In my opinion Sherlock fully knew and understood the gravity of the situation. I like to believe that the tears were partially real, because he knew how much John would suffer due to his actions.
But he needed to display it to the people watching too or listening for that matter. I do think that the jumping off the roof was his security net in some ways.
Since he probably had hoped that it wouldn’t be needed, but Moriarty was so devoted to the game that he was willing to end his life for it.
He wanted to ruin the man who was his equal, to burn the heart out of him, but he really couldn’t.
Sherlocks willingness to do what he did proves to me that on some levels the tears he shed were true.
He’ll probably deny it, say it was all a part of the game, but then again if he didn’t care he would never have jumped to begin with.
“People ask me if there are going to be stories of Harry Potter as an adult. Frankly, if I wanted to, I could keep writing stories until Harry is a senior citizen, but I don’t know how many people would actually want to read about a 65 year old Harry still at Hogwarts playing bingo with Ron and Hermione.” -J.K. Rowling
Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston attend the photocall for ‘Only Lovers Left Alive’ at the 66th Annual Cannes Film Festival (May 25, 2013)
Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton in Cannes, May 25, 2013
I don’t like it when my own writing is making me cry.
Children’s Illustrators: Kay Nielsen
Born in Denmark in 1886, Nielsen was inspired by Art Nouveau and Eastern influences in his illustrations, and adopted many practices of Japanese woodcuts, such as asymmetrical composition, large vacant areas, sinuous linework, and flattened perspective.
Wearing a white dress or pants while you’re on your period - now - that’s what I call brave.
No point in even trying to write this tired.
Apple:
He watched her from the window. She had no idea he was there, he wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. However, something in his chest had nagged and pleaded with him until he found himself crawling up the terrace and quietly, carefully, hiding behind the small tree she had placed on her balcony.
Molly sat on her sofa, reading a novel and enjoying a large honey-crisp apple. He watched on as she bit into the side of the juicy fruit, her soft lips grazing along the skin of it. It had reminded him of the final night before he left to end this whole thing.
They were a entanglement of limbs and slick with the rain from standing on the balcony. He hadn’t known what came over him out there. Perhaps it was the way the wind blew her hair back and away from her neck. Maybe it was just the raw state that he found himself in. However, in a swift move, Sherlock had crashed his mouth into hers, sealing them tightly together in a fiercely needy kiss. He felt her gasp against his lips, noting how her eyes widened with the shock of it. Then, just as quickly, she reciprocated the action, pulling him closer by the now damp curls of his head. They clung to each other steadfastly, not wanting to break contact, despite the cold pelting water that now came down in a steady stream. Molly shivered in the cool night air, her exposed arms developing goosebumps on top of her smooth skin. Their labored breathing crashed and collided against each others mouths, and Sherlock soon found himself pressing her up against the glass of her sliding glass door. His wet and cold hands ran roughly along her soaked tank top, feeling her flesh beneath the thin fabric.
“Inside.” She mumbled, her hand fumbling with the door handle. Sherlock nodded his head, and flung it open as quickly as he could. They had barely made it inside, before taking to caressing each other again. Molly kissed along his jaw now, running the trail from behind his ear, to just before his chin. It was then that she kissed down and onto his neck, her soft lips wrapping around his Adam’s apple as she sucked a love mark onto his pale skin. Sherlock hissed with need, and his hands began to wander over her body in a frenzied non-pattern, wanting to find solace anywhere they could.
They hadn’t even made it to her bedroom, simply content with the small and cramped sofa to provide them with some frame to work on. He had gently pinned her underneath him, perfectly cautious of ensuring she was still comfortable and able to move.
They had made love then and there, her soft cries floating above his head in the air, and no doubt drifting on the breeze that flowed out of the still open balcony door. His name was on her lips, hers on his own, as they enjoyed each others company. When they had finished, Sherlock gazed down at her, content in watching her sleep for an eternity. However, he knew he needed to leave. With a final kiss on her soft lips, Sherlock slipped away from her loose grip, covering her in a blanket he had pulled from her room. He redressed himself, and left through the open sliding door. As he closed it behind him, he looked back through the window, watching her lithe form breathing in and out perfectly as she slept.
Sherlock snapped out of his memory, to see her standing from her position on the sofa. She had completed the apple, and was tossing the stem and core into the garbage bin. Panic set in then, as he watched her approaching the balcony door. He hid himself further behind the branches and small leaves of the tree, hoping that she would not perceive his presence. Molly slid open the door, before stepping onto the balcony. She crossed the short distance to the railing, and leaned on it as she gazed out to the streets of London. Sherlock watched as her gaze fixed on nothing, her eyes seeming lost and empty. A deep sigh fell from her lips, and he watched a tear roll down her cheek. The surprise came to him then, as he heard her mumble to no one.
“Wherever you are, please, please be safe. Please come back to me.” Her eyes closed, and another tear fell to silently join the other. He hadn’t felt his body move, hadn’t noticed himself stepping from around the tree, until he was standing behind her, pulling her into a fierce hug.
“I’m here. I’m here, Molly.”
“Men aren’t asked about age. Men aren’t asked about their children. Not that these things aren’t important, but I do feel like it becomes reductive when a woman’s life becomes, ‘Talk to me about your kids and how you feel about plastic surgery.’”
—Julianne Moore, by Will Davidson for DuJour Magazine, June 2013.
hihiyas replied to your post: 6, 11, 19!
lol i was wondering about why it had an h
I’ve thought of sorting it out, but I like telling the story that comes with it. Haha.
Blaming Kie mostly because this and all the other awesome makes me want to draw more stuff with molly hgngh
Ireallyreallywanthemtobecloserfriendsscreechhh
I am almost weeping due to the wonderful thing that is Graham Norton Show. Oh my god. My childhood in like one gif-set.
