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// Petition to get Benedict Cumberbatch as the next doctor//

moriatywasreal:

Reblog this if you want Bonkeyhort to be the next doctor!

(Source: petrichorrial, via petrichorrial)

John’s face.

#why did I leave the shire

(via buscemi-official)

(Source: lenmccoy, via consultingdetective)

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271899 Plays

foodnun:

comradewodka:

caramelzappa:

snakesnakesnake

you have no idea how much strange joy this video just brought me

oh my god

(via finnick-odair-in-his-under-wear)

  • You're chatting with a random stranger. Say hello!

  • You and the stranger both like johnlock, and sherlock.

  • You:

    "John?" Sherlock cupped the doctor's face in his hands, fumbling for a pulse. "John? Can you hear me? Stay with us. Please." The detective looked around, cursing. Where was that damned ambulance? "Please, John. Open your eyes."

  • Stranger:

    John wheezed out a slow breath, his eyelids flickering for a moment, "She..." The bullet had gone through the top of his thigh, the blood coming out quickly, "...Pres...sure... woun'."

  • You:

    Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, pulling off his coat, which was already soaked with too much blood, and applying around John's thigh and squeezing gently. "I've called Lestrade," the detective said, voice hoarse with worry. "He should be here any second." Looking around, he swore again. They were always hovering when bothersome, then they all disappeared when he needed them?

  • Stranger:

    John winced at the pressure Sherlock was putting on his leg and at the noise of the sirens approaching them. He tried as hard as he could to stay awake, but the blood loss and shock was making it hard. "Love... you..." He murmured before blacking out.

  • You:

    "John? JOHN." Sherlock struggled as paramedics swarmed around him, taking away his doctor. "Please, no. JOHN!" He ran towards the stretcher they had pulled John onto, trying to grab his wrist. Hands pulled him back, shoving him into that loathed orange fabric. Sherlock accepted it as the doors closed, hiding John, and wrapped it around himself, searching out Lestrade. He was going to need a lift to the hospital.

  • Stranger:

    "Come on, Sherlock." Lestrade sighed, motioning to the car, "You're not going to be much use here. Donovan, you're in charge." He shouted over to her, before getting into his car, waiting for Sherlock to hurry in and pull away quickly, sirens blaring.

  • You:

    Sherlock fell into the seat impatiently, hugging the blanket for all it was worth. What if John lost his leg? What if he... Sherlock jerked his head, refusing to think about that scenario. Especially since... John said he loved him. Was that just a, be safe, love you? Or a, I'm in love with you, love you? Sherlock's mind was buzzing far to fast from a combination of lack of sleep and adrenaline, but nothing could get him to go to sleep right now. He almost didn't realize they had reached the hospital until he heard Lestrade get out of the car.

  • Stranger:

    Lestrade gave his eyes a small roll when Sherlock took a second longer to get out of the car. He was worried too, John was a good mate and God, if he wasn't the best thing that had happened to Sherlock. He headed into the the hospital, flashing his badge to get as far through as he could, Sherlock following behind him. "He's in surgery, Sherlock." He told him, turning round to face him. "They don't know how long he'll be in there."

  • You:

    Sherlock paced up and down, fingers naturally bridging, nodding to show he'd heard Lestrade. "I'll just have to wait here then," he said, stopping and glaring at one of the plastic chairs like it personally brought down John. "He'll come out eventually, and I'll still be here when he does."

  • Stranger:

    "Sherlock, he was shot in the leg, and lost a lot of blood. There... there is a chance that he won't come out." He ran a hand over his face before looking up at Sherlock, concern clear on his face. "Do you want me to stay or I can see if I can get Mrs Hudson to come and wait with you?"

  • You:

    Sherlock whirled angrily at Lestrade's statement. "He is coming out. He's survived a bullet wound before, he can do it again. You don't need to stay, I'll be fine." By the end of his short speech, Sherlock's breath was coming out in pants and he felt the overwhelming need to sit down. He all but collapsed into the stupid chair and pulled the shock blanket he was still carrying around him and halfway over his head, wishing more than anything that it was one of John's jumpers.

  • You have disconnected.

a-wholocked-one:

when I realized what make me cry even more than sherlocks fake dead

a-wholocked-one:

when I realized what make me cry even more than sherlocks fake dead

(Source: multiblogs)

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