amygloriouspond:

We are all as safe as we want to be.

thescienceofobsession:

webmiri:

The Three Words of 2012.

(feat. a tiny tribute to Reapersex ;))

I fucking love this fandom.

anaeolist:

John would make a kick-ass companion. Sherlock, not so much.

hawkarse:

Sherlock | Inception AU

“Good evening, Mr. Lestrade.”
Greg froze, finger still on the light switch just inside his front door. Someone was in his house. Someone was in his house and sitting on his couch. They were sitting on his couch, wearing a very expensive suit and tie, and they knew his name.
“I’d ask how you got in, but this place isn’t exactly Fort Knox.”
The man smiled. It would have been less frightening if he’d pulled out a bloodied knife. The smile was terrifying, all power and pretense.
“I’m no novice at opening closed doors, Mr. Lestrade. I’m also not one to waste time skirting around an issue. So let’s get down to business. I have a proposition for you.”
Greg snorted. The man looked amused, but not surprised.
“Now, now, don’t be rude. Let me finish before you try and shut me down. You may not be aware but I have close friends in high places. You probably are aware that the government has been keeping tabs on you and your little operation for a while now.”
Greg must have suddenly looked panicked as the man hurried to reassure him.
“You needn’t worry, they’re not concerned with the activities of an ex-inspector. I’m not here because of them. I require the services of an extraction team.”
Greg was beginning to lose patience.
“There are plenty of extraction teams.”
He said, spitting the words out.
“How well do you know your team? Do you trust them?”
Greg thought of his team. He was proud of them, he’d never worked with a more skilled team, and he’d been in this line of work for almost 8 years now.
“Implicitly. There’s nobody better at what they do.”
The last bit wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t want this stranger to have any doubt in his mind about Greg’s feelings.
“That’s excellent. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I have a brother, you may have heard of him, although I doubt you ever had the displeasure of working with him. You’d left the force by then.”
Left the force. That was a polite way of putting it. There was something about the name Holmes that triggered a memory somewhere deep in Greg’s brain.
“Sherlock.”
He said, grasping at a name that floated to the surface. Genuine surprise flitted over Mycroft’s face but the mask of impassivity returned as quickly as it had disappeared.
“Yes, that’s him.”
The curiosity in his voice was subtle but present.
“We corresponded over the Carl Powers case. He was convinced of foul play but it was all so circumstantial. We couldn’t do anything.”
There had been almost two dozen letters exchanged between Greg and the teenage boy over the course of a few months. The kid had been nothing but persistent.
“Oh I see. Yes, I remember that time very well. I did try to explain to him how the justice system works but I recall it only served to make him very upset. My brother is a very gifted individual. His brain capacity is astounding, his observational skills far beyond that of the vast majority of the population. Naturally, this mental prowess means that my brother gets bored. Of late he has been very bored and he’s getting restless. When my brother is bored and restless…well, let’s just say that it gets dangerous.”
Greg wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.
“So where does my team come into all this?”
Mycroft smiled. Or he might have pursed his lips. It was hard to tell.
“My brother needs a distraction. A substantial distraction. I want to give him a nemesis, someone as brilliant as he is, someone who can inspire him and challenge him. Another him, to be precise.”
Greg frowned. He’d been right to not like where this was going.
“I’m an extractor. I run an extraction team. We extract information.”
He said, firmly.
“Ah, but there is another technique. One that only the most skilled of teams are capable of perfoming. And you’ve performed it before, haven’t you Mr. Lestrade?”
Greg nearly bit his tongue in his anger. In that moment he resolved to punch this Mycroft Holmes bloke in his very large nose if he mentioned Dimmock.
“Why go through all this just to entertain your little brother? Try buying him an Xbox, or a membership to a gym. It’s cheaper, and legal.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. The effect was chilling.
“I’ve already told you, my brother requires a very specific kind of entertainment.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place.
“You want my team to place the idea of a nemesis in his mind. You don’t think he’ll buy it otherwise. You want him to think that he’s thought of the idea himself.”
The cold smile of before was replaced with one that seemed almost genuine.
“Correct, Mr. Lestrade. I assure you, you and your team will be handsomely rewarded.”
“I don’t want money.”
Mycroft looked disappointed.
“I never said you did. There is something you do want though.”
Greg swallowed heavily, resisting the urge to bite his lip until it bled.
“You think you can get my job back?”
He laughed bitterly.
“No, Mr. Lestrade. I know I can get you your job back. All it would take is a single phone call. The Dimmock issue would disappear in an instant. There would be nothing stopping you from rising even higher than your previous rank of Detective Inspector.”
At the mention of Dimmock’s name Greg had stepped forward, fingers curled into a fist all ready to strike, but an umbrella jabbed him in the chest and prevented him from going through with the intended punch.
“Call your team. I’ll be waiting for you all at your favourite bar at 10 o’clock. Be prompt. We’ll discuss terms there.”
With all the grace and elegance of a dancer, Mycroft rose and strode across to the door.
“Which bar might that be?”
Greg half-shouted at him. Mycroft paused.
“You know which one.”
He said, without turning around, and then he was gone. Greg let out a sigh. This job was ridiculous, it sounded almost impossible. But he couldn’t turn it down, not without informing his team. He might lead them but they were all in it together. He would never accept or turn down such a large job without consulting them first. From his pocket he withdrew his phone. Sally’s number was first on the speed dial. If she didn’t like the idea then he would have no trouble convincing the other’s to decline. But if she was in favour of it…there would be no turning back.

ivyblossom:

There are lots of things that occur to me far later than they should. The thing about Mrs Hudson that I should have noticed but didn’t was the first one: I’m sure there will be a million more, because I am not particularly detail-oriented, to be honest. This is the second thing I just realized: Sherlock didn’t originally want John to be his assistant. He wanted Anderson to play that role.

Sherlock: Who’s on forensics?
Lestrade: Anderson.
Sherlock: Anderson won’t work with me.

Not Anderson is an idiot, but Anderson won’t work with me. Sherlock then proceeds to take John along with him to a crime scene, and is remarkably patient and accommodating with him. Why does he do that? Sherlock is neither patient nor accommodating as a general rule. When John deduces only the most obvious and basic details about Jennifer Wilson’s death, Sherlock isn’t scornful at all. Why does he do he behave this way?

Lestrade: He’s not your assistant.
Sherlock: I need an assistant!

We know he doesn’t bring John along for his own innate skills, because when John asks why he’s there, as they’re standing over Jennifer Wilson’s body, Sherlock says, “Proving a point.” He doesn’t really care what John has to offer to the investigation of the crime scene, that’s why he’s not bothered by John’s simple description of the cause of death. That wasn’t the point.

He’s trying to make Anderson jealous.

These two appear to have a tumultuous relationship; they must have argued over bodies before. Sherlock must respect Anderson’s abilities; why else would he want him as an assistant? So Sherlock wants to demonstrate, in the most childish way possible, that if Anderson won’t play ball, he will lock him out altogether. That’s the worst thing Sherlock can imagine: being tantalizingly close to the crime scene and his own dazzling deductions, but not be able to hear them or participate.

So Sherlock slams the door in Anderson’s face. It’s not because noting that Rache is a German word is dumb (It was something that passed through Sherlock’s mind as well, as we know); it’s becauseSherlock is proving his point.

 I don’t need you. See? See me not needing you? How do you like that, Anderson? HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? I can deduce the fact that you’re cheating on your wife with Sally, I know what you were doing last night. See? Aren’t I good? That’s how good I am. You want to be my assistant, Anderson, don’t you. You need to, because I’m dazzling and you need to watch me. If you ask really nicely I might let you act as my assistant next time. I just might. 

Sherlock doesn’t realize at that point that the perfect assistant for him is John. Anderson won’t fire a bullet with the steadiest of hands through a window for him. Anderson won’t help him behave appropriately in social situations and smooth out the rough edges of his interactions. Anderson may admire Sherlock’s abilities, but he’d never say so out loud. Anderson will never love him. John’s arrival utterly alters the job description of “assistant” for Sherlock. We never hear the word “assistant” again, in fact (to my knowledge).

Sherlock’s reactions toward Anderson, and all the negative things he has to say about him thereafter, appear, in this light, to be more a reaction to Anderson’s rejection of Sherlock than any scornfulness about his abilities. 

Sherlock has the emotional life of a nine year old.

Jumbo Jet. Dear me, Mr Holmes, dear me.

would-you-like-a-jelly-baby:

pernillo:

atrickstertype:

Most in-character thing I’ve seen so far.

I just made the ugliest snort ever. Because it COULD happen like this. 

Please let this happen.

CRUNE SCENE- DO ME