Sherlock
Inspelningarna börjar idag. Yay!
Första avsnittet i säsong 3 heter "The Empty Hearse" (variant på The Empty House).
Found on Tumblr. ._.
^
omfg, so brilliant
jag hade ingen aning!
^ ni är medvetna om att det där bara är påhittat va ://
Hoppla.
Citat från stjarndamm
^ ni är medvetna om att det där bara är påhittat va ://
"bbcsherlockheadcanon" så, eh, ja.
Fortfarande smart!
Petade ihop en liten Sherlock one-shot nyss. :)
It was exactly a year since Sherlock had died, and John Watson once again found himself standing in front of his grave. He didnt know why, there was no point in talking to Sherlocks tombstone. He knew that Ella would have tutted if she had seen him here, he was supposed to be moving on, after all. But he couldnt let this day go unnoticed, he couldnt stop his feet from carrying him here, and he couldnt stop himself from feeling the pain of the giant hole Sherlock had left in his heart. His whole world had been wrapped around Sherlock from the moment he first met him, but he didnt realise that until he was already gone.
John sat down on the ground next to Sherlocks grave, and placed the single black rose in front of the tombstone. He leaned his elbows against his knees and rubbed his tired eyes. He was always tired nowadays, and not the kind of tired he used to be after Sherlock and him had stayed up all night solving a case. The sick, heartbroken kind of tired.
I... I dont know what one would be expected to say in a situation like this. Perhaps a normal person would say nothing at all, a normal person would certainly not sit here and talk to an inanimate object. But Im not normal, am I? You werent normal either, thats probably why we worked so well together. Anyway, Im rambling now... What I actually came here to say is - is that I love you, Johns shoulders sagged as he buried his face in his hands, trying hard not to let the tears escape him, his face betray his emotions.
After John had collected himself, he knew he really should go, but he couldnt bring himself to do it quite yet. So he sat there, feeling the slight chill of the wind against his face, looking around at the graveyard that could have been quite beautiful, hadnt his friend been buried there. That was when he noticed the tree branch not far away from where he was sitting. Weird lines had been carved into it, some of them shorter and some of them longer, and they were gathered in groups of three or four, apart from a single, short line. They looked a bit like tally marks, except there were no diagonal lines. John found this very odd, but didnt think any more of it.
I suppose I should get going, I cant sit here forever, no matter how much I wanted to, he said, and got up on stiff legs, leaning against his cane. He took a few steps forward and stroked the top of the tombstone, his fingers leaning against the cold marble. Goodbye, Sherlock, my old friend. He pursed his lips together into a thin line and started walking away from the graveyard.
It was only when he was sitting in the cab on his way back to his apartment that he realised what the, as he first thought they were, tally marks meant. They werent tally marks at all, but were in face morse code.
Could you turn around please? Turn around! I need to go back, I - I left something at the graveyard! he said, sounding maybe a little bit too panicked, because the cabbie gave him a weird look through the rear-view mirror. He obliged, though, and turned the car around at the next crossing.
John hurried over the graveyard, anxious to get to the branch. He should have recognised the morse code straight away, after spending so many hours learning it, in case hed ever encounter it during a case again. When he got to Sherlocks grave, though, the branch wasnt there anymore.
John let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes and whispered, Come on John, focus now... The the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate... However much he focused, he couldnt remember all of the lines. Short short long short, or was it short long short short? Then long long long... but what came after that?! I know it ended on just a short line, for sure, he muttered to himself. Once he decided to sit down and draw everything in the soil, however, it took him less than 30 seconds to figure out. Sherlock would have been proud.
John was still confused, but there was a slight flame of hope burning inside him now, hope that Sherlock might not be gone after all. He knew it was stupid to hope, but he just couldnt help himself. After he got up to leave for the second time that day, he noticed that he didnt have his walking cane with him.
He had left it in the cab.
Soooo... folk på ff.net vill att jag ska fortsätta skriva på one-shotten jag postade ovan, men jag vill ha era åsikter!
Should I? :<
I Liked it, och som du vet så gillar jag inte fanfics ^^
Men om du har motivationen tilla tt fortsätta så do it!
Citat från AmexV
I Liked it, och som du vet så gillar jag inte fanfics ^^
Men om du har motivationen tilla tt fortsätta så do it!
Jag har typ idéer och så, men samtidigt känns det lite som att vissa fanfics är bättre som one-shots. :o
Men jag kan ju försöka röra ihop nått och om jag blir nöjd så lägger jag väl upp det, annars får det vara. :)
Och tack! :)
Ser fram emot nya säsongen. Sett lite smygfilmat material av fans i UK där man ser Benedict Cumberbatch i Sherlock-mundering on the set.
De bad ju att fansen skulle hålla alla inspelnings locations hemliga ifall de fick reda på nått. Lol no, gatorna var ju typ fulla med fans som ville se en skymt av skådespelarna. :(
Hehu, jag bestämde mig visst för att fortsätta min berättelse. :)
Two years, to the day, after Sherlock had died, John Watson once again caught himself coming up with excuses so he wouldnt have to go out for a drink with Lestrade. This time it wasnt because John had one of his ever so often occurring headaches, because he actually had something else to do, or even because Lestrade reminded him so much of the life he used to lead that he felt as if someone had ripped his heart out. No, this time it was because John Watson wanted to make visiting Sherlocks grave on his deathday every year a tradition, however painful it may be.
No, sorry Greg, I cant. I have a meeting with Ella today, and I really cant miss it, John huffed hastily when Lestrade called him. He had been busy all day with an especially tricky case, a man had died and they still hadnt figured out what killed him. He didnt even bother pretending to be as good as Sherlock, because no one ever would be, but he did his best and paid his rent.
But you havent seen Ella for months... Lestrade started with a confused tone to his voice, before John cut him off with a quick Oh, sorry, I have to run. Cheers! because he had just remembered he wanted to buy Sherlock some roses before the shops closed.
Had Sherlock been alive, John would never have bought him roses. They would just have ended up in the bin for distracting Sherlock with their scent, or for piercing the oh so delicate skin of his slender fingers. John liked to make sure others knew just how loved Sherlock had been though, and so he opted for a dozen black roses. Just as he stepped out of the shop, it started raining. John Watson didnt mind the rain, because it reminded him that he was still alive, and that he hadnt died with Sherlock.
When he walked through the graveyard, the sun was already low in the sky, shining from behind a dark cloud. He crouched down at Sherlocks grave, not wanting to sit down like the year before, because the ground was so wet. There was a small lantern next to Sherlocks neat tombstone, with a candle inside. John found it very strange, because he didnt think anyone else would care enough about Sherlock to bring him a lantern with a candle. John fumbled around in his inside pocket for the small box of matches that he still kept there. He had started carrying a matchbox when he realised that Sherlock needed his cigarettes to function properly. It was a habit he had yet to break.
He flicked open the small hatch that kept the glassdoor of the small lantern shut, and shook out the candle. He lit the match against the side of the box, and felt the warmth of the fire against his cold fingers. He looked down at the candle, and, with a confounded look on his face, read the writing that was carved into it with childlike letters.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep...
Around him, the world stopped turning, and he could no longer hear the pitter-patter of the rain falling down onto the surrounding trees. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and was once again back in our world. He looked up to the grey sky and felt the raindrops trickle down his face.
No, it cant be. Hes dead. He is definitely dead, I checked his pulse and I saw his corpse. Someone just thought this would be a nice gesture and left the candle here, he whispered to himself, again and again, like a mantra while he rubbed his tired eyes, as if to make the writing go away. Suddenly, John couldnt get home quick enough, so he left the black roses on top of the tombstone and mouthed a quick goodbye to his old friend. Then he walked away with quick, long steps. He had long since stopped using the cane.
When he turned around and looked back towards the grave, he found it odd that one of the bushes swayed a little, although there was no noticeable wind. Had he been close enough to count the roses, he would have noticed that there were only eleven roses lying on the tombstone, but since he wasnt, he pushed it out of his mind and began his walk home.
ASSÅ
FUCKING
HELL
http://www.starfury.co.uk/elementary
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