asdfmovie7 by TomSka
that was so good, i baked you a pie
guess what flavor
Everyone who reblogs/ likes this before the 20th (that’s when I get off school) will get a little drawing based on their posts.
It will be delivered by New Year’s Eve at the latest
You don’t need to be following me
because it’s not socially acceptable to chill in my living room in my girl underwear
i chill in my living room in my boy underwear
Did someone say chillin’ in underwear?!?!
That glass would go great with this bottle of wine!
fuck glasses let’s get bUCK IN HEEEEERE
WOAH HEY GIVE A GIRL SOME WARNING
damn i feel classy as FUCK
WOW WINE TASTES AWESOME IN A SOLO CUP
OH JOLLY GOOD
ARE WE BEST FRIENDS YET?
Did I just witness an Internet friendship being born
I don’t know what we just witnessed, but it was beautiful.
REBLOG IF YOU LOVE NINE THE MOST. PLEASE. I FEEL SO LONELY IN MY CORNER.
Always reblog the no-look pass.
Could he just make an entrance like in the first gif every time he enters a room? He looks so cool when he does that.
No, but what if every time John walked into a room that Sherlock was in, he would just throw something to Sherlock, whatever had to do with the case, or just a pen, and Sherlock would use it, because John could tell what he wanted each time. Pen, shoe, scarf, phone, tea mug, anything.
Then, the day after Reichenbach, out of habit, John walked into the flat, and instinctively picked up and pen and threw it. He only remembered Sherlock wasn’t there when he heard the pen clatter to the ground.
nice to meet you satan
Three years have gone by and finally John has lost the habit of throwing things to a man who is no longer there. He’s broken at least 8 mugs since Sherlock’s dea- no. He still cannot think the word. As long as he refuses to believe Sherlock is gone, he will still be there.
One night after a particularly long day consisting of far too many meetings John walks home to 221B. He imagines Sherlock’s eye-rolling, and scoffing reactions to Anderson’s many idiotic theories about their latest killer, and smiles to himself. He unlocks the door, enters, and throws his jacket over the nearest chair. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock’s old mobile, and for a moment forgets everything that happened. He wraps his hand around the device, and tosses it behind him, silently cursing himself for probably breaking one of the last pieces of Sherlock in his possession, as he waits for the inevitable clatter of plastic on wood. But there is no sound.
YOU MADE IT BETTER
YOU SOOTHED THE WOUND