doctorjohnlock:

A parody of Jeff Buckley/Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” directed at Dr. John Watson after the fall.

Lyrics and voice are mine, I obviously claim no ownership over melody, etc.

EDIT: Looks like I’ve run out of downloads on this one! Sorry guys. Thank you to everyone who liked it enough to download it! I’m afraid that SoundCloud only offers a free user like myself 100 downloads per track. If anyone knows a good place for me to host downloads, feel free to point me that direction and I’ll upload it there in case anyone else wants to download it.

LYRICS for those that asked:

It’s stuck in your head
a dissonant chord
that sherlock played
and you yelled ‘no more’
he said ‘you don’t really care for music, do you?’
but if you had known it’d go like this
you’d have put up with every little bit
now you know he was composing hallelujah

[Hallelujah x4]

See you had your faith, Needed no proof
Till you saw him standing on the roof
And “goodbye, john” they were his last words to you
And the second he stepped off you knew
He took your heart, broke it in two
and from your lips he drew the hallelujah

[hallelujah x4]

And John you know you’ve been here before
But therapy can’t help anymore
You think that you can’t live alone
but somehow you do
There’s a yellow face upon the wall
But it’s not a smile no, not at all
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

[hallelujah x4]

Was there a time when he let you know,
what was really going on below?
See now you start to question, what was he to you?
Remember when he moved in with you
and your whole world started moving too
and every breath you drew was hallelujah

[hallelujah x4]

Maybe there’s a god above
but you learned all you could from love
And shooting at the sun won’t bring him back to you
You know that even when you were so alone
he picked you up, carried you home
after everything you owe him hallelujah

[hallelujah x8]

FUCK. DEAD!

(via doctorjohnlock)

The Biking Homeless

Anyone else speculate that the biker that clips John after the fall is one of the homeless in Sherlock’s network?

EDIT: Did anyone else notice the truck full of plastic bags? I bet Sherlock jumped into it. The body was probably mocked up to look like him by Molly, hence her help. John was forced to stay out of view of the truck, and the body, which I think was prepared and sitting on the red bench before the fall and someone placed at when Sherlock jumped into the truck.

Reichenbach

Watching it. With all of you PBS viewers.

ishipjohnlock247:

itsrightitsjustnotrightnow:

Like a best friend but more. 

perfect …..

DEAD, I’m FUCKING DEAD. THANKS!

(Source: d-ementis, via cumber-porn)

What am I to do…?

Sherlock marathon?

HELL YEAH!

akapine006:

greenparcel:

so i drew sherlock casts in fairy tales uh

guess which episode of sherlock i’m rewatching for the 102134224th times

also, alternate version for jim:

GEDDIT?GEDDIT?IT’S BECAUSE OF THE APPLE

OH MY GOD YOU HAVE DONE IT AGAIN

(via stormageddonthedarklordfall)

thescienceofjohnlock:

cumberbitchsandwich:

acciobenedictcumberbatch:

cumberbitchsandwich:

a-high-functioning-hufflepuff:

Sherlock - Its all fine, NOH8by *thenizu

This is actually one of my favourite pieces of Sherlock fan art of all time.
Fan art with a message.
Nice to see it again. Reblog.

Oh my goodness. How have I not seen this before?! Adorable and perfect.

Reblogging again, because of some of the comment hate I saw last night.
Apparently this message isn’t being heard.
Not to mention that this is still a gorgeous piece of art.

^indeed

THIS!

thescienceofjohnlock:

cumberbitchsandwich:

acciobenedictcumberbatch:

cumberbitchsandwich:

a-high-functioning-hufflepuff:

Sherlock - Its all fine, NOH8by *thenizu

This is actually one of my favourite pieces of Sherlock fan art of all time.

Fan art with a message.

Nice to see it again. Reblog.

Oh my goodness. How have I not seen this before?! Adorable and perfect.


Reblogging again, because of some of the comment hate I saw last night.

Apparently this message isn’t being heard.

Not to mention that this is still a gorgeous piece of art.

^indeed

THIS!

(Source: starkspangledjohnlock, via hislastbough)

dreamparticles:

tugamaggie:

consulting-meerkat:

tiefightervstheenterprise:

ishipjohnlock247:

ibeggedformercytwice:

stravaganza:

consulting-hobbitses:

decompositiondance:

What if he couldn’t save him, or everything was reversed?I’M SO SORRY. Don’t worry, it’s okay to hate me for this piece.

Sherlock had been wandering London for hours. The tiny flat he had cooped himself up in lent nothing to thinking, and he seemed to fancy a walk. There was something soothing about walking in the rain, and he had allowed his feet to lead him. The streets were empty, the wet and the cold driving the majority of people to stay inside, and those who had braved the weather barely gave him a first glance, let alone a second. He turned his collar against the cold and felt the rain slowly penetrating his clothing. He barely noticed.
He pulled himself out of his mind, forcing himself back to the reality and looking at the buildings lining the street. With a start, he looked over to Speedy’s Cafe. He had unconsciously wandered to Baker Street, even though he knew he should not be here. He turned tail and started to walk the way he had come from when he heard a loud bang. The few people in the street stopped, unsure of what the noise was or where it had come from, looking to each other questioningly. Sherlock knew exactly what that noise was, however. And where it had come from. He bolted over the road, barely missing a passing car, and hammered on the door of 221B. No one came, and cursing, he fumbled in his pocket for a key, then remembered he did not have one anymore. He banged again, calling for Mrs Hudson. Still no one came. She must have gone out, although Sherlock could not think why, not in this awful weather. He threw his shoulder against the door and it shook slightly, but it was strong.
A man shouted at him to stop, assuming Sherlock was up to no good, but he ignored him. He had to get inside. He had to prove himself wrong. He shoved at it again, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. The door cracked a little; he could hear the lock snap some of the wood holding it in place, and he knew a few well aimed kicks would gain him entrance. Almost falling down the stairs, he kicked with all his strength, finally finding the right spot, and the door flew open.
Sherlock flew up the stairs two or three at a time, not bothering to check whether Mrs Hudson was indeed in. He knew he would be unwelcome anyway, after three years of deceit.
The inner door to the flat was, thankfully, open, and he wretched it open. He stopped in his tracks.
Stepping into 221B Baker Street was like taking a step into a memory. Nothing had changed. It was cleaner than it had ever been, and somehow brighter, but Sherlock knew there were no new residents. They wouldn’t have kept the moose head, or the skull on the mantel. Even his violin still rested on the deck where he had left it. He took a few steps slowly in, and called softly. “John?” As anticipated, no one answered. It was almost too quiet.
He peered into the kitchen, which he had never seen so tidy in all his years living there. There were no experiments or specimens taking up the table, and it smelled of cleaner, fresh. And yet it didn’t feel lived in. It was like it had been preserved, as if on display. Filled with homely things, but empty.
He headed to the bedroom. His bedroom. ‘No’, he told himself. ‘It’s not your room, you don’t live here, you’ve no right to be here.’ He pushed at the door, which was oddly ajar.
A metallic smell filled the air, mingling with gunpowder and dampness. The curtains were drawn,  but even in the dreary half-light that filled the room, he could see an leg laying limply, protruding from behind the bed. He felt himself swaying, and grabbed the doorframe for support. He tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, but the smell of iron and powder was only getting stronger and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Please no,” he found himself muttering, and he took a few tentative steps forward, to the end of his bed.
John was sprawled on the floor. One arm was awkwardly thrown over his head, and the other hand was curled loosely round a standard issue army pistol. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glazed and vacant, and Sherlock fell to the floor at his feet. He felt a lump in his throat, and however much his brain screamed at him to run, get away, too much, too painful, his fault, his John, he couldn’t leave. He reached up and took the gun, putting it up on the bed, and wrapping his fingers around his wrist. Still warm. No pulse.
He choked, almost sobbing, and he leant forward, wrapping his arms around John’s lifeless body and pulling it to his chest. Breathing was becoming harder, and the smell of blood increased. The sight of the needlessly large pool of blood on the floor hit Sherlock like a freight train, and he forced himself to look away. He burrowed his nose in John’s hair. His smell hadn’t changed, he smelt like tea, moderately expensive aftershave, shampoo, and faintly of gunpowder.
Sherlock felt his eyes sting, and tears formed in them. He cradled his friend. The pain seemed to consume him, pain like he had never felt anything close to before, and his skin prickled with goosebumps.
“Sherlock?! Jesus, no…” a voice came from behind him. Sherlock had not heard the sirens and footsteps behind him, and barely registered the man now barking down the phone and running his hands through his hair. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and tried to shrug it off.
“Go away,” he growled, his voice cracking and low, but the hand only gripped tighter.
“Sherlock, please, there’s… come on, please,” Lestrade begged, his own voice betraying him and heavy with emotion. Sherlock could not let go of John, and he turned away from the inspector. A piece of paper lay on the floor, one that Sherlock had not seen before, and he reached for it, keeping one arm firmly around John. It was folded neatly, and he flipped it open. The writing was remarkably neat, written with a steady hand. As he read, tears, threatened to spill over his cheeks, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.
‘He’s lost without his blogger. I loved him, and I will never believe that he lied.
Dr. John H. Watson’
((Someone could do better, but I couldn’t resist, sorry))

JUST WHY.

I can’t breathe. Tears in my eyes. Air stuck in throat. Hand moving manically. Little pathetic high pitched noises. Oh jesus. Right in the heart. You get off on this, don’t you? DON’T YOU! 

absolutely amazing!!
nononononononononoFEELINGS
;_____;

THE FEELS.
Sweet fucking Jesus OW.
Actual physical pain here…



jesus. JESUS. NO. NO. NONONONONONONNO. NO. JUST. LEAVE. NO. THIS IS NOT OKAY. IN THE SLIGHTEST.


DAMN MY FEELS!

dreamparticles:

tugamaggie:

consulting-meerkat:

tiefightervstheenterprise:

ishipjohnlock247:

ibeggedformercytwice:

stravaganza:

consulting-hobbitses:

decompositiondance:

What if he couldn’t save him, or everything was reversed?

I’M SO SORRY.
Don’t worry, it’s okay to hate me for this piece.

Sherlock had been wandering London for hours. The tiny flat he had cooped himself up in lent nothing to thinking, and he seemed to fancy a walk. There was something soothing about walking in the rain, and he had allowed his feet to lead him. The streets were empty, the wet and the cold driving the majority of people to stay inside, and those who had braved the weather barely gave him a first glance, let alone a second. He turned his collar against the cold and felt the rain slowly penetrating his clothing. He barely noticed.

He pulled himself out of his mind, forcing himself back to the reality and looking at the buildings lining the street. With a start, he looked over to Speedy’s Cafe. He had unconsciously wandered to Baker Street, even though he knew he should not be here. He turned tail and started to walk the way he had come from when he heard a loud bang. The few people in the street stopped, unsure of what the noise was or where it had come from, looking to each other questioningly. Sherlock knew exactly what that noise was, however. And where it had come from. He bolted over the road, barely missing a passing car, and hammered on the door of 221B. No one came, and cursing, he fumbled in his pocket for a key, then remembered he did not have one anymore. He banged again, calling for Mrs Hudson. Still no one came. She must have gone out, although Sherlock could not think why, not in this awful weather. He threw his shoulder against the door and it shook slightly, but it was strong.

A man shouted at him to stop, assuming Sherlock was up to no good, but he ignored him. He had to get inside. He had to prove himself wrong. He shoved at it again, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. The door cracked a little; he could hear the lock snap some of the wood holding it in place, and he knew a few well aimed kicks would gain him entrance. Almost falling down the stairs, he kicked with all his strength, finally finding the right spot, and the door flew open.

Sherlock flew up the stairs two or three at a time, not bothering to check whether Mrs Hudson was indeed in. He knew he would be unwelcome anyway, after three years of deceit.

The inner door to the flat was, thankfully, open, and he wretched it open. He stopped in his tracks.

Stepping into 221B Baker Street was like taking a step into a memory. Nothing had changed. It was cleaner than it had ever been, and somehow brighter, but Sherlock knew there were no new residents. They wouldn’t have kept the moose head, or the skull on the mantel. Even his violin still rested on the deck where he had left it. He took a few steps slowly in, and called softly. “John?” As anticipated, no one answered. It was almost too quiet.

He peered into the kitchen, which he had never seen so tidy in all his years living there. There were no experiments or specimens taking up the table, and it smelled of cleaner, fresh. And yet it didn’t feel lived in. It was like it had been preserved, as if on display. Filled with homely things, but empty.

He headed to the bedroom. His bedroom. ‘No’, he told himself. ‘It’s not your room, you don’t live here, you’ve no right to be here.’ He pushed at the door, which was oddly ajar.

A metallic smell filled the air, mingling with gunpowder and dampness. The curtains were drawn,  but even in the dreary half-light that filled the room, he could see an leg laying limply, protruding from behind the bed. He felt himself swaying, and grabbed the doorframe for support. He tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, but the smell of iron and powder was only getting stronger and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please no,” he found himself muttering, and he took a few tentative steps forward, to the end of his bed.

John was sprawled on the floor. One arm was awkwardly thrown over his head, and the other hand was curled loosely round a standard issue army pistol. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glazed and vacant, and Sherlock fell to the floor at his feet. He felt a lump in his throat, and however much his brain screamed at him to run, get away, too much, too painful, his fault, his John, he couldn’t leave. He reached up and took the gun, putting it up on the bed, and wrapping his fingers around his wrist. Still warm. No pulse.

He choked, almost sobbing, and he leant forward, wrapping his arms around John’s lifeless body and pulling it to his chest. Breathing was becoming harder, and the smell of blood increased. The sight of the needlessly large pool of blood on the floor hit Sherlock like a freight train, and he forced himself to look away. He burrowed his nose in John’s hair. His smell hadn’t changed, he smelt like tea, moderately expensive aftershave, shampoo, and faintly of gunpowder.

Sherlock felt his eyes sting, and tears formed in them. He cradled his friend. The pain seemed to consume him, pain like he had never felt anything close to before, and his skin prickled with goosebumps.

“Sherlock?! Jesus, no…” a voice came from behind him. Sherlock had not heard the sirens and footsteps behind him, and barely registered the man now barking down the phone and running his hands through his hair. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and tried to shrug it off.

“Go away,” he growled, his voice cracking and low, but the hand only gripped tighter.

“Sherlock, please, there’s… come on, please,” Lestrade begged, his own voice betraying him and heavy with emotion. Sherlock could not let go of John, and he turned away from the inspector. A piece of paper lay on the floor, one that Sherlock had not seen before, and he reached for it, keeping one arm firmly around John. It was folded neatly, and he flipped it open. The writing was remarkably neat, written with a steady hand. As he read, tears, threatened to spill over his cheeks, and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

He’s lost without his blogger. I loved him, and I will never believe that he lied.

Dr. John H. Watson’

((Someone could do better, but I couldn’t resist, sorry))

JUST WHY.

I can’t breathe. Tears in my eyes. Air stuck in throat. Hand moving manically. Little pathetic high pitched noises. Oh jesus. Right in the heart. You get off on this, don’t you? DON’T YOU! 

absolutely amazing!!

nononononononononoFEELINGS

;_____;

THE FEELS.

Sweet fucking Jesus OW.

Actual physical pain here…

jesus. JESUS. NO. NO. NONONONONONONNO. NO. JUST. LEAVE. NO. THIS IS NOT OKAY. IN THE SLIGHTEST.

DAMN MY FEELS!

(via hislastbough)