But Sherlock/Watson is quickly becoming my OTP.
What is this.
(The new Sherlock was fantastic but Irene Adler why you all up in my OTP. I do not approve.)
Even Geniuses Need SleepA figure was hunched over the table, silhouetted by the light beside him. A pen hovered over the mass of papers spread out before him; his icy eyes stared, searching for something. Abruptly he sprang into action, whipping a sheet out from the mess (sending several pages fluttering down around him, but he took no notice) and scribbling furiously in a cramped, spidery hand. His eyes squinted with effort, although he didn't seem to notice. There was a feverish pitch to his work - his movements were too jerky and rushed, his face too intent, his eyes jumping from point to point, apparently unable to settle.Even Geniuses Need Sleep by dragoncharmed
A second figure saw all of this from the doorway and couldn't stand it. "You should be in bed."
The man at the table seemed to ignore him, but after several seconds he jerked to attention, swinging his head toward the door as if he'd only just processed that someone was there. "Bed?" he scoffed. "I don't need to sleep. Do you know how much time people waste sleeping? A third of their li
Not Remotely ImportantThe old man still looked up at the sky. Every night, when he had the chance, he would wrap up warm and take a flask of hot tea out to the seat beside his telescope. It was an act of tribute now. He had long since let go of the idle fancy that he would ever see that man, that most wonderful man again. Sometimes it was a truly bitter memory, another friend lost to war, and how he hoped that the poor creature, that ancient blazing angel had been wrong. Perhaps he was out there somewhere, fully recovered, too embarrassed to return. Too afraid?Not Remotely Important by Gallifrey-Pirate
Wilfred knew it was still dangerous. His granddaughter visited often, particularly when his bungalow was situated just around the corner from her comfortable family home. It was a miracle to see her so content since those miserable Christmases past, but she had found happiness. Her husband treated her well and the world was just bursting with opportunities for her now she had the freedom and time to consider. The distant expressions she showed
A Quick Pop to the MoonThere was a typewriter on the console now--a typewriter--and at first he tried to type in his destination: E-A-(pecking with his two long index fingers at the flat little keys, marveling at the new knobbiness of his knuckles, at the new, inexplicable urge he felt to nibble at the cuticles)-R-T-H-(the 'H' was sticking slightly already; he made a little joke about how even the best cosmetic surgery cannot hide a woman's true age and then had to leap backwards with a yelp from a lever which suddenly and mysteriously fell of its own accord and rapped him smartly across his nice new knuckles)-M-O-O-N. As it turned out, however, the typewriter had nothing to do with destination mapping at all, and once he managed to get the gravity back in its proper place he located the proper controls without further trouble. It was instinctive, now that he didn't have the lure of a shiny black typewriter to distract him any more. His piloting methods had always been ninety-percent instinct anyway,A Quick Pop to the Moon by lastcenturioness20
trapped in the box of my bodyHe is dying, which isn't something all that new. He's died before.trapped in the box of my body by madis-hartte
But this time it's permanent.
(he can't help but feel a vicious stab of glee at the thought)
Dying, lying on those stairs. Standing in the TARDIS, crying. Crash landing to Earth. Suicide. Murder. Tripping over his own two feet (that one had been embarrassing). Dying. Coming back. Each man a different facehere's a secret, the face doesn't mattereach man dying.
Some new man goes sauntering away. And I'm dead.
Everything I am dies.
It is strange. And you look back, just for a moment, and you see, and he sees, walking into the new face. Like salt, pouring from an open wound.
Or someone singing.
There are no words. Green eyes, brown eyes; for a moment who is I? Who was me? Then he steps forward, and the other steps backbut which is the stepping forward? and which is the stepping back?
He knows he's lived too longmuch older than 907. Much, much older. Older inside than the years lived (hi
Current Residence: Virginia|
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Personal Quote: "Through writing, you are whoever you want to be. Through music, you are the purest form of yourself."