A few days ago I saw a post on here about a fic about Sherlock getting ahold of some lipstick? For a case, maybe? I’d love to link the fic but I can’t remember what it was called. My mind saw ‘Sherlock’ and ‘lipstick’ and latched on to that. >.<
And a corset because I had to.
-JG
I love the classic 20s vixen style for Sherlock. And John, all tousled and wrapped up like a present with that pert backside on display.
Different Sherlock portrayals as cats. Because I can.
House is the uncontrollable crazy cat.
Robert Downey Jr. cat is the flaunting type.
BBC Sherlock is the brooding cat.
Elementary Sherlock is the cuddly one.
Canon Sherlock is an awesome YouTube keyboard cat that Watson is always impressed by.
oday was the best day of my life. I can’t believe I was lucky enough to meet two of my favourite actors in the world, I can’t express how grateful I am. As I took the train to London this morning I was more nervous than I’d ever been, I thought that as soon as I saw Benedict I would surely faint or burst into tears… and I expected to be really intimidated by Martin Freeman because he’s such a big star now! But as soon as Martin came over and shook my hand I just felt happy, he was so lovely and his smile warmed the cockles of my heart. I must admit that when Benedict came over and stood next to me I felt very shaky and as though my heart was ready to burst out of my chest, but as soon as he asked my name and spoke to me it was simply wonderful. Martin was a real charmer and Benedict was so funny and unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before.
They were both so incredibly kind about my artwork, it was so bizarre having two such talented people say that something I do is “amazing”, when I look up to them so much. As they took the drawings out of the envelopes and gasped and praised me I felt like my heart was going to explode then and there. They said it was the best fan art they’ve ever received. It made me want to break down. To have Benedict Cumberbatch say I’m “talented” is something which I just can’t handle or comprehend. I just couldn’t get my head round it. I feel so overwhelmed right now, the whole experience was so very surreal. I feel so incredibly happy, it was so amazing. I feel kind of dumbstruck right now, I can’t believe it happened to me.This was the drawing I gave to Benedict as a gift, and this one for Martin. I’m keeping the signed one for myself, forever.
Also I thought I’d just point out the LENGTH OF BENEDICT’S FINGER I MEAN WHAT IS THATawesome! congrats! :D
OMG NEED
Actually have the Nightmare before Christmas one hanging on are wall already, thanks to wonderful friends
but the rest of them
NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED
If anyone ever wants to buy me something, the Cinderella one please and thank you
*0*
There is no African, myself included, who does not appreciate the help of the wider world, but we do question whether aid is genuine or given in the spirit of affirming one’s cultural superiority. My mood is dampened every time I attend a benefit whose host runs through a litany of African disasters before presenting a (usually) wealthy, white person, who often proceeds to list the things he or she has done for the poor, starving Africans. Every time a well-meaning college student speaks of villagers dancing because they were so grateful for her help, I cringe. Every time a Hollywood director shoots a film about Africa that features a Western protagonist, I shake my head — because Africans, real people though we may be, are used as props in the West’s fantasy of itself. And not only do such depictions tend to ignore the West’s prominent role in creating many of the unfortunate situations on the continent, they also ignore the incredible work Africans have done and continue to do to fix those problems.
“
| — |
Uzodinma Iweala, “Stop Trying to ‘Save’ Africa” (via cammyyy) |
“Where’s your bride?”
“Mary? Oh, she’s not my bride.”
“What?”
“No, she’s just a friend. A good friend, mind you, but no more than that.”
“What are you talking about? You’re marrying her in a little less than half an hour.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you hit your head?”
“Nope.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m dead serious.”
“Then why on earth have we gone through this rigmarole?”
“Got you here, didn’t it? And wearing a TIE, no less.”
“Of course I’m wearing a tie - I thought you were getting married today!”
“Oh, I am.”
“What?”
“Or at least, I hope to be.”
“You are making no sense whatsoever.”
“I know how you feel about me.”
“No you don’t. How do you?”
“Suspected soon after you came back, actually. But I couldn’t be sure until I saw your face when I said I was leaving.”
“So this whole thing has been… what? Punishment?”
“Would you rather I’d punched you?”
“You did punch me!”
“Well, you deserved it.”
“And did I deserve this? To have to stand here and watch while you… Oh.”
“Oh?”
“You’re not marrying Mary?”
“I’m really not.”
“But you are getting married.”
“Well, that rather depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not you’ll have me.”
“…”
“Sherlock?”
“But… One can’t just turn up in front of a vicar and get married, John. There are formalities…”
“It’s amazing what you can arrange when the British government owes you a favour.”
“But… Me?”
“Of course you.”
“But we’re not… I’ve never even…”
“If you want me. So do you, Sherlock? Do you want to marry me?”
.
.
“I do.”
prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”
