ELEMENTARY, SHERLOCK!

View high resolution

paisleydinnerplate:

barachiki:

Sherlock gets an I.O.U.

HEARTBREAK DUDE.

Tumblr is evil.

That is why it is my home.

reapersun:

page 04

View high resolution

sherlocknyc:

Sherlock NYC would like to invite you to join our watch-along chat tonight!! 

We will be watching along with PBS’s showing of The Reichenbach Fall tonight at 9PM EST. Come join our chat to talk about the episode while you’re viewing it!

++++

Date: Tonight

Time: 9:00 PM EST 

Place: Sherlock NYC Livestream Chat

++++

Please keep in mind that we will not, in any circumstances, be streaming the episode. This is a watch-along chatroom only. 

*Disclaimer: The Livestream will be all ages, and proper etiquette / discussion is expected. The chat will be moderated and users who do not follow the rules will be banned.

++++

We can’t wait to chat with everyone :) 

The Staff of Sherlock NYC

I’ll let you guys cry on my shoulder if you want.

The Granada Reichenbach is playing at my gym!!

Be strong girl. Don’t cry in public! Especially on a treadmil…..

View high resolution

My survival guide has REAWAKENED!

All of us at SherlockNYC thought it might be needed in the coming hours for all first time US viewers… (are there any of your out there?)

sherlocknyc:

Reichenbach Survival Guide by SherlockNYC’s Nicole

We’ll be with you tomorrow night to share the pain of Reichenbach!

+++++

We’ll have Aubre and Jill Moding our livestream chat, starting at 9:00 pm.

Join us here: www.livestream.com/sherlocknyc

+++++

And Christine will be tweeting along with the episode!

+++++

reapersun:

page 03

;A;

I CAN NOT WAIT TO BUY THIS ZINE

View high resolution

taemka:

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.

LOLOLOLOL

(Source: cl-productions)

Holy flaps. They haven’t even written series 3 and Gatiss is already trolling. There is no hope for us guys.

(Source: teaparty-at-221b)

Oh Sweet Agony!, a Sherlock/(&)John post-Reichenbach fanfic rec

Like the cliffhanger spawned dozens of escape theories from the pool, the fall has resulted in some pretty great fics, too. There are some really, really sweet stories of reuinion in this list, but you know what they say about seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. You first have to survive getting hit by a speeding train. Wait, what? It doesn’t go like that? Well.

Some are BBC-compliant, and others were written even before series 2 aired. Like the AU and smut rec, you’ve probably already read these if you virtually live in AO3, but I like putting things in lists so.. As always, be mindful of the ratings!

The Good Morrow by greywash (series)
The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (WIP)
Given In Evidence by verityburns (WIP)
We Go Anywhere But To The Ground by geordielover
Minds Like Ours Dream Up by BlackEyedGirl
(Life is) A Series of Risks by SkipandDi, MirrorSkippy
The Loss of Touch by Kaiseilin
1, 2, 3, 4, 5 *untitled* series of fics by areyoutryingtodeduceme
Spaces Between by aubkae
And the Cat Came Back by Ishmael
The Death Dealer by thefarofixer (WIP)
The First Time (was not at Barts) by wakeneve
In Love, in Faith Unbroken Dwell by coloredink
I Don’t Know What More to Ask For by halotolerant
Trimmed & Burning by achycarnations
Sine Qua Non by beyondinsane
Post-Reichenbach by M_Leigh (series)
Light in the Darkness by emmagrant01
The Sigerson Letters by h3rring, makokitten (WIP)
Hours Before Midnight by augustbird
Acceptable Risk by astolat
Out of Sight by Mazarin221b
The Distance Between Then and Now by feverishsea (WIP) 
Traces by Magnolia822
A Man of Letters by krabapple
Communication in The Absence by hanbunnotsuki
As We Are Defined by the_arc5
Purge Away Your Crimes by primroseshows
The Fabric of Life by holyfant (WIP)

I can not recommend the first one enough.

Greywash does an insanely good job with that whole series. Its beautiful.