was actually happening?
• You: Sherlock felt John stiffen in his embrace and a coldness unfolded itself in his inside he never thought he was able to feel. It was a icy coldness, scratch that, it was beyond ice-cold by far. It felt as if someone had just poured liquid nitrogen into his inside, freezing everything into something unmoving, something cold and stiff and /afraid/. 'You ruined it. You ruined everything.' shouted a voice inside his head at him, loud, so very, very loud and it repeated itself over and over and over again until it felt like his head was spinning with the two sentences, his inside was hurting from the coldness and he almost loosened his grip, almost got away, almost just left because he couldn't bear that he had just destroyed everything that had ever been important for him when there was suddenly a reply. A hoarse, quiet, reply. One word. 'Love'. Sherlock stopped in the middle of his actions, or better say, at the middle of preparing for a move when he heard this. Confusion tingled in the back of his head, confusion and irritation and something warm, bright and soft as well. Hope? John's fingers suddenly moved, ever so slightly, brushing over his back in the lightest of touches. Hope, definitely and unmistakably hope. And then there came another tiny whisper out of this perfectly shaped mouth, a simple word, an simple, flat, word that meant so much more than just that in this very moment. It was acceptance, more than acceptance it was permission, it was reciprocation it was /right/, what he had done, what he had said, it hadn't destroyed everything it had been /right/. "Thank you." he let out, almost too quietly to be audible but he couldn't care less about that fact. Instead, he just pressed a kiss to John's hair. "Thank you." he repeated himself, kissing John's temple, "Thank you.", his cheek, "Thank you." and with a pit hesitation, with a permission-seeking glance, finally, just chaste and innocent and soft, John's mouth. 'Thank you.' he thought again and meant it, meant it in every way possible. Thank you for waiting for me, thank you for being there for me, thank you for accepting me, putting up with me, for understanding me, believing in me, thank you, thank you so much for loving me back.
• Stranger: ((i'll just have to struggle with all my overwhelming feels here for a second, hold on.))
• You: ((It's alright, I'm basically struggling myself because this is just so...wow. You're seriously an absolutely amazing and brilliant writer and I swear, I love your style. I would immediately read your fanfictions, if you appear to have any. And I mean it, you're just gorgeous, it's rare I ever find anyone so purely fantastic to write with. Thank you for that!))
• Stranger: It seemed to be impossible, simply impossible and truly out of this world, but all those lovely little thankyous, they actually got him to breathe calmly again. His breathing pattern became even again, his racing heart, all the hot blood rushing through his head with an immense speed, softly slowed down with every sound out of Sherlock's mouth. Because it wasn't just sounds, not just some random noises anyone could have made; it was this, it was /him/, it was words that could hardly contain all the massive truths and overwhelming confessions that stood behind. And it was Sherlock's lips, too. Gentle brushes against his skin, only hints of affection and yet so clear and big and wonderful, and in any other situation he would have been embarrassed to admit it but yes, this, /this/ did spark an inexplicably pleasant warmth inside of him. In his stomach, his chest, somewhere right around his heart, which he /did/ realise was terribly soppy, but why the hell should he care? Why the hell would he even waste the splitsecond of a thought to this, when he was standing pressed to Sherlock Holmes, finally catching his breath and running out of tears to shed, being held and comforted and /kissed/. No matter how that happened, how it would come across, he melted. Right into that last kiss, as soft and restrained as it was, he did. And it was short, but he still closed his eyes. Breathing, listening to his heartbeat, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat right in front of him. It was good. Everything would be good. He knew now.

Why start a relationship you’re not ready? Stay friends; it’s not awkward that way. why does everyone start relationships anyways? Just to be in one. Be friends. You’re better off that way. There’s no heart ache when you break up

[video]

THE TRUTH

• friend: Who's your favorite Avenger?
• me: LOKI.
• friend: But he's not even an Av-
• me: LOKI.

May 05

Ok. Love at first sight? Still think it’s bull sh*t. However, I do think that really liking someone at first sight, that is very possible. So possible in fact, that it happened to me today