He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do.
Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes.
Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired.
He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice of the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.
Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings.
Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message.
John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up.
Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for.
Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before.
He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem.
On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath.
John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall-
-is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back.
His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar…
John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts.
Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving.
“You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.
Can you not
Jason Isaacs: I remember my very first day, I improvised a line. I had my first day, probably my first shot, I had to kind of flounce out of a room when Dumbledore, played by the late, great Richard Harris, put me in my place, and there was no line written, no exit line. And I’d been humiliated, and my plan had come to nothing. And I said to Chris Columbus, “Don’t you think there should be a line?” And he said, “Well, say something. Say whatever you like.” So we did another take, and I hadn’t told anyone what I was going to do. And as I turned to leave, I looked at Daniel, and I said, “Let us hope Mr. Potter will always be around to save the day.” And then Daniel, who was all of 12, stepped right up to me, looked me right in the eye, and said “Don’t worry. I will be.” A chill went down my spine. And as he did it, I thought, “Christ, this kid is good.”
This is the part in the Harry Potter issue of Entertainment Weekly, when Jason tells this story, that I started to cry.
One of the most iconic lines in the whole of the series was improvised. By a 12-year-old boy.
Holy Shit. This is why I love Daniel and think he’s the most brilliant actor of our time.
but imagine the doctor as a lit teacher
- Student: We don't know what the author actually meant, and they're dead, so it's not like we can go ask them.
- The Doctor:
- The Doctor:
- The Doctor: brb
So in English class we had to draw a scene from The Great Gatsby. After the drawings were done the teacher was showing them to the class, and one drawing was a pic of Gatsby reaching towards at the green light, but in the drawing Gatsby didn’t have hands. So my teacher starts saying something like how this picture has hidden meaning and portrays the helplessness Gatsby feels, and the kid next to me just casually says “I can’t draw hands.”
i went to a high school where they played jeopardy music when you had about 30 seconds to get to class and i shit you not best part of the day was seeing kids sprinting to class with this music playing
My old school did this but it got better because they put the James Bond theme song with it.
It was awesome.
THIS IS THE ONE TIME I WILL EVER ADMIT TO SCHOOL BEING AWESOME
UK grading system
Time to move to the UK
There once was a young boy with a very bad temper. The boy’s father wanted to teach him a lesson, so he gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper he must hammer a nail into their wooden fence.
On the first day of this lesson, the little boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. He was really mad!
Over the course of the next few weeks, the little boy began to control his temper, so the number of nails that were hammered into the fence dramatically decreased.
It wasn’t long before the little boy discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.
Then, the day finally came when the little boy didn’t lose his temper even once, and he became so proud of himself, he couldn’t wait to tell his father.
Pleased, his father suggested that he now pull out one nail for each day that he could hold his temper.
Several weeks went by and the day finally came when the young boy was able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.
Very gently, the father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence.
“You have done very well, my son,” he smiled, “but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same.”
The little boy listened carefully as his father continued to speak.
“When you say things in anger, they leave permanent scars just like these. And no matter how many times you say you’re sorry, the wounds will still be there.”
I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!
I FUCKING HATE THESE I’M CRYINGGGGGGGGGGGG
I’\M IN TEARS AND I MADE THEM!!!
WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? IT HURTS SO MUCH
OMG THE SHERLOCK ONE OMG EVERYONE OF THEM WHYYYYYYYY
VIOLENT AND MAJESTIC SOBBING
I like drinking coffee alone, and reading alone.
I like riding the bus alone, and walking home alone.
It gives me time to think, and set my mind free.
I like eating alone, and listening to music alone.
But when I see a mother with her child;
A girl with her lover;
Or a friend laughing with their best friend;
I realize that even though I like being alone
I don’t fancy being lonely.