Did you see them, going off to fight?

WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS

(via mymphr)

twoluckyseconds:

dudeufugly:

nicegoaleh:

supernaturallychallenged:

Empty Chairs At Empty Tables sung by John Barrowman

yes very fitting indeed

Thank you for ripping my heart out…

NO STOP

This is so amazing and perfect and I love it and fuck you I hate it.

(via thatonesupercoolchick)

(via mymphr)

lost-carcosa:

Mandy Patinkin considers Inigo to be his favorite role of all time, and one can hardly blame him; in the midst of such a hilarious yarn, Inigo’s fight to avenge his father is perhaps the most moving subplot of the film. But there’s another layer to this tale: it turns out that not long before taking the part, Patinkin’s own father had died of cancer. He said that while filming the final duel between Inigo and Count Rugen, he imaged it as a fight between himself and that cancer. That whole habit of art imitating life allowed Patinkin the opportunity to truly mourn his father. So if watching that scene doesn’t already make you tear up, it probably will next time. If it already had you crying, you’ll be weeping into buckets from now on.

(source)

(via thatonesupercoolchick)

fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic:

Sherlock discusses the traits that Hamish gained from John and himself.

WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!?! 

Now that that’s out of my system….This was really wonderfully written and I loved the entire thing. It’s not terribly long but the impact is huge. I still have tears in my eyes. It’s emotional but sweet, when they’re discussing the traits Hamish has. I can imagine this child vividly, the perfect combination of John and Sherlock. But the end. God the end. This is wonderful and heartbreaking and go read it now please :3

Word Count: 1163

My Rating: A

Read it here, fic by CrayolaDinosaurs

(via goldenheartedrose)

Also, Tiny Daniel must have been adorable.  And also I love Sam’s dress in this scene.  And also I want to punch the Gamekeeper in the teeth.  And also now I want to read all of the tiny Daniel fics.

(via goldenheartedrose)

doubleadrivel:

A Study in Pink » The Reichenbach Fall

Bookends.

How can there even BE a Season 3? HOW??!?

And today, marks the fourteenth year. On this day, there were those you loved - whom you lost. Today, wands rose and the awful fell. Good folk don’t always come out of bad wars. Fourteen years ago, today, a battle was forged and won by the better but not without loss. And it’s today that we keep them, the fallen of The Battle of Hogwarts, in our memory. Rest in peace, friends.

(via praisethemofftiss)

cmcross:

How about love?

(via goldenheartedrose)

missgreenie14:

withanniegone:

pernillo:

reichenfeels:

A year ago, today by ~fangqian

oh my god. It took me a moment and then when I saw it….ALL THE TEARS.

I just torture myself with hurt

That thing where I make crying noises and faces but no tears come out.

CAN’T EVEN

(via praisethemofftiss)

praisethemofftiss:

whitstableoyster:

king-of-napoleon-crime:

theravenclawwhofellfordrarry:

kalesgo:

theonlysanewoman:

That’s okay. I didn’t need to be happy today. Who needs happiness? That crap is overrated.

Oh yeah I don’t give a shit about the fact i’m choking on the bloody tears falling down my face. I’m dying I’m dying Gawsh leave me alone with my tears.

Shit I can’t help this. It hurts so much.

this was me when watching the video…. I was crying so hard. 

OOC: Instead of a WHY WOULD YOU POST SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!?!?!?!?!?! Gif, I want one that says WHY WOULD YOU FUCKING MAKE SOMETHING LIKE THIS TO FUCKING TORTURE EVERYONE IN THE FANDOM THAT HAS READ/SEEN/HEARD OF THIS FIC! FUCK 

I’ll love you for a thousand more.
Scuse me.
Need to cry. 

Oh the tears. They pour from my eyes. 

Even now, his sanity is wearing thin. It has been four and a half months, Sherlock. How much longer do you think his ordinary mind will be able to endure your lie? MH

Stop it. SH

Do not ever refer to John as ‘ordinary’ again. SH

(via hightopsandhinkypunks)

moriartays:

tugamaggie:

fuckbyte:

behindtintedglass:

fandombeatslife:

sherlockspeare:ktbakerstreet:tangofox:valeria2067:ununpentium:

It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.

Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.

He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.

There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.

It was Sherlock.

It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath.  For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.

But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.

“SHERLOCK!”

For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.

The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.

~

Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.

“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”

Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”

He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.

Take care of him.

- SH

He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.

Please.

- SH

Seconds later, his phone chimes.

Already picked him up.  Have been following him since he left Baker Street.

- MH

And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.

He’s crying.  I don’t know what to do.

- MH

There is anger in that message.  And desperation.  And remorse.  And most of all—there is guilt.  The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone. 

Neither do I.

- SH

He never sends that last message.

BRINGING THIS BACK OKAY

(via praisethemofftiss)

When someone passes, they leave behind a thousand tiny unfinished things; half-full cans of beans, coffee rings, receipts and shampoo bottles and hair in the shower drain, a bedroom light left on, a sock in the back of the washer, the slightly irritating debris of everyday life.  Sherlock is no different, except as well as all the normal relics there are other things, ridiculous things, cultures and test tubes and unidentified petri dishes that John has no idea what to do with.

Somehow these things become offensive to him. He is reminded of a documentary he once watched on the Mary Celeste, a ship from the 1800s that was found floating unmanned on the ocean  with everything from meals to half-finished sewing left exactly in place, as if every passenger stood up as one and threw themselves overboard. He feels a stranger in his own shared space. He’d never really realised before how much room Sherlock took up; his clutter blankets the living room and kitchen (his bedroom is pristine), a hundred surfaces that John cannot touch because Sherlock has already claimed them.

Once he tries to find somewhere to put his tea and can’t find an available surface; he yells for Sherlock to come and shift some of his rubbish, and when there is no answer he is enraged— not because Sherlock is gone, but because he just left, and he could have at least cleaned up his mess before he threw himself off a roof. Before he can stop to think he has grabbed a bin bag and started throwing things in—wrappers and Rubix cubes and sheet music, a half-eaten biscuit, a glass he couldn’t bear to wash because it bore his fingerprint, all of the little signs that tell him that Sherlock will be back any moment, because they’re lying. He straightens Sherlock’s unmade bed, switches off the bathroom light that has been burning for god knows how long, clears the table, throws out the dirty washing (he could wash it, give it to charity, but the idea of someone else wearing Sherlock’s clothes makes him ill) and finally he stands barefoot in the living room with three bulging black bags at his feet, breathing hard and fighting back tears. Of all the things in the flat it is the empty chair opposite that stops him. For a wild moment he feels like throwing that away, too; like breaking off the legs and ripping open the cushions and tearing out the stuffing, burning it in a disused lot somewhere and scattering the ashes. But he doesn’t.  Instead he realises that it’s pointless. He could rip up the carpet, tear down the wallpaper, leave nothing but a scarred and empty room and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. The flat is no longer his. It’s Sherlock’s, probably always has been, and if he got rid of the chair where would Sherlock sit?

(via praisethemofftiss)