Skull Art Exhibition in Chicago starts 31 May!
I first watched A Study in Pink on the iPlayer after reading an article in The Guardian. I didn’t know it was a modern version, but I watched because I love Martin Freeman. This moment however was the moment I thought “Wow. Who the fuck is that?” Benedict won me over by coffee, black with two sugars. I watched ASiP eight times before The Blind Banker aired the next week.
That was almost three years ago now and since then, this little programme has been with me through some of the most turbulent times of my life. I have met some amazing people through mutual love and I take great pride in being a small part of this crazy fandom.
I love you all. Even the mental ones.
Thank goodness we never have to worry about that because here you are and hopefully here you’ll always be.
The Friday affirmations are gonna go three levels deep today. Me riffing on Moffat, FridaFrag riffing on me, me riffing back on FridaFrag.
Start roundhouse kicking your way to success today.
There it is. Do that. That. You want to be fandom famous? Famous famous? Successful as a writer? Write your guts out. Forget watching TV or surfing Tumblr for three hours. Write and you’ll succeed. But you have to write like you’re on fucking fire.
Agreed. You’ve really got to sit down and write. You want this? WORK FOR IT. Walk right up to that “writer’s block” (a procrastinative fiction, one I’m very good at entertaining) and roundhouse kick it in the face! It is no match for the will to write.
Writer’s don’t get anywhere by sitting and *thinking* about writing. They write, every day, because if they don’t there’s this permeating feeling of discontent that creeps into their lives and settles there. Write something: a sentence, a paragraph, 10 pages. It could be utter nonsense, it could be genius, but how are you going to know if you don’t fucking put some sort of words on a page?
Ever since reading this marvelous chapter of Chasingriversong’s Headmaster fic, drawings like these are relevant to my interests.
/shoves these in your face and runs
“You look lonely,” said the moon.
“Alone is not the same as lonely,” said the little boy, swinging his feet. “Not the same at all.”
“That is true,” agreed the moon, for she always spoke the truth. “And you are only one of those things.”
The little boy stopped swinging, for he was a clever little boy who often heard more than what was said. “I’m not alone here?” he queried, looking all around.
“You are not,” said the moon, glowing brighter with her words. “Your friend is waiting.”
“I don’t have friends,” dismissed the little boy, swinging his foot again. “And I don’t see anybody.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” said the moon. “Perhaps you aren’t very good at it?”
The little boy scowled and sat up straighter in his swing. “I’m too good at it,” he replied, for there was a reason he was out here all by himself.
“Hmm,” said the moon. “Well, some looking is harder than others,” she acknowledged. “And finding a friend can be the hardest thing of all.”
“Who’d want me for a friend?” asked the little boy. “‘Only an idiot’, apparently.” He sniffed. “And why would I want to be friends with an idiot?”
“Oh, I see,” said the moon, her light dimming somewhat. “And do you believe everything that others tell you?” she asked. “Or only the things you fear to be true?”
The little boy fell silent. “What’s it to you, anyway?” he asked, after a while.
“Oh, nothing really,” said the moon. “You’ll meet one day, whatever happens - that much is written far above my orbit.”
“You’ve been up there for over four million millennia,” said the little boy, for he had not yet deleted astronomy. “Why do you care about a few human years?”
“The answer’s in the question,” replied the moon.
The little boy was quiet for a long time.
“Because you know what it means to be solitary,” he said.
And he jumped down from his swing.
Tight jeans and heels? A man need wear nothing else. Nothing else.
Manna asked for a greaserlock in heels too! here you go <3
misswiz Sarah-Jane S
Oh. My. God.
tea. tea everywhere.
You know in cartoons where they get conked on the cranium and birds fly around their head before they pass out? Yes, well, these birdies are awful prett—OUT COLD.
This is so delightful I have little stars in my eyes. Few hundred words. You have time to read this.
Sherlock are you busy?
No. Aren’t you?
No. Light day.
So you can text me while you’re working, but I can’t text you?
You do text me.
They’re not the prettiest shoes he’s ever seen. Then again, when he first saw them John had been living at 221B for fifty-two days and hadn’t taken much notice of high heels, well, ever.
Because none of his girlfriends wore heels. Not one. If John thinks about it, he’s pretty sure it’s because in heels each of them would have been taller than he, and maybe they thought that would matter to him. Or maybe it mattered to them.
Except that’s not the point.
The point is that when John first saw the violin heels all those years ago he’d barely known Sherlock a couple months and so he didn’t associate the shoes with his flatmate, though he did amuse himself wondering what kind of song Sherlock might compose on such a strange instrument. Would it be fast, like the staccato beat of a quick stride? Or mournful, like the dark world in which he so often moved?
John remembers he’d grinned, moved on, flight of fancy forgotten.
And then time passed and flatmates became lovers became fiancés became husbands, and five years on John happened across those odd heels again, and though they weren’t the prettiest shoes he’d ever seen—no grand bows, gems, or jewel tones—John bought them for his lithe love.
And that’s when Sherlock showed him the kind of song you compose on such an instrument.
The tune begins a cappella, the vocalist one tall man laughing, amused by his strange and silly gift.
The song then becomes a capriccio piece with the quick and lively clatter of heels across a bedroom floor.
Soon thereafter the tune shifts into something for two voices, singers achieving a fine harmony of high giggles and low murmurs.
The piece then moves in slow and stately progression to something almost hymn-like, reverent and hushed. By far the longest portion of the song, this section is full of the soft susurration of fingers across flesh, of whispers against the fine shell of ears.
Eventually the tune ramps to its staccato and atonal conclusion, one singer’s voice breathy and profane as he comes, the other dark and loud as he follows long minutes after.
The violin heels aren’t the prettiest shoes either of them have ever seen, no, definitely not, but in the end beauty finds a way, it always does.
Dvancecinco thought these shoes needed a fic to go with them; I did too. Story: Atlin Merrick; Shoe submission: A Cumberbatch Of Cookies; Shoe designer: Kobi Levi.
You beautiful, fidgety, mannerism-prone creature.
Also, originally I wanted this to be a penis Friday post, because when Benedict licks his lips like that I—
[Transmission lost due to imminent crudeness]
The Look didn’t start with Sherlock, oh hell no. John was straight-up, no-nonsense way the fuck before he knew a certain cranky consulting detective.
The good doctor’s legendary look started the day he did rounds with his first batch of interns, the first time he was actually responsible for other people.
Years later, by the time he and Sherlock fell hard into one another’s orbit, The Look was without flaw and so evocative with Your shit? I’m taking precisely none of it, that within weeks Sherlock learned to 1) avoid it entirely and 2) court it constantly.
Because here’s the thing you have to know about John’s look: There’s nothing else he sees when he’s turned it on you. You are it. You’re everything.
So maybe that’s why Sherlock’s such an absolute dick when John’s not looking. Maybe that’s why he’ll talk too loud, offend a witness, kick Anderson’s beehive, just damn well stir shit up—because he wants that look turned on him, he wants to be everything John sees.
And when Sherlock pulls his Sherlock shit? Well John will look, of course he will, that’s how this works. Sherlock needs and John wants to be needed. That’s their balance. It may seem strange from the outside, unhinged on occasion, outright screwed-up, but know this: Whatever you think of whatever they’ve got, that thing goes beyond words and—there’s no other way to say it—into myth.
So Sherlock will strive, by any means necessary, to be worth looking at.
And John? Well, John’s going to damn well look.
Quick drawing of Martin. no more morning practice today….
Probably the last of the series, until I change my mind.
Can you see it? They fit together perfectly…
The best, funniest Ben interview I’ve ever read, and of course it’s Caitlin Moran.
I think it makes a difference when the person interviewing is famous in their own right—and brings that confidence into the interview.