woah guys thanks for following. i haven’t done anything since my 221 followers giveaway so i thought i’d do something this time around since this is a really big milestone for me ahhhhh
i haven’t made anything cool this time, so this time, i’ll be getting proper prints done for the winners
1st will get THREE 4x6” prints of any of the art in my art tag
and 2 runners-up will get TWO each
All you have to do is reblog and/or like. this is going to be a short one because it’s just a small giveaway to say thanks for supporting my art and things. I’ll pick winners on 20th of October 2013 midday Australian EST. any questions, or just want to have a chat? here
Apparently the cloud glows in a variety of colors, perhaps changing from observer to observer, although all report a low whistling when it draws near. John Peters—you know, the farmer—he reports that the Glow Cloud is directly over Old Town Night Vale, and appears to be raining small creatures upon the earth.
cecillos for a friend’s birthday. i love wtnv and cecil’s voice 9/10 would recommend
(thanks to sherlottered for beta-ing and significantly improving the drabble!)
There will always be endings.
The end of our life in 221B Baker Street and our consulting positions with New Scotland Yard were two of many lasts during our time together. We moved into a little cottage in the Sussex countryside after that. Sherlock took up beekeeping as a hobby, fuelled by his fascination with their nature and hierarchy. Apart from that, nothing really changed.
He continues to use those dratted patches. Three of them— just as he always had, despite my insistence that he stop. I suppose a mind such as his is in need of constant distraction. Or stimulation. But it’s hard to get stimulation nowadays.
Every now and then I notice tics, habits that have not yet faded; the way his fingers steeple underneath his chin and his eyes drift slowly shut as the gears in his mind start to turn; and the way his dark eyes still brighten just that little bit more with each deduction; or the way his chin lifts itself ever so slightly when I challenge one of his conclusions.
I notice that he misses the hype of a new case, the adrenaline pumping rooftop chases and contaminating crime scenes. Perhaps my brain has addled in its old age, but I find myself missing the thrill of a complicated murder too. It will never be Christmas again without the serial killers, he remarks in that dry tone of his, a poor attempt at humour. I don’t find it funny, or morbid for that matter. I suppose I’ve spent too much time with him for such trivial concerns. But we both find ourselves giggling nonetheless, reminiscent of old times.
I dread the day where one of us will be left without the other.
However; those dreary thoughts do not diminish how thankful I am for the opportunity to spend what turned out to be the better part of my life with Sherlock Holmes, the man who had me captivated within minutes of our first meeting at Bart’s, whose eccentricity and unrelenting pursuit of knowledge was unrivalled by any other I have met and will ever meet.
He was the man who had earned my complete and utter respect and trust as a companion, who I loved and cared for more than any other.
There will always be endings. But I do hope that, if and when the time comes, he will think fondly of me, like I would remember him, my best friend.
“It’s completely fine, boss,” Sebastian sighed, catching the way Jim rolled his eyes only half playfully.
“I don’t spend this much money for you to look like a simple businessman, Moran,” came the snarky retort, tone laced with a certain bearable arrogance with an ever so slight hint of dry wit that was distinctly characteristic of the man.
As much as Sebastian hated when Jim would mess with his clothing choices, the man knew what he was talking about. And considering that tonight was a special night, Sebastian felt obliged to give Jim some leniency as to the amount of ‘fixing up’ he was allowed to do before they left the flat.
Jim, the bastard, did not waste the opportunity. At all. He’d examined everything so thoroughly Sebastian thought he was going through a fucking x-ray machine. And Sebastian had let him do whatever he had wanted so far, excluding removing his trousers again to iron a single crease.
He was just about out the door, having slipped on his best pair of black dress shoes, when a light, “uh uh, Sebastian,” drew his eyes back over to his boss’s. And Jim was wearing that smile, that smirk, the one that he knew Sebastian loved so damn much; his lips spread in an almost Cheshire grin and the usual dullness that settled in his eyes was replaced by a gentle twinkle. Jim knew it worked. And Sebastian could almost feel the smugness that radiated off the man as they stood, eyes locked.
“Your tie’s crooked,” Jim finally muttered, taking a step closer and sliding a hand between Sebastian’s tie and his shirt, the grin never so much as fading from his features. Fingers curling around the knot of the tie, Jim pulled it down, tugging Sebastian’s face down with it and capturing his lips in a quick kiss before immediately yanking it to one side and straightening it up as he pulled away.
My contribution to the post-reichenbach Sherlock fanart…
For Martin Freeman, whose acting is flawless.
“One more thing.”
John wasn’t the type to cry. He never had been.
It was only after the funeral, standing alone in front of Sherlock’s grave that he let his eyes fill with tears, determinedly blinking them back as he spoke to a man he knew wasn’t there.
"…One more miracle, Sherlock. For me…"
He stayed only a moment longer, just enough to force himself to walk away. Mrs Hudson was waiting, and it was time to go home.
The flat wasn’t as animated as it usually was, but just as unwelcoming as it always had been, various experiments and parts of furniture scattered over the floor, across tables, against walls. He’d have to clear it eventually, but he could work on that in the morning. For now—
A quiet sigh left his lips as he slumped back into his armchair and let his eyes slowly drift shut. If he let his mind go, he could imagine that Sherlock was still here. He could hear the soft tinkling of agar plates and microscope slides, of a melancholy tune being slowly developed, re-written several times, or the occasional order thrown at him from the kitchen, gradually being encroached on by Sherlock’s experiments.
He could smell distilled ethanol, and gas, and chemicals with safety profiles Sherlock had probably ignored. And the musk of wet carpet was overwhelming, indicating that it hadn’t been long since Sherlock spilt something onto it. He could see Sherlock fidgeting, lazing, rushing about, silk dressing gown fluttering along behind him, voicing various questions he’d expect John to answer as he passed by— “Typical ALT range in severe liver failure? Thought so.”
It brought a smile to John’s lips. There was a warmness to the flat that hadn’t left when Sherlock had, and John was thankful for that.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was met with the quiet stillness of the flat, and the dim glow of the streetlight outside the window. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but somehow, the warmth that radiated though his body gave him a glimmer of hope.