hello 911 benedict cumberbatch said and read naughty things and then he winked
THIS IS REALLY MESSING ME UP
WHAT THE EVER LOVING BOLLOCKING FUCK
MAKE IT STOP IM CRYING
NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOO
this picture will be on the cover of my autobiography
If Benedict Cumberbatch (a man who used to say “Oh Crumpets!”) is now seeing how many swear words he can fit into one four-minute interview as well as pinching your arse and flipping you off in public, who, exactly, do you think is to blame for that, Martin?!?
(I wanted to sketch something cute, but angst!)
Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bart’s for a second time. He looked out over London, one final glance at the city he loved. This time though, this time, there was no back up plan and he didn’t want one.
There was no reason for a fail safe, not anymore. He reached up and touched his eye, a smarting reminder of why. Sherlock had anticipated the punch. John was a man of action after all. What Sherlock had not predicted was what John said next.
"Leave. You made me watch you die. You watched me grieve and didn’t care enough to tell me you were alive. You are dead to me."
And he had meant it. There was so much anger and hate in John’s voice and face. Sherlock could live in a world where John mourned him or even in one where John didn’t believe in him. But he couldn’t live in one where John hated him.
Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge. He closed his eyes as he felt the wind whipping around him. One last breath and —
The arms came out of nowhere, pulling him off the ledge and flush against another, shorter body. Sherlock’s eyes shot open as he felt John burying his forehead into his back. He felt, rather than heard, John’s shuddering sobs. Then, a whisper, a promise of hope, that held none of the hate and anger that had been there earlier.
Suit is in the colour of Smaug’s own colour, so, I thought it would suit tonight’s event.