BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
Yes but if they are murders how do people keep themselves safe?
Well, don’t commit suicide.
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.
Well, I am. Look at us both.
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.
Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true.
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone, because no one else can compete with my massive intellect!
BBC SHERLOCK TYPOGRAPHY POSTERS
You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’.
And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?
anonymous requested: Sherlock asks to be punished recreationally by Irene Adler
Sometimes, Sherlock gets this feeling like his skin is two sizes too small for him, feels it right down to his bones, this restlessness, this need for something he can’t identify - some form of excitement, maybe, something interesting. It’s like he wants to run and run and run until his legs ache and his lungs are screaming for air, except for Sherlock can’t ignore this feeling, can’t push it aside like everything else he doesn’t like. He simply feels on edge in a way he can’t quite explain, and no matter how many fascinating cases he takes on or how much he tries to distract himself, he doesn’t feel even the slightest bit better.
Let’s have dinner, he texts on a whim one day to a number he doesn’t ever contact, one that remains saved in his phone mostly for propriety’s sake. He feels foolish almost as soon as he sends it, sure that this is somehow proof of his own fallibility.
Exactly two minutes and twenty eight seconds later, he receives a response and stops feeling quite so silly.
I’m not hungry, the reply reads, followed by an address.
Sherlock smiles.
—
“It’s been a while, Mr. Holmes,” Irene says by way of greeting. The corner of her mouth is curved up into a pleased, if somewhat vague smile. “Does your dear doctor know you’re here?”
Sherlock arches an eyebrow and doesn’t respond, brushing past her. He hears Irene let out a light laugh as she shuts the door. The click of her shoes follows him into the house.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, leaning against the door frame as Sherlock wanders around her living room. Her new house is smaller than the one they first met in but no less posh. “I’m assuming you didn’t just come to chat.”
Sherlock turns slowly and gives her a very measured look, as if daring her to guess. Irene waits.
“I have a problem,” he says finally. “I need a distraction.”
He doesn’t bother mentioning what this problem is or how much it’s ruining his focus. He doesn’t need to, because he knows Irene can tell in the tightness around his eyes, the pinched expression he’s wearing, the tension that’s beginning to build up between his shoulders. He looks like he’s just about ready to fall apart, even though he’s trying so hard to hold himself together. He needs to learn to let go sometimes, Irene thinks, because she knows eventually he’s going to drive himself mad like this.
“I think I can offer you a solution,” Irene says carefully, trying to gauge how much force it would take to shatter him completely. She decides to be gentle with him; he’s already clinging to mere threads. “Would that be alright with you?”
Sherlock’s shoulders sag a fraction of an inch and that mask he wears so protectively slips, just a bit. Sherlock lets out a breath that might be a sigh.
“Please.”
