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cloudwatchingangels: fionapondwilliams: prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient: Asylum Waiting Room of the Big Three. it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room. Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders. Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential. A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?” “It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care. “I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.” Supernatural gurgled something quietly. “No, I won’t forget the pie.”
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cloudwatchingangels:

fionapondwilliams:

prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:

Asylum Waiting Room of the Big Three.

it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here

Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.

Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.

Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.

A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”

“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.

“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”

Supernatural gurgled something quietly.

“No, I won’t forget the pie.”

verity-burns: “Where’s your bride?” “Mary? Oh, she’s not my bride.” “What?” “No, she’s just a friend. A good friend, mind you, but no more than that.” “What are you talking about? You’re marrying her in a little less than half an hour.” “I don’t think so.” “Have you hit your head?” “Nope.” “You’re serious?” “I’m dead serious.” “Then why on earth have we gone through this rigmarole?” “Got you here, didn’t it? And wearing a TIE, no less.” “Of course I’m wearing a tie - I thought you were getting married today!” “Oh, I am.” “What?” “Or at least, I hope to be.” “You are making no sense whatsoever.” “I know how you feel about me.” “No you don’t. How do you?” “Suspected soon after you came back, actually. But I couldn’t be sure until I saw your face when I said I was leaving.” “So this whole thing has been… what? Punishment?” “Would you rather I’d punched you?” “You did punch me!” “Well, you deserved it.” “And did I deserve this? To have to stand here and watch while you… Oh.” “Oh?” “You’re not marrying Mary?” “I’m really not.” “But you are getting married.” “Well, that rather depends.” “On?” “On whether or not you’ll have me.” “…” “Sherlock?” “But… One can’t just turn up in front of a vicar and get married, John. There are formalities…” “It’s amazing what you can arrange when the British government owes you a favour.” “But… Me?” “Of course you.” “But we’re not… I’ve never even…” “If you want me. So do you, Sherlock? Do you want to marry me?” . . “I do.”
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verity-burns:

“Where’s your bride?”

“Mary? Oh, she’s not my bride.”

“What?”

“No, she’s just a friend. A good friend, mind you, but no more than that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re marrying her in a little less than half an hour.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you hit your head?”

“Nope.”

“You’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Then why on earth have we gone through this rigmarole?”

“Got you here, didn’t it? And wearing a TIE, no less.”

“Of course I’m wearing a tie - I thought you were getting married today!”

“Oh, I am.”

“What?”

“Or at least, I hope to be.”

“You are making no sense whatsoever.”

“I know how you feel about me.”

“No you don’t. How do you?”

“Suspected soon after you came back, actually. But I couldn’t be sure until I saw your face when I said I was leaving.”

“So this whole thing has been… what? Punishment?”

“Would you rather I’d punched you?”

“You did punch me!”

“Well, you deserved it.”

“And did I deserve this? To have to stand here and watch while you… Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not marrying Mary?”

“I’m really not.”

“But you are getting married.”

“Well, that rather depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you’ll have me.”

“…”

“Sherlock?”

“But… One can’t just turn up in front of a vicar and get married, John. There are formalities…”

“It’s amazing what you can arrange when the British government owes you a favour.”

“But… Me?”

“Of course you.”

“But we’re not… I’ve never even…”

“If you want me. So do you, Sherlock? Do you want to marry me?”

.

.

“I do.”

(Source: bluebellglowinginthedark)

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