Brodie's Mind Palace

bakerstreetbabes:

dynamics-of-an-asteroid:

tothesyllable:

prose-and-melodrama:

If you didn’t know who he is you’d think he’s a sad, depressed, lonely man sitting on a  rooftop.  

that’s exactly what he is, especially when you know who he is:

“I wanted to show little glimpses of Moriarty’s vulnerability…you got to see that towards the very end, when we realize he’s going to kill himself. He’s a very desolate, very lonely, very unhappy person.” (x)

I feel like that’s the result of Andrew playing one of the most infamous antagonists of all time, because everyone is looking to him for ‘the bad guy stuff’, as they should. Andrew delivered that immaculately - BUT!! He also slipped in softer moments that still remain true to Moriarty’s original chameleon persona. Yes, he’s funny, and playful, and seven levels of naughty, but he’s ALSO lonely, and miserable, and as empty as can be behind it all. You’re dealing with one of his multiple masks, or voices, or roles at any given time. He is all of these things simultaneously, not individually. Excluding any of them robs him a little of the unique complexity that’s been eating away at him all his life in the first place.

You can’t be that intelligent and, therefore, that bored by everything the world has to offer without it taking a toll on you, especially when your pool of peers who relates to this burden is already small. Add in an insatiable desire for a distraction from it all that reaches levels beyond ‘dangerous’, and an interest range that only responds to all that is bizarre and clever and strange in this world, his options for people who could possibly understand him in his entirety was limited to one other individual, which is a pretty sad, depressing, and lonely situation in and of itself (especially since it took over twenty years for a confirmation from that one person who, for a minute there, almost proved himself to not be that equal party he’s been hoping for). This doesn’t take away from Moriarty’s antagonistic side in the story line, or anything ‘villainous’ he did on our screens. It only enhances it and, in his particular case, fueled it.

Great commentary.

bakerstreetbabes:

2 legit 2 quit.

(Source: sherlocknock)

Hey look, I found part of John’s internal monologue from Sherlock Season 3 in my grammar homework.

docroee:

#it looks like it physically hurts him to say it too #he’s just spitting it out like it’s sour on his tongue #because it is #it’s his life and living and he has to tell john of all people

(via timeywimeyhobbit)

(Source: hatoratomoen, via bakerstreetbabes)

bakerstreetbabes:

moonblossom:

against-stars:

(“Mycroft, I wanna bee.”
“You want to be what?”
“No! I wanna bee!”
“You can’t have just one bee, Sherlock.”
“Why?”
“They come in colonies.”
“Why?”
“Because they live in hives.”
“I wanna bee colonies.”
“When you get bigger you can have all the beehives you want. But first we have to get you washed before Mummy sees you and I get into trouble.”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz…”)

I imagine Sherlock has always been a tiny disaster.

I cannot get over the missing shoe.

Precioussssssssssssssssss

fuckyeahsherlockfanart:

halibear22:

sherlocked-inside-the-tardis:

acciobenedictcumberbatch:

mirabilelectu:

seki0930:

…

No. No, it can’t…

The house was empty. Utterly, terribly, completely empty. It echoed around him in a way it never had before, in a way that jarred painfully on every nerve and every memory that he possessed. It shouldn’t be like this - his world may have been this empty once before, but that problem had been fixed, it had been better once John arrived. Once John had come into his life, his home had no longer been a solitary place but one that thrummed with the sounds of life and happiness and contented togetherness. The whistle of the kettle, the gentle tread of solid steps, the rustles of newspapers and books all came together to create the music of life and the sounds that spelled home. 

But they were gone now. The only sounds in the flat were the hollow thuds of his slow and unsteady footsteps as he entered the flat with nervous trepidation. It was obvious from the thick layer of dust that coated every surface and the empty floors barren of furniture that the flat had been unoccupied for years now. Not just unoccupied though, abandoned. No one had set foot in this flat for at least a year his treacherous brain told him, whispering with vicious certainty that the lone set of dusty footprints had definitely been made over a year ago but had not been touched since.

His knees trembled, threatening to give way underneath him as the thoughts swirled and tumbled in his head with disorienting swiftness. The last three years flashed before his eyes, everything he had sacrificed and everything he had accomplished vanishing in an instant. It had all been for this moment of homecoming, this moment of triumphant return to a warm and happy home. But it was all for naught. There was nothing here for him now.

The sound of slow footsteps echoed in the stairwell behind him, feet placed on narrow steps with careful consideration. Mycroft did not want to enter the flat, that much was obvious. He had done everything in his power to keep Sherlock from coming back here once he returned to London, but it of course had not been enough. Nothing could have kept Sherlock from Baker Street - and John - not even the stern warnings and meaningful glares of the man who pulled the strings of the entire British government. But it was so obvious now, so clear why Mycroft had acted with uncharacteristic consideration and care for his little brother’s feelings. 

Sherlock’s knees finally gave out from under him, and he came crashing down with no care whatsoever for the pain that blossomed and spread throughout his body as he hit the floor with a sickening crack. He could only feel the burn of tears in his eyes, the crushing agony that descended on him at the sight of the empty flat, the utter disbelief and despair brought by the cane and scarf left in the middle of the floor like a votive offering. The scarf was wrapped tenderly around the battered metal cane and partially obscured the scrap of paper laid next to it that Sherlock had not been able to stop himself from reading. A sob clawed its way from Sherlock’s throat, raw and primal in its pain and and brutality. Now that he had started to cry he could not stop, each sob more powerful and wracking than the last. A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder, cool and impassive even as it offered tentative comfort.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I didn’t want you to see this. He made it for a year without you, but it became too much for him.” The hand tightened into a sympathetic squeeze, a pathetic apology for a life that had been lost and a life that was now shattered beyond all repair. “I’m so sorry. But, if it means anything, he was thinking of you. Even at the end, when he gave up, John was thinking of you.”

Wha… why… oh god…

Oh…oh my god. Why. Why would you do this?

Does loving the fact that I can feel my heart being ripped apart make me a masochist? Or just a regular fangirl of the BBC universe?

OMFG WHY. 

RIGHT IN THE FUCKING FEELS

fuckyeahsherlockfanart:

crayoncompanion:

mak-eba:

Experiments Gone Wrong by ~Itachi—x3

This is so cute 

omg i think i just died from too much cute. SHERLOCK FACE IN THE FOURTH ONE