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anyone: martin freeman is straight martin freeman: 

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What would be your best prediction for how The Johnlock Kiss is going to happen?

They’re arguing as they come in the door from Baker Street, Sherlock insisting on his solution to their current case and John arguing that it doesn’t make sense. Sherlock pauses before his foot even hits the first step, and he whips back around, spitting in disbelief, “Are you always this blind, or are you doing it just to annoy me?”

“Oh, ta for that,” John retorts, throwing Sherlock a glare. “I know, I know–I see but don’t observe. Christ knows you’ve said it enough. Why don’t you just explain it to me instead of acting like an arse?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s absurdly simple,” he says, advancing on John. “If you would just think for once, you wouldn’t need me to explain it. The rope, John. Think about the rope.”

John’s brow wrinkles as he tries to put together the pieces, but after a moment he shakes his head. “I don’t…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m in love with an idiot,” Sherlock mutters, under his breath, the words coming out before he can think to stop them.

John’s eyes go wide and his breath hitches, the sound of it comically loud in the quiet of the entryway. Panic flares across Sherlock’s face before he turns and bolts for the stairs, John whipping his arm out to catch the sleeve of his coat, just in time. “Wait,” he whispers, breathless. He tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve to spin him back around, to see if Sherlock really said what John thinks he heard, but Sherlock’s face is carefully shuttered–a blank slate–though John thinks he can see fear still flickering behind those quicksilver eyes. “Did you just…”

“I, I-” Sherlock stammers, his voice betraying his collected exterior. “I meant as a, a frien-”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting Sherlock’s denial off in one smooth slice. “Don’t do that.” John transfers his grasp from Sherlock’s sleeve to his wrist, pulling him back down the steps until they’re on even ground, face-to-face, inches apart. John forces a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill him with courage and the unfamiliar warmth of renewed hope. “Did you mean it?” he whispers, the words pushed from his chest on gossamer wings.

Sherlock’s lips part and close, part and close, as he tries to make his mouth form the word. When it finally emerges, it’s little more than air in the shape of a yes.

John’s face does something complicated, looking as if it might crack under the strain of emotion, but Sherlock can’t quite read what that means. The moment spools out long and quiet and fragile, Sherlock too afraid to ask if John feels the same, John too afraid to believe that this could possibly be real. 

But then finally, finally John is pressing up on his toes, closing the distance between them, The kiss is tentative at first, a dry brush of lips, the barest hint of pressure, sweet and a little unsure, but when Sherlock’s lower lip slots between John’s, John risks swiping his tongue against it, warm and wet and smooth, and Sherlock’s lips part at the sensation, allowing John’s tongue to slip inside and curl against his own in short, soft strokes. John’s hands find Sherlock’s face, one cupping his jaw while the other slides back to thread into his hair, and Sherlock’s arms slip around his waist to pull him closer.

When they eventually trail off into smaller kisses, John plants a final, lingering one against the corner of Sherlock’s lips, which twitch up into a tiny smile.

John’s eyes are still starry, glazed over by Sherlock’s admission, and he shakes his head as he tries to process it, mumbling to himself, “I didn’t realise.”

“I told you you were blind,” Sherlock replies, his smile growing until it becomes a chuckle, his happiness rumbling deep in his chest. And John joins him, the two of them laughing together like that first night at the bottom of the stairs all those years ago. Sherlock catches his eye again as the laughter fades, the moment smoothing out again into something serious but soft. “I love you, John.” The words are weighty and real and full of Sherlock’s relief at finally being allowed to put them out into the world. 

“I love you, too,” John says, already leaning in to kiss Sherlock again. “Idiot.”

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i want this shot of like, 221b in the dark, okay, it’s nighttime and you’re in the sitting room and it’s dark, but the light is on in the kitchen and it’s spilling out onto the rug, just barely illuminating the silhouettes of their two empty chairs. so the shot moves forward and there’s the clinking sound of people moving around, and maybe john’s low voice coming through, nonsense words really, there you go and how is that, and the shot moves around the corner so you’re looking into the kitchen.

and in the kitchen only the light above the table is on so the corners are all still dark, but it’s sherlock sat on the table, his legs sort of hanging, his toes just brushing the lino because he’s tall, and john standing between his knees with a latex glove on and a look of concentration and he’s dabbing something on a wound on sherlock’s forehead, the both of them speaking very quietly like if they were to speak at a normal volume it might shatter something in the night, murmuring back and forth with that specific sort of humor that people use when they’re worried or nervous about something and trying to play it off, you know the one i mean, the kind of humor that seems a little too forced and too quiet but everyone laughs a little because they’re grateful for it, they’re grateful for this act of normalcy even if it’s just pretend. and john is leant a little too close and his eyes are worried, too worried, and sherlock shifts under his touch because the look in john’s eyes makes him unbearably guilty for all the worry john’s carried, for other head injuries john’s seen him bear and not been able to save him from, and it’s quiet and their gentle laughter sort of peters out as john puts aside the antibiotic and takes off his glove, still standing between sherlock’s knees. there you are, he says, right as rain, and sherlock dips his head a little to avoid those bright, worried eyes, and says thank you, and sorry you keep having to do this, and john blinks with a tiny smile and says you know i don’t mind, because he doesn’t, not really.

and sherlock just shrugs and looks up again, because he’s expected john to move away but john hasn’t, he’s still standing there, looking at sherlock like he means to be studying the scrape on his forehead but really just looking, in that kind of melancholy affection people get when they’re looking at a thing they love dearly but will never really have, that sort of fond resignation that this is the way things are, good enough but only because you tell yourself that, not because it really is, and sherlock looks up at john and john looks back down at him and their eyes catch and the room goes quiet, terribly quiet, more quiet than london ever really is even at night, so quiet john can hear it when sherlock swallows, so quiet sherlock almost hears it before he feels it: john reaching out and putting his hand over the back of sherlock’s where it rests on sherlock’s knee. 

and john steps closer, and sherlock doesn’t look away, and the light above the table is too bright and john thinks his eyes are too pale, too beautiful, the thin color of a creek swollen with summer rain, something lush and green just waiting on the edges but just barely out of sight, and john leans in and sherlock smells like antiseptic and the raw, tremulous edge of anticipation and fear but he doesn’t back away, he doesn’t pull his hand away

and it happens like a brush of fate, john leaning in and it’s not even a kiss, not really, it’s the corners of their mouths slipping against each other in a trembling breath, sherlock stuttering in an almost silent gasp, his lips barely parted as john just barely, just barely, touching the side of his mouth to the side of sherlock’s, and sherlock wants to reach out and grab hold of his hips but doesn’t want to startle this into stopping, and john holds his mouth there a moment, the both of them breathing in cautious sips against each other’s cheeks, and sherlock can feel john’s breath against his lips, impossibly intimate, as if john is sharing something with him, as if john is trying to share something with him that cannot be shared with words but only with this exchange of life

and when john moves away he doesn’t move away, not really, he just moves forward, mouths moving away as he presses his cheek against sherlock’s cheek, and his shoulders are shaking, and sherlock slowly slowly gently gently dares to raise his free hand to john’s waist, and he feels solid and sturdy and warm and gorgeous, and then it’s sherlock’s turn, it’s sherlock nose nudging over john’s cheek, leading the way to find his mouth and this time, properly, this time, lip to lip and sherlock can’t breathe past him because he’s there, all of him, his skin and his jaw and his fingers and his eyelashes, this push and press of mouths settling together like the plates of the earth, quaking into sherlock’s chest, underneath his ribs

and this one kiss turns into another, as softly as the sun rises into another day, and another one after that, and it’s john’s hand, protective on the nape of sherlock’s neck, the delicate press of tongues and the voices trapped in their throats under the weight of gravity, under the weight of time, under the weight of finally, until john pulls back and finds the shell of sherlock’s ear and figures out how to let it go, how to let it all go, how to lift all that weight into nothingness: i love you, sherlock. i love you. 

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okay now imagine John getting excited about something, John running up the stairs with the mail in his hand shouting, Sherlock, they said yes, they said yes! They’re publishing me! and barreling into the kitchen with the letter from a publisher accepting the novel John adapted from the blog and there’s Sherlock sitting on his stool, looking up from his microscope, and even though Sherlock had been supportive when John had started talking about turning the blog into a novel, suddenly crashing through John’s mind is every complaint Sherlock had ever made about the blog being over-romanticised and inaccurate, but then Sherlock smiles that big smile, the one where he has too many chins and the lines around his eyes sink down into his cheeks, and he jumps off his stool and dashes across the kitchen and pulls John into his arms and laughs and maybe lifts John off his feet a tiny bit and says, of course they did, they’d be fools not to, and kisses him with the grin still on his mouth and then rests his forehead on John’s and giggles and whispers Congratulations, John, in the softest most genuine voice, Sherlock excited about the things John is excited about, Sherlock supporting John, Sherlock wanting John to succeed, yes please

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Eleven + wearing other people’s clothes

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if you don’t think basil from the great mouse detective (1986) is an lgbt icon FUCK you and everything you stand for

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i love tsot and tab equally but the difference is that tab loves me back

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What It Is (English transaltion of Was es ist)

It is nonsense says reason It is what it is says love It is calamity says calculation It is nothing but pain says fear It is hopeless says insight It is what it is says love It is ludicrous says pride It is foolish says caution It is impossible says experience It is what it is says love

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reblog if ur blog is anti-nazi

if ur a nazi or neo-nazi or support nazi ideologies let this be a fucking harsh message that ur not welcome on this blog and I hope you get socked in the face

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Help Sarah move out

As you’ve probably seen heard I’ve been in a bit of a tight spot financially recently.  

Ive been working over 40 hours a week to try to save up enough for school and to move out, but my full time job is also unfortunately seasonal so i wont be back to work until March which means very little money coming in for about two months, other than what i get from my side job. So I’ll eventually have to tap into my savings which would set me pretty far back.

My health isn’t the best either so im continually having to pay for doctors visits and medical bills on top of everything. My home life is pretty toxic and I’d really like to move out as soon as I can, and be able to start school next year is very ideal. I know im not a huge contributor to the fandom but a single boost would be much appreciated.

i hate asking for money, especially publicly but any extra help i could get right now would mean so much.

You can “Buy me a Coffee” here  or a direct donation to my PayPal is here. 

Thank you guys!❤

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oscar wilde, the picture of dorian gray