(Source: ailovecupcakes)


So…are these two like together or something?

(Source: clintbartons)


Only one kiss!oh.. Fine, John, but only because you’re drunk.


Only one kiss!
oh.. Fine, John, but only because you’re drunk.

(Source: eroticbear)

(Source: maxkennedy24)

The Trouble With Maths (fic request for gleeta-anderlark) 


There are seventeen steps to the second floor of 221B Baker Street. The sixth is squeaky and the eleventh is one clumsy fall away from a solid re-nailing being necessary rather than merely recommendable, but neither John nor Mrs. Hudson appear to have bothered to fix it in the three years since Sherlock last mounted the stairs.

Seventy-two minutes ago, Sherlock sent a text message, the first of its kind in thirty-seven months, two weeks, three days and nine hours. It consisted of a total of six words, thirty-four characters.

I owe you a thousand apologies. SH

The remnants of John’s phone are scattered across the landing. Sherlock smirks, but feels something twist inside of him at the same time. He reaches for the doorknob.

The door swings open before he gets to it. John is behind it.

Where Sherlock goes from here is entirely dependent on what John does next, and Sherlock is not at all sure what that is going to be. John’s jaw is working in a way Sherlock cannot quite read, and Sherlock calculates that there’s about a 67% chance that he is about to be slugged across the face very, very hard.

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” John snarls at last and seizes the lapels of Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock screws his face up preparing for the blow but makes no effort to avoid it, which is how he is caught completely off-guard when John mashes his mouth to his.

This movement takes approximately 0.43 seconds, after which Sherlock’s eyes fly open for a brief period of 1.24 seconds. It takes him 2.36 seconds to bring his hands up and grip John’s elbows as tightly as he can, and John sighs at the exact same moment. Neither of them move at all for a rather long spell: 5.78 seconds, to be exact. All in all, their first kiss lasts 9.81 seconds, and Sherlock counts every one.

This is how he knows that John punched him precisely at the ten-second mark.



Eames regarded him carefully, took in every detail. “So why are you here?”

“I’m in love with you,” Arthur said simply. “I’ll take whatever you will give me.”

Eames felt the wind rush out of him, knocked out with the force of heartbreaking honesty. “I know what that feels like,” Eames said, head bowed, huffing out a laugh down his chest after all.

Arthur, for once, didn’t bother to put a mask on. He looked devastated, but determined. “If you’d let me live here, I wouldn’t be a bother,” he began.

Eames looked up at him, unbearable fondness crushing his lungs with the weight of it. “You’re an awful flatmate. You never cook, rarely do the washing, terribly cranky in the morning-“

“I’ll be better,” Arthur said, panic and desperation clawing their way out of Arthur’s throat, and Eames realized that Arthur was taking him seriously.

Eames crossed the room and took Arthur’s shaking hands into his own. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself, darling.” He smiled, leaning his face closer. “I never said it was too late.”


Just Kiss Him!


Just Kiss Him!