Me, After Finally Attending Hozier Concert Preceded By Years Of Waiting, In The Prospect Of Finding Some

Look. The thing is. I’m doomed. This podcast is everything to me and it has only twelve episodes? And I’ve already been doomed after the very first one??? Who will I became after, dunno, the thirtieth one? I fear the answer and await for it at the same time. Pray for me.

This fandom is just beginning and I’m so incredibly happy to witness it all because it’s just so thrilling and I crave a n y kind of content, I’m s t a r v e d.

Honestly, I’ll talk to anybody about it, anybody who will be patient enough to listen me giggling and internally screaming.

I love those two idiots, they are responsible for considerable part of my day-to-day happiness. I’m screwed.

john watson appreciation text posts collection:

Three butch friends of mine finishing the basement of my first house around 1996.   They worked for beer, and not even anything fancy. 

Okay for the record I just wanted to say that Sherlock mentioning an underlaying threat of a birthday surprise party while talking John’s ear off (and this is an unintentional pun regarding the cardboard box, if you know, you know) about how absurdly in love with Christmas he is was not without a reason.

And if you ask me, when the boys come home after the cardboard box case, there will be a (threatening, if you ask Sherlock) surprise birthday party waiting organised by Mariana in cahoots with John. And John will rant before to Sherlock about something ridiculous to buy them some time, because they’ve finished the case too early and Mariana is not yet ready with the preparations. And there will be a cake, candles (maybe just a symbolical one, because Sherlock hasn’t told anybody how old is he, of course), and Archie with a birthday hat on.

And even though Sherlock might have not thought that his birthday was relevant, he will be smiling to himself after the party is over (and after John with Mariana had just given him the tightest of hugs, maybe even a quick kiss on a forehead, because this is our Sherlock).

You know, just for the record.

here are some photos of me noticing a wasp nest

1st pic : lookin good

2nd pic: being artsy and looking away (looking at wasp nest)

3rd pic: fully understanding that there is indeed a wasp nest

4th pic: me being outtie 

I couldn’t find anywhere on the internet some precise information about the history of urban space formation in early modern Rome and yet I’ve somehow found it here, on Tumblr.

Bless you, hellsite.

my boy was so damn proud to say this ostentatious nothing when john asked him what did he learnt about the creeping man. just. so shameless and without pardon. imagine sherlock standing there in the middle of the living room with hands on his hips and probably some stupid t-shirt on or barefoot. simply looking forward, gloating in the sense of genius and thinking he’s being so bloody dramatic. nothing as in nothing can stop him. an icon.

me when sherlock & co.

I just can’t stop wondering how much we don’t know because we can’t hear it - because of sherlock & co being recorded.

how many times had john rolled his eyes at sherlock when he was being ridiculous, but smiled to himself the moment he turned around? how many times had mariana leaned in the doorway to 221b baker street and silently but fondly watched john and sherlock bickering? how many times sherlock just didn’t say anything when archie climbed on his lap and instead started to scratch behind the dog’s ears?

how many gentle smiles, cheeky grins and warm gazes with sparkling eyes? fingers touching one’s arm, hands on the shoulder or tight hugs? how much affection spread without words?

how much is being not said, left to imagination?

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I fell asleep in my friends' arms. It was eleven at night, we were tired, curled up in a small pile on my tiny bed. I had my head buried in my roommate's side, and one of my closest friend's hand on my shoulder, steadying me. It was quiet and nothingness and peace and their heartbeats in my ears, my hands in their hair.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

We pack four people to that little bed, you know. Laps used as footrests, collarbones as pillows, little lights like moonlight in rustic yellow bathed on their faces. The TV plays an anime. The words are repeated by my dear friend on my shoulder, curled close. My legs are asleep; my roommate may be, too.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

The cat curls on top of our criss cross mess of legs and arms and heads on chests to absorb the warmth of us all. She purrs in contented peace. When my roommate and I are left alone in the quiet, she cries, and watches the door for our friends' return.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I will never kiss them but the top of their heads. I will never touch but the warmth of their arms. I will never take more than what's freely given, and in return I put my glasses on the bedside table fashioned from a guitar amp, and when I lean into their sides, I pick up my vulnerability and place it in their capable, tender hands.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I sing for them. I cry for them. I work and I run and I withstand the worst of the world for them, because some days I get to cradle their forehead on my shoulder and some days I get to see their shining eyes.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Maybe to you. But look beyond explanation. I love them. With my heart in my unsteady hands, with my nose pressed to the side of their head, with the buzzing in my feet and the warmth all around Iike the sunset pushing into the window.

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

Is it enough to say I love them? With no strings attached? With reckless abandon and utter devotion and freedom and kindness and fear?

"there is no platonic explanation for this--"

I cannot explain it any clearer. I love my friends. There is no more to say.

GUYS IT’S TODAY THE NEW EPISODE IT’S TODAY IT’S TUESDAY SHERLOCK & CO IT’S TODAY