Child, you don't need to know about me.
Who needs a boyfriend, I have a fandom.
general button asked:
I DEMAND THE HOLMESCEST. Mycroft goes to Sherlock’s flat to check up on him; John is away and Sherlock is absolutely manic with tension. He needs a distraction. Mycroft knows just what to do. Preferably fluffy, but it can be a sort of begrudging agreement thing. I adore holmecest fluff. Or or or you can have a post-reich fic where Sherlock is at Mycroft’s, depressed about John. Naturally, Mycroft comforts him in his own way.
Not bad, not bad! I like my Holmescest like I like my awkward apologies: Initiated by Sherlock, and perfected by Mycroft where necessary, so it’ll be more Sherlock-initated, but yes. I did the first one and I might try for the second sometime.
I AM NOT SURE WHAT I JUST WROTE.
___
“What exactly is it you are doing? Playing some sort of game?”
“The floor is lava,” Sherlock said, whipping his head up to stare at his brother. “Come here.”
Dan talking about the ruse on the paparazzi outside the Equus theater.
The Art Of Trolling by Daniel Radcliffe.
(via blagstuck)
Just a reminder that the Ponds are leaving, John still thinks Sherlock committed suicide, and Benedict didn’t win the BAFTA.
I’m not crying, there’s BBC in my eye.
I’m not crying, there’s BBC in my eye.
I’m not crying, there’s BBC in my eye.
(Source: reichenbaker, via rainbowbrigade)
